I feel queasy after trying to read my book, and the battery on my phone is almost dead, so I can’t listen to a podcast either, all I can hear are the plinky-plonks of the metallic-sounding melodies. As we approach the Telemark tunnel, I can no longer hold my tongue and turn to face the father, he’s a young hipster sort with a beard and a stupid little man bun. I flash him a wide smile and ask if he could turn the 8 sound down just slightly, please. I can hear the snappiness in my tone, he can tell that part of me is relishing this, but they can’t sit there on a full express bus in July with the sound blaring like that, they just can’t.

‘Uh, sure,’ the hipster dad says, then rubs his neck. ‘I mean, is it bothering you?’

He speaks with a broad Stavanger accent.

‘It’s a bit loud,’ I reply, still smiling.

He snatches the iPad from his child’s hands with a surly look on his face and the boy starts wailing at the top of his lungs, surprised and furious. The old couple sitting in front of me turn around and flash me a dismayed expression, not the child and his father, but me.

‘That’s what happens when you won’t let me turn the sound down,’ his father says. ‘It’s bothering the lady, so you can’t watch anymore.’

The bus turns into the petrol station, where it’s scheduled to stop for a comfort break and coffee stop, and the boy lies prostrate across the seats, wailing, as I pick up my bag and hurry down the aisle leaving the sound of crying behind me.

Kristoffer and Olea are waiting at Vinterkjær. Marthe isn’t with them. Kristoffer is so tall, Olea so short. She’s due to start school in the autumn, I think she looks far too little for that, slim and delicate.

‘It’s good to see you,’ Kristoffer says. He gives me a long hug, wrapping his arms around me and squeezing me tight. 9

‘You too,’ I say. ‘Look how long your hair is now, Olea,’ I say, tugging gently on her ponytail.

‘Olea learnt to swim yesterday,’ Kristoffer says.

Olea grins, revealing a gap where four top teeth had once been.

‘I swam without Daddy holding onto me,’ she says.

‘Wow,’ I say, ‘did you really? That’s brilliant.’

‘Marthe took a picture,’ Olea says. ‘You can see it when we get back.’

‘I’m guessing that Marthe was lounging around by the water’s edge,’ I say, putting my bag in the boot of the car.

‘Yes,’ Olea says, looking delighted in the back seat. ‘She was being really, really lazy.’

‘We don’t say things like that, Olea,’ Kristoffer says, starting the engine. ‘You know that.’

I turn to look at Olea and wink, whispering to her:

‘Marthe is a bit lazy.’