Oh, dear lady, the babe was born a bit early, yet shes a hardy little thing. Dont fret; everything will turn out finefor your daughter and for your granddaughter.
Thank the heavens, answered Mrs. Margaret Whitmore, as the nurse slipped away down the corridor of the Littlebrook Cottage Hospital. When Ellen was out of earshot, Margaret muttered, this is a curse.
The misfortune fell upon the Whitmore family half a year earlier, when a chatty neighbour, Mrs. Agnes Barlowa woman as nosy as she was talkativedropping by for a cuppa and a slice of apple jam, let slip:
When are you expecting your little one? Have you started stocking up on nappies yet?
What little one? snapped Margaret, taken aback.
What? I saw your calfherd girl, Klara, two nights last week, washing the barn doors. I even watched her pull a kitchen towel over her mouth and dash out of the calf shed.
Perhaps she ate something she shouldnt have, Margaret tried to keep her composure.
Oh, youve never been in labour yourself, so you know nothing. Im not a midwife, and Im clueless about these matters.
That evening Aunt Margaret interrogated Klara, then wept for hours, cursing the light that shone on her wayward daughter, on the unborn infant, on the sunbaked farmhand whose trail had already gone cold, and on the whole male line of the family.
The arrival of the tiny, hoarsevoiced Zinnia brought no joy, only chores, resentment and a burning shame. Klara showed no warmth or tenderness toward the child; she would lift her when feeding or when she wretched, but nothing more. Aunt Margaret regarded her granddaughter with indifference, offering no affection either. And this was already the fourth granddaughtera cause for celebration, she thought. Her own daughters own children were few and unremarkable. Thus Zinnia entered this world unloved, stumbling on unsteady legs through life.
A year later Klara left for the workers settlement at Meadowfield, searching for the happiness her mother had never known. Zinnia stayed with Aunt Margaret, who was, after all, a grandmother by blood, not a stranger. The girl required no special care; she ate what was given, fell asleep at the proper hour, and never fell ill. The nurses prediction proved trueZinnia grew sturdy but remained, sorrowfully, unloved.
Grandma Margaret raised Zinnia until the child was seven. In those years Klara learned the trade of a house painter, married, and bore a son, Thomas. It was then that Klara recalled Zinnia, now a grown girl who could help her mother. She traveled back to the village for her child, but Zinnia, who saw her mother only twice a year, showed little delight at the reunion. Margaret looked at the girl with rebuke:
Oh, Zinnia, you behave as if you were a stranger. Another would have rushed to hug me, but you stand there cold as stone
Seeing the girl off, Aunt Margaret shed a brief tear, missed her for a couple of days, yet the following Saturday two more granddaughters arrived from her eldest sondear Lily and sweet Oksana. Swamped with duties, Margaret quickly forgot Zinnia. The unloved Zinnia felt little sorrow for her grandmother, yet the parting from the newly hatched yellow chicks drew tears.
In Meadowfield, Zinnia did not like the settlement much, but she had no choice. Over time she grew used to it, made friends, and went to school. After lessons she did her homework, walked to the shop for bread and milk, peeled potatoes for her mothers return. When she grew older she escorted Thomas to the nursery, and, imitating her mother, warned a lanky boy:
Watch your step, youre courting punishment. Im short of strength for you! Im pulling my own cords, yet you give me no help!
Thomas never heard words of love from his sister, and Zinnia never heard them from anyone else; she was not expecting such words, having been unloved from birth. The girl suffered little, for she never knew life could be any different.
Still, she heard how her friends mothers called them with pet names, and how her own mother called Thomas sunshine or kitty. Zinnia, once named Zenaida, Zinnia or simply Zinn, believed sincerely that she was not meant to be anyones sunshine; she was an adult, unlike Thomas.
At home she was neither pampered nor mistreated; a slice of bread never went unoffered. Of course she was not decked out in finery nor spoiled with sweets, yet she was not destitute. She simply remained unloved.
At fifteen Zinnia left the cold cottage that had not become a home in eight years. She entered a technical college in the city, training as a pastry chef. Her dream was to eat scones and crumpets until she could not move. In the city she liked the dormitory, which housed three other girls, and she soon became the households de facto manager.
Then she met Walter, and life burst into colour. Though November was bleak and damp, the sun seemed to shine for Zinnia alone. The dorm mates would step out for an hour to watch television in the tiny redcorner lounge. Walter was not shy; he spoke beautiful words that made Zinnias head spin and her breath catch.
You are my beloved, he whispered, and Zinnia, accustomed to endless neglect, melted with happiness.
Soon a queasy feeling plagued her each morning. She should have rushed to a doctor, but she missed the appointment. By eighteen Zinnia could not find a doctors note, and she was ushered, handinhand with a longing Walter, into the registry office.
Thus began Zinnias married life, and at the same time her brief romance ended. The young couple moved into Walters family house. Walters mother and grandmother showed no special affection for Zinnia, but they allotted her a modest room of her own. It was not the first nor the last time a woman found herself in such a place; she would simply endure, perhaps for the best, as a child was on the way and Walter might settle down.
A friend from the settlement envied her:
Lucky you, youll live in the city, become a cityfolk.
Zinnia could not convince her otherwise. She did not proclaim that her city life was merely a label. The house was a terraced home with country comforts; water still came from a communal tap at the end of the lane. Yet Zinnia complained of nothing; she was used to it. She carried buckets of water, feeling the chill on her feet, and together with the cold water she poured out her yetunborn childs future. Her motherinlaw scolded her, but was Zinnia to blame?
Walter seemed to pity her at first, but only for a day or two. Soon he fell in with his friends, spent nights elsewhere, and his mother and grandmother let Zinnia stay on, helping around the house. Perhaps something might work out; it did not. After a while Walter brought another woman home, declared he never loved Zinnia, never had.
Zinnia poured her heart out to her friends, wept briefly, then accepted that she would remain the unloved one all her life. She gathered her few belongings, obeyed the old motherinlaws order to go to the four corners, and shut the door behind her.
She moved into a factory dormitory. The canteen was on the plant grounds, the block was near the gate, and the workers club was close by. Live and be merry, they told her. Zinnia laughed, No curse, no witchcraft, all is well. She went to work with the other girls, to the club, to the cinema.
She rarely visited her own mother, stepfather, or brother; they did not expect her, and she did not press. Grandmother Margaret died when Zinnia was twentyone. She travelled to the funeral, looked upon the empty rooms that once held family memories.
Grandmother Margaret left her cottage to the beloved granddaughters Lily and Oksana. Zinnia bore no grudge; they were the cherished berries of the old ladys garden, while she was the trimmed, ignored branch.
If Zinnia had claimed the inheritance, the relatives would have quarreled over the modest fivehundredpound house. More than anyone, Zinnias mother Klara wailed and cursed, lamenting that the dear Thomas had been left without a crooked spoon from their grandmother. Wasnt he a grandson? she cried. Isnt that any less than Lily or Oksana? She never spoke of her elder daughter. The crooked spoon was never Zinnias.
Zinnia tried twice to arrange a life of her own, courting men, but both efforts failed. At the registry office, no suitor ever took her hand, so she never yearned for it. She visited once, thought enough. Her private life faltered for the same reasons each time: one man drank and chased women; the other drank and beat. Decide yourself what is worse, what is better. Zinnia was relieved she never tangled with the registry office again; otherwise more trouble would have followed. She tossed her few possessions into a battered suitcase and returned to the staterun hostel, where her dear friends waited.
Evenings in the hostel passed slowly; she roamed from one dorm to another for over a decade, weary of foreign beds. She was nearly thirty, and any woman by then wants her own corner, her own kettle on her own shelf. Single folk were given rooms only as a last resort; families were favoured.
Sometimes she dropped by the pantry of Aunt Ada, who washed the factory floors each night, to talk hearttoheart. After three or four months of such visits, Ada began a conversation with genuine interest:
Zinn, a year ago my niece died in childbirth, leaving a little girl and a widower. Ive been watching you; youre a capable, hardworking woman. Her husband, Matthew, is a decent fellow. Perhaps you could consider marrying him. He isnt violent, only drinks on special occasions, and hes gentle. He may not be a handsome speaker, but he cared for my own son, and we need strong women. Think about it, Zinn. The girl would call you Mum
Zinn thought it over and moved in with Matthew. She brightened his modest room for the May holidays, bought assorted curtains, sewed greentowhite floral drapes, and stitched a pair of blueandyellow dresses for the little girl, Sonya, who soon began to babble and called Zinn Mum.
Matthew was a gentle husband; he never offended her, paid his share of the wages, and never uttered harsh words. Of course Zinn never heard declarations of love from him, but she had never been accustomed to such words. She had long resigned herself to a life without them.
Three years into the marriage, loves words finally reached hernot from Matthew, but from their daughter Sonya, who ran in from the garden clutching yellow dandelions, hugged Zinn, kissed her cheek with candysweet lips and whispered:
Mum, I love you. I love you more than anyonemore than Daddy, more than Aunt Ada, more than my doll Julie.
Zinn embraced her daughter, laughed and wept together, at last feeling truly beloved.
A year later she gave birth to a son, William. Matthew cared for his wife, rose at night to tend the baby, spread the nappies, and helped push the pram up the stairs. Soon the factory granted them a spacious, bright council flat. Live and be happy, the landlord said, and Zinn smiled, finally having something to rejoice over.
Together with Matthew they raised their children, watched grandchildren arrive. In their garden cottage, silverhaired Zinn would simmer jam, while the little ones twirled nearby.
Grandma, I love you, shouted Olivia.
Grandma, I love you too, echoed Daniel.
Grannie, I wuv you, cooed the youngest, little May.
We all love our grandma, hiding smiles in our grey beards, said Granddad Matthew.
Zinn quietly brushed away a sudden tear. Many years ago she never imagined that fate, having marked her as unloved from birth, could one day shower her with such love.
