The stairs were made of wood. Each step creaked at a slightly different point and in its own way. The colour of the steps changed from blue to brown after the seventh one, because, according to Pekka, there had previously been a wall and a door at that point. The banister stopped halfway, too. The doorway to the old balcony had been covered by just hardboard, the upstairs landing had no wallpaper, and all four doors leading off it were shut. Varnished a yellowy colour, they looked terribly closed, as if we weren’t meant to be there. The backing paper was lumpy, and part of the walls was covered with raw planks. I say ‘backing paper’, but I don’t even know what that is, really.

‘This was Saara’s room, and the bigger one was ours,’ Pekka said, opening the doors.

In the girl’s room there was a doll’s house and a Winnie-the-Pooh cover on the bed.

‘And that door leads to the attic, and here we built a toilet. Otherwise, the upstairs is pretty much in its original state,’ Pekka explained. Then he stopped by the door of the bigger bedroom. ‘I thought we could have the downstairs bedroom and let Saara have this large one. She’ll have her own space that way, a bit of privacy.’

‘That’d be fine,’ I replied. It was fine, too, because I didn’t think the upstairs wanted me.

After coming back down, Pekka opened cupboards, fetched a basketful of logs from the woodshed and lit a fire in the stove. I watched him sitting there in front of the stove on a small stool and thought: this is where he belongs. He was never a lord of the manor; this, sawdust, is what he knows and understands.

3

3

Pekka was surprised when I suddenly left the antenatal group. I can’t explain it to him. I don’t need that kind of thing. The baby is growing and moving about; that’s enough for now.

‘Has it got scales?’ the girl asked yesterday.

‘Of course not,’ I replied. ‘It’s got skin.’

‘Aha,’ the girl answered, and carried on with whatever she was doing.

It’s got skin and a face and a little snub nose in the middle of its face – you can see it in the ultrasound. It’s got hands and fingers and a spine.

‘But no legs,’ the girl said then.

‘Saara…’ said Pekka.

‘Krista said it herself!’ the girl snapped. ‘So, has it got legs or not?’

Pekka didn’t react, just carried on chopping potatoes. He sank into his own silence, like a diver, blowing bubbles and vanishing into darkness.

‘No, as a matter of fact,’ I told her. ‘You can say it hasn’t.’

‘There you are, then,’ the girl shot back. ‘You can say: no legs.’