“I come from Romania, you lazy, stupid sheep,” Irina whispered to herself. She felt her stomach muscles clench as she stood up and told Mrs. Gold that she needed a pay raise. An awkward silence filled the air. Mrs. Gold blew a kiss at Max on her way to the front door.
“Be a good boy. Mummy will be back in time to read you a bedtime story. Irina, let’s talk about the money situation properly when I’m not in such a rush. It’s just that Justin thinks we’re already paying you too much, so I’m not sure I can really ask him to increase it. It’s a bit difficult at the moment. But I’m sure we’ll work something out at some point.”
Irina wanted to scream.
When Mrs. Gold was gone, Irina lifted Max up again and carried him upstairs to his nursery to change and dress him. She tried to put him down when they got into the room so that she could get his clean nappy and clothes ready; but his legs and arms went tighter around her, and he clung on, pushing his little face into the hollow between her neck and shoulder. She held him on her hip with one arm and took what she needed from the drawer with her free hand. Irina laid him down on his changing mat and un-popped his pyjamas, then blew raspberries on his soft pot belly. He laughed until his cheeks turned pink like a cherub’s.
Afterwards she watched Max in his high chair, clumsily spooning his baby cereal into his mouth. Mrs. Gold bought expensive packet cereals for Max, but Irina ground up oats and dried fruit and mixed them with yoghurt and honey for him, the way she made it for her boy. She looked at her watch, at the tiny movements of the second hand. Each second was one closer to the time she needed to make her phone call home. She put Max into the playroom and laid out his toys so that she could clean the enormous black granite kitchen that Mrs. Gold almost never cooked in. Irina thought more and more about home, a nagging ache of home sickness building in her chest. She yearned for her son. Every part of her hurt more, because he was ill again. An ache formed in her chest as she looked at Max, sucking on his bottle.
When he’d finished his milk, she held him over the kitchen sink and gently washed his face and hands with warm water, patting his face dry with a towel afterwards. She didn’t like the way Mrs. Gold roughly dragged a baby wipe across Max’s soft cheeks when she cleaned his face. Irina kissed him and told him he was a beautiful boy and went into the utility room to iron Mr. Gold’s shirts. Max trotted after her, reaching for her hand. She brought in his little red plastic chair and his favourite books, and sat him in front of her while she ironed. She thought of how Justin Gold barely acknowledged her existence if he saw her in the morning on his way out of the house, dressed in his sharp suits, all fired up and ready to take on the world. He probably didn’t even know her name. She put the can of spray starch against the collar of his shirt and held the button down until the fabric was soaked through. She pressed the hot iron against it, coughing as she breathed in starchy fumes. She hoped he’d get a skin reaction.
The night before, Irina had ironed her husband’s uniform as he’d sat, morose, on the one comfortable chair and talked about his day at work. He complained about how they lived, him and Irina and his sister, in a tiny flat, his sister sleeping on the sofa; complained about having to share the bathroom with other occupants in the building. He had shown promise at school. He could have been an engineer. His parents couldn’t afford to pay his university fees. But in London he washed up pots and pans and cleaned floors in a restaurant kitchen. She’d told him that their boy needed to have the operation. He’d thrown one of his shoes against the wall and left the flat, slamming the door so hard it nearly came off its hinges. Irina had looked at the black streak on the wall where the shoe had hit it and worried the landlord would charge them for it. She’d put away the iron and sat at the kitchen table and sobbed. Her sister-in-law had come home smelling of chemicals from her job in the nail bar. Irina had told her about the operation and the money and how she was worried they about finding enough to pay for it. Irina’s sister-in-law had said that she would sell her baptism cross and find more cleaning work again. She’d hugged Irina, and they’d drunk some Palinca to help smooth out the edges. After dinner, they’d dyed their hair with the expired hair dye. Irina’s husband had come home in the small hours, smelling of alcohol and cigarette smoke, and asked Irina what she’d done to her beautiful hair.
Max had his nap while Irina changed the sheets in Mrs. and Mr. Gold’s bedroom. She picked up their clothes from the floor and the bed, and folded and put them away. A pair of designer heels lay next to the bed, as though they’d been kicked off in a hurry. Irina picked them up and put them away in the shoe section of Mrs. Gold’s wardrobe, thinking of how she’d have to limp home on her one good shoe. How people would stare at her.
She polished the glossy surfaces in the end suite, lifting expensive bottles of perfume and cosmetics to clean underneath them. Her mother-in-law ran a shop in her village, selling glittery make-up in all the colours of the rainbow, and sticky-sweet-smelling perfumes with names like “Red Pearl” or “Moonlight Violets.” She thought of the coloured glass bottles filled with bright amber liquid as she polished Mrs. Gold’s champagne-coloured perfumes. Irina’s own skin was oily, and she had spots on her chin and back, and dry patches on her arms and legs. She’d never had problems with her skin back home. She thought it was from the London water or the pore-blocking make-up she cheap enough for her to afford. Her doctor had told her that her skin problems were probably due to stress. Irina had looked the word up in her English-Romanian dictionary. She’s practiced pronouncing it. “Stretchsz stresh ssh-stress.”
Irina worked solidly the rest of the day, only stopping now and then to play quickly with Max once he’d woken up. After his supper, Irina got Max ready for his bath. As soon as Max’s clothes were off, he started to run around the bathroom.
About Madeline Ioannidis
One Comment
Such a moving, well told story. The craftsmanship is evidenced by the fact that I kept reading, wanting more, wanting a strong ending. Beautifully done!