The House by the Dvina (19 page)

The youngest brother, Vladimir, known as Uncle Volodya, I used to see sitting peacefully on the wooden settle in the back hall where hung all our outside clothing. I would sit down beside him and begin to pull off my felt boots. “Hallo, Jenichka,” he invariably greeted me with a sweet but rather uncertain smile. “Hallo, Uncle Volodya,” I would return his greeting, but from then on our conversation didnТt progress any further.

Uncle Volodya was a silent and quite harmless alcoholic not given to many words. Those passing through the hall usually ignored him. He never moved from his corner until the afternoon samovar was brought to the table and Babushka would take him under her wing and place him beside her, at times gently patting his shoulder. Later, when the samovar was removed, Uncle Volodya, back to semi-sobriety, would go to the hall and slowly, with great concentration, begin to dress himself for his return journey to his home. His wife was long since dead; he had no children and only an old servant looked after him.

BabushkaТs favourite was her eldest brother Ivan. Uncle Vanya, as we called him, was a quiet, unassuming man much loved by all those with whom he came in contact. Like his brother Volodya he had been employed in the Civil Service and, although retired for many years, still wore the faded green, long coat of the civil servant. His longish white hair, the wispy beard and the narrow chiselled features were reminiscent of some ancient saint so often depicted in old ikons. Uncle Vanya, however, was a very ordinary mortal who at one time lived nearby in a pleasant house with his wife and two little girls. His happy married life was shattered by the sudden death of his wife in giving birth to their third daughter. Broken by the loss of his wife and faced with the daunting prospect of bringing up three young children, Uncle Vanya didnТt know where to turn. The midwife, known as Anna Osipovna, had stayed on for a short time caring for the baby and the two small girls. In her, Uncle Vanya decided, lay his deliverance from his predicament and impulsively he married her.

Unfortunately, their marriage did not work out and after three weeks of what might be described as a passing acquaintanceship they parted in perfect agreement, without rancour or harsh words. Anna Osipovna, after her brief encounter with married life, returned to her former occupation.

At the same time, what had happened did not deter her from claiming her rights as a member of the family. Determined to be included in the clan and recognised as BabushkaТs sister-in-law, she came regularly to the house and took an active part in all family gatherings, weddings and christenings. Many decades later, after the death of my beloved Babushka, it was Anna Osipovna who claimed the honour of carrying the ikon at the head of the procession to the cemetery. Anna Osipovna was a small woman.

She possessed an unusually sharp little nose and quick, all-seeing eyes.

She was rather aptly named by my father “Osa”, meaning “the wasp”. As the first two letters of her patronymic Osipovna were the same as that of “Osa” this may have had some bearing on her nickname, but the real reason was because of her waspish nature and stinging tongue.

Anna Osipovna did not mind being referred to as “Osa”; in fact she quite liked it. She and Uncle Vanya often sat at the same table. Between them there was this casual indifference, so that the family were never embarrassed by any display of animosity.

The problem of Uncle VanyaТs children was jointly solved by Babushka and Aunt Peeka. Uncle Vanya and his two daughters, Tatyana and Ludmilla, better known as Tanya and Ludmilushka, came to live with Babushka, while Aunt Peeka and her husband, Uncle Kolya, who had no children of their own, adopted the baby Lydia and brought her up as their own daughter. In time, all three girls married and settled down in their respective homes. Uncle Vanya went to stay with his eldest daughter Tanya, who lived across the river near the station of Issakagorka. It was Tanya who was commissioned to take charge of the luggage when my parents arrived from Scotland and Mother set foot for the first time in Archangel. One day, about three years before my final arrival at the house, Tanya came rushing to Babushka and between tears and sobs explained that her darling Papachka had left the house. That morning a group of pilgrims had called and, as they were leaving, Uncle Vanya, having made up a little bundle of clothing, announced to his astonished daughter that he had decided to join them.

They were on their way, he explained vaguely, to the monastery of Kholmogor some forty miles up the river and later planned to continue down south to the famous Kiev-Pechorski Monastery. Aghast, poor Tanya begged and pleaded and even ran behind him as he set off along the dusty road, but all entreaties and tears were of no avail. Uncle Vanya was a deeply religious man. This was something, he explained to Tanya, that he had always wanted to do and nothing would divert him from his sacred mission.

Tanya had stood on the road helplessly watching her old father walking in the midst of the pilgrims with his stick and bundle, the silvery hair below his peaked hat ruffled by the wind, until he gradually disappeared out of sight.

At first Tanya hoped that her father would return after he reached Kholmogor and that the long trek back would cure all his fancy notions, but she was mistaken. Three summers and winters had gone by and there was still no sight or sound of Uncle Vanya. There were, of course, rumours brought by various pilgrims. Uncle Vanya had been seen in many parts of Russia Ч Kiev, Vladimirsk, Moscow and even Siberia. After their initial anxiety the family settled down in the firm belief that Uncle Vanya would eventually return to the fold. The most outstanding and picturesque of the three brothers was Uncle Dmitri Ч a man of great girth and height towering above all the relatives. His broad cheekbones and strong features are framed by a luxuriant beard and hair that is brushed back from his forehead in unruly waves, tipping his shoulders. He scorns the collar and tie of the usual civilian suit, and favours the Russian style of shirt with the high embroidered neck band and trousers tucked into long boots.

He is expansive, flamboyant, generous and violent. He is violent when he is in his cups, and more so if nursing as well a real or imaginary grievance. His wife, Aunt Liza, was a placid, sweet-faced woman Ч a typical northerner, fair-skinned and blue-eyed. She wore her blonde hair in a heavy plait wound round her head in a style that aroused my admiration. She was the only child of a well-to-do grain merchant who had built up his business from low beginnings. When he died, Uncle Mitya took over and ran the business on behalf of his wife.

Uncle Mitya very rarely brought his wife to the house and although she was BabushkaТs sister-in-law she always addressed her by her patronymic ofEvgeniya Evgenievna and spoke in a soft sing-song voice. At the tea table she held her cup with her little finger sticking out in a dainty fashion and with each sip bit the sugar with her strong white teeth. The family lived in the northern part of the city known as Kuznichikha Ч

meaning the place of the blacksmiths. It was not a very salubrious district, and there were also certain parts which had an unsavoury reputation, but Uncle MityaТs house was in a quiet street not far from the river. Their two sons, blond and sturdy, attended the Lomonosov Gymnasium.

They were friendly boys, but rarely called at the house.

Uncle Mitya was known to be a great “wheeler dealer”. There was the time when he overheard me expressing a wish to possess a St Bernard dog. “You want a St Bernard, Jenichka,” he said. “You shall have your St Bernard.”

The following day a dog arrived, but it was not a St Bernard nor did it bear any resemblance to any known breed. I was not permitted to keep it, but being passionately fond of all dogs, could not bear to part from it. I kept it hidden in the stables warmly wrapped in BabushkaТs travelling cloak. I fed it on a special concoction of my own invention Ч double cream, bought out of my own pocket money from the local dairy, mixed with water, sugar and black bread to thicken it. The pup and the ruined cloak were finally discovered and Babushka was not exactly overjoyed when she saw the irreparable damage done to her prized possession. To escape her wrath and the retribution due to me, I spent a long time hiding behind the sofa in the drawing-room, waiting for calmer conditions, and eventually emerged to receive only a good dressing-down. I never discovered what happened to the dog.

Uncle Mitya was not always so benign. I remember my mother recalling her own confrontation with his wild temper. It happened during her first summer in Archangel. She was calling on Babushka and, while climbing the convenient back stair, suddenly saw the towering figure of Uncle Mitya bearing down like an avalanche upon her. Regardless of her presence, he swept her aside against the wall and continued his mad rush through the kitchen and out of the house.

Upstairs, the rooms were in a shambles. Broken china and overturned chairs were scattered over the dining-room floor. In the ballroom each one of the long wall mirrors had been shattered as Uncle Mitya in his insane rage had lifted the light gilded chairs and flung them with great force, smashing the chairs, the mirrors and the flower pots below them. Earth, flowers, broken ornaments and shattered glass were scattered and trampled into the parquet flooring.

Babushka, shocked into silence, was aimlessly picking up bits of broken glass. Marga, terrified out of her wits, was weeping hysterically in the arms of her governess. It transpired that someone, though no one knew who, had passed some remark which displeased Uncle Mitya and set off this tornado. The following morning Uncle Mitya was back. Grovelling on his knees and kissing BabushkaТs feet, he beseeched her forgiveness, swearing in the name of our Mother of God that this would never happen again and that he would make amends for everything. Babushka, being what she was, forgave him. What she could not forget, or forgive easily, was his exploit during the time of the abortive revolution in 1905. Never involved in any revolutionary activities, he had impetuously decided to join a revolutionary procession which began in his district. In a spirit of bravado and in fine style, his picturesque appearance dominating all the others; carrying a red flag and in full voice proclaiming all the slogans, he marched in the midst of the rebellious workers. The procession was moving in the direction of Solombala and was on the bridge when from the mainland in the distance, galloping along the shore front towards the bridge, a group of horsemen appeared. The procession immediately disintegrated, some running ahead and some back in the hope of reaching the safety of the mainland before the horsemen. Uncle Mitya did neither.

He threw aside his flag and leaped into the river. Clinging to the understructure of the bridge, he waited until the thundering hooves overhead galloped on to Solombala. Later, swimming close to the bridge, he succeeded in reaching the shore and eventually the walls of BabushkaТs garden. There, hiding in the turret of the summer house, from where he could observe the lie of the land, he spent the rest of the day until he was driven by hunger to appear in the house. Babushka, a faithful subject of the crown, was furious, but the call of the blood being stronger than her loyalty, fed her brother and kept him hidden for a few days until it was thought to be safe for him to return to his own house. From that time Uncle Mitya was named “Mitka Shalai” Ч a derogatory nickname, never at any time to be used within his hearing. It would be impossible to find the meaning of such a word in any dictionary, but it conveys that the person named as such is reckless, irresponsible and, in short, a hooligan. My great-uncle was never referred to as anything else, but no one would have dared to call him “Mitka Shalai” to his face, for that would have courted disaster. Unfortunately I did not know that and fondly imagined it was just one of the many harmless nicknames bestowed on the various members of the family and friends.

In early December following my arrival, I celebrated my seventh birthday.

A big parcel arrived from St. Petersburg and inside I found a large doll in a blue dress, wearing a straw hat. What pleased and delighted me more than anything else, however, was my first pair of skis, presented by Dedushka. The following day, during the bright hours of sunshine, I ventured out into the courtyard and donned my skis. Stumbling and falling, I eventually clambered above the snowdrifts and reached a smooth plateau by the garden hedge. There, at first timidly and later with more confidence, I glided up and down until I tired and the short day began to close in. Skiing on a flat surface, I found, was quite simple and prompted a wish to go further afield.

The next day I went out again. In a space, breaking the dark line of the hedge, the garden gate lay deeply buried in the snow. I skimmed over it and found myself in the garden. Still and silent, the trees were in their deep winter sleep. The snow lay thick over everything, masking the flower beds and bushes. It settled in spangled drifts on the bowed branches of the green and blue pines and powdered the glittering twigs of the silver birch. The whole garden sparkled and shone in the dazzling rays of the winter sun. Yet nothing moved Ч not a twig or a branch. Only the golden beams danced on the lawn and played on the sombre trunks of the wild cherry trees. And there was not a sound to be heard. The snow muffled everything.

Ahead, like a large saucer, lay the pond. After gliding down the rim I circled inside it for a little while and then moved on to a rustic summer house. The steps leading to the glass door inside the verandah were clear of snow. Removing my skis, I climbed the steps and peered through the glass. Inside were DedushkaТs beehives, where the bees were kept warm and safe from the frost and cold. Dedushka was an expert beekeeper. It was his only hobby and he was very attached to his bees. I used to see him standing over a small spirit stove preparing a special syrup for them. He would then don his skis and, carrying the container with the syrup, would glide through the garden to the summer house. His bees always survived the Arctic conditions, which was quite an achievement. I never saw any other beehives in our district.