She slept naked in her parents’ bed in the North Chamber, a long sleep, rose, another morning, pulled in the nets and had some fresh cod to cook, then went out and added another net to the fleet. Three. She could increase this to four or five. She had some dried fish left over from last winter, she had a cellar full of potatoes, there was some red saithe and half a barrel of herring. She had jam, flour, coffee, syrup, dried peas, butter from the store and sugar. Now she also had fresh fish. The pile of newspaper balls was no longer on the kitchen floor but in the wooden box beneath the stove, with the kindling. In a gap in the cloud cover two planes appeared, she heard gunfire directed at the Fort in the north of the main island, the gap closed again.

Next morning there were eight cod and one big saithe in the nets. She ate fresh fish again, and liver, and she salted the rest, sat in the warm kitchen looking around until something made her get to her feet and go to the hayloft above the cowshed, where the sacks of down were stored. From the first sack hung a label with Barrøy written on it. One kilo. 1939. She opened it and stuck her hand into a warm summer, then she closed it and undid the second sack. On this one the label said 1937. Another summer. She made up her mind to row to the main island and get a cat.

She went back to the house and put on the kettle, bathed and scrubbed her nails until the cuticles split, washed her hair, twisted it into knots before releasing it, felt the hot water running over her stomach and hips and thighs into the tub. She dried her body, dressed, then sat at the kitchen table and opened the same book. There was still nothing in it. But now she could sleep like Nelly.

She went to bed and thought about the cat. Soon Barbro would be here. The thought of Barbro. And Suzanne.

Suzanne had been like a daughter to Ingrid, but had left both her and Barrøy when no more than fourteen. She, too, had done so of her own free will.