Two wives
A childless woman shes no longer even a wife, just halfawife, my motherinlaw mutters, and Mary sighs, forcing a bitter smile.
Dont listen to her, snaps Susan, the halfdeaf neighbour, God knows what Hes doing. Its too early for you to have a baby; He already sees the future.
But how can he see it? Weve been together five years, I just want a child, Marys cheeks fill with tears.
She rarely says this aloud; she keeps the pain hidden, clutching it in her heart. Now shes back in her home village, ten miles away, to visit her mothers grave and sit with the old, halfdeaf neighbour for a chat.
Its a sad business, Mary, but it isnt us who find children, they find us. Hold on, girl.
The village dogs bark, sparrows twitter. The familiar sounds of a rural hamlet have all but vanished. Holloway, a tiny settlement in Yorkshire, is practically dying, its crooked cottages leaning toward the stream as if bowing their final salute.
Mary heads home to her husband in the larger village of Ashford. She must leave Holloway at first light. All her life shes feared the night forest and fields a childish terror.
Mary was born here. Six years ago she was left alone. Her father died after the war, and her mother passed when Mary was still a child. She took a job milking cows for the local collective farm.
She met her future husband in June, the seventeenth summer of her life and her first season on the farm. The walk was long, but she ran to it gladly, even though her hands ached from the hard milking work.
One morning a slanting rain catches her on the road. The sky darkens, clouds roll in, thunder rumbles low. Everything seems to tilt to one side.
Mary ducks under a shed at the edge of the village near the woods. She sits on the plank, pulling the long black braids from her hair and wringing out rain. Through the angled sheets of rain she spots a darkhaired lad in a plaid shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin, trousers rolled above his knees. He darts under the shelter, sees her and grins.
What a gift! Im Nicholas, and who might you be?
Marys heart jumps, darkness pressing in from the rain. She says nothing, stepping back to the edge of the plank.
Did lightning strike you? Or are you just mute? he jokes.
Not mute. Marys my name.
Cold, are you? Need warmth? he teases, keeping his distance, The whole rains knocked us down. Im from the local mobile crew.
He jokes for a while, then his teasing turns into unwanted advances. Marys blouse sticks to her skin does that excite him or is he simply a hopeless romantic? She bolts out into the rain, running for dear life, glancing back as the grim forest looms.
Later Nicholas Naylor returns as a temporary farmhand. Mary watches him with a flicker of resentment, but he soon starts courting her seriously. That first encounter has left a mark.
When she marries, Mary dives in with joy, though she cant picture what awaits her in her husbands household and the unfamiliar village. Her motherinlaw proves stern and frail, shifting many of the chores onto Mary while watching her every move.
Even when the load feels heavy, Mary never gives up. Shes diligent and strongwilled, though the constant scolding hurts. After all, she arrived with nothing but a thin purse, an orphan, no dowry.
After a while the motherinlaw eases up, seeing Marys competence. The other complaints fade; Mary bears them all. A year passes, then a second passes, and no pregnancy comes.
Youre a spoiled, barren woman, halfawife the motherinlaw snarls. Whats a house without grandchildren?
Mary leans on Nicholass shoulder, he scolds the old woman, and she only sighs louder. Her fatherinlaw watches Mary only when she serves him a bowl.
Still, Mary clings to hope. She visits the village nurse herself, sneaks to the nearby parish priest for herbal teas that the local midwives recommend for barrenness.
Life goes on. The Naylor house isnt rich, but it isnt destitute either, even after the hard postwar years. One crisp morning Nicholas brings half a sack of damp grain.
Oh, Colin, stop that dont let them think were stealing! his mother shrieks.
Were all pulling our weight, not just me. Calm down, Mum
Mary worries, urging Nicholas not to get involved in such petty schemes, but he keeps hauling odd bits from the collective.
Marys sleep becomes restless. She lies awake in the dark, legs tucked under her, waiting for Nicholas.
One evening she decides to meet him. She feels for her skirt, her blouse, a thick woollen sweater, finds her sturdy rubber boots under the bed, grabs Nicholass canvas coat and steps onto the porch. A sharp November wind slams the open doors, cold drops sting her cheeks.
Where is he, out in this rain?
Her feet carry her toward the village edge. The windows are dark, even the dogs have retreated. Her beloved dog, Finn, stays close. Mary walks, eyes scanning the fields, then stops at an old barn on the outskirts.
Beyond it is only open field. Shes always feared the night forest and fields, but she pauses, deciding to wait a bit before turning back.
Rain hammers the cold, damp earth, sometimes gusting, sometimes a steady drumming. Through the sound she hears a light, tinkling giggle. It comes from the barn.
She leans in and recognises Nicholass voice, then freezes hes not alone.
The rain muffles and amplifies voices. She hears a womans laugh, unmistakably Katies, a girl from the neighbouring village who worked with her on the farm.
Katie used to be bold, cheerful, and chatty, dreaming of leaving the village for the city. She sang about finding a rich, bald man in town, refusing to stay on the farm. Lately her spirit has dimmed; the other women whisper that shes angry over some married mans infidelity.
Mary had assumed Katie was citybound, never guessing that the jealous man was Nicholas.
Rain streams down the barn eaves as Katies laughter rings sharp. Mary stands frozen, then darts back home, slipping on the slick path, her makeshift coat catching on a fence rail, tearing a seam.
She rushes inside, throws herself into the washbasin, scrubbing at a stain, muttering, Wash away this mud, Finn, wash away.
All that remains in the house is her love for Nicholas and his affection for her, yet both seem gone. She cant picture the love she never truly saw, only hearing it in the rains roar, clinging to a desperate hope that she isnt cheating.
When Nicholas peeks into the washroom, she says nothing, choosing to wait until tomorrow.
At dawn two police officers and the collectives chairman arrive. Marys motherinlaw sobs, clutching the chairmans lapel; her husband watches silently, eyes narrowed at the strangers. Mary hustles, gathering Nicholas, lifting her grieving motherinlaw from the floor.
Fourteen villagers are taken away to the council hall. A truck later arrives, loading the detainees into its bed and driving them to the town magistrate for trial.
Mary looks up. A distance away, Katie stands beneath the birch trees.
The arrest shakes the whole hamlet, though no one dares speak of it, staying locked inside their cottages.
The motherinlaw collapses into grief, the fatherinlaw withers. Mary has not slept for days.
She never decides about Nicholas; she remains neither fully his wife nor completely abandoned. Fear for her husband outweighs jealousy. She cannot flee; a wife of an arrested man is not welcomed elsewhere. They never discuss divorce.
A few days later Mary returns from the farm, carrying milk, and opens her front door to find Katie seated at the table, hands folded on her swollen belly. Beside her sit the elderly couple, the parents.
Katie looks straight at Mary, clicks her tongue, while the parents lower their eyes.
Good afternoon, Katie says brightly.
And to you as well, Mary replies.
Mary, the motherinlaw suddenly says warmly, Katie used to visit the city, see Olivia and Nora, even her brother Victor.
Mary sets a bucket of milk on the stove, washes her hands at the basin, listening.
Mary, the court gave Nicholas ten years, remember? her mother says, handing Mary a handkerchief, pressing it to her eyes.
Mary collapses onto the bench.
Ten years? she gasps.
Yes, Katie answers, they called them state criminals, handed everyone a decade. They tried them all together.
Lord! Mary exclaims, disbelief in her voice.
The mother weeps, and Mary tries to soothe her:
Mum, it cant be. Maybe theyll think about it, maybe theyll let him go theyll scare us but then release, I hope.
Who will release them now? Youre a fool, Mary! Theyll go through the steps. I swear they tried a court, a court
Katie continues, describing the trial. A pause follows, only the grandfathers clink of tea breaking the silence.
Listen, Katie slaps the table, making everyone jump, since the heads stay silent, Ill say it: Colin was going to marry me. He wanted a divorce, but never got the chance. So Ill have a child with him, and I wont raise it alone. My father wont let me return home with a child; hes heard the gossip. I thought wed marry, hed forgive. But things turned
She looks at the motherinlaw, youll look after my grandson. I told Colin in the city hes fine with it. He didnt forbid Mary either, just said theyd part later.
Katie finishes quickly, eyes on Mary, waiting for a reactionsurprise, protest, tearsbut Mary sits calmly, hands folded on her wartimefabric skirt, staring at the floor.
The motherinlaw cant hold it any longer.
Mary, this is our house, we decide. The grandson will be here. As for Colin whats become of him? Let Katie stay; thats our decision. Let the child grow here. You decide.
I dont mind, Mary says, standing, beginning to strain the milk.
Katie and the grandfather leave for their things. The motherinlaw busies herself, waiting for Katie.
Where shall we put him to sleep? On the loft, I suppose Hell need a corner when hes born. Oh, dear
Mary brings a bundle of straw from the yard, spreads it on the floor by the stove, lifts a handwoven blanket over it now its his bed, almost like Finns little nest.
Days grow shorter and colder. The motherinlaw falls ill through the winter. Katie, in her last days, becomes fierce, walking about in a huff. The farms burden falls squarely on Marys shoulders; she cant escape it.
Katie and the motherinlaw surprisingly become allies, even defending Mary when shes too harsh.
Lie down, Mary, before they tire you out, Katie says sympathetically.
From milking at noon to milking at dusk, Mary watches the white woods across the river, pondering her fate. She cannot return to her childhood hamlet; the wind whistles through the thatch, and the tenmile trek in freezing weather is impossible.
She often thinks of her own mother. What would she say now, seeing her daughters disgrace? Two wives under one roof. And who is the chief? Her mother was a proud, confident woman.
Winter days pass, marked by fatigue and monotony. Only a baby born in January brings a flicker of joy.
In a bitter freeze, the grandfather brings Katie from the hospital with a swaddled bundle a boy they name Ethan.
Mary tries hard not to look at the child, her heart aching that she didnt bring him into the house, even though she prays and takes medicine.
Maternal feelings she never lived bloom for Ethan, and the grandfather keeps reminding her:
Hes all yours, Mary.
Yes, he looks like Mary agrees.
Mostly the boy stays with Katie, but Mary notices he seems less concerned with her own future than with his mothers.
What now? Rot in this farm? I wanted to study at the towns laboratory, become a labassistant. Colin wont wait ten years. I have no clue what to do
The farm sees changes. Four twobed houses are built in the village, families move in, substitute milking women arrive talkative, from elsewhere, but hardworking. Weekends appear. Mary befriends one of the new ladies, Vera.
One Saturday Mary is on the farm.
What are you doing? asks Vera.
Mary recounts her story the house isnt exactly merry. Vera is stunned; shes never heard of a wife and a lover sharing a roof.
Leave, she advises.
Oh, come off it, Vera, Mary waves it off, I have nowhere else to go. The farm needs me.
Ethan grows, starts crawling, then toddling, gripping Marys hair, planting kisses on her cheeks, laughing at the sunset, while Finn the dog barks joyfully.
Mary has fallen in love with the little boy. Katie, though, is strict, sometimes harsh, but also protects him when he irritates her.
Mary understands why his dreams of a city life are shattered by the boys needs.
The grandfather and grandmother cocoo the child, but theyre too frail to shoulder him all the time.
On May1st Mary decides to bake pies. She scoops four shovels of flour into a iron pot, returns to the cottage, and begins kneading.
Katie plans to go to a neighbours fête. She slips on a string of white beads and darts out. The motherinlaw sits beside Mary, cradling Ethan.
Mary, I need to tell you something. It feels as if youre his mother, not Katie, Mary feels a tremor in her motherinlaws voice. Katie is scared to speak, so Ill say it: she wants to leave for the city, study and work. Shes terrified that the boy will be left to us, the old folk.
How? Marys eyes widen.
She thinks youll raise him. Shes a shrew, not a mother She never imagined a child could change her life.
Mary keeps kneading, mechanically, thoughts swirling.
What shall we do, Mary? the motherinlaw asks, eyes bright with hope.
Mary shrugs.
Maybe its for the best. You never had a child, so a baby will come. Colin will return, and hell choose the one who cares for his child, right? she looks lovingly at Ethan, perched on her lap, Even a wife cant be tossed aside. Perhaps God arranged all this.
The motherinlaw smiles slyly, peering into Marys eyes.
Ill see.
Mary heads out for the evening milking. The celebration feels distant; the chores must go on. She cant see a way forward, the whole world feels foreign, even the pies lose their appeal.
Whats wrong, Mary? Your face looks pale, Vera says sympathetically.
The pies turn out golden. Mary places them on the iron, covers them with a cloth. Katie returns, flushed, cheerful, holding a fresh pie.
Oh, life is grand, Mary! You should have come to the party! We sang, we danced!
Here are the pies, Mary lifts the cloth.
Im starving, Katie grabs a slice, biting as she pulls off her dress.
Mary runs the farmyard, pausing now and then, staring into the distance with a quiet sorrow. Finn circles, unaware of her turmoil.
Katie falls asleep beside Ethan; the grandparents quiet down. Mary rocks the boy, laying him beside his mother. The night outside is dim, a light drizzle patters on the roof. Mary thinks calmly about the rain.
The rain cannot stop her. Neither can the dark woods she feared as a child.
No, Mum, I wont endure this any longer. Theres no love left, no hope, she tells the ghost of her mother in her mind.
She slips into the shed, grabs a sturdy canvas sack, pulls on her rubber boots, and pulls on a heavy coat despite the lingering summer chill. She pauses at the kitchen doorway, then steps out into the wet lane.
She walks the damp pathShe walks the damp lane toward the distant town, heart steady, knowing she will forge a new life beyond the fields that have held her captive for so long.
