My mother’s stories
chapter 17
My grandmother's visits
My mother had the same low opinion about most of her relatives except
her father’s sister and one of her numerous cousins. They used to be good
friends and from time to time she got a letter from one of them. When her
cousin was going to have a surgery in our city hospital he had even spent
several days in our house. Some years later his daughter came for the same
reason and this was not a very good occasion for making friends. But mostly it
was my grandmother who visited us once in two or three years. I was too small
to remember her first visits but, as I was told, at the beginning she arrived
accompanied by friends and relatives. They were unpretentious folk and didn’t
mind sleeping on the floor. My mother, however, didn’t like cooking for such a
big company. Moreover she disliked all those people and quickly put an end to
their visits. So my grandmother used to come alone after that. We learnt about
her coming beforehand and the very expectation of her arrival was intimidating
for me.
From time to time I examined my grandmother’s photographs and this only
increased my reluctance to meet her. She looked rather like a bird of prey with
her narrow, slightly crooked nose, hollow cheeks and smooth black hair parted
in the middle. An intent stare of her black beady eyes only intensified this
unpleasant impression. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so strong if I had not been
growing up on the stories about my grandmother’s cruelty and mad tempers. How
often had I heard that my mother’s mother hated her because of her blond hair
and was fond of her younger daughter because that one was dark-haired and
rosy-cheeked. As I was blond myself I didn’t expect my grandmother to like me.
It was odd for me to listen to my friends’ tales about their grandmothers. It
looked like they were really fond of each other. Grandmothers, as it turned
out, made dresses and baked apple pies for their granddaughters and, what was
more, they were always happy to see them.
My grandmother had not come to our house empty-handed though. It was an
old rural custom to give presents when you visited your relatives. She used to
bring a lot of nice food from the village: unusually tasty eggs, fragrant honey
and home-made bread, which was both soft and resilient, pleasantly melting in
my mouth. Such bread didn’t get stale for several days at least. Trying to make
friends with me my grandmother used to bring big spice-cakes, production of the
local bakery. They were made in a form of roosters or other animals and I liked
their appearance rather than their unusual mint flavour. And, of course, I was
too prejudiced against my grandmother to be friendly with her.
I am afraid I perceived her as that speckled rooster that she once
brought as a gift with half a dozen hens into the bargain. He was so energetic
that continued to fly up onto our cabin roof even after my mother clipped feathers
on one of his wings. He was so strong and aggressive that my mother forbade me
to approach him. I knew all the roosters fight each other – it was their
custom, actually. Nevertheless, I was really impressed watching that malicious
bird that my mother kept separately from our poultry to prevent him from the
attacks on our own chief of the coop. I suspect that speckled rooster didn’t
live long after my grandmother’s departure.
What really puzzled me was that I never saw my grandmother leave.
It was some kind of a mystery for me. I remember once my grim-faced mother told
me about it when I came home from school. As usual she refused to explain why
my grandmother had left so suddenly. But some days later, after I began to pester
her with questions again, she revealed the truth at last. I regretted she did
after all. As it turned out my grandmother’s departure was even more
frightening than her arrival. As my mother told me, while I was at school
listening to my first teacher shouting and scolding her pupils, as it was her
way of teaching, my mother and grandmother were shouting at each other, having
a huge row. By the end of it the old woman hastily packed her things and left
for the train station, spitting curses and promising to jump from the railway
bridge, which was just on her way to the bus stop.
Many years later I learnt the main reason of those fierce arguments was
my grandmother’s attempts to persuade my mother to sell our house and come back
to the village. So the old woman just wished to live with her daughters as they
used to. My mother told me a lot about her life in the village. It was, I
think, some kind of obsession for her. Yet her grudge against her mother was
too strong even to think about coming back without a fit of anger.
To be continued…(c) Anna Shevchenko
