I dry my face on my sleeve and go to explore the storeroom. It’s next to the workshop and it’s where Auntie keeps her wool. There are rolls of fabric and balls of yarn of different sizes. The felting wool comes in balls that look like candyfloss – Auntie keeps these in transparent plastic drawers on a set of shelves that covers the whole of one wall. The wool wisps come in all colours: bright red, yellow and turquoise, lots of different shades of blue and green, oranges, purples, browns, greys and blacks. Some of the wools are rough; others are straight and smooth like angel’s hair. If you touch them for long enough, your hands get all greasy.

Apart from wool, the storeroom houses glass jars with all sorts of small objects in them. Auntie uses them to decorate felted things after they’ve dried and shrunk to the right size. There are silver threads, dried leaves, beads and coins, cinnamon sticks, smooth driftwood, rusty nails, old photos, buttons, fraying zips, dried beans: almost anything you can attach to fabric with a needle.

I look at the wools and finger the whitest one. It’s soft and fine, as if someone had brushed it straight after sauna. There are so many different shades of white next to it that I get confused: I don’t understand what white actually is any more. There are so many whites between grey, yellow and brown. But when does grey become white? When does white become yellow?

Everything is difficult. There is no boundary between the colours: white is yellow, and Bruno’s brown is black. Cold burns, and frosty air warms. Dad’s toes exist, but they disappear.

17

17

Halfway through June, Auntie Annu goes to Sawdust House to get us summer clothes. Dad and I don’t go with her. Dad doesn’t go because he still doesn’t want to visit the house. I don’t go because I don’t want to leave Dad on his own.

Auntie comes back bringing two bags of stuff. I get sandals, a summer jacket, two dresses – one of them doesn’t fit me any more – shirts, a thinner nightdress and a tracksuit. Dad gets shorts, sandals and ordinary clothes. He’s already got sunglasses. The other bag holds a swimsuit and swimming trunks, my sun hat and Dad’s cap.

There’s a pile of post at the bottom of the bag. Dad goes through the letters. He puts the ones for Mum on one side, only opening his own.

‘I can take care of those if you like,’ Auntie Annu says, pointing at Mum’s letters.

‘They’re just junk mail,’ Dad says, waving his hand.

‘Still, they can be notified.’

‘I suppose so.’

Auntie picks up the bundle. She doesn’t say anything else.

‘I think I’ll take a look at the woodshed door,’ Dad mutters. He puts his sunglasses on, and goes out.