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Authors: Jack McGinnigle
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the many chores of a farmer’s wife and this, along with her ready humour and attractive beauty, soon won over the older woman. In fact the quick transition from tension to friendship was due not only to Maretta’s efforts. Young Malik’s mother knew that her beloved son was deeply in love with his new wife, and she was pleased to see him so happy.
Maretta looked forward eagerly to being pregnant. She did not care whether her first baby was a boy or a girl – after all, there would be so many more! However as the months and then the years passed, it became increasingly obvious that the blessing of pregnancy was not being visited upon her. She tolerated all the visits from the physicians and apothecaries; she knew her husband was trying his best to solve their problem and bring the blessing of babies to their family. The remedies they gave her often tasted horrible and some of them made her sick. Some of the ointments and tinctures were also foul-smelling and some were injurious, irritating or even burning her skin. Nevertheless she was always obedient, firstly because it was what Young Malik wanted her to do but also because she was desperate to present him with the son he yearned for.
Then came the day when her husband arrived with the village midwife. Maretta was washing some clothes when she heard a harsh, unfamiliar voice outside the farmhouse door. She had opened the door to find the midwife with her husband. She was a stooped old woman who wore a permanently sour expression and spoke angrily all the time.
Maretta knew the midwife by reputation; she was well-known among the poor serfs of the area, not only for refusing help to them with any birthing problems, even when payment was offered, but for speaking out against them in an attempt to stir the villagers into violent action against their poor neighbours. ‘We don’t need their kind here,’ the midwife would say inflammatorily, ‘they are nothing but a band of thieves, cheats and liars. We should drive them out. Who cares if they live or die?’
At her husband’s bidding, Maretta reluctantly invited the midwife to enter. The interrogation proved to be unkind and unsympathetic. There were many questions, some worryingly embarrassing, but out of loyalty to her husband, Maretta did her best to answer them all to the best of her ability. The physical examination was even worse, ranging over every part of her body and conducted in a far from gentle manner. Finally, it was over.
‘Do I have a problem with my body? Why cannot I make a baby?’ Maretta addressed the midwife’s back as she was packing away her cloths and tools.
‘My answers are for your husband,’ the midwife spoke contemptuously without turning around, ‘not for you.’
Young Malik and the midwife spoke for a long time in the farmyard. Maretta strained to hear what was being said but could only make out an occasional word. After some time, the midwife climbed upon the cart and they left for the village.
Maretta waited with great impatience for the return of her husband. She was desperate to hear what the midwife had told him. Maybe if they followed her advice, everything would be all right. Maybe a baby would grow in her body – twins, even! Maretta felt a great rush of delight within her: ‘Yes,’ she thought, ‘maybe it could even be twins. This could be a new start for us.’ She felt a great surge of love for her husband, remembering those far-off days when they were so ecstatically happy, so much in love. ‘Oh, how I wish he would return!’ She strained her eyes into the distance.
Late in the evening, Young Malik finally returned, drunk and aggressive. He barged noisily into the farmhouse, calling loudly for more beer. Maretta opened a flagon and poured some for him. He took it without a word and quaffed it noisily, ignoring her completely. She sat quietly, waiting.
After some time, she spoke: ‘What did she say?’ Her voice flat and expressionless.
For some moments, he
Maretta looked forward eagerly to being pregnant. She did not care whether her first baby was a boy or a girl – after all, there would be so many more! However as the months and then the years passed, it became increasingly obvious that the blessing of pregnancy was not being visited upon her. She tolerated all the visits from the physicians and apothecaries; she knew her husband was trying his best to solve their problem and bring the blessing of babies to their family. The remedies they gave her often tasted horrible and some of them made her sick. Some of the ointments and tinctures were also foul-smelling and some were injurious, irritating or even burning her skin. Nevertheless she was always obedient, firstly because it was what Young Malik wanted her to do but also because she was desperate to present him with the son he yearned for.
Then came the day when her husband arrived with the village midwife. Maretta was washing some clothes when she heard a harsh, unfamiliar voice outside the farmhouse door. She had opened the door to find the midwife with her husband. She was a stooped old woman who wore a permanently sour expression and spoke angrily all the time.
Maretta knew the midwife by reputation; she was well-known among the poor serfs of the area, not only for refusing help to them with any birthing problems, even when payment was offered, but for speaking out against them in an attempt to stir the villagers into violent action against their poor neighbours. ‘We don’t need their kind here,’ the midwife would say inflammatorily, ‘they are nothing but a band of thieves, cheats and liars. We should drive them out. Who cares if they live or die?’
At her husband’s bidding, Maretta reluctantly invited the midwife to enter. The interrogation proved to be unkind and unsympathetic. There were many questions, some worryingly embarrassing, but out of loyalty to her husband, Maretta did her best to answer them all to the best of her ability. The physical examination was even worse, ranging over every part of her body and conducted in a far from gentle manner. Finally, it was over.
‘Do I have a problem with my body? Why cannot I make a baby?’ Maretta addressed the midwife’s back as she was packing away her cloths and tools.
‘My answers are for your husband,’ the midwife spoke contemptuously without turning around, ‘not for you.’
Young Malik and the midwife spoke for a long time in the farmyard. Maretta strained to hear what was being said but could only make out an occasional word. After some time, the midwife climbed upon the cart and they left for the village.
Maretta waited with great impatience for the return of her husband. She was desperate to hear what the midwife had told him. Maybe if they followed her advice, everything would be all right. Maybe a baby would grow in her body – twins, even! Maretta felt a great rush of delight within her: ‘Yes,’ she thought, ‘maybe it could even be twins. This could be a new start for us.’ She felt a great surge of love for her husband, remembering those far-off days when they were so ecstatically happy, so much in love. ‘Oh, how I wish he would return!’ She strained her eyes into the distance.
Late in the evening, Young Malik finally returned, drunk and aggressive. He barged noisily into the farmhouse, calling loudly for more beer. Maretta opened a flagon and poured some for him. He took it without a word and quaffed it noisily, ignoring her completely. She sat quietly, waiting.
After some time, she spoke: ‘What did she say?’ Her voice flat and expressionless.
For some moments, he
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