Free My Struggle: Book 2: A Man in Love by Karl Ove Knausgaard, Don Bartlett

vocabulary was not that large, so they were wondering if we had considered speech therapy. At this juncture in the conversation we were handed a brochure from one of the town’s speech therapists. They are crazy in this country, I thought. A speech therapist? Did everything have to be institutionalised? She’s only three!
    ‘No, speech therapy’s out of the question,’ I said. Until that point Linda had been the one to do all the talking. ‘It will sort itself out. I only started talking when I was three. Before that I said nothing, apart from single words which were incomprehensible to anyone except my brother.’
    They smiled.
    ‘And when I started speaking it came in long, fluent sentences. It all depends on the individual. We are not sending her to a speech therapist.’
    ‘Well, that’s up to you,’ said Olaf, the head of the nursery. ‘But you’re welcome to hang on to the brochures and give it some thought.’
    ‘OK then,’ I said.
    I collected her hair in one hand and stroked her neck and the top of her back with one finger. Usually she loved this, especially before going to sleep, until she settled for the night, but this time she squirmed away.
    On the other side of the table the stern woman had struck up a conversation with Mia, who gave her her undivided attention while Frida and Erik had begun to clear away the plates and cutlery. The white layer cake, which was the next item on the agenda, stood proudly on the worktop, decorated with raspberries and five small candles, beside a column of square cartons containing Bravo, a sugar-free apple drink.
    Gustav, who until now had been sitting beside me with his back half-turned, swivelled round to face us.
    ‘Hi, Vanja,’ he said. ‘Are you having fun?’
    As he didn’t get a response, nor any eye contact, he looked at me.
    ‘You’ll have to come and play with Jocke one day,’ he said, winking at me. ‘Fancy doing that?’
    ‘Yes,’ Vanja said, regarding him with eyes that suddenly dilated. Jocke was the biggest boy in the nursery. Going to his house was more than she dared hope for.
    ‘We’ll fix something up,’ Gustav said. Raised his glass, took a swig of red wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
    ‘Are you writing anything new then?’ he asked.
    I shrugged.
    ‘Yes, I’m keeping busy,’ I said.
    ‘Do you work at home?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘How do you go about it? Do you sit waiting for inspiration?’
    ‘No, that’s no good. I have to work every day like you.’
    ‘Interesting. Interesting. There are not many distractions at home then?’
    ‘I manage fine.’
    ‘Ah, you do, do you? Well . . .’
    ‘Let’s all go into the living room then,’ Frida said. ‘And we can sing for Stella.’
    She took a lighter from her pocket and lit the five candles.
    ‘What a wonderful cake,’ Mia said.
    ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Frida said. ‘And it’s healthy too. There’s hardly any sugar in the cream.’
    She lifted it up.
    ‘Will you go in and switch off the light, Erik?’ she said as people began to move from their seats and leave the room. I followed holding Vanja’s hand, and just managed to find a position against the wall furthest away when Frida entered the darkened hall with the illuminated cake in her hands. As she came into view from the table she began to sing Ja må hon leva , whereupon the other adults immediately joined in, and the birthday song rang around the small room as she placed the cake on the table in front of Stella, who was watching with gleaming eyes.
    ‘Shall I blow now?’ she asked.
    Frida nodded as she sang.
    Everyone clapped afterwards, me too. Then the lights came back on, and for a few minutes slices of the cake were distributed among the children. Vanja didn’t want to sit at the table, but on the floor by the wall, where we settled down, her with a plate of cake on her lap. It was only then I noticed she wasn’t wearing her shoes.
    ‘Where are your golden shoes?’ I