Henry stood next to her now, and she didn’t lean on him. Instead, Julia covered her mouth in shock, her feet rooted to the ground in front of this house.
‘We are living here?’ She squinted at the houses in view, and then at the one they would live in, and then her eyes widened comedically. ‘Who, what… I mean… how??’
She turned around on herself slowly, taking in the vastness of where they were, and then back to the house.
It was timber framed with a soft A-shaped sloping roof and wooden stilts (apparently protection from flooding and insects) that Slava found terribly funny (‘leg! Leg, Mama!’) with an outhouse to the back of it. There was nothing else, as basic as could be, and very apparent that this was theirs to make into something bigger than it was.
The couple stood next to each other in silence.
‘Come on,’ Henry encouraged. ‘It’s our own, at least.’
‘Well. Not what I imagined.’ Julia’s right hand made the sign of the cross in front of her chest, and then copied what Slava had said, her hands splayed out: ‘It has legs!’ She pointed at the stilts underneath, rising a few feet off the ground. ‘A house on legs, Henry.’ She watched as he broke into a low laugh.
‘I understand. But, remember how we imagined it?’ He pointed at the far-right corner of the field, towards a withered wooden fence with two chicken coops and a stable. ‘You could make a fine garden, I imagine. There’s also space in the back as well. You’d probably have to clear it.’
Julia cocked her eyebrow at him.
‘We would clear it.’
‘Henry, it’s a lot of work— ‘
‘Come on. It can be good.’
‘You’re very positive about all this.’
Henry placed his hands up as if he were admiring a work of art, or gesturing at a palace that didn’t exist yet, and he spoke of things that he had only briefly learned in his childhood, with his father. We can build a
greenhouse here, in this far corner, and then maybe we can have a small farm, and then a garden out towards the back.
Henry put his hand on her shoulder and felt it soften under his touch. ‘We have to be patient. Also, now that we’re here…’ and he looked down at her stomach and looked back at her, raising an eyebrow.
Julia laughed and pushed his hand off. ‘Oh, so now you see that as a good idea, do you? With everything else we have to undertake?’
He kissed her cheek, and she felt the sharpness of his cheeks.
‘Mama! Mama, Papa!’ Slava was back behind the house and they followed her voice. A discovery: a dark blue, rusted bicycle, as if someone was inviting them in, to explore.
Henry inspected the sad little two-wheeled thing. The metal was still solid, but the paint had worn, and orange rust had settled on it. ‘Guess that’s mine, for now. but we’ll save some money and get a car somehow. Maybe tomorrow we can take the bus to the city and find food. See where we are, and how we do things in this new world.’
‘We will take the bus and explore.’
Julia walked ahead, following Slava. ‘Wait for me. I’ll help you up the stairs. Let’s go see our new house.’
That evening, Henry was gentle and attentive over dinner, however sparse it was. They were finishing the last of their rations that they had brought with them from the camp (small pieces of sausage, a half pint of milk, bread and weak tea in a tin flask) at the small wooden table in the sitting room next to the kitchen.
There were shelves behind them, and windows above the sink basin, and also was a kettle that boiled suspended over a wood burner, a few kerosene lamps, a few chairs, and two beds. There were shelves behind them and a window on the other side, and beyond the kitchen there were two square rooms; the footprint of the house was a tidy rectangle split into inhabitable parts. They ate, and sipped their tea, and Henry touched Julia’s hand across the table as they spoke.
After she’d put Slava to bed, and Henry had gone to sit on the step to smoke, she went into their bedroom and sat down on the bed, their two cases at her feet, up against the wall. It took her a few moments to realize that there was no mirror, only a frame, and all she thought was of the luxury of owning a mirror one day. She craved the familiarity of her own face and proceeded to trace it with a fingertip: the long slight arch of her forehead, the soft indentation of her temple and down to the cheekbones that had been so prominent ever since she was a child. She traced the aquiline profile of her nose, across the soft skin of her cheeks, down to her lips that had grown dry, the skin flaking. She went down the curve of her chin and then down her neck, the lines there creasing as she bent her head to the side and let her thick plait of her fall across. She then began to unplait it one wave at a time, the dust from travel released from each bend, and ran her fingers through the length, finally shuddering it to life again.
The next few weeks, Julia woke early, her familiar restlessness a result of sleeping somewhere new. She walked into the small kitchen, trying to remember where everything was: cold box, oven, plates and bowls on a narrow counter in front of a window; a steel kettle. A water flask propped up against the cupboard. It was starting to get light out, and Henry would be up soon. These new, long, strange days were a new rhythm: seemed as if she wore a path into the floorboards of the house; her gait was the same.
She lit the fire and put the kettle above it, fumbling in the cupboards for the tin of coffee she had bought in Stratford the day before. The bread was in the cupboard where things now lived temporarily until they found their permanent home: bags of rice, flour, barley, a jar of oatmeal, a jar of sugar, and six fresh eggs. Milk and butter, apples, bacon bones and sausages were in the cool box by the window, and a large bowl of pea shoots, carrots, potatoes, beets and lettuce were on the kitchen table waiting to be used for soup.
Julia moved to the cool box and found two slices of ham from dinner a few days ago and took that to the counter and placed it between two fresh slices of bread, wrapping it in wax paper for Henry’s lunch that day. She would fill his flask with coffee and another one with water and place it all in the canvas bag by the door.
Cane cutters were brutal, determined and hardy, generally working in ‘gangs’ of six to eight, roughly fifty hours a week; days beginning at dawn and ending fourteen hours later. Gritty, unpleasant and occasionally deadly work, out in the open in all weathers, existing with snakes, rats and other vermin that carried the risk of disease. It was hot, back breaking and only attractive because of the kind of money earned. Blood and sweat money. Stoop, chop, straighten, top. Stoop, chop, straighten, top. It was a rhythm that developed over the course of the day; hunched over fields of green, stopping only every few hours to pause, drink from the flask of water at their hip, smoke. Repeat. The more cane, the more money, and more money meant a sense of freedom that ultimately was priceless to all of them.
And then there was the smoke: thick black sticky smoke that clung to clothes and skin like hot molasses. To get rid of snakes, rats and trash, cane was burnt before harvesting. The sugar syrup, disintegrating from the flames, would start to ooze and bubble, making it sticky to handle; the cutters more often than not would end up being covered head to toe in soot and sweat. Some cutters wore a bracelet of flannel around their wrists to stop the sweat running down their arms into their hands. It was quite literally back-breaking work, bent in half for twelve hours a day, hacking away at the sturdy stalks of cane with heavy, hook-ended flat blades.
The kettle boiled, and she heard Henry move in the room beyond. Julia watched as the plumes of smoke rose from the small fires ushering in the dawn; the horizon of cane would slowly diminish over the course of the day. Julia’s role mirrored all the other immigrant settlers and farm. She turned and saw his square frame looming in the doorway now, as it would do at seven o’clock that evening, or even later still, only his teeth showing through the soot on his face.
‘Tea?’
He nodded. ‘Please.’ He laced his boots and prepared for the morning, a canvas bag at the door, his t
hin jacket on the chair. She watched him as he checked his chest pockets for cigarettes, two taps with his palm on the left, and then his hands would run through his hair briefly. She observed him as if memorizing the words of a song. Marriage felt like that.
‘Henry.’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you think we have time to…’ she strode up to him and put her hands around him, clasping them at his back, looking up at him with a smile.
And just then Slava cried out, and it broke the thought, and Julia blushed at her boldness and knew it wasn’t the right time. She began to walk away. ‘Never mind.’
He strode up to her, the steam of the kettle like a halo surrounding her, and slipped his arm around her waist, bringing her back into his embrace. She closed her eyes and smelled the warm, sweet scent of burnt sugar on his skin as she kissed him.
8
‘Hello? What’s all the fuss about? What’s the noise for?’, a rough voice bellowed as the door creaked open. Julia had passed this particular house before, the one with the flowers outside the door, and the large garden out the back. But had never seen anyone, and now the voice jarred her. She couldn’t judge if it was upset or teasing.
Minutes earlier, Julia had been standing at the kitchen window when she saw Slava vanish, her grey cotton shorts moving in rhythm with her white-blonde shock of hair, and then a faint giggle as she flew out of sight. Julia had been clearing lunch and all of a sudden, she was gone. She knew she would have to go after her, and it made her nervous: she knew very few people that worked the fields and lived in the modest houses beside her, and now, walking out by herself shouting her daughter’s name, had made her feel exposed.
She had walked out the door into the sun and muttered to herself. ‘God damn, this child will be the end of me.’ It felt like a sentence, having a two-year old. She struggled knowing when to let her run free and when to snatch her by the wrist and relay her disapproval. And it had only been her acting as both parents, recently, for Henry had been absent ever since he’d started work— coming home in an absolute state, nothing left of him. His face gaunt, his hands displaying new blisters that had layered over his old calloused ones. He had no sense of place or identity or loyalty to anything other than the fact that he was shackled to this life temporarily and he had a bed to lay his head on. There were no conversations, no fleeting sense of contentment, no laughter or stolen moments looking up at the sky, just a few (more) cigarettes after dinner and then again before bed, and then he would sleep like a weary child, before the next morning where his whole narrative would start again.
‘Slava?? Slava!’ She couldn’t see her. She couldn’t hear her. She wiped her hands on her apron and called for her daughter, and then suddenly she saw her appear again like a sprite, with a naked chest, shining hair long around her shoulders and her shorts now filthy with dirt from the back garden.
‘Look at the state of you, you ridiculous thing!’ Julia lifted up her hands in protest, and crouched down to grab her, lifting her up in her arms. ‘You must not run away like that, there are spiders under these houses,’ and she buried her face in the child’s neck, blowing raspberries.
It was then that he had called out to her, as Julia stood up, her hair wild around her face, her face shining from sweat, her shirt open at the neck, exposing freckled skin. ‘Eh? Whose creating all this chaos?’
Julia turned around and recognized the muscular build and square features of Iliya. She smiled politely. She’d seen him before, but then again, she’d seen many of the same people in this strange cross section of space, and she’d always kept herself to herself. She often saw him with Henry, they had a banter, they worked together, and she saw both tall men stand together occasionally, talking about something that she didn’t care to ask about. She walked out from behind the house and stood on the dirt road that ran perpendicular, looking up at him standing in the doorway. He had light brown hair that was lighter still at the sides of his head, by his temples, and the skin on his face had browned a dark olive on his cheeks, nose, and forehead. He was leaning against the frame, holding what looked like a cane knife. She squinted up at him, not because of any brightness, but because she didn’t particularly know him well, and wanted to do something to affect confusion.
‘Oh, hello. Iliya, yes?’
‘Yes, and you’re…’
‘Julia.’
‘Yes. Henry’s wife.’
‘Julia,’ she corrected him, flattening her lips.
‘Yes, yes. I know you, I think. You live down there.’ He waved his hand towards the house, ten down along the path.’
‘Yes. How do you—’
‘—Henry. I know your husband. Everyone knows everything and everyone here, after a while.’ When he spoke, his mouth moved languidly, as if he wasn’t in a hurry anywhere. He folded his arms.
‘Ah. Yes. And you… live…?
He moved his head, gesturing to the door. ‘Here. My wife is called Elina. She works at the small bookshop in Stratford.’
‘Oh, yes, I do know her. Or, I have seen her before.’ Julia knew her. Elina was tall like a reed, quiet, and held herself proudly and coolly. Beautiful gold hair like burnt honey.
Iliya turned around as if reminding himself where he was. ‘We have just recently arrived here, just six months ago, though sometimes I think life here isn’t all that better from living— ‘He pointed with his knife, and Julia’s eyes followed, across the fields to where faint line of sugarcane divided the sky. ‘Over there.’
‘Oh?’
‘War. Well, at least no war, for now. But still too many Russians in Poland for my liking.’ He dropped his shoulders in a kind of resignation. ‘We all have the same stories.’
‘Well, that’s true, yes.’ her smile came quickly, and surprised her. ‘Anyway, sorry about the shouting, that’s my daughter, Slava. She’s a bit…’ she didn’t know why she was apologizing for her, but there it was. ‘...too much.’
‘Well, we don’t have children.’
‘Oh.’
‘Probably for the best.’ He leaned against the frame and hooked his thumbs into his belt loops.
Julia blushed. ‘Ah. Well, they are a challenge.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He waved at Slava, and she stuck her tongue out. ‘She’s quite sweet. Precocious.’
Julia sensed the natural end of their banter, and used the space to gather herself, taking Slava by the hand.
‘Okay, well, nice to talk to you, ‘and he nodded back to her, and moved as if to walk back into the house, and she turned to walk away. She knew he was watching her because she didn’t hear the door close, and she was only mildly uncomfortable about it. She spent the next 10 minutes of the walk back to the house letting her mind wander a bit, thinking about how he ended up here, and what he and his wife were like, behind closed doors.
‘Let’s go, we have to cook dinner for Papa, yes?’ her pace quickened.
That evening, after dinner, Henry was sat with Slava on the bed, and Julia watched as he read to her, her blonde hair splayed out on his chest as she leaned against him and watched his index finger follow along to the words. It was the only book she had, and it was about a mitten that had gotten lost in a forest, and each of the animals that found it, tried to find shelter in the fur-lining within, until there were so many that wanted it for themselves, and the glove became too strained to contain them all, and it burst, leaving all of them to try and find homes for themselves in the cold winter.
‘Papa?’
‘Yes, love.’
‘Where they go?’
‘They will find a home, rabbit.’ The name for her grew out of her habit as a baby to gum a carrot when she was teething. “Besides, they have each other to keep warm.’
She buried her head into his chest, and he kissed her softly.
Julia walked off back into the kitchen and sat down, retrieving a pencil and a piece of white paper from the shelf behind her. Recently, she’d begun to forge a comfortable habit, i
n a sort of diary written to herself, and letters that she would never send, all kept aside once they were done, maybe as comfort to her. Tonight, she wanted to write to Maria.
My Marioshka,
I still see your face. It has never left me. Oh, how I imagined my life so differently, and without you, sometimes it doesn’t make any sense. Henry is working many hours now, in the cane fields, and it is hard on him, he seems like a different man. Tired. Impatient. Silent. He smokes heavily, and his body is thin. He has started saying that he wants to build a greenhouse- a glass one- in the small square of garden out at the front of the house. And maybe that would be good for him; maybe the quiet hours doing something he loves would help him find life here. I have started a small garden in the back of the house, and we now have a small collection of chickens, as well as a few cows that we’ve inherited from an elderly neighbor. As for little Slava-- I wish you could see her- she is two and a half now, and though my love for her is deeper than anything I have ever felt. Truthfully, I have such sadness sometimes, and Henry finds it difficult to understand, because these are things that men cannot have time for-- the luxury of feeling, I think. And yet I wish I could tell him how to help me, and maybe that would help us feel closer in some way. And maybe part of it lies in the fact that we keep trying for children and nothing seems to happen. I do hope it will, one day. The noise of children would make this life a little bit brighter, maybe. Anyway, I wanted to tell you how much I love you, and I wish so much that you were with me. Love, Yulia
Slava padded out of the room and came over to Julia, burying her face into her skirts.
‘Tired, rabbit?’
Julia folded the letter in half, and then into a quarter, then left it resting under a cup, as she brought Slava up into her arms, and carried her into the other room, as Henry walked past them to go outside. Julia placed Slava into her bed, tucked the thin sheet around her small body, and then sat down, the edge of the mattress softening under her.
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