Marfa checked the address again.
She got down, and paid the hackney without a word. Not that she could speak English.
She turned to the house, and listened to the trot of the horses until it faded into the next street. Straightening her cap, she picked up her suitcase and walked up the steps.
***
"How nice of you to have come," said Aunt Maria over tea, "and without informing your dear aunt, too."
Marfa grinned. The reunion couldn't have been more amusing, with her aunt having to blink a couple of times before finally managing a "Marfa, is that really you?"
Her favourite aunt had come to London ages ago, with the hope of trying her luck in a new city; Marfa had only retraced her aunt's steps, but directly to the town of Hitchin. She now had a small general store in the Hitchin town centre, with just enough profit to eke out a living.
Marfa knew this. After all, she hadn't come on vacation.
"You always did like a surprise, Aunt Maria," she said between bites of cake -- neither the recipe nor the taste had changed, she'd bet.
Her aunt giggled. "And I feel you'll do yourself one better, once you've told me just why you're here."
Marfa smiled, silent for once.
"That the world is full of surprise and wonder," she finally spoke, "was taught to me by you, Aunt Maria." She was rewarded with a smile. "Well, I wish to know it the best I can.
"There are woman tutors in England these days: educated women who spread their knowledge to those keen to absorb it. I may have poor pockets all my life, but my head shall die rich." She looked up and smiled.
Marfa's decision wasn't lost on her aunt. "And what a fine head you have on your shoulders, my dear."
They laughed the first of countless laughs.
*********
The next afternoon Marfa made her way to a second address, on foot this time.
She stared at the simple wooden door. It returned the stare.
She sighed, admitting to herself that she was nervous. Skipping up the steps, she knocked on the door.
A tiny fury seemed to unleash itself on the door's bottom. Marfa heard a flurry of scratches and barks before a "Down, Duke!" rang out from within, reducing the storm to a whimper. Must be a male pup, thought Marfa.
A woman dressed in the simple garb of the English townships greeted Marfa with a smile, pulling the staring door aside. "And how do you do?" she asked.
Marfa smiled back, and handed her the note her aunt had written out for her.
"So you wish to study?" asked the lady once she'd glanced through it. It wouldn't have stumped Marfa, had the former not asked it in perfect Russian.
"Yes, I - I do," she stuttered. "But, madam-"
"Miss Joan Charlton, please, Marfa Dmitrivna."
"But, Miss Joan, how did you learn-"
"Oh, we got all sorts at the Sorbonne," Miss Joan laughed. "Now, we shouldn't keep chatting at the steps."
They sat down to some tea, between sips of which their discussion ricocheted between two sides of the Ural mountains. Miss Joan, Marfa learnt, lived with her father and brother, who had only just left for the town center.
"Don't expect every teatime to be this quiet, Marfa," said the hostess, laughing. Marfa looked bemused. "You're not alone on your quest for knowledge."
"So we learn at around this time?"
"We start at two o'clock, pushing through to five."
Marfa seemed to shuffle in her seat. Miss Joan waited, her cup steaming contentedly on the table.
"Miss Joan," she began, "I-I haven't learnt English at all yet, and..." Her voice trailed off. She bowed her head.
"You're a willing student, Marfa." Miss Joan's voice was comforting. "You'll learn English quickly; we'll spend more time on it together when we can.
You can indeed take this on, but will you?"
Marfa smiled and nodded.
Miss Joan had changed another life, and Marfa had let yet another woman alter the course of hers.
***
Marfa found work in a cotton mill not far from Hitchin, earning enough to allow her and her aunt to keep body and soul together, sending some savings back home when she could.
She would spend any hours she could snatch from her schedule at Miss Joan's, learning how to read English by the tea-table, discussing poetry while doing the laundry, or absorbing little bites of science and numbers while her sponge absorbed stains off the crockery.
Her 'tea-parties', as Miss Joan called them, went far better than she expected: She found like-minded young women like her who made her feel at ease; when she was nervous about her English in the first week, they made her laugh with their broken Russian. At the end of a few months they had filled the gaps in both languages.
Over the next few years Marfa felt what several others had put behind them, had stowed away at the bottom of the casket of youth.
The feeling of growth.
***
Once Marfa casually dropped by at Miss Joan's on Sunday, to find that she had a visitor, a man Marfa hadn't seen before. The family of three were chatting with him when she arrived.
"I'll bet you a shilling, Alexei Ivanovich," Miss Joan was saying, "that I could manage the cotton mill far better than my employer. He would make better profit if he sold the machines for scrap!"
"I shan't disagree with the employment of women in any place, Miss Joan. But," continued the visitor, "I wouldn't trust them in positions of power. How can a woman, accustomed to only managing the household, manage a factory?"
"And how can a man, never having managed a household, manage a factory?"
It was not Miss Joan who had said this; it was Marfa, emerging from the corridor.
Everyone turned to her, surprised. Miss Joan smiled.
They were introduced. Alexei Ivanovich had been a contemporary at the Sorbonne, but troubles at home had exiled him to England. He was a tutor now, helping his family get on its feet.
After this initial skirmish, the two Russians clashed often: The Charltons were among the few friends Alexei had, and he dropped by once a fortnight or so. To Miss Joan's amusement, whenever they met, they would break into a controlled, seething -- and, at times, laudable -- debate.
The debates didn't perturbe either of them, though; the duelists dismissed their opponent once the rapiers had been drawn.
When an exasperated Alexei had muttered, in Russian, "What is the world coming to?" he was answered with a spirited "To its senses, Alexei Ivanovich," from Marfa.
Eventually, Alexei returned to Moscow. Marfa hoped he would keep his views to himself, or forget them in Hitchin.
***
Marfa was feeling that emptiness again.
Had it really been a month? A month since she had been whistling along to home one afternoon, and found herself sobbing by evening?
A month since she'd found Aunt Marfa collapsed on the kitchen floor -- her lively aunt, lying in a heap?
She'd called the neighbours immediately, and one of them raced off to the nearest physician. They placed Aunt Maria on her bed, giving her water and rubbing her feet. Marfa felt futile, powerless, overpowered.
She stayed with her aunt until the physician arrived, rubbing her palms.
Marfa had considered physicians human telegrams -- heralds of either joy or sorrow, but delivering a potent dose either way. Now, he gave his verdict.
"She's quite weak," he said with a sigh, "and at her age, one cannot tell."
Marfa felt numb. Almost mechanically, she asked how much time her aunt had left.
"I can't be sure." He pursed his lips. "We must be careful."
They suffered together. A classmate agreed to stay with Aunt Maria while Marfa worked, and another ran the shop at the town center. Still, the medicines were expensive -- it struck Marfa cruelly that to eat enough for health, or to have medicines to maintain it, required long purses -- and some of her Aunt's small creditors, who had to be paid off, were now put off.
One evening, she was sitting at the foot of the bed, and her aunt looking out the window. Aunt Maria sighed.
"This house, the store...The ravens will take everything." Her eyes were moist. "What can I leave you, my child?"
Marfa patted her arm and smiled. "You've given me liveliness, contentment and learning, Aunt Maria. Which raven can take those?"
A grin spread on her aunt's face. She looked out the window once more.
The next morning, as she juggled the vessels for breakfast, she stepped into her aunt's room and pulled back the curtains.
"Lovely day!" Marfa was almost decisive about it. "Now, let me get you going, Aunt Maria."
After a few minutes Marfa realized it to be beyond her human powers.
Quietly she settled the kitchen, picked up her coat and scarf and headed out.
There weren't many people about. When Marfa reached the wooden door, she knocked. "Are you in, Miss Joan?" she called hoarsely.
"In a moment, Marfa!" answered a voice from within. As she opened the door, she said, "I've made something for your aun-"
Miss Joan stopped mid-sentence. She'd seen her friend's face.
Marfa broke down at the steps and sobbed.
***
Marfa walked looking down, not once glancing at the barren trees.
The ravens had swooshed in soon after the funeral. She was left with just enough to make a return journey to Moscow.
Before leaving, she'd spoken to her little group, who'd helped her through the past month and had come to see her off.
"Do write to us when you can, Marfa," said Miss Juan as she left, pressing a paper with their addresses into her palm lest she forgot.
The day after Aunt Maria had collapsed, Marfa had sat by the bed holding her aunt's hand.
"I feel an emptiness, Aunt Maria."
Her aunt smiled. "Havent you eaten, my dear?"
Marfa smiled back and sniffed. "I try to swallow it all. But then...I feel empty from within."
"You're full of beans, little girl." Her aunt patted her hair. Then tapping her niece's nose, she said, "It must be in the air."
They giggled.
Marfa was feeling that emptiness again.
Leaving the town, she wiped a tear or two away.
Not more.
***
"Distribute it to the corner by the exit too, Marfa Dmitrivna."
"Of course, Milena Ivanovna!"
As she presented the red bows to her male coworkers, Marfa couldn't help but feel that Milena wasn't quite herself that day. Once she'd done her duties for Women's Day, she turned to her friend.
"How's everything at home, Milena?" Marfa ventured. She may have known something amiss, but hadn't expected to see her eyes holding back tears.
"There's nothing at home, Marfa." Milena squeezed her eyes shut, and continued in a quivering whisper, "You know I have two children...I earn, but how can one hand feed four mouths, that too when one always has a vodka bottle to its lips?" Her eyes burned defiantly through tears. "Why," she asked, "must my children suffer for a man who never truly cared for them?"
Marfa was stunned by the irony. Here, before her eyes, a woman works herself to the bone, meekly accepts her unfairly low wages, goes home to her children and shields them from a drunkard, only to go through the routine day after day, and come to her telephone factory, unable to call for help, sobbing behind a milling machine on a Women's Day.
On a Women's Day.
Marfa Dmitrivna had seen enough. She stopped work at her milling machine, dragged a barrel to the middle of the floor, hoisted herself on it and called a strike.
They stared blankly back at her. "Like herded animals," she thought.
Then she realised that that was what they all were.
She may have been standing on a barrel, but she spoke like a war drum. She did not call to their better selves, she called to who they were; she called upon their sense of duty, and called upon them to uphold it.
And they did. Marfa Dmitrivna had floored the floor.
***
The foreman grew worried. He informed his manager.
"Hand her a loaf of bread," came the reply from the desk, and thus Marfa found herself looking at the foreman handing her a loaf of bread some time after the strike had been called. At another time, the foreman would have looked amusing.
Now, she passed the loaf to Milena.
And stayed put.
***
"What does she want now?" asked the frustrated manager. Peevishly, he wondered if women should have been allowed to work at all.
"Says she can't go back to work when half the floor has hit rock bottom, sir."
The manager sat back. "What was her name, you said?"
"Marfa Dmitrivna, sir. The milling machine operator."
The manager was quiet for a while. "Bring her to the office."
***
Marfa walked up the steps, two of her co-workers accompanying her. "We must deal sensibly," she reminded them. They nodded.
As the foreman ushered them into the manager's office, Marfa hoped she'd disguised her disappointment.
Behind the table sat Alexei Ivanovich, who rose presently.
"Good morning, Marfa Dmitrivna."
"Good morning, sir."
He looked between them for a moment, then broke the silence, asking "You have come bearing requests, I suppose."
"We wish to put forth a few dem-"
"But I bear no gifts." He raised his hand. "Managing the factory is a cumbersome task, and-"
"Not more than managing a household, sir," Marfa broke in, "or working through a day and trying to survive till the next."
"Perhaps you would care to have my seat, ma'am?"
"Honestly, I feel I would do a better job, Alexei Ivanovich."
"You consider yourself capable?"
"And no less worthy than yourself, sir."
***
There was a faint clatter of tools being downed, and the flurry of footsteps fluttering into the streets as the workers all rushed outside.
Many shook hands with the manager, Alexei Ivanovich, showering words of thanks and praise: Not only had their pay been upped to the measure of their sweat, he had promised to arrange tutors for their children and even bonuses. The old tutor from Sorbonne was nearly overwhelmed, and wondered if even these many words of thanks would be enough for Marfa Dmitrivna.
The latter was now racing up a street with Milena Ivanovna, and they stopped to laugh and embrace. "How did you pull it off?" Milena asked, breathless.
Marfa shrugged. The sun was shining above them, a new day still in wait.
A smile played about her lips. "It must be in the air."
React
