Two wives
A childless woman shes no longer even a woman, just halfawoman, my motherinlaw says, and Mary sighs, a bitter smile playing on her lips.
Dont listen to her, snaps the halfdeaf neighbour, Mrs. Susan, loudly and suddenly, because God knows what Hes doing. He sees ahead, even if youre not ready to bear a child yet.
But how does He see, Mrs. Susan? Weve lived five years together. I so want a baby, Marys cheeks fill with tears.
She rarely speaks this aloud; she keeps the ache hidden in her heart. Now she has come back to the little hamlet ten miles from her childhood home to visit her mothers grave, and she sits with her old, halfdeaf neighbour for a chat.
Its a sad business, we all know, but its not us who find children, they find us. Be patient, girl.
The remaining village dogs bark, sparrows twitter. The familiar sounds of the village have almost vanished. Littleford in Yorkshire is practically dying, its crooked cottages leaning toward the river as if bowing a final salute.
Mary heads home to her husband in the larger village of Ivington. She must leave Littleford at dawn. She has always feared the night forest and fields a childish terror she has carried all her life.
Mary was born here. Six years ago she was left completely alone. Her father died after the war and her mother passed away early. She began work as a milkmaid on the local cooperative farm.
When she met the man who would become her husband, it was June. It was Marys seventeenth summer and her first on the farm. The walk to the farm was a distance, but she ran there gladly, even though her hands ached at first from the hard milking.
One morning, a slanting rain catches her on the road. The sky darkens, clouds roll in, a low rumble rolls across the fields. Everything seems to tilt, leaning to one side.
Mary darts under the little leanto by the woods at the edge of the hamlet. She sits on the bench, pulls her long black braids into her hands, wringing out the rain. Through the diagonal sheets of rain she spots a darkhaired lad in a snug, checkered shirt and trousers that stop just above his knees. He darts under the leanto, sees her and grins:
What a treat! Im Nicholas, and who might you be?
Marys heart thunders; the world is a wash of grey rain. She stays silent, edging to the side of the bench.
Did the thunder deaf you? Or are you just shy? he jokes.
Not shy. My names Mary.
Cold? Need a warm? he teases, keeping his distance, The whole rain has knocked us flat. Im from the MTS.
He keeps joking, then his advances grow bolder, making Marys skin crawl. Her blouse sticks to her skin perhaps that excites him, or perhaps hes simply a flirt. Mary bolts into the rain, sprinting away, glancing back. The forest, heavy with looming clouds, feels terrifying.
Later, Nicholas Nikiforov returns as a temporary farmhand. Mary glances at him with a flash of irritation, then he begins courting her seriously. That first encounter certainly left a mark.
Mary dives into marriage with joy, though she cannot picture what awaits her in her husbands household and in a foreign village. Her motherinlaw proves stern and frail. She gladly offloads some of the chores onto her daughterinlaw but watches every task closely.
Even when things are hard, Mary does not lose heart. She is diligent, toughskinned, though the motherinlaws rebukes sting. After all, she arrived as a poor, dowryless orphan.
After a while, the motherinlaw softens as she sees Marys competence. She stops the harsh words. A year passes, then another, and Mary still isnt pregnant.
Youre a rotten girl, a childless woman the motherinlaw snaps whats a house without grandchildren?
Mary leans against Nicholass shoulder, he chastises his mother, and she grows angrier. The fatherinlaw looks away, only noticing her when she places a bowl before him.
But Mary does not lose hope. She visits the local nurse herself, sneaks off to the neighboring village to see the vicar, making potions that the old wives swear can cure barrenness.
Life goes on. The Nikiforov home isnt the poorest; though postwar times are hard, theres always a bit of food on the table.
One early morning Nicholas drags half a sack of damp grain into the kitchen.
Oh, Katie, dont we cant be caught! his mother shrieks.
Were all pulling together, Im not alone. Calm down, Mum
Mary worries, begging Nicholas not to get involved in such risky dealings. Yet he keeps bringing home odd scraps from the cooperative.
Marys sleep is ruined; she sits on the bed, feet under the blankets, waiting for him.
One day she decides to meet him. She feels for her skirt, blouse, and a woolen jacket, finds her tall rubber boots under the bed, grabs her canvas coat and steps onto the porch. The November wind lashes the open doors, heavy drops sting her face.
Where could he be at this rainy hour? Her feet carry her to the far edge of the village. The windows are dark, even the dogs hide. Her beloved collie, Fenny, follows close behind. Mary walks, eyes scanning the fields, until she stops at the old barn on the villages rim.
Beyond the barn lies only open field. Nighttime fields and woods have always terrified her. She decides to wait a while, then turn back.
Rain patters on the cold, damp earth, sometimes gusty, sometimes steady. Through the sound she hears a light, feminine laugh coming from the barn. She leans in and recognises Nicholass voice at first, then realises another voice is joining its Kate, a girl from the neighboring hamlet who works with her on the farm.
At first Kate was bold, cheerful, chatty, dreaming of leaving the village for the city, saying:
Ill find a rich, bald city man, I wont stay here in the coop! she sang at the village dances.
Lately her spirit has dimmed; the other women whisper that shes jealous of a married man. Mary assumes Kates eyes are on a city lover, not knowing its Nicholas.
Rain pours down the ditches, and a frozen Kate stands by the barn, her laughter echoing, then she darts home, slipping on the slick path, her makeshift soldierstyle coat tangled around her legs. She rushes inside, shouting to the dog, Wash the mud, Fenny!
All that remains in the house is her love for her husband and his love for her, yet both seem to crumble. She refuses to believe shes been betrayed, clinging to hope.
When Nicholas finally appears in the washhouse, she says nothing, deciding to wait until tomorrow.
At dawn, two police officers and the cooperative chairman arrive. The motherinlaw clutches the chairmans coat, the fatherinlaw watches silently, his eyes narrow on the unwelcome guests. Mary rushes around, helping to lift her motherinlaw from the floor.
Fourteen villagers are taken to the council office, held there until lunch. Bags and crates are passed around. By midday a truck arrives, loads the detainees into the back and drives them away, saying theyre being taken to the city for trial.
Mary looks back; nearby, under a birch, Kate stands, watching.
The arrests shake the whole village, though everyone keeps quiet behind closed doors. The motherinlaw falls into a deep melancholy, the fatherinlaw withers. Mary has not slept for days.
She never resolves anything with Nicholas; she remains neither fully wife nor fully cast out. Yet now pity and fear for her husband outweigh resentment and jealousy. She cannot run away; an arrested wife would be shunned in any other coop. The question of divorce never surfaces.
A few days later, exhausted, Mary returns from the farm carrying the days milk when she opens her front door and finds Kate sitting at the table, hands folded under a round belly. Beside her sit the motherinlaw and fatherinlaw, heads bowed. Kate looks straight at Mary, clicks her tongue, they both look down.
Hello, Kate says cheerfully.
And you stay well, Mary replies.
Mary, the motherinlaw says unusually warmly, Kate used to visit the city, see our relatives Olga and Nina, their father and Vasily, Olgas husband.
Mary sets a milk pail on the stove, washes her hands at the basin, listening.
Mary, the trial was they gave Kolya ten years! her mother says, handing Mary a handkerchief, pressing it to her eyes.
Mary slumps onto the bench.
Ten years?
Yes, Kate answers, they called them state criminals, gave almost everyone ten years.
Lord! Mary gasps, unable to believe her ears.
The motherinlaw weeps, and Mary tries to comfort her:
Mum, maybe theyll think it over, maybe theyll let him go Theyll scare us, then release us, I hope.
Who will release them now? Fool, Mary! Its all decided. The courts are harsh. Kate insists, her voice firm.
They discuss the trials details, then a pause, only the fatherinlaws soft clink of a teacup heard.
Well then! Kate slaps the table, startling everyone, If the owners stay silent, Ill say it: Kolya planned to marry me. He wanted a divorce, but never got the chance. So Ill have his child. Im not going to raise him alone. My father wont let me return to the village with a child, hes already heard the rumors. I thought wed marry, hed forgive. But look how it turned out So Im here to ask you to look after his child. I spoke to Kolya in the city, hes not opposed. He even told Mary to leave, then theyll divorce later.
Kate pours out everything quickly, eyes fixed on Mary, waiting for a reaction surprise, protest, tears. Mary sits at the stove, hands folded on a militarystyle skirt, silent, staring at the floor.
The motherinlaw cant hold back:
Mary, this is our house, we decide. The grandchild will be here. And Kolya what about Kolya? she sobs, Let Kate stay, thats our decision. Let a sons child grow in this house. You decide yourself.
I dont mind, Mary says, standing, starting to strain the milk.
Kate and the fatherinlaw go to fetch things. The motherinlaw fusses, waiting for Kate.
Where shall we put her to sleep? On the loft, because shell soon have a child and needs a corner. Oh, the sorrow
Mary brings a bundle of straw from the yard, spreads it on the floor by the stove, throws a handmade quilt over it now its her bed, almost like Fennys nest in the kennel.
Days grow shorter, colder. The motherinlaw falls ill all winter. In her final days Kate even befriends her, sometimes defending Mary when shes too harsh.
Come to bed, you old thing, before they tire you out, Kate says, pitying Mary.
From milking at noon to milking at dusk, Mary watches the small window looking onto the white woods across the river, pondering her fate. She cant return to her home village; the cottage is windhowled, and the tenmile trek in bitter cold is impossible.
She often remembers her own mother, wondering what shed say now seeing her daughters disgrace: two wives under one roof, whos the chief? Her mother was a proud, independent woman, never a subordinate.
Winter days pass, marked by fatigue and monotony. Only a baby born in January brings a sliver of joy.
In the harshest frost, Kates father brings a newborn boy from the maternity ward, naming him Ethan. Mary tries to look away, her heart aching that this child isnt hers, though she prays and seeks cures.
The motherinlaw keeps reminding her, Hes all Kolyas, Mary, you know.
Yes, he looks like Mary agrees.
Mostly Kate cares for the boy, but Mary notices the child worries Kate far less than his own future.
What now? Stay here rotting in this coop? I wanted to study lab work in the district centre. Kolya wont return for ten years. I have no idea what to do
On the farm, four twobed houses are knocked down and families moved in. New temporary milkmaids arrive, talkative, not from here but hardworking. They get weekends off. Mary befriends one of them, Vera.
One weekend, Vera asks,
Whats your story?
Mary tells her the house is anything but merry. Vera is shocked; shes never heard of a wife and a lover sharing one roof.
Leave, she says.
No way, Vera retorts, theres nowhere else for me. The farm needs me
Ethan grows, crawling, then pulling himself up on his knees. Mary watches him, delighted, as he grabs at her hair, kisses her cheek, laughs in the sunset. He fights with the collie, Fenny, in playful bouts.
On May Day, Mary scoops flour into a castiron pot, returns to the cottage and begins kneading dough. Kate plans to go to the village dance, puts on white beads and darts off. The motherinlaw sits beside Mary, holding Ethan.
Mary, I have to tell you something, she begins, you act like a mother, not Kate. Shes scared to speak, so she says: Kate wants to leave for the city, study, work. She wants Ethan to be our burden. And were left as nannies!
Marys eyes widen.
So what now?
Mary shrugs.
Maybe its for the best. You havent had children; perhaps a child will come your way. Kolya will return, and hell choose the one who raises his child, you know? The grandson will stay, and you wont be cast aside. Maybe Gods plan is like this. What do you think? the motherinlaw asks, eyes softening.
I dont know, Mum. Well see
Why look? the motherinlaw continues, excited, Ill keep busy on the farm while youre at milking. Well raise him together. After all, the child isnt Kates, just a name.
Mary heads out for the evening milking. The celebration feels distant; the milking must go on. She cant picture what to do, everything feels foreign, even baking pies feels pointless.
Whats wrong, Mary? You look pale, Vera says sympathetically.
The pies turn out fine. Mary lays them on the iron, covers with a cloth. Kate returns, flushed, cheerful.
Oh, life is good, Mary! You should have come to the dance! We sang, we danced!
Here are the pies, Mary lifts the cloth.
Im starving, Kate grabs a slice, biting as she changes into a dress.
Mary runs the farmyard, sometimes stopping, staring into the distance with quiet sorrow. Fenny circles, unaware of his owners troubles. Kate falls asleep beside Ethan, the parents and grandparents quiet in the pantry. Mary rocks the boy, places him near his mother. Kate covers him with a hand, hugging him.
Outside it grows dim. A light drizzle taps the roof. Mary thinks calmly about it. Rain cannot stop her, nor the dark woods she feared as a child. Who deserves freedom if not her?
Enough, Mum, I wont endure this any longer, Mary thinks, No love, no hope left.
Nobody notices Mary pulling her canvas bag from the shed. She puts on her rubber boots, pulls a coat over her despite the summer chill, pauses in the kitchen.
No more pies? Let them be a memory.
She slips out, the floor creaking, grabs the heavy bag filled with everything she owns, pats the sleepy Fenny, and steps through the gate. The wet lane feels refreshing, the fields no longer frightening. She pauses at the edge of the woods, takes a deep breath, and walks deliberately toward the station. She needs a fresh start.
She decides to go to Northampton, where a textile school takes apprentices and provides a dormitory. Thats what Vera told her. She has little money, worries about the journey, but she believes shell manage, and if not, shell find work. For the first time, Mary feels steadier than ever.
Through the rain she hears hooves. She jumps into aShe steps onto the steaming platform, boards the northbound carriage, and watches the countryside blur past as hope finally steadies her heart.
