‘Grigori, he is three years old!’

His mother stood across the room. His father stood before the door and now, as if he knew Ilya was there, he reached out one hand and closed it.

The shouting, muffled, continued.

‘Ilyusha, Ilyusha, come here,’ said a harried voice, and his youngest aunt came into the hall. She plucked Ilya up and carried him through to the kitchen where Alyosha was lying on the red tiled floor in front of the stove, drawing a picture. Ilya expected to be scolded for being in the hall, near the smart front rooms which he wasn’t allowed in by himself, but instead he was put down next to Alyosha.

‘Let’s go see the rabbits,’ their aunt said brightly. ‘Let’s go feed the ducks in the pond! Alyosha, come on, you can finish that later.’

Alyosha groaned and got up off the floor. He was big, Ilya’s big brother. On the playground he had thumped one of the older boys for bullying Ilya, then turned round and thumped Ilya for crying about it.

Aunt Sonya handed them the new blue coats with their difficult toggles.

‘Oh Alyosha, can’t you help him? Ilyusha, hold still, let me do your coat up. Where’s your hat? Alyosha, hold your brother’s hand.’

Alyosha held Ilya’s hand much too hard, but Aunt Sonya was holding his other one and hurrying them out the door so he didn’t complain.

The rabbits in their hutch were very soft. Aunt Sonya said, ‘Be gentle, boys,’ and even Alyosha listened. You had to give the carrot with your palm flat or they would bite, and you had to use just two fingers to stroke the top of their heads so they would not be afraid.. Sometimes Aunt Sonya let him hold the big sister rabbit, his favourite, with the big black splotches all over her back, but today she said, ‘Let’s just say hello to the bunnies quickly, Ilyusha,’ and they patted the rabbits then waved goodbye. Aunt Sonya saw Begemot watching from the water butt and chased him away, saying ‘Bad cat! Bad cat!’

Ilya liked the rabbits a lot but he liked the ducks even more, the way the babies swam out in a line beside their mother, the gentle way the mama duck preened herself, her gleaming feathers, all spotted. Also, Lapochka had eaten her babies last time she had them and the mama duck would never do that.

Babulya had shown him how to pick them up but that was for later when they had to go back in the yard in case the fox got them. Right now was for swimming and feeding. Ilya threw the seed to them and watched them dive and dab for it. Even the crushing grip of Alyosha’s hand could not distract him.

Ilya whined a little when Aunt Sonya said they had to go back inside, but he shut up when Alyosha grabbed his hand very hard again. They came back with red noses and cold hands because Aunt Sonya had forgotten they needed their mittens. That was silly of her but he didn’t say so. When you pointed these things out, the adults were never happy with you.

Mama was sitting at the table in the kitchen. Ilya pulled his hand free from Alyosha’s and ran to her, pawing at her lap, begging to be picked up. Her face felt wet when she held him to her.

‘We went to see the rabbits and the ducks,’ Aunt Sonya said in that overly-cheerful voice. ‘Alyosha’s such a good big brother, he held Ilyushenka’s hand the whole way.’

‘Thank you, Sofia Sergeevna,’ his mother said, subdued. When Ilya was older he would wonder at how formal she had always been with her in-laws, but just now he was too small to understand.

Mama was warm after the cold outside. Ilya cuddled closer, whimpered until she put both her arms around him and hugged him to her.

Alyosha, by the door, muttered ‘Baby.’

‘Drink your milk, Ilyusha,’ Aunt Sonya said, putting down a glass in front of him. The glass was too big for Ilya, when he tried to pick it up his hands slipped and though Mama grabbed it before it smashed, milk spilled across the table top. 

‘Ilyusha!’

Milk was dripping off the table, drip drip drip, pooling on the floor. Ilya shrank back against Mama, waiting for the scolding.

Aunt Sonya got a rag and mopped it up, darting little glances at Mama the whole time. Mama didn’t move to help and she didn’t scold Ilya, just held him closer.

‘His hands are too small,’ Mama said quietly, once Aunt Sonya had put the glass in the sink.

Aunt Sonya looked embarrassed but she didn’t say anything.

Alyosha still by the door, watching them, frowning.

‘Baby,’ he muttered again, but Mama heard this time and said sharply, ‘Alyosha. Behave.’

Alyosha stuck his bottom lip out, came over and leant against Mama. She shifted Ilya in her lap and hushed him when he whined, carded her free hand through Alyosha’s hair. Alyosha waited until Mama looked away and then pinched Ilya in the side, hard.

Ilya couldn’t help it. He squealed.

‘Ilyusha!’ Aunt Sonya said. ‘Stop it. We’re in the kitchen, not the zoo.’

But Ilya was crying now, big fat babyish tears. Mama rocked him, patted him, dabbed at his face with her handkerchief.

‘All of this for nothing! What kind of child just starts crying like that?’ Aunt Sonya was twittering. ‘We had such a nice time outside, didn’t we, Ilyusha? Why are you crying now? Do you want to go and see the rabbits again? Do you want a piece of gingerbread?’

‘He’ll be fine,’ Mama said, pulling Ilya closer to her.

She didn’t tell Aunt Sonya why he was crying and Ilya was too startled, too upset to tell. But she must have known, because she reached out and pushed Alyosha away, wrapped her arms around Ilya protectively and kept rocking him until he calmed down.

‘Such a fuss,’ Aunt Sonya sighed. ‘Anyone can see he’s your son, Irisha!’

Alyosha, scowling, had gone back to his drawing, stretched out in front of the stove.

Babulya came in then and frowned to see Ilya on his mother’s lap.

‘Wash your hands, Ilyusha, so you can have your tea,’ she said. Ilya shook his head. He wanted to stay safe on his mother’s lap, warm and soft.

‘Ilyusha,’ Babulya said more sternly. Ilya shook his head again and buried himself against his mother.

‘He can wash them in a minute,’ Mama said softly.

‘Grisha is right,’ Babulya said. ‘You coddle him. I know he is your baby, Irina, but you can’t spoil him like this.’

‘He is three,’ his mother said with an edge to her voice. ‘I am not spoiling him. Grigori is too harsh. He needs to remember the boys are small.’

‘Grisha wants them to grow up strong,’ his grandmother said severely. ‘He wants to raise men, not snivelling little girls.’

The line of Mama’s throat was rigid where it pressed against Ilya’s head. Something about the tension in the adults’ voices told him to stay still, not make a fuss although he usually would have taken vocal offence at being ignored so thoroughly by his grandmother. Alyosha too, lying on his front, did not raise his head but the pencil had fallen from his grip.

'Spare the rod, spoil the child,' Babulya went on, warming to her theme. 'A boy needs his father. Grisha knows what's best for Ilyusha. He needs toughening up, he needs to learn his manners. You weren't so lenient with Alyosha, and now he's a proper little man. Let Grisha manage Ilyusha if you're too soft.'

Aunt Sonya had turned away and was pretending not to listen, clattering with something in the sink.

‘Don’t weep in front of the child, Irina Alexeievna, you will confuse him.’

There were tears dripping down his mother’s face and onto Ilya’s own face where he had turned it up to watch her. Ilya was fascinated. When he cried, his face went very, very red (Babulya had shown him in the mirror) and he couldn’t help but make noise.

But Mama was crying in complete silence. If he wasn’t looking at her, if her tears weren’t falling on his cheek, he would never have known she was crying. He had never seen his mother cry like this before, though sometimes she was weepy and Papa would tell Alyosha to ‘Take your brother away and play. Your mother’s resting.’

Was that how adults cried? Was that why Alyosha called Ilya a baby when he cried, and pushed him?

Ilya put his arms around her neck. ‘Don’t cry!’

‘See?’ Babulya said significantly. ‘He’s a little boy, how can you expect him to comfort you?’

Mama said ‘I know, I know,’ and hugged Ilya to her.

Then Begemot ran in with a big fat rat dangling from his jaws. Its head was all chewed up but its tail hung whole and loose out of Begemot’s mouth and its neck was floppy, like the chickens after Babulya had wrung their necks.

Aunt Sonya shrieked when she saw it and dropped her teacup and it shattered all over the floor in tiny shards like that time with the blue vase flying over Mama’s head and against the wall and Mama pulled a face and Alexei had gone back to his drawing and didn’t look up and Babulya said ‘Honestly, Sofusya, it’s only the cat,’ and chased Begemot out, flapping her hands at him until he went, scowling and still clutching the rat the whole way.

‘Why do you always have the worst cats, Mama?’ Aunt Sonya asked.

‘He’s a cat, what do you expect?’ Babulya said. ‘And if you think you can train any cat not to bring its kill in, think again.’

‘I prefer my birds,’ Aunt Sonya murmured.

‘Too much fuss and feathers. All that noise,’ Babulya said dismissively. ‘And the shit.’

‘Not in front of the children,’ Aunt Sonya hissed. ‘Grisha will go mad!’

‘Oh, he will, will he? He thinks he can tell his own mother how to speak?’

Mama was standing up. Ilya clung to her neck and she picked him up with her, shifted him onto her hip. Alyosha’s gaze was fixed on them, eyes burning.

‘He can walk,’ Babulya said, but Mama went out of the kitchen without looking at her.

Alone in the green bedroom where Mama and Papa slept when they stayed here, Mama drew the curtains, took her shoes off and crawled onto the bed, still holding Ilya. The white sheets topped the dark green bedspread, which was embroidered in white and green, not like the white crocheted ones on the little beds Ilya and Alexei slept on, and were forever being told off for picking at. The wallpaper was also dark green with little roses picked out in pink.

Ilya liked it much more than the bedroom he shared with Alexei, all white and blue trim, too stark and cold even with the ancient oil heater on. Sometimes Ilya got into bed with Alyosha, and Alyosha let him and didn’t push him out or call him a baby because it was so cold.

In the dim green light, door and curtains closed, Mama and Papa’s bedroom was like a cosy nest. Like a cave for a bear to curl up in for the winter, the bear in his picture book that slept in a tight little ball, more like a cat or a rock or a piece of wood than a bear. At the end of the book, the bear had a cub and slept curled around it.

‘Let’s sleep, Ilyusha,’ Mama said, clutching him closer. ‘It’s cold outside and you didn’t sleep last night, did you? We’ll nap before your supper.’

Ilya wasn’t very sleepy but he lay down obediently on the covers with her, put his head against her breast and closed his eyes. It was good to be close to Mama, warm against the coldness of the sheets and bedspread. She had curled her legs up around him like the bear and the cub in his book and her stockinged legs made a pleasant sound as she rubbed them together for warmth. She smelt nice, of talcum powder she used after her bath, and the perfume Papa had given her for her birthday, foreign and so expensive, Aunt Sonya had whispered. Sometimes when Mama was getting ready in the morning and Papa wasn't there, she'd let Ilya dab a little on his wrists, but he had to wipe it off before he went to nursery.

They had lain there for what felt like forever, Ilya breathing in his mother’s powdery scent, listening to the tick-tick of the big carriage clock on the mantelpiece and the thump-thump of his mother’s heart, beating so fast, when he felt her stiffen, gasp, though he had thought they were meant to be sleeping.

His father was at the doorway, watching his wife and child sleep on the bed. Who knew how long he had been there? Saying nothing, doing nothing. The expression on his face might have meant anything.

‘Grigori,’ Mama said, sitting up, putting out a hand to him, but he had already turned and walked away.

Interim piece as I fight with the last chapter of earthworks.