Amber and Marigolds

That summer morning, nothing told Babushka that her life was about to change.

She woke up in her light, sparsely furnished house and lay listening to the cockerels, thinking of what had to be done that day.

It was a Saturday. Besides washing the floors, Babushka had to handwash bedlinen, boil it in a pan with baking soda, dry and iron it with a heavy cast iron heated on the stove.

The vegetable patch was to be weeded, soil fertilized with manure and the vegetables collected. Redcurrant and gooseberry bushes were looking full again. Jam making could wait until tomorrow, but she hoped to start the pickles; a dozen of two-litre glass jars sat expectantly on the sideboard, ready for Babushka to fill them with tomatoes, garlic, cucumbers and salty juice.

Alexander watched her from a photo on the cupboard, eyes serious.

“What is it, baby?” she asked.

Their marriage had been happy. Alexander had been the best-looking young man in their village. Babushka, slightly thick in the waist, had a potato-shaped nose in a plain open face and no airs about her; but Alexander had loved her easy laugh and brisk energy.

He had proposed straight away, much to the consternation of the village girls, and they had got married at twenty and had loved each other with a fierce devotion. He only left twice – to go the war and to die of a sudden heart attack at the local plant where he worked as a mechanic, fifteen years ago. She had stopped talking then and went to his grave every day for the first year.

The women had pursed their lips and shaken their heads.

“She will drive herself mad, that one,” they would say.

She still spoke to him every day. This time, taking his silence as a sign that she had get up, Babushka got out of bed, put on a simple flowery dress, and washed her face. She prayed in a whisper – for her granddaughter, who lived in Moscow and was pregnant with her first child, for her daughter, who, having inherited Alexander’s weak heart, had passed five years ago, and lastly, for Alexander.

Then, crossing herself, she went put the kettle on, intending to make a cup of strong black tea with lemon and sugar.

While waiting for the kettle to boil, she drew aside the white tulle curtains. No doubt her neighbour Petrovna would be installed in her usual place at the window.

Petrovna was not there.

That was unusual. Day after day, for as long as Babushka and Petrovna remembered, they were unwilling witnesses to each other’s lives. The houses, squat, wooden, stood barely twenty metres apart. The women made up for it by failing to give each other any sign of acknowledgment.

The truth was, Babushka and Petrovna were enemies.

Their lives could not be more different, and Petrovna’s slovenly ways irked and entertained Babushka in equal measures.

Petrovna spent entire mornings looking out of the window, drinking tea from a saucer, blowing on it and smacking her lips with pleasure.

“Lady of the manor,” Babushka would think, going about her chores.

Once the sun moved overhead, heating the dusty streets, Petrovna would head for a nap. Evenings would find her on the bench underneath an overgrown apple tree, dressed up, face glowing with freshly applied cream, trading stories and gossip with the women.

“My nephew Sergei is in big business in Moscow, you know. No, can’t tell you what it is, too important. Lots of people working for him, doesn’t want for anything. And how he loves me, you know, always brings me presents.“

Petrovna’s good fortune was indeed well-known, since she never got tired of talking. She had no children. Her husband had died ten years previously, leaving her a large house, filled with oak furniture, his sizeable military pension and absolutely no need or ways to occupy herself.

Petrovna’s nephew Sergei came once a year for May holidays. Heavily set, with an early bald patch, he wore a thick gold chain and a raspberry-coloured jacket paired with jeans and expensive shoes.

He and Petrovna would stroll down the main street, with Sergei talking importantly on his cell phone and Petrovna stopping for a chat on every stoop, under the pretext of being tired. Over the years, she had filled out and had trouble walking anywhere for long.

“Tardy,” thought Babushka now, unkindly, and went on with her morning, forgetting all about Petrovna.

In the afternoon, having finished the pickles, she took an old box from chocolate sweets out of the cupboard and counted the notes inside. Nearly two hundred roubles.

“A warm coat for Tatyana and things for the baby,” Babushka thought.

She put the money into her handbag, two jars of pickles into avoskas, expanding bags made of netted string, and headed to see Vasilyevich.

The heat of the day had gone, and the village was waking up from slumber, woodsmoke and sounds of dogs drifting along the street. Passing Petrovna’s house, Babushka saw that the lights were on inside. That was strange. But the bags were heavy, and she was in a rush and not given to meddling in other people’s business, so she did not stop.

Vasilyevich, a driver at the local plant, lived on the other side of the village. Every few weeks, he would drive to Moscow, to shop for items from a list made by his wife and added to by the entire village.

She saw him on the stoop, smoking a filterless cigarette.

“Ivanovna,” he said with pleasure. “Let me take those bags. Heavy!”

“Be careful, Vasilyevich, dear. Pack them well, or they will break. Here is Tatyana’s number, be sure to call her as soon as you arrive. Tell her I will send the jam next time. Oh, here are some mushrooms for you. I’ve got to run, the post office will shut soon. And thank you!”

Vasilyevich smiled, nodded, setting the bags carefully on floor. He liked this bright hard-working woman, liked her free independent spirit. He would have gladly swapped his sour wife for Babushka, who at sixty was still trim and fast on her feet. But she kept herself to herself, he knew, and, despite an amiable and easy manner, had no suitors and no close friendships with women. Still, he was happy to help, any time.

On the way back from the post office Babushka walked alongside the forest, watching the sun turning pink behind the pines and the shadows turning inky. High overhead, blackbirds whistled and clicked their way through a joint song. Babushka spied a couple of spotted woodpeckers, feeding, and took it as a good omen. She stopped herself from counting the calls of the cuckoo in the distance. She walked along, breathing in the blue scent of pines, and saw no one, until the path turned sharply and brought her to a clearing.

There stood Petrovna.

She was wearing a dirty-looking blouse and a skirt, askew. Her large splay feet were bare, and she was looking around mindlessly, treading on pine needles on the forest floor. Petrovna’s eyes, unfocused, found Babushka and moved on, stopping Babushka in her tracks.

“Petrovna?”

Petrovna gave no sign she had heard her.

“Petrovna, what is it? What are you doing here?”

She came up to her neighbour and touched her arm.

“It’s me, Ivanovna,” Babushka said, not sure if Petrovna had recognised her. “You have to go home.”

“Home?”

Petrovna looked at Babushka, startled, scrunched up her broad face and broke into sobs.

The sun had gone down by the time they got back home, with Petrovna clutching Babushka’s arm and stopping to rest several times. They met no one on the way. They climbed onto Petrovna’s porch.

“Seems to have come around,” Babushka thought, freeing her arm from Petrovna’s and stepping back. Petrovna did seem more herself, if shaken.

Babushka wished her good night and hurried home.

Once inside, she put on the kettle on and settled at the table, sighing with relief. She took an envelope out of her pocket, a letter from her granddaughter. Babushka read slowly; Tatyana had printed the letters in her neat handwriting. All was well. The baby was due in September; Tatyana was asking if Babushka would consider coming to Moscow to live with her and her husband; the flat was large and comfortable, and they would need help with the baby. Besides, it was not good for Babushka to keep living on her own, eight hours away from Moscow; they worried about her.

That night, Babushka drifted off to sleep thinking of a baby’s face; it was a girl and she had Alexander’s dark eyes.

The sound of the rain beating down on the tin windowsill woke her in the morning; fat drops rolled down the glass; the sky was dark grey. She lay in bed for a little while, conscious of a thought that was trying to make its way into her mind; then she remembered and smiled. Tatyana was calling her to Moscow.

She thought about it all the way through prayers and, once she had had her tea, consulted Alexander. She had to go, he agreed. Tatyana was their only granddaughter, a new life was on the way, and she was needed there.

Babushka set a large pot on the stove and began making jam. Stirring redcurrants and sugary water with a long wooden spoon, she tried to imagine what life in Moscow would be like.

Of course, she had been there a few times over the years; she remembered its wide streets, noise, lights, queues of people; the metro with its grand marble stations. She had been younger then, and had liked the city – but then, she wasn’t so old now. The baby would have tiny perfect hands and would smile at her and she would bath her in a bright plastic bath, holding her head above the water. They would all drink tea in the evening with pancakes, sitting around a cosy table; everyone agreed her pancakes were the best; the secret was in adding more water and milk and using a cast iron frying pan, red-hot. She will take one from here…

A knock on the door brought her back.

It was Petrovna.

“Hello, Petrovna,” said Babushka, hearing little welcome in her own voice.

Petrovna’s grey hair was plastered to her face with the rain. She was wearing what looked like the same blouse and skirt as the evening before.

“I can’t make tea,” she said, smiling weakly.

“Can’t make tea?”

Petrovna raised her hands, palms up, and Babushka saw with horror that they were burnt red. Smudges of black soot stained Petrovna’s fingers.

“What have you done, Petrovna?” she said and stopped herself.

“Come with me,” she pulled the door to and led the way to the gate, Petrovna trailing behind. She would do what was needed, see to Petrovna’s burns and leave. She did not want the woman in her house.

Coming into Petrovna’s house would have felt strange at any other time, for although they had known each other since they were children, they had never set foot in each other’s homes. But Babushka was too annoyed and impatient to think about it for long. She waited for Petrovna to open the door and stepped inside.

A smell of burnt wood and paper hung in the air. Dark, oppressive cupboards, sideboards, a heavy rectangular table, straight-backed chairs, a couple of low benches, a daybed crowded in the room. Babushka stood there, dripping from the rain, aghast. Blankets on the daybed, dirty. Piles of yellowed newspapers, on the floor, on the chairs. A samovar, shining dully in the middle of the table. Next to it, charcoals, wood chips, some more newspaper, burnt at the edges, and a black rubber boot. It seemed Petrovna preferred to make tea the old-fashioned way, allowing her to enjoy it at leisure throughout the mornings. She must have burnt herself trying to light the wood.

Resolutely, Babushka headed to the table, navigating her way round furniture. She was just about to ask Petrovna for the matches when she remembered she had left her pot of jam heating on the stove.

“Okh!” – and she was out of the door.

At home, the pot was bubbling away furiously; foam had formed on the surface and the jam was likely ruined. She switched off the gas and sat down at the table.

What had happened to Petrovna, Lady of the Manor? No longer than a week ago Babushka had seen her with her hair piled high, gaudy amber necklace on display, gossiping outside. Or was it two weeks ago, or a month?

Babushka had witnessed old men and women decline – her own mother had lived till ninety-seven, turning into a shy toothless child towards the end. But Petrovna was young, barely a few years older than Babushka herself, and this change in her made no sense.

Still, something had to be done, so she rose and went to find bandages and ointment. Out of the cupboard came a portable coil, cord wrapped neatly around it, a present from Babushka’s acquaintance, a train conductor.

She looked outside and saw that the rain had stopped. Petrovna’s house stood quiet, curtains drawn, last drops of water rolling off its slate roof like tears.

Babushka sighed, yawned, crossed herself and set off.

Petrovna’s door stood ajar as she must have left it. She knocked and called Petrovna and, getting no response, walked in.

The room looked unchanged. Babushka called again and this time something stirred underneath the pile of blankets on the daybed. She approached and saw Petrovna, who had burrowed underneath the blankets and was fast asleep, sucking on her thumb.

Stepping lightly, Babushka made her way to the kitchen, which in Petrovna’s house was in a separate room. She would make Petrovna a cup of strong tea, give her something to eat, treat her hands and go. Whatever was happening or not happening to Petrovna was not her business.

A sweet smell of rot hit her as soon as she opened the door to the kitchen. Plates were stacked in the sink and on the sides. A half-eaten ham sat on the sideboard; an emerald-coloured fly crawled on top of it, wings twitching excitedly.

In a modern fridge in the corner, Babushka found butter, a glass bottle of curdled milk and some old potatoes. On the middle shelf sat a box of matches.

She closed the fridge door, no longer careful about the noise, and headed back to wake Petrovna.

The following morning, having hurried through her prayers and tea, Babushka went to make the rounds. She would talk to the women; men were no good in such matters. Besides, they were all at work, either at the plant or collecting the harvest - the weather promised to be dry for the next two weeks, and they had to hurry.

From Glasha’s house, she went to Marusya’s, then to Darya’s, to Nastya’s, to Praskovya’s. The women listened, eyes glinting with curiosity, and Babushka’s story got shorter from door to door. They pursed their lips, shook their heads.

“What a misfortune! I saw her just last week, she was fine,” they said. “Will be sure to look in tonight, bring some food. She’ll come round, maybe,” they ended uncertainly. They all agreed the matter was to be handled by the family.

“See Klava at the post office, Ivanovna,” someone said. “She will know how to contact her nephew Sergei.”

Klava, an energetic woman in her forties, was drinking tea when Babushka found her, holding the cup delicately in her hand with long red nails. On hearing the story, Klava opened her eyes a little wider, nodded her head, sending permed curls into a frenzy and, setting the cup aside, set to work. In no time, she found Sergei’s address and number in the ledger.

Watching Klava punching the buttons on a square console, Babushka felt her shoulders relax. This would soon be over, and she would be able to get back to her own life.

“No response,” said Klava.

“Try again, please.”

They tried and tried, until Klava suggested that Babushka go home. She was sure to get hold of Sergei and would drop by in her lunch hour.

When she did, she brought no good news. Yes, she had spoken to Sergei, but he was busy and would not be able to drive down. He had suggested calling the local doctor. His aunt was probably just run down, he had said, it was hot there, wasn’t it?

The doctor, a middle-aged woman with an efficient manner, a city accent and tired eyes, came the following day. On examining Petrovna, she told Babushka the diagnosis – a long-sounding word which said nothing. “A weakening of the mind,” the doctor translated. Nothing was to be done about it, not unless the patient was aggressive. The doctor would prescribe medication for high blood pressure, though, to be given twice daily, and the patient would need help with her daily life.

Babushka, who had never held much trust in authority figures, particularly doctors, resisted. Could it be just something temporary, she asked?

While they were talking, Petrovna wandered off, returning with a thick winter coat and an umbrella. She buttoned up the coat all the way to the top, opened the umbrella and settled comfortably under it, looking at them with delight.

The doctor said the illness was advanced; it could have been brought on by a fall or a minor stroke. Was Babushka in touch with the family?

Babushka hesitated. It was no good airing Petrovna’s dirty linen in public. She nodded, the doctor made notes in a small booklet, looked at her watch, clicked her bag shut and left.

A succession of tiring days began. Babushka worked between the two houses, making food, carrying saucepans and serving meals, washing up, washing, changing bedlinen, clearing out old papers, administering tablets, which Petrovna was apt to spit out and putting her to bed in the evening. In the meantime, Babushka’s garden, abandoned, overflowed with berries and vegetables, which were drying out in the last summer heatwave.

Petrovna’s friends came in the evenings, bringing eggs, tomatoes, berries. They would stand outside Petrovna’s gate, chatting, comparing notes. One of them would go in, come back out and recount what she had seen. None of them stayed for long.

With time, their numbers dwindled, and soon the women stopped calling altogether, taking their evening gatherings to Glafira’s house, conveniently located in the centre of the village. Every so often, one of them would leave provisions on Babushka’s porch. Petrovna’s plight was old news, accepted and of interest to no one; life had moved on.

Sergei’s voice was gruff at the other end of the telephone line when Babushka got through. In the background, she could hear music and laughter.

“She can’t take care of herself,” Babushka said.

“Listen,” Sergei said, “What was your name again? I can’t get there. Not right now. Too busy. Look, there must be an old people’s home somewhere nearby, in Lipetsk, maybe? Could you find out?”

She froze. Then, holding the receiver away from herself, like a dangerous creature that could attack, she replaced it on its cradle and walked out, without saying a word to Klava.

That night she cried in her bed, wailing, cried with tiredness, the loneliness of it all, cried because Alexander was not with her, cried for her daughter and for the Lady of the Manor and for herself and for the little baby with Alexander’s eyes, who would be arriving soon, without her, cried because she was afraid.

The following day, she woke up calm, prayed, drank her tea, wrote and posted a letter to Tatyana. She went to speak to Vasilyevich. At Petrovna’s house, she packed the sheets and blankets, a few summer dresses, Petrovna’s amber necklace, warm clothes for the winter and the face creams she had found on the bathroom shelf. She tied it all into several sheets. Vasilyevich carried the bundles to her house while Babushka coaxed Petrovna into visiting her.

“Tea and jam,” she said, watching Petrovna’s face light up.

Days went on, unmarked, growing shorter and cooler. Autumn came early that year. They’d had a plentiful harvest, Vasilyevich said when he came round; all was well at the plant too.

“Has the postman been?” Petrovna asked, looking at them with anxious eyes.

“He’s been, all is well, no letters for us today,” Babushka said.

“No telegram?”

“Not today, Petrovna. We can go for a walk if you like.”

“No, I don’t want to go,” Petrovna started kneading her fingers and only settled when Babushka put on the kettle.

“Stay for tea, Vasilyevich, there is plenty of jam, two kinds,” she said.

She sounded sad, Vasilyevich thought.

“The best jam in the village, Ivanovna!” he said with excess cheer and slapped himself on the stomach a few times. Petrovna smiled, watching him.

On some days, she seemed to be back to her usual self. She would ask to be taken to the garden and served tea there.

And they would go out and sit on the bench, shawls on their shoulders, Babushka’s a simple grey, Petrovna’s loud, flowery, with tassels. Petrovna would fold her arms underneath her ample chest and look important, greeting passers-by, recognising none of them. She would survey the garden and point:

“Marigolds. Lilac, look, it’s starting to shed leaves. Cherry. You ought to tidy up the trees.“

Marigolds were her favourite. Every morning, Babushka cut one of them and placed it in a glass next to Petrovna’s bed. If Petrovna noticed the sunny flower, it was to be a good day. If she didn’t, she would be petulant and restless and would cry with confusion, wearing herself and Babushka out towards the evening.

In the afternoons, Babushka got a reprieve. She would settle in the armchair underneath a lamp with a red shade, which Vasilyevich had brought for her from Moscow, much to her protestation, and re-read the letter from Tatyana. The baby had arrived safely; true to Babushka’s vision, it was a girl, and they had named her Alexandra. They had got the knitted socks, which were warm and did not bite the feet; they were waiting for Babushka. Babushka would fold the letter carefully, put it aside and watch Petrovna sleeping, sniffing peacefully underneath the warm blanket.

November arrived, bringing the first frost. Petrovna got agitated with the change of the weather.

“Marigolds. They will die, and I will die with them,” she kept saying.

“Don’t be silly. I will put them inside, and they will bloom again in the winter,” said Babushka, cursing herself for short-sightedness. She went and dug out the marigolds, re-potted them, hoping she was not too late, and placed the flowerpot in a warm spot, where the rare winter sun would find it.

“Don’t leave me,” Petrovna said.

The week before the New Year, snow was plentiful; tall drifts stretched alongside the houses, where they had been pushed aside to clear the street. Snow creaked underfoot and glistened at night. The village club hosted parties and dances, and crowds of merrymakers went past Babushka’s windows, singing late into the night.

Vasilyevich brought a tall, stately fir tree; he had undergone a private battle for it, a battle which had ended in him slamming his fist on the table, something he had only resorted to twice in his married life. They installed the tree near the window and Petrovna, wearing her best woollen dress, hair brushed and plaited, settled on the floor near it, legs akimbo. She took out decorations from a cardboard box, one by one, and unwrapped them, clapping each time a new toy appeared.

Babushka cheered up, watching her. She got out cherry infusion, which she kept in the cupboard for plumber visits and special occasions, poured it into tiny crystal glasses, and she and Petrovna sat down next to each other, looking through Babushka’s photo album. Petrovna leafed through it impatiently until she came to the photos of young men and women, Alexander, Babushka and their friends.

“Here,” – she pointed – “that’s me, look.”

Alexander, Babushka and Petrovna stood against a background of apple trees, with Petrovna watching Alexander, caught unaware, and Babushka looking uncomfortable. Babushka knew the photo had been taken before their wedding, she remembered that summer – the summer she and Petrovna had become enemies, unspoken.

“It’s late,” she said. “Have you made a wish, Petrovna? Yes? Happy New Year!” Babushka handed Petrovna her glass and took away the album, placing it into the furthest corner of the cupboard. They finished the cherry infusion and went to bed.

Babushka woke from the sound of a crash. Jumping out of bed – she now slept in her bedchamber – she ran to the main room. Petrovna was on the floor, arms outstretched, whimpering.

“What have you done?” howled Babushka.

She tried to lift Petrovna up, but, hearing her cries of pain, stopped. She took the pillows and the blanket down and settled Petrovna on the floor. She gave her sweet tea and the strongest tablets she could find. They did not sleep again until the morning, when Babushka rushed to the post office; it had a telephone booth outside.

The doctor, the same woman who had visited months before, looked even more tired this time. She bent down near Petrovna, looked at her, felt something and straightened out, sighing.

“A broken hip,” she said.

Babushka’s heart went cold.

“I will call an ambulance,” said the doctor. “Hurry. Get her things ready, please.”

Petrovna had stopped crying and only looked at Babushka with frightened eyes.

“Sorry,” she said. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ll be out in no time,” said Babushka and turned sideways, so that Petrovna could not see her face.

They brought Petrovna back in February. They had operated, but the bones would not mend, and x-rays showed no improvement. There was nothing to do but wait; in the meantime, Babushka was to sit her up in bed, turn her over regularly and watch for bedsores.

After the hospital, Petrovna got worse. She refused food, turning away stubbornly when Babushka spoon fed her. She stopped talking, and would spend entire days staring at the ceiling, chewing her lips, kneading the blanket with her thick fingers. She woke up crying and talking in the middle of the night. She called for her mother.

One day, when she was changing her, Babushka saw such cold dead fury in Petrovna’s eyes that it rooted her to the spot. Thinking about it afterwards, she could have sworn that the floor had gone cold underneath her feet. She left Petrovna then, and went to the church, where she prayed and got holy water and candles. The priest came to give Petrovna communion. For three nights, Babushka prayed in her bed, falling asleep mid-sentence. During the day, she moved around in a haze.

Vasilyevich went to Klava, and they called Sergei again. Klava transferred the call to one of the booths. Through the glass door, she watched Vasilyevich’s broad back moving in the tight booth; a little later he came out, paid for the call, and put his hat on.

“He’ll be here,” Vasilyevich said.

Petrovna died in her sleep two days later. Babushka found her in the morning. Petrovna’s face looked set and unreachable. Babushka gave a short cry and sat down on the floor near the bed.

Sergei arrived a few hours later and found her there. She watched him as he paced the room, making phone calls; people came and left, taking away Petrovna. Klava was there; Babushka remembered taking a cup of tea and a small tablet from her. Then she slept.

She woke up in the late evening to silence. There were shoeprints on the floor; snow and dirt had dried there in uneven shapes. Babushka filled the bucket and set to washing the floors, trying not to look at the sofa bed, empty, stripped of bedlinen and blankets. When she had finished, she sat at the table for a long while, looking at Alexander’s photo.

Three days later, they held Petrovna’s funeral. The whole village was in attendance; a few of the women could be heard crying. There was a blizzard; snowflakes shot sideways in the bitter wind, and by the time the mourners left, the grave was covered with a thin layer of prickly-looking snow.

Petrovna’s house, cold from standing unattended all this time, seemed to be glad to welcome the villagers. Women and men flooded in, carrying chairs, tables, provisions. Someone brought an accordion.

Several tables were lined up, covered with white tablecloths, out came crystal decanters, filled with wheat homebrew, out came herring, salads, ham, roasted beef and chickens. A shot glass of vodka and an empty chair marked Petrovna’s place at the head of the table. The wake went on for several hours, the accordion playing, people laughing and singing – a wake was an occasion for celebration, not for grief.

Babushka came out onto the porch to get away from the noise. She saw Sergei walking heavily to his car, carrying a television set. He didn’t notice her. Sergei loaded the television into the boot, slammed it shut and hauled his large body into the driver’s seat; the tinted window moved up, hiding him from view. The jeep roared and took off down the street, leaving snow dust whirling in its wake.

She went home. A bag sat near the door, ready for the morning. She was taking little with her - three icons and Alexander’s picture, her old photo album, documents and, of course, the cast iron frying pan for pancakes.

Petrovna’s things had long been taken away, but one item – the amber necklace – remained. Babushka felt its smooth oval-shaped stones, warm to the touch. This was real amber. She walked around the room, unsure of what to do with the necklace. Her eyes fell on the pot with marigolds, and she stopped in her tracks. They had burst into sunny bloom; how could she have missed it?

She got the scissors, placed the necklace above the pot and cut through the thick strand. One by one, the stones fell and covered the earth underneath the flowers. The flowers and the gemstones glowed quietly, in harmony. Tears came to her eyes, surprising her, for she did not cry easily.

In the morning, Babushka set the flowerpot onto a sledge and went to the cemetery. Snow had fallen overnight. A wooden cross, half hidden, and a large wreath with a white ribbon – To My Aunt, With All My Love, marked Petrovna’s grave. Babushka put the pot underneath the cross and stood back. The marigolds would die, of course, but the gemstones would remain, and someone could re-plant the flowers when the spring came.

Lastly, she went to say good-bye to Alexander.

“Don’t worry, baby,” she said. “I am not leaving you.”

Vasilyevich, who was taking her to the station, drove slowly. When they stopped at the railway crossing, waiting for a train to go past, he hunched over the steering wheel and stared ahead.

“Are you going forever, Ivanovna?”

She hesitated for a moment, until she saw it in her mind’s eye, pink apple blossom in April and tall skies and Alexandra’s eyes, dark, serious.

“No, Vasilyevich, dear. The house will need tending to and the graves will have to be tidied. I will be back at Easter.”

Vasilyevich cheered up and moved into action then, switched on and switched off the indicator, needlessly, looked in the rear-view mirror, honked the cars which had built up behind them, and finally, shifted into gear and drove, hiding a smile in his moustache. She would return, she was a woman of her word, he thought. She was one of a kind.