chapter 28
The study in dark colours
I suppose I was slightly older than a toddler when my mother got her own piece of land at last or - to be precise - it was my father who received it from the state as an orphan. Although, the idea was definitely my mother's – she learnt about such an opportunity from some woman, who advised her not to miss it. When I think about the beginning of our settlement among the wild steppe I always imagine a lot of fresh fragrant air and abundance of thick motley grass. Naturally, there was no electricity or water-pipes back then and only a few people here and there were building their first temporary dwellings and digging their wells for imported water. Yet, I believe my young parents were happy there, on that first plot of their own, and were full of plans for their future house. Who knows, maybe that's why I have always loved camping so much? I mean that it took its origins from my early childhood when my first impressions from wild nature were intensified by my young parents' elation.
In any case, our first dwelling was hardly much more reliable than a tent. It was a small hut that my father built using wooden boards which he hastily put together. Later he managed to get some kind of a trailer where we could even risk to spend the oncoming winter. I don't remember anything about that time, of course, but I clearly recall my parents' warm reminiscences about it. There were no children in the neighbourhood and my only friend at that time was a red dog named Silva.
She was completely useless from my mother's rural point of view. It seemed incredible but that kind creature never barked at anybody who crossed the boundaries of our plot. Who would like to feed a guardian like that, especially taking into account that we didn't have any fence for a while? So my mother was determined to get rid of the poor animal sooner or later. I am glad I forgot how she did it in the end. Somehow Silva disappeared from our lives, but she left a few tales connected with her behind - something amusing to replenish my mother's considerable amount of stories.
One of them started when our neighbour came to our trailer and looking at our amiable dog vigorously wagging its tail asked if it was a bitch. Sitting on my mother's lap, I seized this new word at once and uttered enthusiastically: “Bitch, bitch!” Our neighbour started, rolled her eyes in horror, and shook her finger at me: “You mustn't say this word! It's very bad.” It was an unfortunate remark. It only egged me on and I started to shout with relish: “Mummy a bitch! Daddy a bitch!” In vain that woman tried to admonish me. The more she persisted the more delightedly I continued to shout. My parents did have some trouble with me on that day – as soon as I saw one of them I began to shout my favourite new phrase. They were clever enough not to pay any attention to that and only when it became too much for them did they run out of my hearing to find some secluded corner where they could laugh to their hearts' content.
When autumn came my father was offered a flat in the factory region. It was very tempting to him because it was situated near the sea and he really liked fishing and swimming. My mother didn't like that place at all and especially the flat, which was wet and shadowy. On the other hand, winter was approaching and she wasn't sure that it was safe to live with such a small child in such conditions when you had to walk forty minutes to the nearest tram-stop, and it took even more time to reach any shop or pharmacy. Not to mention that in the USSR more or less abundant snowfall was always a big problem on the roads. Actually, it could be a real disaster in our southern parts where we seldom had a lot of snow in winter. Yet my mother loved her new place among the wild steppe so much that she hesitated in her choice for some time.
It was Silva who helped my mother to make her decision in the end. At least I remember her telling me that she chose the factory region at that moment when she noticed that playing with our dog I tried to follow her on my fours and sniff the ground. “Definitely children need children!” she thought in panic. But my mother shouldn't have worried because of that. Many years later who knows how many times I saw my dear grandson jumping from our sofa and galloping on all fours with apparent ease to the next room. Obviously, it was an easy task for him while he was so small and light. Our boy tried to do it even when he was nine but couldn't do it properly at that age. There was nothing wrong in that – he just liked our cats and tried to imitate them.
Anyway, in my early childhood my mother decided to move to the factory region and there I spent five miserable years. They say a person's memory usually turns pink in due course. It was not so with those five years as well as with other dark periods of my life. I know that my mother was right – children need children to learn how to find their place in human society. I'm afraid I have never been good at it. As for those five years I can't even say that everything was so gloomy then. After all, there were multicoloured festive demonstrations that I loved so much and visits to my dear aunt's dormitory where all her room-mates seemed to like me.
Still, I hated the very place where we lived: the abundance of gray colour and lack of greenery, the great heaps of garbage and a revolting public toilet at the back of the yard. And, in addition, a variety of foul smells coming from the nearest factories. Incredible but some of those odours I even liked and still do. For instance, the smell of hot pitch. Or the strong odour of seaweed drying in the sun in large quantities that was later used in production of iodine. I am sure there was something else that I found nice there. As an unspoilt child I needed very little to amuse myself. Yet dark colours always prevail when I begin to recollect my life in the factory region. I believe it's because of the children. There were too many of them at that place and unlike my dear kind-hearted friend Silva they were aggressive and always ready to fight. As I was not ready for such relations and could never hold my tongue even at that age I often got it in the neck and ran home in tears. But only by the age of seven or eight, that is when I started primary school, did I learn the skill to fight back.
To be continued...
(c) Anna Shevchenko
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