The Old Man and his Sons by Heðin Brú

Author:Heðin Brú
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Telegram

CHAPTER SIX

The following morning, Ketil’s wife began to smarten herself up. Was she going out? Yes, she had to go to the shop. ‘Now, do you need anything this morning? Are you coming along?’ she said.

Ketil answered, ‘Shall I now? There’s always more than enough to do, but if it’s any use to you, I’ll come along.’

‘Well, it will be useful, because it looks like we’ll have indoor weather for some time, so we ought to get some wool home to get to work on. You don’t get much for knitting up a sweater, but it’s still better than sitting with your arms folded.’

‘Yes, yes, you’re right there.’ Ketil put on his shoes, and off they went.

Ketil said, ‘It’s a perfect nuisance the way every penny we earn goes as quick as it comes. I want to get this whale meat bill settled, but the way it’s going, nothing seems to do any good.’

‘Don’t talk about that. I can’t even bear to think about it. I wish for once I could have my way with these trollops our lads have married. Then they wouldn’t be going around in their silks and satins and sticking their noses in the air.’

They came to the only shop in the village.

‘Good day.’ The shopkeeper, an elderly bachelor, sat on a soapbox, with a cravat round his neck, singing an old Faroese ballad.

What did they want?

The old woman wanted an ounce of tea.

‘You don’t want a slice of cheese as well, I suppose?’ asked the shopkeeper.

No, she didn’t want any.

‘That’s all right. I only asked because the cheese is lying on the tea chest, and I had to move it anyway.’

Ketil wanted some nails for his boat.

Certainly, he could have some, the shopkeeper told him, scratching himself under his cravat. ‘But just now I was so clumsy as to drop the packet of nails into the treacle barrel.’ He looked above him. ‘Maybe I could use these fire tongs hanging here, to pick them out again. He climbed up to the beam, and got the tongs, but slipped down, and ended with both arms in an open drawer full of flour. A sort of fine snowdrift filled the whole room.

‘Have you hurt yourself?’ asked the old folk.

‘Hurt myself? Oh no, not at all. Now you can have your nails.’

The next thing they asked for was raw wool for knitting.

‘Plenty of wool,’ said the shopkeeper. He pulled a ladder down from the loft and climbed up through the trap door. ‘It’s only from people like you that I make a living. The youngsters won’t deal with me. Every time a man gets married, that’s the last I see of him in this shop – he’s too high-and-mighty to trade with me. It’s these wives of theirs, who’ve been in Tórshavn and picked up daft notions. If they really were as fine as they pretend …’

‘I think we can agree with you there,’ said Ketil. They got the sack of wool out through the door, Ketil took it up around his neck, and they left.

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