Lady, no need to fret. The little one is premature but sturdy. Everything will turn out alrightfor your daughter and for your granddaughter, the midwife whispered, her voice fading like a distant hymn. When she slipped away into the consulting room, the woman muttered under her breath, Ah, the sorrow.
Six months earlier, sorrow had crept into the Whitfield household. A nosy neighbour, Mrs. Pritchard, who lingered over a pot of tea and apple jam, had dropped a careless remark while polishing the kitchen window:
Are you already stocking up on nappies? When are you expecting the little one?
What do you mean, expecting? Are you chewing on your words? Margaret Whitfield snapped, bewildered.
Just sayingyour kitchen servant was seen twice last week sprinting out of the barn with a apron clamped over her mouth, Mrs. Pritchard jabbed, eyes glittering with curiosity.
Maybe she ate something odd, Margaret tried to defend, though the words tasted like sand.
That evening, Aunt Margaret interrogated Claudia Harris, then wept for a lost futurean unborn babe, a sunkissed wanderer whose trace had already gone cold, taking with him an entire brotherhood of men.
The arrival of tinyvoiced Ethel brought no joy, only chores, resentment and a sharp sting of shame. Claudia, though she held the child gently when feeding or when it cried, never poured hot affection upon her. Aunt Margaret watched her granddaughter with indifferent eyes, love never stirring within her. And this was already the fourth granddaughterwhat cause for celebration? Even the daughter of her own child had been an unremarkable birth. So Ethel entered a world where love was a stranger, stumbling on wobbly legs across a life that felt like a faded tapestry.
A year later, Claudia left for the workers settlement of Walsby, hunting for the happiness her mother had promised. Ethel stayed with Aunt Margaret, a sort of kin, not a stranger. The girl required no special care; she ate what was given, fell asleep at the appointed hour, never fell ill. The midwifes prediction held trueEthel was sturdy, yet still unloved.
Ethel spent seven winters under Aunt Margarets roof. In those years, Claudia learned the trade of a housepainter, wed a carpenter named Colin, and bore a son. Then the memory of Ethel resurfacedshe was now a grown girl, a potential helper to her mother. Claudia travelled back to the village, but Ethel, who saw her mother only twice a year, showed no particular delight at the reunion. Claudia looked at the girl with reproach:
Ethel, you behave like a stranger. Another would have leapt into my arms, but you stand there cold as stone.
When they said goodbye, Aunt Margaret shed a tiny tear, missed Ethel for a few days, then, the following Saturday, two cherished granddaughtersLily and Daisyarrived from her eldest son. In a whirl of chores, Aunt Margarets thoughts drifted far from Ethel. The unloved child felt little pity for her aunt, yet the departure of the freshly hatched, yellow chicks brought tears that flowed like rain.
In the workers settlement, Ethel did not love the place, but she had no choice. Over time she made friends, attended school, did homework, ran to the shop for bread and milk, and peeled potatoes before her mother arrived. As she grew, she escorted Colin to kindergarten, and, mimicking her mother, warned a boisterous boy:
Watch your step, Im your punishment. My strength isnt enough for you! Im pulling my last nerve, and you give me none!
Words of love never reached Ethel from Colins sister; she never heard such phrases from anyone, nor did she expect them. She barely suffered; she simply did not know the world could be any different.
She did hear other girls call each other sweetly, and her own mother would sometimes call Colin sunshine or little kitten. Once called Zinaida, now simply Zina, she believed she would never be a sunshineshe was older, unlike Colin.
At home, they did not coddle Ethel, but they did not harshly rebuke her either. A slice of bread was never snatched. They didnt dress her in lace or shower her with salt, yet she was not left starving or ragcladshe was simply unloved.
At fifteen, Zina left the cold cottage that had been hers for eight years. She enrolled in a city college, chose confectionery, dreaming of eating cakes until she burst. In the bustling town of Meadowbrook, three other girls shared her dormitory; after lessons she tended to her own little kingdom.
Then she met Victor, and life swirled with colour. Though November was bleak and damp, the sun seemed to shine just for her. The other girls would step out for a brief television viewing in the scarlet corner of the common room. Victor spoken in gentle, lilting phrases that made Zinas head spin and her breath catch.
You are my darling, he whispered, and Zina, accustomed to perpetual neglect, felt a strange glow of happiness.
Soon nausea plagued her mornings. She should have rushed to a doctor, but the right moment slipped away. At eighteen, lacking a proper certificate, she forged a note and, handinhand with a nowrestless Victor, entered the registry office.
Thus began Zinas married life, and at the same time, her brief romance with Victor faded. They moved into Victors family home. Victors mother and grandmother offered no special affection, yet they allotted Zina a small room. What else can one do? they seemed to say. Perhaps all was for the best; a child would be born, Victor would settle down.
A fellow settler envied Zinas city future:
Youre lucky, youll live in town, become a true citygirl.
Zina could not convince her; the city was not a single glorious label. The house was in a suburban culdesac, amenities as modest as a village; water still came from a communal tap at the end of the lane. Yet Zina never complained; she adapted. She fetched water in buckets, the cold splashing her feet, and, as if the chilly stream were a baptism, she imagined her unborn child being washed anew. Her motherinlaw scolded her, but was it really Zinas fault?
Victor seemed to pity her at firstperhaps for a day or twothen slipped away with his mates. Her motherinlaw never drove Zina out, letting her linger and help around the house, hoping perhaps something would sprout. It did not. After a while Victor brought home another woman, declaring he never loved Zina, never had.
Zina confided in her dormitory friends, wept briefly, then accepted the pattern: a lifetime of being unloved. She packed a few belongings, obeyed her motherinlaws command to leave in all directions, and shut the door behind her.
She moved to the factorys dormitory, where the mess hall sat near the gates and a workers club pulsed nearby. Live, enjoy, and be merry, they said. Zina smiled, no longer cursing, no longer mopingjust content. She walked to work with comrades, attended the club, went to the cinema, all in a steady rhythm.
She rarely visited her mother, stepfather, or brother; they did not await her, and she did not press. Aunt Margaret passed away when Zina was twentyone. She attended the funeral, glanced at the old garden that once promised so much.
Margarets cottage was bequeathed to her beloved grandchildren Lily and Daisy. Zina bore no grudge; they were the cherished berries of their grandmother. She, meanwhile, was the trimmed branch, the unloved twig.
If Zina claimed no share of the inheritance, the other relatives quarrelled over the modest £500 left behind. The loudest cries came from Claudia, who mourned that the dear Colin would inherit a bent spoon that the grandmother had not left for him. Is he not a grandson? Is his share any less than Lilys or Daisys? she wailed, forgetting her own older daughter. No bent spoon was meant for Zina.
Zina tried twice to arrange a new life, courting men, but both attempts fell flat. At the registry office, no suitor ever truly pursued her, and she never rushed to it. One lover drank too much and courted other women; the other beat and drank. She decided it was best not to entangle herself with the registry again. She tossed her few possessions into a wornout suitcase and returned to the communal ward where her friends waited.
For over a decade she drifted from dorm to dorm, the beds of strangers growing stale. It was no wondershe was nearing thirty, and any woman at that age wants a corner of her own, a pot on her shelf. Yet single women were the last to receive rooms; families were favoured.
Occasionally she dropped by Aunt Ashas pantry, the woman who washed factory floors each night, for a hearttoheart chat. After three or four months, Aunt Asha, with a soft voice, said:
Zina, a year ago my niece died in childbirth, leaving a little girl and a widower. Ive been watching you; youre capable, diligent. Her husband, Matthew, is a gentle man. He drinks only on holidays, and hes kind. He may not be handsome or eloquent, but he loved my son. Think about it, dear. The girl will call you Mum.
Zina thought and moved in with Matthew. She brightened his modest room for May Day, bought colourful curtains, stitched tiny dresses from yellow and blue cloth for the little girl, Sonya, who soon began to speak and called Zina Mum.
Matthew was meek, never harsh, gave his wages, and never uttered loveydovey phrasesZina was used to that silence. Yet after three years of marriage, Sonya burst into the courtyard, clutching yellow dandelions, leapt into Zinas arms, pressed a candysweet kiss to her cheek and whispered:
Mum, I love you. I love you more than Daddy, more than Aunt Asha, more than my doll Yulia.
Zina hugged her daughter, laughing and weeping together at last, feeling the warmth of being loved.
A year later she gave birth to a boy, Ilya. Matthew cared for the infant, rising at night to change nappies, helping pull the pram from the stairwell. The factory granted them a spacious, bright flat. Live and be happy, the notice read, and Zina finally smiled.
They raised their children, welcomed grandchildren. In their country cottage, silverhaired Zina boiled jam on the patio while the youngsters played.
Grandma, I love you, shouted Olivia.
And I love you, echoed Denis.
I love you, Grandma, giggled little Martha.
We all love Grandma, declared Grandpa Matthew, hiding a grin behind his white whiskers.
A quiet tear slipped down Zinas cheek. Years ago she never imagined that a girl born unloved could one day be surrounded by such love.
