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Authors: Jack McGinnigle
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did not move. Finally he looked at her and she was shocked and repelled by the look of rejection in his eyes. Still he said nothing.
‘What did she say?’ she repeated. ‘Why can’t I make a baby?’
‘She said she could not find anything wrong,’ Young Malik replied slowly, almost inaudibly.
Maretta was overjoyed. Her optimism had been justified!
‘But that’s wonderful,’ she cried ecstatically. ‘We can try…’
‘No.’ His voice crashed through her words and shattered them. A shocked silence followed.
‘Why not?’ she whispered finally. ‘If there’s nothing wrong…?’
Another silence for several moments. Then: ‘She says you are not good breeding stock.’
The world collapsed in upon Maretta. She felt totally numb, hardly able to draw her next breath. She had no idea how long she existed in that room with these eight words spinning around in her head, incising virtual grooves inside her skull. Eventually, very slowly, she came back to life. She was alone. He had gone from the room, she knew not where. She was left alone with these razor-sharp, devastating words: “She says you are not good breeding stock.”
Maretta sat for some time in the apparent stillness of assessment and interpretation. Then came a burst of incredulous understanding, like the explosion of a rocket in the sky. She recognised with complete certainty that the midwife’s words were part of a vendetta against her and against her unfortunate people. Now she spoke aloud, quietly and without expression:
‘She examined me and could find nothing wrong. So she decided to poison my marriage because I am a poor serf.’ Tears filled her eyes, part rage, part grief.
In the following days and weeks, Maretta tried to speak to her husband about the real meaning of the midwife’s assessments and comments but he refused point-blank to engage in any conversation. Despite her best efforts, she could not penetrate the wall of dislike that was now his attitude towards her. As time passed, his demeanour deteriorated further to become constantly withdrawn and even more bad-tempered. It became the norm for him to be very drunk every evening.
From the farmhouse next door, Young Malik’s father continued to be kind to her in a gentle, absent-minded sort of way but his mother withdrew her goodwill, firmly taking sides with her son.
‘I knew it would never come out for the best; I told you you should never marry below your class.’ However these words were not spoken in triumph because Young Malik’s mother knew that her son was now very unhappy.
As the situation deteriorated further, Maretta became deeply depressed. Left all alone every day, she started to seek solace in the beer which in the past she had brewed for Young Malik with so much love. Soon she spent much of her days in varying degrees of alcoholic haze and in consequence become slovenly and uncaring in her habits. Her face became set in a vacuous, ugly scowl. Young Malik hardly noticed. As they sat at the table together, he bolted down the food she prepared for him and never raised his eyes to look at her.
Imprisoned in her world of unhappiness and alcohol, Maretta was vaguely aware of changes at the farm. The one she resented most was being compelled to move from her home into the farmhouse next door. Why did she need to move? She was perfectly happy where she was. She knew that both of Malik’s parents had gone, died, she thought: ‘I wonder what happened to them?’ She sometimes puzzled about that but could not remember.
She also knew that all the farm workers had gone – again, she didn’t know why and she didn’t care; after all, it was her husband’s business. On one occasion she had asked Malik about it but, as usual, he had just ignored her. Also, she remembered that Malik had bought a little boy to work on the farm – that was years ago. He was sent to live in the barn and she knew he was still there because she had to prepare food and drink for him. She
‘What did she say?’ she repeated. ‘Why can’t I make a baby?’
‘She said she could not find anything wrong,’ Young Malik replied slowly, almost inaudibly.
Maretta was overjoyed. Her optimism had been justified!
‘But that’s wonderful,’ she cried ecstatically. ‘We can try…’
‘No.’ His voice crashed through her words and shattered them. A shocked silence followed.
‘Why not?’ she whispered finally. ‘If there’s nothing wrong…?’
Another silence for several moments. Then: ‘She says you are not good breeding stock.’
The world collapsed in upon Maretta. She felt totally numb, hardly able to draw her next breath. She had no idea how long she existed in that room with these eight words spinning around in her head, incising virtual grooves inside her skull. Eventually, very slowly, she came back to life. She was alone. He had gone from the room, she knew not where. She was left alone with these razor-sharp, devastating words: “She says you are not good breeding stock.”
Maretta sat for some time in the apparent stillness of assessment and interpretation. Then came a burst of incredulous understanding, like the explosion of a rocket in the sky. She recognised with complete certainty that the midwife’s words were part of a vendetta against her and against her unfortunate people. Now she spoke aloud, quietly and without expression:
‘She examined me and could find nothing wrong. So she decided to poison my marriage because I am a poor serf.’ Tears filled her eyes, part rage, part grief.
In the following days and weeks, Maretta tried to speak to her husband about the real meaning of the midwife’s assessments and comments but he refused point-blank to engage in any conversation. Despite her best efforts, she could not penetrate the wall of dislike that was now his attitude towards her. As time passed, his demeanour deteriorated further to become constantly withdrawn and even more bad-tempered. It became the norm for him to be very drunk every evening.
From the farmhouse next door, Young Malik’s father continued to be kind to her in a gentle, absent-minded sort of way but his mother withdrew her goodwill, firmly taking sides with her son.
‘I knew it would never come out for the best; I told you you should never marry below your class.’ However these words were not spoken in triumph because Young Malik’s mother knew that her son was now very unhappy.
As the situation deteriorated further, Maretta became deeply depressed. Left all alone every day, she started to seek solace in the beer which in the past she had brewed for Young Malik with so much love. Soon she spent much of her days in varying degrees of alcoholic haze and in consequence become slovenly and uncaring in her habits. Her face became set in a vacuous, ugly scowl. Young Malik hardly noticed. As they sat at the table together, he bolted down the food she prepared for him and never raised his eyes to look at her.
Imprisoned in her world of unhappiness and alcohol, Maretta was vaguely aware of changes at the farm. The one she resented most was being compelled to move from her home into the farmhouse next door. Why did she need to move? She was perfectly happy where she was. She knew that both of Malik’s parents had gone, died, she thought: ‘I wonder what happened to them?’ She sometimes puzzled about that but could not remember.
She also knew that all the farm workers had gone – again, she didn’t know why and she didn’t care; after all, it was her husband’s business. On one occasion she had asked Malik about it but, as usual, he had just ignored her. Also, she remembered that Malik had bought a little boy to work on the farm – that was years ago. He was sent to live in the barn and she knew he was still there because she had to prepare food and drink for him. She
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