I don’t have to work much in the countryside. But I need to lend a hand. We’re made to help in the house on the farm. The vacuum cleaner frustrates me. I’m always told off for vacuuming badly. I try to do it as well as I can. When I’m done, the farmer’s wife comes over and points at the floor.
— It’s everywhere. This isn’t a job well done.
— But I vacuumed it all.
— Are you that lazy that you don’t try?
— No.
— Then you’re just bat-blind, boy. The floor is covered in crumbs and fluff.
She points all around. I have to bend right down to see the crumbs.
We also have to take care of the cows. They go out to a field after the morning milking. Then you need to fetch them back again at night. We take turns doing it. When you drive a cow, you use a lash. That’s a stick with a tie on it, like a whip. You never need to hit the cows because they walk of their own accord. But it’s fun to do the driving. You’re entrusted with a real status when you do this. It’s much better than shoveling shit.
The cows are great. They’re always quiet and look like they’re thinking very, very, very hard. I don’t reckon they think about anything other than grass. The cows are the only animals we need to care for.
In summer, the sheep are on the mountain. You don’t see much of them except when they sneak into the meadow. When that happens, we need to drive them back up the mountain.
Sheep are stinking creatures. They’re grumpy and run fast. They remind me of shy cats, which run away when they see someone, as if the person is going to hurt them.
There’re loads of dogs on the farm. The farmer breeds dogs and sells them. He is very strict with the dogs and trains them to become good sheepdogs. His dogs are highly sought after. His best dog is called Spot. He’s so good that he understands everything that’s said to him. If the sheep get into the farm, the farmer tells him what to do. He listens patiently and then runs off. He does everything right.
The couple on the farm are very religious. They believe in Jesus. I don’t believe in him. They’re always praying.
Everyone has to pray together in the morning and say the Lord’s Prayer in the evening. And you have to say grace before you can start eating. You must close your eyes and bow your head while praying.
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We’re not allowed to swear in the country. If we do, we have to brush our teeth with soap. I swore a few times when I first arrived but I quickly stopped. It’s strange brushing your teeth with soap. The taste is disgusting. When I get home, I’m going to make Aunt Gunna brush her teeth with soap. She swears a lot. When she farts, she says: — Bloody hell, this damn gas!
The farming couple believe in God a lot. I don’t know anything about God except what Grandma has told me about him. She says he is very good and if you believe in him and are a good person you’ll go to heaven when you die.
Anton says there’s no life after death, that you just rot in a grave and become food for worms. I don’t know what’s true. I wonder why, if God exists, he never shows up. Is he hiding? What is he afraid of?
But I’ve never known so much praying. Once, we all had to kneel in front of a picture of Jesus that was hanging above the double bed. Then the farmer began to pray, asking God to stop the constant rain so they could sow seed. He spoke strangely, using words I’d never heard before. He spoke to God like he was his friend.
— We gather before you today, my Lord, for we are helpless in the face of the weather. You know the script of our hearts, O Lord, and our lives, and know how important it is for us to make hay. Therefore we ask you, dear Lord…
I started laughing. I tried to hold it in but I couldn’t. I thought it was so silly. They were upset and made me stay all alone inside my room for ages and I wasn’t allowed at tea.
The food in the country is generally nice. In the morning we get bread and porridge. It’s different eating in the country than I am used to at home. Like stirring. That’s thick yogurt—skyr—mixed with porridge. It doesn’t taste bad. At teatime, we often get klattar; they’re like pancakes, but they’re made from leftover porridge. They’re tasty. Sometimes, though, there are things I can’t eat. I don’t eat lumpfish or soured lamb. I think moss-milk is disgusting. I’d rather not eat colostrum pudding. But I have to eat it if that’s what’s for dinner. I’m not allowed to get up from the table until I’m finished. It’s a good job there aren’t ever cucumbers.
Once when it was lumpfish for dinner, I pretended to be ill. I had to drink warm sugar water. That’s the most disgusting drink I’ve ever tasted, sick-making and too sweet.
I once had to eat soured lamb sausage, which is the most disgusting food I’ve ever set eyes on. It’s basically fat. I cut it into small pieces to put in my mouth and swallow without chewing or tasting them at all. When I was almost done, I threw it all up again.
We sometimes get sweets sent from home. But they’re taken from us and kept inside the pantry. The farmer’s wife puts tiny pieces in a tub and we can have a single piece at night if we finish dinner. At the weekend, we get chewing gum, but never at any other time. I ask Ingvi what happens to the treats when we children go back home.
— I eat them at Christmas, he said.
Once a week, we take a bath. There’s no hot water on the farm. When we have a bath, the water is heated in a pan and poured into the bathtub.
We bathe two by two, foot to foot. The water is so shallow that it does not reach your thighs. The first time I got a bath, I was in with Ingvi. I turned my back to him, pulled apart my butt cheeks and stuck my asshole in his face.
— Want a chocolate?
I was immediately taken out of the bath and made to stay in my room.
— I was just kidding!
— Rudeness is never a joke. You can sit here and think about it. Ask God to forgive you and teach you not to be naughty.
I don’t ask God for anything. I have repeatedly asked him to change my hair, to stop me being a redhead, or at least make my hair a bit lighter. He never does anything about it. He doesn’t listen to me. I think God is being very nice to everyone else instead of me. I think he never listens to me at all. And I think he also doesn’t give a fuck whether it’s raining in the country or not.
When the farmer’s wife closes the door I swear under my breath, so she can’t hear.
— Shit, crap, fuck.
I’m always getting shut in the knitting room. The only thing in there is a big knitting machine, some bobbins with yarn on them, and all kinds of different weights.
Once, we all had to go with them to their church for some ceremony or other. The farmer’s wife dressed us all in half-sleeves and collars. When we got into our jackets, it felt like we were all wearing new sweaters.
The ceremony was colossally boring. We had to sit absolutely still. I’d been to church before, for funerals. They’re boring. This was different, though. Some guy spoke loudly. He used strange words. People joined in and called out in response, even stood up and groped their hands in the air.
— Hallelujah!
— Glory to the Lord!
— Blessed be His holy name!
One woman who was sitting right beside us started weeping. I’ve never seen a grown woman weeping, except Grandma Anna, but she was senile and confused.
I thought it was really stupid. The farmer’s wife sat next to me and watched me carefully. She’s like my teacher Svandís. I wanted to say something witty or call out something but I didn’t dare.