Free A Fairy Tale by Jonas Bengtsson Page B

pins?” he asks.
    I shake my head. I used the last ones this morning on a tabletop that had started to warp because it had been left out in the rain for too long.
    My dad goes into the workshop. He quickly reappears.
    â€œYou’re right. I’ll just pop out and get some. Do you want to come along?”
    I shake my head. I know we’re busy. When the boss came in yesterday, he pointed to the chairs and said, “Remember they need to look old tomorrow.”
    My dad jumps onto the butcher’s bike and rides out through the archway.
    I press the drill against the wood again. A few more holes and the armchair will be ready. I try not to make a mess of it even though we’re in a hurry.
    â€œWhere’s your dad?” the boss asks. I didn’t hear him come in. Perhaps I’ve finally learned to focus only on the table or the chair that I’m working on.
    â€œHe went to get some panel pins,” I say.
    The boss lingers for a little while and looks at me. “Isn’t there . . .” He doesn’t finish his sentence, he just shakes his head.
    He’ll explode in a moment. Scream and shout. I’m almost sure of it. He might have been pleased with the clocks, but I shouldn’t have carried on working, not on my own. I should’ve waited for my dad to come back so he could supervise me.
    But the boss doesn’t say anything; he just turns around and goes inside the workshop.
    I stand with the drill in my hand, not knowing what to do now. A couple of minutes later I start to feel stupid: we’re rushed and I’m just standing here doing nothing. I start drilling the next hole.
    I have only one more hole to go when the boss reappears. I quickly lift the drill, expecting a walloping. Delayed, but I know it’s coming. He’s been in the workshop thinking: What did I just see, what the hell was that?
    Before he has time to open his mouth, I ask him if he thinks I’ve done a good job on the armchair.
    â€œYes,” he replies, without looking at it.
    His eyes are red, it’s probably the cold that has made them water.
    â€œI want to show you something.”
    He starts walking back to the workshop; he half turns around and gestures for me to follow.
    â€œIt’s important,” he says. “It’s important that you see it.”
    I follow the boss past the wide work table with the tools and the tins of oil and varnish. I follow him to the door at the back of the room. Today it’s ajar; the padlock has been removed and lies on the table.
    â€œIn there,” the boss says.
    I open the door. Behind it is a narrow passage lit up by a single light bulb in the ceiling.
    â€œYou really should go in there and have a look. Your dad will be really proud.”
    The boss walks right behind me, his wide hips scraping against the rough concrete walls.
    At the end of the passage is a small room with no windows; the only light is that which slips past the boss. When my eyes have grown used to the darkness, I can see an oil drum up against the wall. Apart from that the room is empty. Something furry is lying on top of the oil drum.
    â€œGo to it,” the boss says.
    I take a couple of steps further into the room and now I can see that it’s a toy rabbit. It was probably white once, but now its fur is grey from dirt, with dark stains that could be oil or earth.
    â€œIt’s feeling sad. It needs a home.” The boss’s voice is barely louder than a whisper. “Pick it up.”
    The rabbit’s fur is damp. It smells sour.
    The boss sniffs; he wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I’d promised myself . . .”
    He fumbles with his blue dungarees, pulls down one strap over his shoulder. I can see beads of sweat gleaming on his scalp. Then the other strap comes down; he struggles to get the overalls past his stomach.
    â€œFour years, seven months, and six days.” His voice is thick.
    Then I see a shadow over the