Two wives
A barren womanalready more a spectre than a wife, my motherinlaw mutters, whispered Eleanor, and Marys smile was bitter as she sighed.
Dont listen, snapped the halfdeaf, stoutbodied neighbour, Mrs. Shaw, leaning close, God knows what Hes doing. Its early for you to think of children; He sees the whole road ahead.
What do you mean, Mrs. Shaw? Weve lived five years together. I just want a baby, Marys cheeks flooded with tears.
She rarely spoke those words aloud; she kept the ache locked inside, a quiet storm. She had returned to her home village, ten miles from the town, to tend her mothers grave, and now sat with the old, halfdeaf neighbour for a hearttoheart.
Its a tragic thing sorrowful, indeed. But we are not the ones who find children; they find us. Hold on, girl.
The village dogs barked, sparrows chattered. The familiar sounds of the hamlet had long faded. Hawthorn, a dwindling village in Yorkshire, seemed to bow its thatched roofs toward the river, as if giving its final salute.
Mary turned toward her husbands cottage in the larger settlement of Ilford. She had to leave Hawthorn before dark. All her life shed feared the night woods and open fieldschildhood dread that never left her.
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 babe. She took a job as a milk maid on the local collective farm.
When she met her future husband, it was June. It was Marys seventeenth summer, and her first on the farm. The walk was long, but she jogged there gladly, even though her hands ached from the strain of milking.
One morning a slanting rain caught her on the lane. The sky darkened, clouds rolled in, and a low rumble rolled through the air. Everything seemed to tilt, to bend under the weight of the storm.
Mary ducked under a leanto shelter that clung to the edge of the woods near the village. She sat on the wooden planks, pulling the wet strands of her dark hair into a knot, wringing out the rain. Through the angled sheets of water she saw a darkhaired young man hurrying toward her, shirt plastered to his torso, trousers rolled to the knees.
He slipped beneath the shelter, saw her and flashed a grin.
Now thats a gift! Im Thomas, and you are?
Marys heart hammered, the world a blur of rain and darkness. She stayed silent, sliding to the edge of the planks.
Did thunder strike you deaf? Or were you born mute? he joked.
Not mute. Marys my name.
Cold? Need a hand to warm you? he teased, keeping his distance. The rain has knocked us both down. Im from the M.T.S. farm.
He bantered for a while, then pressed closer, making Marys breath catch. Her blouse stuck to her skinperhaps that sparked his interest, or perhaps he was simply a reckless romantic. She bolted from the shelter, sprinting through the downpour, glancing back every few steps.
The forest, heavy with looming clouds, seemed terrifying.
Later, Thomas Nikiforov arrived as a temporary farmhand, filling in for a missing hand. Mary looked at him with a flash of resentment, but he soon began courting her earnestly, his earlier flirtation leaving an indelible mark.
When they married, Mary leapt into the union with hope, though she could scarcely imagine life with a husband in a foreign village. Her motherinlaw turned out stern, frail, and quick to shift blame onto her daughterinlaw, watching every chore with a hawks eye.
Despite the hardship, Mary never gave up. She was diligent and strongwilled, yet the constant scoldings gnawed at her. She was, after all, a poor orphan with no dowry.
After a while, Eleanors temper eased as she saw Marys competence. The other accusations fell away; Mary bore them without complaint. Years passed, but no child came.
Youre a barren shrew, a halfwoman, Eleanor hissed one evening. What use is this house without grandchildren?
Mary clutched Thomass shoulder, tears spilling as he chided his mother, who turned away, only speaking when Mary set a bowl before her.
Yet Mary refused to lose hope. She visited the village nurse herself, slipped away to the parish priests house for herbal brews, and listened to whispered advice about childlessness.
Life trudged on. The Nikiforov household was modest, never rich, but not destitute either, in those postwar years. One early morning Thomas brought a halfbushel of damp grain home.
Dont waste it! Eleanor shrieked.
Its all of us pulling together, Thomas replied calmly.
Mary begged Thomas not to involve himself in such petty schemes, but he persisted, dragging whatever leftovers he could from the fields.
Nights grew sleepless for Mary; she would sit in the dark, legs tucked beneath her, waiting for Thomas to return.
One gusty November evening, she gathered a skirt, a coat, a pair of rubber boots, and a canvas coat, stepping out onto the porch as the wind lashed the doors open. Torrential rain slammed against her face. She wondered where Thomas could be, out in such weather.
Her feet carried her to the edge of the hamlet. The houses were dark, dogs huddled indoors, and even her beloved terrier, Finn, was nowhere. She trudged toward an old barn on the village fringe.
The field and woods stretched before herplaces shed always feared. She paused, deciding whether to wait or turn back.
Rain hammered the cold ground, a relentless roar. Through the din, a faint feminine giggle floated from the barn.
She strained to hear and caught Thomass voice, then anotheran unfamiliar womans. It was Kather name, a girl from the neighbouring hamlet whod worked with her on the farm.
Kat, once lively and outspoken, had lately grown sullen, her laughter fading. Rumours whispered that shed been married off against her will, her spirit crushed.
Marys heart pounded as she realized the barn held more than she expected. The rains clamor rose and fell, carrying fragments of conversation. Kats voice, tinged with desperation, seeped through.
…the child will be mine… I cannot raise him alone… He will stay with us… Kats words cut through the storm.
Mary stood frozen, the weight of betrayal crushing her. She turned back to the barn door, her breath ragged, and the rain washed over her like a veil.
Inside, Kat scrambled to her feet, clutching a ragged coat, and fled down the slick path, slipping on the mud. Her skirt tore, revealing the coarse canvas beneath.
She burst into the cottage, drenched, and shouted to the small kitchen dog, Finn! Come!
The cottage was a tangle of steam, a halffilled wash tub, and the lingering scent of boiled potatoes. Mary, trembling, began to strain milk, her hands moving mechanically as the world swirled.
All that remained in that house was loveher love for Thomas, and his love for her. Yet the foundation of that love seemed to crumble under the weight of secrets.
When Thomas entered the washroom later, Mary said nothing. She resolved to wait until morning.
At dawn, two policemen and the collective farm chairman arrived. Eleanor clutched at the chairmans lapel, wailing, while Thomass father, silent, eyed the strangers with cold suspicion. Mary scrambled, supporting her frail motherinlaw, and helped gather the frightened Thomas.
Fourteen villagers were seized, marched to the council hall, and later loaded into a truck bound for the city court.
Mary turned, and beyond the birch trees, Kat stood, watching.
The arrests sent shockwaves through Hawthorne. No one spoke of it openly; doors shut, shutters fell.
Eleanor fell into a deep sorrow; Thomass father withered. Days passed without sleep for Mary.
She never resolved her marriage with Thomas; she remained a wife, yet not quite. Fear for her husbands safety outweighed jealousy. She could not speak openly; a wife of an accused man was shunned elsewhere. Divorce was never mentioned.
Weeks later, Mary returned from the fields, a pail of milk in hand, and found Kat at the kitchen table, hands folded over a swollen belly. Thomass parents sat opposite her, heads bowed.
Good day, Kat greeted, her voice flat.
Eleanor, uncharacteristically gentle, said, Kat used to visit the city, with Olga and Nina. Their father, Vas, works there now.
Mary set down the milk, washed her hands, and listened.
The court sentenced KolyaThomass brotherto ten years, Eleanor whispered, handing Mary a handkerchief, tears spilling onto her cheek.
Ten? Mary gasped.
Kat answered, They called them state criminals. Almost everyone got a decade. They were tried en masse.
Lord! Mary exclaimed, disbelief rippling through her.
Eleanor sobbed, Perhaps theyll release them maybe
Kat, confident, added, Who will free them now? Its all a mess. The courts harsh, but theyll let some go, perhaps after a scare.
The conversation lingered, the kettle whistling as Thomass father sipped tea.
Kat then slammed her palm on the table, eyes blazing. Listen, the house is quiet; Ill tell you: Kolya planned to marry me. He wanted to divorce you, but never got the chance. A child will be mine, and I wont raise it alone. My father wont let me return to the village with a child; he heard the rumors. I thought marriage would solve it, but look what happened.
She stared at Mary, waiting for a reactionsurprise, protest, tears. Mary sat on the bench, hands folded on a militarystyle skirt, eyes fixed on the floor.
Eleanor, overwhelmed, broke first. Mary, this is our home; we decide. A grandchild will come. As for Kolya whats happened to him? Let Kat stay; thats our decision. Let the child grow here. She clutched her apron, sobbing.
I dont mind, Mary replied, rising to strain the milk.
Kat and Thomass father gathered their belongings. Eleanor busied herself, worrying about where the child would sleep. Where shall we put the baby? Hell need a corner
Mary fetched a bundle of straw from the yard, spread it on the kitchen floor, and layered a homemade quilt over ita makeshift bed, much like Finns nest in the shed.
Winter grew harsher; Eleanor fell ill. Kat, in her final days, roamed the house, sometimes harsh, sometimes protective, even defending Mary when the latters discipline seemed too severe.
Mary spent long hours milking, glancing through a small window at the white woods beyond the river, pondering her fate. She could not return to her birthplace; the winds whistled through the thatch, and the tenmile trek to the farm in winter was impossible.
She often thought of her own mother. What would she say seeing her daughter trapped in such disgrace? Two wives under one roof, each fighting for a place. Her mother had been a proud, independent woman.
Days slipped by, marked by fatigue and monotony. Only a baby born in January brought a flicker of joy.
When the harsh frost arrived, Kats father carried the newborn, a little boy named Ethan, from the hospital in a wooden pram.
Mary, though she had not birthed the child, felt her heart ache for the tiny life, praying for the strength to love him.
Ethans grandfather kept reminding Mary, He looks just like Kolya. Mary would answer, Yes, indeed
Kat cared for Ethan, though often with a sharpness that left Mary uneasy. The boy seemed more attached to Mary than to his own mother, clinging to her curls, laughing with an unguarded smile.
The farm began to change. Four twobed houses were built, bringing new families. Temporary milkmaids arrivedtalkative, hardworking women from farther afield. Weekends finally appeared. Mary befriended Vera, one of the newcomers.
Youre staying here? Vera asked, eyes wide.
Mary recounted her storyhow the house was never a place of happiness. Vera, shocked, warned, Leave, Mary. Its not right.
Its my home, Mary replied, What would they do without me? The farm needs me.
Ethan grew, crawling, then toddling, his small hands reaching for Marys face, his giggles echoing in the kitchen. The terrier Finn, now older, joined in playful tussles.
One May morning, Mary prepared a batch of pies, scooping flour into a castiron pot. Kat, dressed in white beads, slipped away for a village dance. Eleanor sat beside Mary, cradling Ethan.
Mary, Eleanor said, voice trembling, I know youre not his mother, but youre his aunt. Hell need someone. I cant
Mary paused, her hands stirring dough, the rhythm echoing her thoughts. What shall we do, Mum?
Eleanor, eyes glinting, whispered, Perhaps this is Gods plan. Youll raise him, and Kolya will return. Youll have a child after all. The husband you have now cannot be discarded
Marys shoulders sank. She felt the weight of destiny pressing down.
Vera watched, concern etched on her face. What will you do, Mary? she asked gently.
Mary shrugged. Maybe its for the best. Im not given my own child, but this little one will be mine to love. And Thomas he will come back, choose the one who feeds his son.
The day passed, the pies baked golden, the kitchen filled with warm aromas. Kat returned, flushed, laughing, a pie in hand.
Delicious, Mary! she exclaimed, biting into the crust.
Mary smiled faintly, feeling the tension loosen just a bit.
Even as the rain whispered against the roof, Marys thoughts drifted to the future. She imagined herself at the textile college in Manchester, learning to weave, escaping the suffocating farm. She imagined a life beyond the fields, a chance at freedom.
The rain fell, relentless, but Mary knew it would not stop her. The dark woods shed feared since childhood could no longer hold her back.
She whispered to herself, No more waiting. No more silent tears.
She slipped on her rubber boots, pulled on a heavy coat, and, without a word, walked out the back door, a sturdy canvas sack slung over her shoulder. The wind howled, but she pressed forward, toward the main road, toward the distant train station.
A cart appeared, its wheel creaking. The driver, a gaunt man, tipped his hat.
Ill take you to town, he said.
Mary placed the sack into the cart, felt the weight of her past lift slightly.
Take care of yourself, she whispered to the cottage, to Eleanor, to Finn, to the life she left behind.
The cart rumbled along the muddy lane, the fields no longer terrifying but merely a path to her freedom.
She thought of the two wives, of the tangled loyalties, of the child she would now love as her own. The future was uncertain, but for the first time in years, Mary felt a surge of hope as the horizon widened, the trains whistle echoing in the distance, heralding a new chapter.
