Babushka

The road runs by the side of a stream too big to be called a stream in spring time, when the snows from the mountains run in fat ribbons downhill. At the height of summer large stones are clearly visible and the stream is just a stream and easy to ford.

The boy walks slowly listening to the night. In the bushes by the road side away from the water hundreds of eyes are watching his every step, retreating and advancing but never leaving the safety of the dark. The moon has disappeared beyond the hills which surround this narrow valley. He walks on enjoying the spectacle of fireflies. 'Lampyridae, lampyridae' he chants. He is very young and not afraid of the night.

Usually the stream tinkles and sings through the shallows but last night's thunderstorm changed its tone to something deeper, more mysterious. The line of willows ends suddenly, and there is the ford. In the undark darkness the boy can see the stepping stones and the figure. Someone is standing by the stream waiting. Waiting for him.

An old woman. A stranger facing him. He can't discern her features but can make out that she is a small, round babushka in a peasant skirt and scarf. Few more steps and he is close enough to smell her. Milk? Yes, she smells of warm milk of the cowshed. But there is also something else, elusive and slightly bitter, hanging in the air between them. Yarrow or unripe gooseberries perhaps?

His greeting is short but friendly and she responds likewise. But her next sentence stops him as he mounts the first stone. 'Take me across' she whispers. He looks at her round, bland face and considers refusing. 'Take me across on your back'. And he does not refuse, but is almost bent double under the weight of the round peasant who is hanging onto his back. Slipping and sliding over the stones he reaches the bank and sinks into the grass breathing heavily. She touches his head and moves away without a word. Slowly he stands up. His shoulders hurt where her fingers dug into him. He turns to wish her a sarcastic goodnight and thanks for nothing but she is gone. There is just the road born again out of the stream and winding its way towards the lights of the first house on the hill, his home...

The old man opens his eyes wide as pain rakes through his ribcage. In the undark darkness he can see someone standing by the bedroom window. She is a small, round babushka in a peasant skirt and scarf. He smiles knowingly as the smell of warm milk and gooseberries fill his nostrils. 'Take me across' he sighs.

My Grandmother told us this story when we were staying in a small village during a summer holiday. The house was on top of a hill which fell steeply into the valley below, where a small stream meandered by the roadside. The night was stormy and wild and we were deliciously scared. The electricity cables were down and the candles flickered in the hot air. We could hear thunder rumbling in valley and we hoped that the lightning will not strike the chimney. Few days afterwards we went to the village shop and came back in the dark. And there were the fireflies, and the moon was gone and we run all the way back and did not look at the ford as we passed it...

Tiger's Wife and bicycles

I have been reading the Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht. I have not finished it yet but enjoy the Eastern European sentiment in a story of love between grandfather and his granddaughter. 

The Tiger's Wife takes me back east. To my own childhood, my family, and if you have read any of my blogs, invariably takes me to my grandmother. She is the wise grandfather in the book, the silent Tiger's Wife, the young girl full of amazing ideas and her funny friend..

My grandmother was a great story teller. And the greatest stories of all,  the ones we three sisters would ask her to tell us over and over again, were her own. She was funny, full of ideas and completely undaunted by the unknown. Every visit to my widowed grandmother proceeded along well-established guidelines. We arrived late on Saturday afternoon, had an early dinner, performed a short play for her and her friend Stefa, which we might have been rehearsing all week (or just ad libbed on the night), and then went to bed with a slice of brioche and warm, honeyed milk. 'Tell us about your first bicycle lesson' we'd chorus. And the story would begin.

'Long time ago, before WWII, I was at girls' college studying for 'A' Levels. The subjects were not very taxing, the school being little more than a finishing college for girls. We had a lot of time on our hands and were encouraged to take up extra music, sport, and languages.. Your great-grandfather was a station master and my two siblings were also studying, so my funds were rather limited. However, I had a very good friend Stefa, who came from a wealthy family and insisted I shared most of her extra-curriculum activities with her. So, we learned to play the piano well, tennis badly and spoke German very badly.

And then we decided to try cycling. You might find it amazing that at the age of 17 we could not cycle. But, we couldn't. Near the school, there was a brand new cycle hire shop. We passed it every day on the way to lunch at a cafe nearby. The cycles were new, sleek, elegant. With beautiful red bells and dark tires, like juicy black puddings. For days we watched young people hiring the bikes at lunchtime and cycling effortlessly down the broad avenue leading out of town. We didn't want to cycle through town as Stefa's mother categorically forbade her to cycle. One of her distant relatives died in a collision with a cow or a horse while on cycling holiday in Bavaria.

Cycling looked easy and one balmy summer day we were ready to try. We hired two bikes and stood looking sheepishly at the man who was fussing around us. 'Would you like a leg up girls?' And with his help we were away. It felt wonderful. The avenue sloped gently and we glided down with a natural balance of athletes. It was so easy! Very soon I realised that I could not turn as every time I tried, the handlebars wobbled precariously. Stefa laughingly announced the same as she sailed past me. So, we just carried on cycling in a straight line. Soon we left the town behind and entered the country. The air smelled sweet. The sun was strong overhead but the poplars flanking the road offered us shade. "We are going to be late for our afternoon lessons" Stefa said cheerfully. "Do you want to stop?" I replied. "I don't know how to" she responded. And neither did I. So we cycled on for a while longer until a slight incline slowed down us to a crawl and then we stopped. Turning bikes around we hopped on with all the enthusiasm of seasoned cyclists. Not so easy without the fussy little man to help us. After giving Stefa a 'leg up' I tried to get on my bike but kept falling over....'

Here my grandmother's voice would become faint and we'd realise she was close to sleep. So we'd kiss her and finish the story for her.  'Tell us how you placed the bicycle under the tree, climbed on, kept upright by leaning against its trunk, then pushed off pedalling furiously after Stefa who was whooping with delight all the way back to town. Tell us again how you jumped off the tree onto your bicycle grandmother.'

And she always did...