KLARA
This existence is the most disturbing so far; blurred sensations just beg to be untangled. I see no images yet but feel love of the most overwhelming kind, love for a child growing inside me. I have wanted this so much and am savouring every day that I carry around my swollen abdomen. I feel my child moving and stretching in her limited space and I smile each time she hiccoughs.
But I also feel hatred. Hatred for the man who gave her to me but will take her from me soon. I remember that once, I felt something for him, when he showed me kindness me and then gratitude for what he had done. But never love. And certainly not now, since things have changed.
Wrestling inside of me are feelings of envy that I have for the poor women that he employs. Despite their ten hour days in the factory, their hunger and their disappointment that really, life in the city is not so very different to that which they had on the farms, I admit that I am jealous.
It’s all coming back to me now. Each morning as they gingerly pass my window on their way to the spindles and the looms, I look down as they walk across the courtyard and hear them laughing about the life their parents promised them when their families became emancipated from serfdom. I cannot help but agree that they are very unfortunate indeed and then I pray that the Tsar will soon see how much reform is actually needed in our vast and suffering land. But when they finish their day, and return to the dormitories my husband has provided for married couples, oh how I wish I could trade places with any one of them.
These lucky ones go home to someone who loves and cherishes them. Someone who speaks to them in a civil tongue and doesn’t come back each evening with a belly full of vodka. That would be more valuable than any cotton mill owner.
I remember the day my parents introduced me to this portly gentleman who had travelled all the way from Moscow. I thought he must be a friend of my father’s, considering his age and appearance. But it was not my father, or my mother, or my sisters he was interested in over dinner; it was me. He asked what I wanted to do with my life and when I told him I wanted to study and to read medicine, he laughed and told me he could take me past the University in his city one day if I went to visit him. My naivety told me that this was an opportunity and I answered all of his questions with eager anticipation that he might fulfil his promise.
Over the next few months, Shapiro visited frequently and then one day I was told that I was to go and live with him as his wife. Too young and inexperienced to disagree with my parents, I went. Never before had I considered marriage or husbands and as the eldest child, had no knowledge of how this arrangement would be made for me. It seemed like an adventure going to the city and as this kind gentleman drove his carriage into Moscow, I’m sure I caught a glimpse of the University. But my days of cooking and cleaning taught me nothing of medicine. I wanted for nothing though and Shapiro showered me with gifts, treating me like nobility rather than a mere farmer’s daughter. For this I was grateful and tried to love him in return.
But after only a few short weeks, I became acquainted with the real Shapiro Ivanov. Every evening, I could predict his return from his revelries; a loud thud would alert me that his massive body had shook the door frame once again. As he bounded in and tried to regain his balance, I would scurry around making sure that supper was ready quickly, for the sooner he ate, the sooner he would go upstairs, fall asleep and my peaceful evening would resume.
Things got worse the evening that I attempted to make borscht. I’d watched my mother make it so many times and was convinced that mine tasted every bit as good as hers. But Shapiro clearly did not agree. He took one sip and threw it across the room; the blood-like stains ran down the walls, warning me of my fate.
Of course he was remorseful the next morning and he sent one of the factory girls to the door of our house to deliver a pair of the softest leather gloves I had ever seen. And I forgave him. Without vodka, he could be such a kind and loving man.
But it seemed that this flash of his true soul had opened the floodgates for further revelations of character. Less than a week later, he deemed the house unclean and asked what I had been doing with my day. As my mouth opened to explain, it was met with a meaty fist and this time the blood splatter was real.
When the inn he frequented was closed for two days, I was more than relieved. The old Shapiro returned and for those couple of evenings, I learned how it could have been to be happily married. We ate dinner together and he talked to me and asked me questions, like he had done on my parents’ farm. It was then that he talked about having a family of our own, a son to take over the mill when his days were over. Having only ever been party to the conjugal rights he had exercised on the night of our wedding, I let him teach me more and we became closer physically and perhaps emotionally over the next few days.
It wasn’t long before I noticed changes in my body and realised that Shapiro’s son and heir was on his way. The prospect excited me more than I ever knew was possible. Having helped mother to look after my younger siblings, I knew of the hard work and sleepless nights ahead but I could not wait for my baby to arrive. I would have someone to share my days with, someone to teach and someone to adore. No longer would I be lonely or search for chores to fill my time. This new person wouldn’t judge me or hurt me but love me like I loved them.
It also occurred to me that Shapiro might change with the weighty responsibility of parenthood. Surely he wouldn’t want to spend every evening drinking with the other factory owners when he could be at home with us and without the vodka, I would no longer have to dodge his fists.
But no, this was far too optimistic; nothing changed at all. My life was to irreparably alter the night I told my husband of my dream. For almost a week, a dream had come to me of the daughter we were to receive. A small girl, with curly brown hair sat on my lap and together we sang until she fell asleep in my arms. She was so beautiful and so real that one night, before we went to sleep, I had to tell Shapiro of my vision, convinced that I’d seen into the future.
I thought this would warm his heart but I was wrong. His loud bellowing voice demanded that I stopped talking such nonsense; didn’t I know that wishing for a girl would create a girl when it was a son he needed to look after the factory at the end of his days? His booming voice rings clear in my mind even now, and he stood up, towering over me as I rested by the fire. Afraid of what might happen if he pushed me backwards in to the flames, I stood up and headed towards the other room. Shapiro took this as a sign I was not paying attention to his point and followed me. The moment he grabbed my shoulder to drag me back was the exact point at which I passed the top of the stairs. I’m not sure whether it was the shock of the whole episode or my increasing size which knocked my balance, but I lost my footing.
Time slowed down and I realised there was no substance beneath my body. As I tumbled down the stairs and my body was no longer in my control, I shouted for Shapiro. Lying at the bottom, unable to move any of my limbs, I saw him standing, motionless, frozen to the top step. Eventually he came down to help me but I knew what had happened already. I regained movement in my arms and legs and was able to sit upright but I glanced down and saw the blood flowing from my thighs. It was this, rather than the excruciating pain in my back, which made me cry. I knew my baby had been taken.
The rest of that night is unclear; I believe the mind has a way of erasing that which is truly unbearable. I know that a lady from the factory was brought over to deliver my tiny, silent child and I know that I slept for a very long time. But beyond that I see only black.
Maybe I died too that night. Or maybe I survived for a while and joined Shapiro in the annihilation that the life of an alcoholic can bring. But what I do know is that part of my soul fled with that child and as she greeted me at the end of my days as Klara, we sang those songs together once more.
ME
How did this not occur to me before now? All of this time I have focused on my future mother, but in doing so, I have ignored the men who may become my father. Yes, I know who they may be but I have paid little attention to the role they would play in my future.
As Shapiro taught me, when I was Klara, it takes two people to shape the life of a child. Perhaps he would have changed and been a good father but such alterations in Human Nature are rare and I suspect he would have continued to make me, and as such my child, utterly miserable. Of course, a child can survive without the influence of a decent man, but how much more enriched can they be with the emotional stability of a positive male role model? And equally, how much damage can be done by an inadequate one?
As my delivery draws ever closer, I am compelled to visit the men who might be my father and discover how they could help me grow. I don’t have enough strength left in my wandering soul to step inside their minds, but I can watch and learn nonetheless.
DAN
“Cheers, love,” Dan thanks a blonde lady who places two pints of lager on the wooden bar which divides them. She takes his bank note and returns some coins. Pocketing the change, he sits at a stool, sipping from one of the drinks. A troubled expression swims over Dan’s face; I sense that his mind is far away.
He returns to the warmth of his surroundings when the recipient of the second drink arrives. “’ow do fella?” he politely enquires and slides the glass along to the next bar stool.
John takes off his coat and accepts the invitation, explaining that he’s “grand” because he will be staying here for tonight’s football match, “’cos ah’ve got rid o’ satellite; it were too much bloody money!”
“Wish Vicky’d let me get rid o' ours but she’d never ’ear of it, not that she watches owt on it, like, but she’d never have the dish taken down. ’Tis too expensive, y’right. An‘ we could do wi’ all extra money now what wi’ weddin’ ’n’ baby ’n’ all that.”
“Aye, ’ow’s all that goin’?”
“Oh, y’know, she’s got it all taken care of; just gives me bills,” Dan laughs off.
“You alright wi’ it all though fella?”
“Ah never knew y’ cared!” Dan jokingly puts his arm around his drinking partner and draws him nearer in a show of mock affection which aims to hide the awkwardness of being asked about his emotions.
“Y’know what ah mean,” John is clearly trying his best to show concern for his friend, despite Dan’s attempts to retain their usual level of witty repartee.
“Yes, ah’ suppose I am, mate,” Dan concedes, “Vicky has always been the one for me, you know that. From moment she served me a pint, on this very spot, ah knew she’d be mine forever. Ah know y’ll laugh at that an’ say ah’m a right soppy bugga, but it’s true. Ah’d never been s’keen to get the next round in when she was the new barmaid!”
“Aye w’did notice!” John recalls.
“An’ when sh’ said sh’d come out wi’ me, ah’ couldn’t believe me luck. W’had such a laugh. An’ w’ still do. An’ she’s right hardworkin’ like, y’know, wants a nice life for us both. An’ sh’ still makes the effort with ’erslf, y’know?” he winks.
“Alright mate!” John almost chokes on his lager, “Ah get the picture!”
“Sorry, it’s just the last few weeks have ’ad me ’ead spinnin’. All ah’m tryin’ to say is that ah’m thrilled about baby an’ gettin’ married an all. But, well, ah don’t think ah’ve been as enthusiastic about it as Vicky’d like me to be. It’s just that, well,” Dan lowers his voice further so that John is his only confident, “You’ll understand that ah’m worried it’s all too good t’be true. I just keep remindin’ meself that Vicky’s different to Carrie an’ it’s not goin’ to ’appen again.”
“That’s what ah were meanin’ y’daft bastard,” John’s caring attitude is nearing it’s limit but it is clear that Dan has been waiting for someone with whom to share his worries and his answer has only just begun.
“Ah, jus’ couldn’t bear it if that ‘appened again; to be left there standin’ in front of all me family an’ friends, like a dick, wi’ everyone all dressed up an’ no bride turnin’ up.”
“No-one thought you were a dick, mate, we all jus felt sorry for y’. Does Vicky even know about any o’ that?”
“Nah, never seemed the thing to talk about. She doesn’t really talk about exes so ah don’t neither. I mean me folks’ve mentioned Carrie once o’ twice when she’s been there but nothin’ so as she’d think it was anythin’ other than just an’ old girlfriend.”
“An’ ah’ s’ppose she doesn’t know that many of the folk ’round ’ere that would remember, eh?”
“S’ppose. But I’ll probably have t’tell ’er sometime soon if were goin’ have a child together, y’know. She’s got a right t’ know; ah’d want to know. But not now, not while sh’s on a high ’bout it all,” Dan mulls over his thoughts.
“D’y’ever ’ear owt from Carrie?” John tentatively asks, while ordering two more pints of lager.
“Y’must be fuckin’ jokin!” comes the reply.
“Ah, jus’ thought, y’know,” this time it is John’s voice which lowers, “sh’ might’ve been after y’ for money o’ somethin’ for the little ’un.”
“Nah, not even.”
And now I understand. There is a silence. It’s not an awkward silence but a comfortable one, between two people who know each other well enough to pause and take a rest from their conversation before it will inevitably resume in a moment or two.
“No, not a sniff of ’er shit since that text from ’er sister that told me sh’ thought ah had the right to know sh’d ’ad a baby.”
Again, there is time for digestion of this information as the two men continue to drain their second drink.
“So it was definitely yours then?” John probes further, “I mean, y’don’t ’ave to tell me owt but well, ah’ve never ’eard y’talk about it before now so ah didn’t like to ask.”
“Ah try not to think about it mate, t’be honest, but this last few weeks’s just brought it all back, y’know.”
“Aye, ah’ll bet it ’as,” John sympathises.
“’er sister told me it were mine but ’ow would ah ever know? It could o' been but then as you well know, she were shaggin' ’alf o’Freddock by all accounts.”
“Don’t know about that, Dannyboy, but that pillock from Freddock Butchers were the one ev’ryone were talkin' about. Bloody good job she’s never set foot back in t’village, really; plenty o' the lasses would be ready for words wi' ’er.”
“True. But that didn’t make my life any easier, did it? I never got to know where sh’ went when sh’ got found out. I mean, gettin’ jilted at the altar’s bad enough but not knowin’ where she was t’ get an explanantion ... an’ then findin’ out she might’ve been ’avin yer kid ...an’ ’avin’ to wonder about it for four years ... ah don’t know if ah’ve got a son or a daughter or nothin’ belongin’ to me out there ... an’ well, that’s enough to fuck up anyone, t’be honest,” Dan exhales deeply after his outpourings and lets go of the air it has taken to complete his lengthy sentence as well the anguish he has been carrying for so long.
“Well,” John finally contributes, “lighnin’ don’t strike twice, mate, an’ as y’say, Vicky’s not like that. Y’ve got to move on an’ jus’ let this one make y’happy.”
“Yer right, ah have. Ah’ve been ’alf waitin’ for summit t’go wrong but it’s not goin’ to, is it? This time we’re goin’ to ’ave the best weddin’ ah can afford an’ ah’m goin’ t’be the Dad ah’ve not been allowed to be for all these years.” There is a long pause before Dan catches the bar tender’s eye and with the first true smile I’ve seen from him, he requests, “Another couple o’pints please, love.”