Andrea Bennett: Galina Petrovna's Three-Legged Dog Story

‘Well, why don’t you finish your crossword, and then come round after that? There’s plenty to spare.’

‘Thank you, Galia, that’s very kind.’ And Baba Krychkova shuffled off up the dusty corridor with a slight twinkle in her eye.

Galia smiled to herself as she made her way back to the kitchen and to Vasya, who was gazing out of the window as his stomach rumbled like the Urals Express. She picked up her pan.

‘Here we are!’ Vareniki stuffed with mushrooms and smothered with butter tumbled from a pan into a dish that could rival the Motherland statue at Volgograd in terms of stature.

‘My hero,’ smiled Galia. ‘Eat, eat and then have a little drink.’ She sat opposite and watched as he speared the tasty morsels eagerly with his fork, almost boyish, making a mess and dribbling butter down his chin. ‘We did good work today, Vasya, you and I. It’s so much quicker with an extra pair of hands. I think there’ll be lots of tasty treats to put by for the winter.’

‘Bottled tomatoes, Galia? They are my favourite! And I do very good salted cucumbers, you know, with bay and dill – and a few blackcurrant leaves.’

‘Blackcurrant leaves? Really? Well, you must show me, Vasya.’

‘With pleasure, my dear.’ Vasya stopped chewing and gazed into Galia’s eyes in a way that made her cheeks glow red.

‘Is none of that for me, Galia?’ Zoya called from the next room.

‘Zoya, there is plenty for you, my dear, but you must get up off that sofa and come in here to get it. I cannot feed you: you are not a child. If you come in to the kitchen we might find you a tot of vodka to help wash down the food.’

Zoya’s response was muffled by the sudden roar of the TV. Galia sighed, and drummed her fingers on the table slightly. ‘It’s the wrestling: I’d forgotten – Zoya loves it.’

‘Did you speak to Mitya?’ Vasya asked, fork stilled in mid-air.

‘Yes, he was just on his way out – with Katya. But no, there is no news.’ Galia looked down at the lino table-top and breathed deeply, determined to keep her face soft.

‘Well, that’s it, then: she must have escaped. She can’t simply have disappeared – it’s not possible.’

‘But she has disappeared! We have to be realistic, Vasya. We’re grown-ups. Very grown-ups. The disappeared never return, do they?’

‘No,’ said Vasya, with a sad shake of his head.

‘Life – it’s not a walk in the fields, is it?’ she sighed, her breath stirring the scattering of crumbs that had lain on the table since the early morning breakfast. She raised her eyes and smiled. ‘But how are the vareniki ?’

‘They are magnificent, as I knew they would be,’ Vasya replied. ‘You are a wonder, Galina Petrovna,’ and he toasted her with a forkful of dinner and a deep nod.

A little later, as they stood on the balcony watching the sun melting into the black bar of the factory walls, Vasya screwed up his courage.

‘Galia, I have something to ask you.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, it’s a delicate question—’

‘Go ahead, Vasya. I’m all ears.’

‘Are these potato or mushroom, Galichka?’ a plaintive voice mewed from the kitchen.

‘Zoya, just take a few and see. They’re a mixture. You may even find a surprise in there.’

‘Not the knickers I lost last New Year?’

‘You’re incorrigible!’ Galia laughed, the sound like water over warm pebbles. ‘Vasya, do go on. What were you saying?’

‘Well, I’m not sure now…’

‘You had a question?’

‘Yes, no.’ The thought of Zoya’s knickers had quite put Vasya off his stride.

‘Oh, never mind then. Maybe later?’

‘Later, yes. That’s best.’

Vasya shuffled back inside the tiny kitchen to take on the task of washing the dishes, and Galia leant her elbows on the balcony railing, her gaze dipping down into the courtyard below: Masha and her gang were playing among the bushes, shrieking wildly. Rose-coloured dust clouds billowed from their heels, and their voices bounced and burst off the apartment block walls. Galia chuckled, and waved down to them as they looked up. Then her gaze floated back to the sunset, and her senses were filled with the sounds and smells of the end of the day: clouds of starlings hazing the treetops; her neighbours on their balconies, rubbing their toes and drinking cold beer; the cats and dogs and children in the yard, gradually collecting up their owners and directing their steps towards their various beds. She closed her eyes for a moment, and caught her breath as she saw, very clearly, her bearded dog lady, Boroda, turning round and around three times, and then folding her legs up neatly beneath her, ready to doze in a pool of golden-orange sunlight, just like the one on her own kitchen floor. Galia’s heart squeezed slightly, and her tired face relaxed into a broad grin.

In a cool pool of dark green air under a kitchen table, Boroda licked her fore-paw and sighed. Things had been peaceful for a while now, and she had put on a little weight. Her sleep was much better, although it seemed to be extending to quite a lot of the day, and night. She had just woken from a dream: she had been chasing rabbits, or were they hares? It didn’t matter: whatever they were, their smell and springiness was tantalising, but their speed was too much for her, even with her imagined fourth paw. But she didn’t need rabbits. What she needed, Boroda knew, was quiet. And an old woollen jumper to lie on.

This old lady didn’t smell the same as the other old lady, the original old lady who had saved her when she was on the brink of starvation, but she was kind, and quiet, and had a vegetable patch just the same. This one had some small children who came around every other day, but they were no trouble. They used their sticky fingers to pat her head and smooth her coat, and their big, brown eyes gazed in to hers under the table as they muttered stubby-toed words about love and paws and princesses. Boroda eyed their grubby faces and noses sprouting glistening lemony bogeys, and felt she ought to give them a lick. But a lick was not always welcome.

She stepped from her box on to the kitchen floor with a light clatter of claw on lino, and stood for a moment by the balcony window. She observed the orange sky, the clouds of birds, and the scents of other dogs, in other apartments. All was peace. Turning several times to get her angle just right, she lay down in the patch of golden-orange sunlight that stretched across the floor, and listened with half an ear to the old lady knitting in the room next door. Every so often she sighed and tutted, admonishing herself for a dropped stitch, or chuckling over some recently remembered anecdote. In a little while, Boroda knew, the old lady would come slowly into the kitchen and reach down to give her a tickle under the chin with fingers as knobbled as sprout sticks. ‘ Lapochka ,’ she would say, ‘I am so glad that I found you.’

The sun began to set on the rooftops of Plovsk, and Boroda’s eyelids softly dropped shut.

Baba – short for babushka

Babushka – Granny, often used as a term of address of any elderly woman

Blin – a mild substitute exclamation, like “flip!”

Boroda – beard, and pronounced barad a

Dacha – wooden country residence, ranging from a hut to a mansion

Dedya – Grandad, often used as a term of address of any elderly man

Duma – the Russian parliament

KAMAZ – a make of Russian truck

Kasha – porridge

Kefir – a fermented milk drink

Kroota – cool