Two wives
Childless woman, my motherinlaw used to mutter, shes not even a proper woman any more, just half a lass. That was what old Mrs. Whitaker always said, and I could see the bitterness in Marys sigh as she forced a bitter smile.
Dont heed her, shouted my auntie Sue, her hearing half gone, God knows what Hes up to. Youre still too young to think of children; He sees ahead of us all.
Mrs. Whitaker snapped, But Sue how can you see? Weve been here five years, Im yearning for a baby. Tears welled in Marys eyes. She rarely spoke of it aloud; she kept the ache locked deep in her heart. She had come back to her hometown, ten miles from the little hamlet of Littleford in Yorkshire, to tend her mothers grave, and now sat down with her old, halfdeaf neighbour for a chat.
Its a hard thing, love, Sue said, but we dont find children, they find us. Hang on, girl.
The village dogs barked, sparrows chattered, but the usual chorus of the countryside had faded. Littleford was nearly dead, its crooked cottages bowing toward the River Aire as if giving their final salute.
Mary walked home to her husband in the larger village of Ashford. She had to leave Littleford before dark. All her life shed feared the night woods and open fieldschildish superstitions that stuck with her.
Mary was born there. Six years ago she was left alone. Her father died shortly after the war and her mother passed when she was very young. She took a job milking cows on the local collective farm.
It was June when she met her future husband, Nicholas. It was Marys seventeenth summer and her first year working the farm. The walk to the dairy was long, but she went gladly, even though her hands ached from the hard milking work.
One morning a sideways rain caught her on the lane. The sky darkened, low clouds rolled in and a gruff rumble rolled over the fields. Everything seemed to tilt to one side.
Mary ducked under a shelter at the edge of the village near the woods. She sat on the bench, pulling her long dark braid loose to wring out the rain. Through the slanted sheets of water she saw a darkhaired lad in a snug, checked shirt and trousers rolled just above his knees. He slipped under the shelter, saw her and broke into a grin.
Now thats a surprise! Im Nicholas, and who might you be?
Marys heart hammered; the rain swirled darkness around her. She stayed silent, edging back a little.
Did the thunder knock you senseless, or are you just shy? he joked.
Not shy. Marys my name, she replied.
Cold? Need a bit of warmth? he teased, keeping his distance. The rains knocked us all flat. Im from the MTC. He lingered with jokes, then pressed a little too close. Marys blouse clung to her skinperhaps that set his pulse racing or perhaps he was just a lad full of mischief. She bolted out into the rain, running as fast as she could, glancing over her shoulder.
The forest, heavy with low hanging clouds, seemed ominous.
Soon after, Nicholas returned as a temporary farmhand. Mary looked at him with a flash of irritation, but then his courting turned serious. That first meeting left a mark.
When they married, Mary dove into the new life with a bright smile, though she could hardly picture what awaited her in her husbands house and in a village that wasnt hers. Her motherinlaw proved to be a sour, frail woman. She gladly dumped chores on her daughterinlaw but kept a sharp eye on every task.
Despite the harsh words, Mary never lost her spirit. She was diligent and sturdy, though the constant nagging bruised her. After all, she was a poor, childless girl with no dowry, an orphan in a strange home.
Eventually, Mrs. Whitaker softened a little, seeing that Mary could manage the farm. The reproaches faded. But the years slipped by and Mary still bore no child.
Youre a good-for-nothing lass, Mrs. Whitaker snarled one day. A childless womanwhats the point of this house without grandchildren?
Mary clutched Nicholass shoulder, he scolded his mother, and she turned farther away, sighing. The fatherinlaw watched Mary only when she set a bowl before him.
Mary, however, refused to give up hope. She visited the local midwife herself, slipped away to the neighbouring village to see the parish priest, and brewed all the herbal tonics the village women swore could cure barrenness.
Life went on. The Whitaker household wasnt rich, but it wasnt destitute either, even in those hard postwar years. One morning Nicholas brought home half a sack of damp grain.
Oh, Colin, his mother wailed, dont let them get you down! Theyll have us in trouble!
Its all of us pulling together, Nicholas said, trying to calm her. Mary warned him not to get involved in such schemes, but he persisted, dragging whatever scraps he could from the collective farm.
Mary began sleeping poorly, staying up in the dark, legs drawn up, waiting for him.
One November evening she decided to meet him. She felt around for his nightshirt, his coat and a pair of rubber boots, snatched his canvas coat and stepped onto the porch. The biting wind slammed the doors open, and cold rain lashed her face.
Where could he be in such weather? she thought, her feet carrying her toward the edge of the village. The houses were dark, the dogs huddled inside. Her loyal dog, Fido, followed her, his tail wagging.
She walked until she reached an old barn on the outskirts. Beyond that was only field and forestplaces shed always feared. She thought to wait a bit, then turn back.
Rain pounded the cold, damp earth, sometimes roaring, sometimes a steady murmur. Through the sound she heard a light, tinkling laugh. It came from the barn. She strained to listen and recognized Nicholass voice at first, then anotherKatherines voice, a girl from the neighbouring village whod worked with her on the farm.
Katherine had once been full of chatter, dreaming of leaving the village for the city, of marrying a rich, bald man. She used to sing, Go on, house, go on, bake, go on, girl, Im the only daughter of my mother, a real firebrand! Yet lately her spirit had faded; whispers among the farm women said shed married out of spite.
Mary stood frozen, the rain soaking her through, when Katherines laughter rose sharply, then fell quiet. She fled the barn, slipping on the slick path, her skirt catching on a tangled rope that had been part of a soldiers canvas coat. She burst into the house, tossed herself into the wash tub, and began scrubbing herself clean, muttering to Fido, Well wash this mud away, dear.
All that remained in the cottage was the love she thought she shared with Nicholas and his love for her. But it seemed there was none of that. Whether because shed never truly seen the picture of love with her own eyes, or because endless rain dulled hope, she refused to believe Nicholas had been unfaithful.
When Nicholas entered the wash, she said nothing, choosing instead to wait until morning.
At dawn two police constables and the collective farm chairman arrived. Marys motherinlaw clutched at the chairmans lapel, sobbing. Her fatherinlaw walked his son out in silence, eyes darting toward the unexpected guests. Mary hustled, helped her husband, and lifted her dying motherinlaw from the floor.
Fourteen villagers were taken away to the council office. A lorry arrived at noon, loading the arrested men into its back and hauling them to the town for trial.
Mary looked up and saw Katherine standing a short distance away, beneath the birch trees.
The arrest sent a shock through the whole village. People whispered behind closed doors, fearing to speak aloud. Mrs. Whitaker fell into a deep, motherlike sorrow; Mr. Whitakers health waned. Mary hadnt slept for days.
She never resolved anything with Nicholas, left in limbo between wife and deserted. Yet pity and fear for her husband outweighed bitterness and jealousy. She could not run away; a wife of a detainee would not be welcomed elsewhere. Divorce was never discussed.
A few days later, Mary returned from the dairy, carrying a bucket of milk, when she opened her cottage door to find Katherine seated at the table, hands folded on her rounded belly. Beside her sat the Whitakers.
Good day, Katherine chirped.
And to you, Mary replied.
Mary, Mrs. Whitaker said unusually warmly, Katherine used to visit the city, see our friendsOlga, Nina, their father and brother. She set a milk pail on the stove and washed her hands at the sink.
The court gave Kolya ten years, the mother whispered, pulling a handkerchief to her eyes. Think about it. She pressed the cloth to her face and sobbed.
What ten years? Mary asked, stunned.
The state called them national offenders. Almost everyone got a decade. They were tried together, listed on the same sheet, Katherine explained.
Lord above! Mary gasped, unable to believe.
Mrs. Whitaker wept, and Mary tried to console her. Maybe theyll think again, maybe theyll let them go theyll scare us but then release us, Mary hoped.
Who will let them go now? Youre a fool, Mary! Its a stagebystage process. Theyve already been sentenced, Katherine said confidently.
They lingered on the details of the trial, then fell silent, the only sound the clink of tea from the cup.
Katherine slammed her hand on the table, startling everyone, and declared, If the owners stay silent, Ill say it: Kolya was going to marry me. He wanted to divorce you but never got the chance. So a child will be mine, and I wont raise it alone. My father wont let me back home; hes heard the rumors. I thought wed marry, hed forgive us, but look how it turned out Thats why Im here, to look after your grandson. I told Kolya wed be fine, he didnt object. He even said wed split later.
Katherines words hung in the air. Mary sat calmly, hands folded on her wartimefabric skirt, staring at the floor.
Mrs. Whitaker finally burst, Mary, this is our house, we decide. There will be a grandchild. As for Kolya whats become of him? She sniffed, Let Katherine stay, thats our decision. Let the child grow in this house. You decide yourself.
Mary answered, Fine, Im not opposed, and began straining milk.
Katherine and the father went to fetch more things. Mrs. Whitaker buzzed about where the baby would sleep. Hell need a corner, a cradle. She sighed, Oh, misery.
Mary spread a bundle of straw across the floor by the stove, laid a homemade quilt over itnow her makeshift bed, much like Fidos kennel.
Days grew shorter and colder. Mrs. Whitaker fell ill through the winter. Katherine, in her final days, grew feisty, often scolding Mary, but sometimes she defended her when the Whitakers were too harsh. Lie down, dear, or theyll keep on nagging, shed say, halfjoking.
Mary spent long hours milking, pausing now and then to stare out of a small window at the white woods across the river, thinking of her fate. She could not return to her birthplace; the cottage there whistled with the wind, and the tenmile walk to work in the biting cold was impossible.
She often recalled her own mother, wondering what she would say seeing her daughters plighttwo wives under one roof, each fighting for the title of main lady. Her mother had been a proud, independent woman, never a footsoldier.
Winter days dripped with fatigue and monotony. Only a baby born in January brought a tiny spark of joy.
When the cold was at its worst, the Whitaker patriarch brought the newborn, a boy they named Edward, from the local hospital in a wooden pram.
Mary tried hard not to look at the child too much; her heart ached that she hadnt brought him into the house, though she prayed and took remedies.
She watched Edward bond more with Katherine than with herself, his tiny hand gripping her hair, his cheeky grin lighting the room. The Whitakers cooed over him, while Mary felt a pang of loss.
Later on the farm, four new twobed houses sprang up, bringing in substitute milkmaids from other counties. They were chatty, hardworking, and finally the farm got weekends off. Mary befriended one of them, Vera.
One day Vera asked, Whats going on here? Two women under one roof, a lover and a wife?
Go on, Mary laughed, Theres nowhere else for me. The farms got me. Edward was crawling now, pulling himself up on his knees, and Mary adored his clumsy antics. He clung to her hair, kissed her cheeks, and giggled as they chased him with the dog Fido.
On May Day, Mary measured out flour, scooping four shovels into a castiron pot, then set about kneading dough. Katherine prepared to go to a village fête, slipping on a string of white beads. Mrs. Whitaker settled beside Mary, cradling Edward.
Mary, Ive got to say something, she began, her voice trembling, Katherine plans to leave for the city, study, work. She wants Edward on us, but were too old to look after him.
Marys eyes widened. What? Shes counting on us?
Exactly, Mrs. Whitaker replied, Shes a bit of a shrew, not a mother. Shed abandon her childshes never been a mother before! She fell silent, watching Mary knead dough by habit, her mind drifting.
What should we do? Mary asked, shrugging.
I think perhaps its for the best, Mrs. Whitaker mused, You wont have your own children, but a grandchild will be yours. Kolya will return, and hell choose the one who raises his child. Hell stay, and youll have a family after all. She smiled, eyes softening.
I dont know, Mary replied, Well see.
The celebration went on, but the milking still had to be done. Mary felt lost, unable to decide her own path. Vera noticed her gloom.
Everything alright, love? Vera asked sympathetically.
The pies turned out well. Mary laid them on the stove, covering them with a cloth. Katherine burst back, flushed and laughing.
Oh, Mary, you should have come to the dance! We sang, we danced! she exclaimed, grabbing a slice.
Mary lifted the cloth, revealing the hot pastry. Im starving, Katherine said, biting into the pie.
Mary kept the farm running, pausing now and then, staring into space with a quiet sorrow. Fido trotted around, oblivious to the turmoil.
Outside, dusk settled, a fine drizzle pattered on the roof. Mary thought of the rain, of the dark forest shed feared since childhood. It could no longer hold her back.
Enough, she whispered to herself, No more waiting. She slipped on her rubber boots, pulled on a heavy coat, and left the house with a sturdy bag of belongings. The wet road felt pleasant under her feet, the fields no longer frightening. She paused at the forests edge, inhaled deeply, and stepped forward, determined to reach the railway station in Nottingham, where a weaving apprenticeship was advertised. Vera had told her about it; a place that would give her a roof and a chance.
A horsedrawn cart rumbled past, its driver offering a ride.
Where are you headed? he called.
Just a bit further, Mary answered, Im tired of walking with this weight.
He lifted her bag, placed it on the cart, and said, Ill get you there.
Forgive me, Mary said, as the cart rolled away from the village, but I must leave. The driver handed her two tenpound vouchers, Take these; theyll help you get started.
The train arrived the next morning, its whistle cutting through the mist. Mary boarded, heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope, ready for a new life in the city.
