HOME COMFORTS
1
The family had owned the isolated farmstead, with its pan-tiled roof, for generations, even though the last war, with the Germans. It had been a conflict that had caught the Ioveanu family in its unrelenting grip. The lush, sloping, pasture land lay close to forested hills and was some five klicks from the nearest town.
That war had been bad enough, but the Ivan's had taken things to another level, had exercised their unrelenting control when the Iron Curtain had come down and a socialist paradise was to be constructed, out of the ashes of the earlier conflict.
It was only in the last twenty-five years or so that the family had begun to really make its way and enjoy what had hitherto been a hard life on the rolling steppes, their home a farmstead that had the mountains of Transylvania as a backdrop. It was idyllic in the warmth of spring, the heat of summer, and an unrelenting frozen wilderness in the depths of winter.
They had some hectares of undulating grassland and on this they tended a large flock of sheep. Along with that, they possessed a studiously managed apple orchard that was rich in its produce, year after year. A large stand of coniferous trees surrendered an ample supply of wood for their fires, the split logs stored in the shelter of the house so that they would be dry for winter.
There was no need for expensive mechanization and, instead, they relied upon one dray horse to haul their wagon when hay was harvested and piled up into studiously placed stacks. A smaller, crudely fashioned, cart with its metal shafts, old car wheels and tyres, served as a runabout, its bench seat accommodating two travellers. Any more, and they were obliged to grasp onto the driver and his companion as they sat behind the horse and its jingling harness. An all but clapped-out motorcycle served in times of emergency, but they rarely arose.
Their lives were to be seen as an only too simple existence but the farmhouse, with its lime-washed walls, had always been proudly kept, its large family room cheaply furnished. At its center stood a large table decorated with an embroidered cloth, chairs placed around it, and against the walls stood wardrobes enlivened by painted decorations applied to their worn and faded surfaces. This cosy space was adorned with dried wildflowers, colourful jugs, and only too workaday pots and pans that were to be seen hanging on crudely fashioned timber pegs not quite hammered home in the exposed ceiling beams. A large stove, set upon a ragged brick fireplace, offered plentiful heat and was a focal point to the room, mostly in the depths of winter. A deep well provided fresh water for the family and livestock alike.
It was an uncomplicated, often idyllic, life but one that had been shattered only two years ago when the head of the household had died. A lifetime of smoking had finally claimed Josif Ioveanu. His wife, Cristina, had borne his loss well, months of tending her man had trimmed her figure and given her high-cheeked face a paler, more gaunt appearance, Cristina's energy seeing her through Josif's last days. They had been times that had seen her draw upon an inner fortitude and prepare for what would inexorably follow.
Her strong spirit did not mean that she failed to mourn her lost man, but the strain of nursing her husband, to his end, had taken its emotional toll on her in the ensuing months, along with an aching sense of loneliness.
But now, Cristina was seen to have recovered some of her zest for life, her luxuriant auburn-red hair always neatly brushed and fastened with a jewelled clip of some kind, or a small strip of cloth. Earrings could always be seen dangling and swaying, the embroidering of blouses, in the traditional styles, often worn on her fulsome body, such blouses matched by a swirling skirt. It wrapped her hips and concealed sturdy legs, only too functional boots often to be seen on her otherwise bare feet. She had her preferences, would do as she pleased in her home, and longed to truly share again in all that life had still to offer her.
Cristina would never concede that she had been cowed by all that had befallen her.
Nothing could have prepared her for moments of an aching, even crushing, loneliness that had begun to grip her as the months passed following Josif's death. She had not known of such emptiness since the death of her third one, soon after his birth. It marked the end of bearing any more children.
Living in a well-tended, but isolated, farmstead had only increased her fears for the future, made ever more acute as one son, and then an only daughter, reached the conclusion that they would move into a town nearby, and there pursue a new, and very different life that their friends had persuaded them to discover.
So it was that, with Andrei and Emanuela gone for long spells, Cristina came to rely more and more on her youngest 'boy,' Florin. He had been an adopted child, first placed in her and Josif's care and then, after things were settled, brought into the family home and their lives as an unmistakable bond developed between them.
Until then, Florin had found it difficult to adapt; he had his wayward and rebellious ways. But, as he grew up, he became ever more dutiful for a strong lad, some twenty-five years old now, his sandy brown hair cropped short as it had been in his military service days, his weathered features robust and mostly unshaven, his eyes shiningly clear, his willingness to step into Josif's shoes, and take on the tasks of shepherd and handler of their two dogs, a blesséd relief. The sheep were dutifully tended through the seasons, and the luscious red apples were harvested in good time and taken to market by them both, just as she had done with Josif.
They had spoken of converting two outhouses into dwellings for holidaymakers, Florin clearing them out and he was already turning his hand to laying new floors and mending walls; skimming them with a rough render, limewashing them, and also fixing the windows along with their protective shutters.
He did so much for her that Cristina felt the bond between them draw ever tighter, that an altogether different sense of companionship was developing between them and that she had a need of.
'You're such a comfort to me,' she would tell him, and on a moment's lingering touch of her hand to his cheek, as they shared supper. It was confirmation of the unshakeable bond that she had formed with him, her touch the only sign of her relief that she had not been entirely abandoned and forced to sell her home; to forsake all the memories that it continued to arouse in her. She did not want to be in any other place and prayed that Florin would remain true to that hope in her.
Florin had his adoptive father's sturdy build but none of his habits. He had even been persuaded into wearing some of Josif's clothes, the sight of them on this young man, when there was a feast day celebration, a heartbreaking reminder of her lost husband. She had been younger, but a full life had been lived with him. Now, at fifty years of age, she felt emptier times stretching out before her, along with the fear of future days that she sought to push away.
Yes, the hours of the day could be filled, and with thoughts of Florin being close-by and working so diligently. They became a distraction from her situation as a widow. A subtle change had gradually overtaken their relationship; one that living together in that isolated and homely farmhouse had slowly wrought upon them and that no one should learn of.
For, it soon became clear to Cristina, that her fondness for Florin now bordered on reckless over-familiarity, bestowing a lingering touch, or kiss to his cheek, a silent expression of what was at work in her; a forbidden infatuation that many would consider sinful and depraved, unseemly, even if there was no blood tie. She had always been overly protective of him, perhaps too demonstrative in her affections, even possessive as Josif's health faded and she became increasingly dependent on Florin to keep the farm working, which he did.
They even made some extra money and 'treats' would be purchased, Florin persuading her to spend some of the money on herself.
'It will make you feel better, I'm sure,' he would say with a smile.
'I'll do it to please you,' she would answer, and in those few words lay a deeper truth.
Her conscience could trouble her, but who was to know of how it was between them and in whatever form it might take?
The Ioveanu family had always been private, some said far too withdrawn to be good for them if tragedy struck. Well, it had done. She was too young to face life as a widow or to be a lonely soul. Cristina had gradually succumbed to her emotions, and she had decided on ways of dealing with them after that life-changing event - her loss of Josif.
2
Florin kicked off his boots and pushed on the garishly painted front door, its fading red paint still stark against the flaking whitewash of the walls. He heard the clatter of cutlery, and the clink of glasses, as the table was being laid for a simple lunch of cheese, bread, and apples. It was daily fare.
'I waited for you,' Cristina smiled, casting a nervy glance his way as Florin quickly washed his hands at the sink, the handle of the water pump creaking. 'You left early this morning...'
'It was for the best that I did so,' he answered, averting his face as she sought to kiss him in greeting. Florin looked at her as she sat down beside him and Cristina stroked the bare skin of his strong arm, tugged on the hair upon it for an instant, and then clenched his hand. 'I'm...I'm not cross with you, but angry with myself, Mama, for letting it even happen and to sleep with you.'
Florin quelled the instinct to use a cruder, but only too appropriate, word for what had happened.
'Don't be angry, there's no need. Just understand me and why I needed to be with you.'
She had felt and then succumbed to an unquenchable heat for him. Even in the circumstances, his use of that word before he had left for his morning chores, had shocked her. Yet Cristina continued to look at him, for she had heard both disbelief and anger in his tone. She saw that again, now, the set of his mouth and in the way that his tongue tip moistened his lips. It was behaviour that she knew only too well, but now she shivered on seeing how his tongue moved, at the memory of what he had aroused in her.
'You understood me and what I have been going through, Florin. You offered comfort, that is all...special comfort.'
'Yeah, that was all.' She heard him sigh, saw the slump of his shoulders, and a nod of resignation before he stretched out to grab at a large chunk of crusty bread. 'I'll get something to drink for us both.'
'Not for me, in case you're wondering.' She met his appraising stare upon her and recognised that look across the space between them. She could not rid herself from feeling uncommon gratitude for what had passed between them during the night. 'I...I've put the bottle away. I had to do that, for both our sakes.'
'Good, but it's time you did that for yourself most of all.'
'It wasn't just the drink that made me do it, darling, you know that now,' she confessed and watched him for a reaction as he sat down, heavily, beside her once more.
