A Fairy Tale by Jonas Bengtsson

must be just right. The drill needs to go in perfectly the first time or the edges will fray.
    My palms are sweaty as I press the drill against the wood and it almost slips out of my hand. When I’ve retracted it, I test with my finger. The hole hasn’t frayed. It’s quite small, and you have to bend down in order to spot it halfway down the chair leg. A proper woodworm hole. I’m proud, but I say nothing, I don’t shout for joy. I don’t want to get ahead of myself. With my fingers I measure the distance, just over half the length of the nail on my index finger. I make a mark with the pencil. That’s where the next hole needs to be. I’d prefer to measure it with a ruler to get the perfect distance between each hole, but my dad says it doesn’t work. That the holes become too regular. Woodworms don’t use rulers, do they?

I t’s Christmas Eve and the streets are almost deserted. A few people are still driving around, some of them very fast; my dad says they’re probably running late. Others slow right down and rub condensation off the windshield as they scout for house numbers.
    â€œWe’re going to have duck,” my dad says. “The best duck in town. But first you’re going to school.”
    â€œTo school?”
    â€œReligious Studies.”
    The church is squashed in between two other buildings. It looks as if they’ve built them as close to it as they could without knocking anything down. Warm, yellow light floods out the open door.
    Inside people are smiling, making room for one another, speaking in whispered voices. The men have coats over their arms. The women wear shoes or boots with high heels.
    We sit down on one of the wooden pews, which fill up quickly. I should’ve gone to the bathroom before we left home. My dad whispers to me that we should’ve brought popcorn.
    I look around the church, trying to draw all of it inside my head in case my dad decides to test me later. I draw the large candlesticks with the wax candles and the pulpit with the wooden carvings. I draw Jesus on the cross. He hangs at the back of the church, thin and with nails through his hands and feet. He’s bleeding, but his expression is serene.
    Then the vicar appears and people fall silent. Everybody stands up, the vicar smiles; he seems pleased to see us. He lowers his hands and we’re allowed to sit down again.
    The organ plays and my dad points to a board on the wall that lists the numbers of the hymns. By the time I find the right place in the hymn book, everyone has already started singing. I try to join in by opening and closing my mouth at the same time as everyone else.
    My dad looks up at the vicar while he sings; my dad’s eyes are shining.
    When the final notes from the organ have died out, the vicar mounts the pulpit. I see a flash of dark blue fabric and I’m almost certain that he’s wearing jeans under his cassock. He looks down at his papers, straightening them a little. Then he looks out at us as if he’d like to make eye contact with everyone before he starts. He wipes his lips with his index finger and thumb.
    â€œWe’ve all done too much shopping,” he says. “Far too much.”
    Again he looks around the church. “Does anyone here disagree with me?”
    When there’s no reply he nods, but continues to smile; he’s still very pleased to see us.
    â€œI’m no better myself, even vicars aren’t holy. Not any more. And thank God for that.”
    I hear scattered laughter. I didn’t know people were allowed to laugh in a church; I’d have liked to join in myself, but the moment has passed.
    The vicar’s tone grows more serious: now he’s talking about the poor.
    â€œThose who have nothing,” he says. “We’ve all forgotten what the word ‘poor’ means. People who are truly poor. Those you don’t think about when you’re looking for the last