Sonja’s mother had died in the maternity bed. Her father never remarried.
“I have a woman. She is just not home at the moment,” he spat out the few times anyone dared bring up the question.
Sonja moved to the local town when she started studying for her upper secondary examinationsall in humanities subjectsat a sixth-form college.
Her father looked at her with boundless indignation when she suggested that he might like to come with her.
“What can I do there? Meet folk?” he growled. He always spoke the word “folk” as if it were a swear word. So Sonja let him be.
Ernest was the biggest farm cat in the world. When Sonja was small she actually thought he was a pony.
Apart from her weekend visits and his monthly trip in the truck to the grocery store in the nearest village, he only had Ernest for company.
He came and went in her father’s house as he pleased, but he didn’t live there.
Where he lived, in fact, was not known to anyone. Sonja named him Ernest after Ernest Hemingway.
Her father had never bothered with books, but when his daughter sat reading the newspaper at the age of five
he wasn’t so stupid that he tried to avoid doing something about it.
“A girl can’t read shit like that: she’ll lose her head,” he stated as he pushed her towards the library counter in the village.
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