Home Comforts

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.

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.

'No...and the reasons for my behaviour are difficult to explain,' he replied tersely on looking her way, responding to a moment's touch of her lips to the side of his mouth as Cristina leaned in to kiss him.

'You found me, you know that don't you?' she whispered, as any lover would do. Reckless behaviour had made her feel so alive again.

'Yes, I know that,' he answered, on a whisper of acknowledgment, and possessed by shame as she reminded him of how it had been between them.

Her look upon him softened, her touch to his arm a slow caress, just as it had been through the night. She again sought to claim his attention upon her.

'No more. I've got to get on and then go to town with four sheep that the butchers asked me for. His customers like them and he told me that he prefers what we bring to him.'

'And I'll come with you!' she asserted, not bothered by his gruff tone. Cristina knew what was at work in him, just as it was in her. 'I don't want to be here on my own...brooding and wondering what your feelings for me now are. You know that you're different from the others and always have been. You know what I had to go through, and with Josif, to bring you here. You have always had a special place in my heart and life. Don't shut me out, not now...not ever!'

They could talk of it now and had been able to do that for some time, even before Josif's death. Florin's birth mother could not be traced, the children's refuge where he had been cared for, until adoption, informing them that he was one of the luckier ones to have settled so well with others; that he was fortunate to have grown into the man that he was seen to be.

'There's little chance of that happening, Cristina, of me shutting you out. We will carry the memory of last night with us, wherever we go.'

'But we will be together...'

'Somehow and yes, we will.'

He took to wondering if his life would be destroyed after all that had happened between them. And yet, impulsively, Florin leaned across and kissed Cristina's trembling lips, and to silence any reply to what he had told her.

Through the hours of the morning, he had come to realise that his situation was like the fly caught in the spider's web. The more he struggled with his thoughts, his continuing lustful feelings, and a gnawing sense of guilt, the tighter the bond with Cristina seemed to become, the means of escape from the union of their bodies, now, difficult to discover. Even if he wished it to be so, leaving her would have him wondering how she managed on living alone out here in the wilds. It was not to be contemplated, the toll on them both and of him abandoning her, a price that was too high for either of them to pay.

Cristina looked at him with tear-filled eyes. She moved as he brushed them away, a softened look upon her.

'Sorry, but we live our lives here, together, differently now. It means everything to me.'

He heard it as a hope rather than a request.

'I know and you may be right, you may be right.'

He offered her a slow kiss and she kept it on her lips, reaching out to hold his head and prolong this moment of intimacy.

'Enough now,' he smiled on easing from her claims on him.

Perhaps, Cristina was playing him; perhaps she knew that what they had shared would not have him feel that he was a prisoner, but an only too willing accomplice, just the two of them living in their isolated farmstead and rebuilding their lives, now that Josif had left them. He had stepped into Josif's shoes and now occupied a very private place in her life and with the world beyond all but oblivious to their existence and, so, ignorant of all that had played out between them.

There was time for them to come to their senses.

It had happened only once, but the memory of all that had been shared would possess them for a long time.

Oh Jeez! Cristina followed him as the plates were gathered up and the table cleared, her hands tugging on his shirt to restrain him and to keep him by her, the press of her fulsome body against him and her tightened embrace that had him feel the press of her breasts against his chest, the warmth of her breaths on the skin of his throat as Cristina embraced him.

'You know that we're together and like never before,' she exclaimed.

He nodded through their raging kisses and clamp of hands to heighten their flaring, uncommonly tempestuous, embrace.

'I've got to go and make ready!' he cried out on breaking free. 'I love you and what you and Josif did for me, you know that I do, but not like this!'

The devoted woman, that he had so often seen in his stepfather's company, had revealed her passionate soul and dependency on him. What he had known of and shared with her might, again, overwhelm them.

Florin rushed from the room without a backward glance.

As the cart trundled along the road, the sheep bleating in complaint at the confined space and uncommon surroundings, Florin thought back to the events of the previous night. Cristina, his adoptive mother, sat very close, her gaze falling on him and then onto the undulating road ahead. She would clutch his arm, the road's surface often having them bump against each other, or it would have him tugging on the reins to control their progress. Then her grip would ease for an instant, only for her claims to be resumed.

Her undoubted affection for him had become an overwhelming possessive need, his presence a confounding surrogate for all that she had lost and given no sign of seeking from him until hours ago.

Anywhere else, and if known, what had happened between them would have earned him jail time, tamping the woman beside him. To the cops she was his mother and their tryst, following a moment's loss of control, should have been avoided, could have been avoided. After all, he was a strong young man, but a man who had been seduced by her prevailing ways, a man driven on by his feral impulses, actions that he had never known of before, even during his service in the army. He had broken all the rules, and that even their isolated life could not fully excuse, or get close to explaining.

But this careworn woman Cristina, as she had demanded he now think of as being with him, she had moments of taking to the bottle, mostly after a busy working day and with quieter hours of the weekend ahead. At such times, he had shouldered the burdens that working the farm demanded of them both.

What had been shared was a perversion of all that was family, but in the aftermath she had confessed to suffering in silence from aching loneliness, yet knowing that drink was not the answer. It cured nothing, and the effects of the booze only made her sadder still, and it had led her to pursue errant behaviour that he should not have conceded to. He had been complicit in its fulfillment and, possibly, continuation.

His baser instincts had been aroused as never before. He toiled with the thought of all that had been conceded to and then pursued.

He had touched a voluptuous body and had known of heated ways, shared in moments of dissolute passion for a woman that could never be undone. He had shared in ardent loving that this auburn-haired seductress beside him, with her slender face and keen eyes, had aroused in him. Just where was he to go with the knowledge of what had passed between them?

'I just want a moment's company,' she had told him last night, her discreet knock on the door, to his cramped room almost filled by his bed, waking him from a fitful sleep. He had taken in the mixture of alcohol on her breath and the unmistakable scent of some cologne she had chosen to put on, for some reason, and that only became clear when she had sought to claim him.

Cristina met a snatched look upon her. 'What's that for?'

'That you look nice...in your embroidered blouse and headscarf. Your skirt covers your legs and you're also wearing shoes as you do when you dance, not those awful working boots.'

He knew that his voice was conciliatory and that it now held the soft tone of admiration. There were moments when the beauty of a younger woman could still be seen on her face. It accompanied her undoubted vitality, working on the farm bestowing strength that he had soon learned of as never before.

'They all hide what is going on inside me,' Cristina confessed and gripped his arm tightly. 'Florin, darling, it is difficult for me too, living with what we have done and what I asked of you.' She leaned in to offer a kiss on his rough cheek. 'I would like you to shave, occasionally, please? It makes you look so much younger and even more handsome.'