My mother’s stories
chapter 16
My father's only friend
As far as I can remember my father had only one friend who lived with
his mother in the next street. He was red-haired with freckles and had a
strange name Renar. His job also seemed exotic to me – he worked as a captain
or a captain’s mate on a tug-boat in our sea port. Uncle Rena, as I used to
call him, was good-natured and I liked him and his thoroughly cultivated
garden, especially the roses, which climbed up his fence, creating a beautiful
dark-red carpet. Once he had something like a garden party where I was present.
I don’t remember eating anything there but the atmosphere was wonderful:
cheerful people sitting in the garden chattering. We had never had such
gatherings at home and I enjoyed the experience. From time to time my father
and Renar went fishing to the sea or shooting birds at the coast of the salt lake Kuyal’nick
My father worked at the machine-building plant, at first as an ordinary
worker and later as a foreman of the model workshop. There they made wooden
patterns, which were used for making moulds for future machine parts. Some of
the rejected patterns my father could buy as firewood. I remember how excited I
was when a truck uploaded the pile of curiously-shaped pieces of wood in front
of our gates. I was always eager to help my father carry them inside our yard
and then I invited my friends to explore the pile and build wooden castles for
our dolls.
My father liked working with wood. All the windows and doors in our
house and most of our furniture were made with his own skillful hands. I liked
to watch him work and inhale fragrant smell of wood as corn-coloured shavings
were falling down from under his plane. He got up very early in the morning on
his working days. I couldn’t understand why he had to get up at a quarter to five and arrive
at his working place 45 minutes earlier. He explained to me that as a foreman
he had to make some preliminary calculations before the shift started. Yet, I
had always had a nasty feeling that this job was too exhausting and he had not
had enough sleep. I tried to persuade my father to get up half an hour later at
least but he wouldn’t even listen to it.
As for making friends at his plant - he had never managed it. The main
problem was that my father couldn’t drink alcohol because of his stomach and
for his co-workers drinking was the foundation of male friendship. They didn’t
think that he had a good enough reason to justify his sobriety. So, for several
years my mother, on my father’s request, had to meet him near the entrance
gates on paydays not to let his mates drag him to the pub. It was a widespread
custom to wash salaries over. So my father’s colleagues perceived him as some
weirdo, who was under his wife’s thumb, and left him alone in the end.
My mother didn’t have friends at all – only the stories about her
disappointment in different people who she had tried to make friends with. From
time to time I could see her standing near the fence with some neighbouring
woman, gossiping happily about all their acquaintances and relatives. Yet,
after a long chat was finished, she usually came back slightly irritated saying
that malicious talk left a nasty taste in her mouth. I felt irritated myself
watching her near the fence for two or three hours, wasting her time with
people, who, as she believed, were stupid and malevolent. I couldn’t comprehend
her behaviour, but now, I think, I understand her better. There was no mystery,
actually. She had always loved the process of talking and our secluded style of
life hadn’t given her a lot of opportunities for that. Although, there could be
another reason too. She thought that people couldn’t be trusted and her
gossip-mates only confirmed this belief, giving her a pleasant feeling of her
own superiority.
To be continued…
