“Everything okay in here?”
The four women and Tomasz are crouching in a huddle on the floor. Marta has been sick.
“Where are we?” asks Tomasz.
“I don’t know. I don’t know where we are or where we’re going. We stay here. In the morning we decide.”
He sits down on the floor next to the others, resting his head in his hands. He realizes his knees are shaking. He is covered in sweat. If the police come, he will just explain everything. He will tell them it was all a mistake and take the consequences like a man. This is England.
Yola definitely has nothing to apologize for. Definitely not. When your lover betrays you and insults you with slapping ticker, if you are a woman of action, you have to act. There was that big dolt Andriy, trying to make everybody calm. What use is calm in a situation like that? Naturally the wife would try to put the blame on her. All lies. But try telling that to a policeman. She knows the mind of the policeman—she was married to one once. And the way the policeman thinks is this: The guilty person is one who has a motive. Does Andriy have a motive to run over Dumpling? No. Does she have a motive? Yes.
So best thing is to keep out of police’s way. Back to Poland. Quick quick. But this beetroot-brain says he can’t drive anymore, he wants to sleep. And you can see from the way he is looking at bed that he thinks he should be allowed to sleep here in women’s trailer. And that underwear thief Tomasz (he thinks she doesn’t know, but she does) has taken off his shoes. Pah! What a stink! All the girls start to shriek and cover their noses. She folds her arms across her bosom and says firmly,
“This is women’s trailer, for women only.”
But will this pig-headed beetroot-brain listen?
“Yola,” he says, “you may have been queen of strawberry field, but here on road, I am boss. And if I am going to drive to Dover, I need good night’s sleep.”
Yola explains patiently that in the absence of the farmer, for which, by the way, she denies all responsibility, she is the senior figure, and she will decide about sleeping accommodations.
“I am mature and respectable woman, and I cannot be expected to share my sleeping quarters with any man.”
Well, his reply is so uncouth that she will not repeat it, except to say that it referred to her age, her underclothings, her country of origin, and her relationship with farmer, which being pure business arrangement, and moreover one conducted in foreign country, has no relevance to any discussion of her character, a nuance which is probably too subtle for a Ukrainian.
“Andriy, please!” Tomasz intervenes, in a very calm and dignified way. “Is no problem. You can sleep in Land Rover, and I will stay here on floor.”
“No! No!” cry all the girls in chorus. “No room on floor!”
“Well then, we will all sleep in Land Rover. Somehow we will manage.”
Well, they did manage. Somehow. So that’s that.
Andriy really let rip at Yola, and now he feels better. Out in the cool predawn, the sky is already growing lighter and the stars have disappeared. Tomasz has taken off his sneakers once more, placed them on the hood, and stretched himself out on the front seat of the Land Rover, his feet sticking out of the window, perfuming the breeze with his socks.
Andriy wonders where Irina is spending this night. The thought makes his stomach clench unpleasantly. He crawls into the back, fitting himself around and on top of Emanuel, who has slept through everything, curled up knees to chin on the sweet-smelling hay. There is an old blanket on the floor that he pulls up over them. Although the air is chilly, the silence of the wood, the breathing of earth and roots and sap at last put him into such a deep sleep that he doesn’t wake until the morning sun strikes through the silvery tree trunks.
I AM DOG I RUN I RUN ALONE FIELD HEDGE ROAD ALL DARK I SEE BLUE LIGHT FLASH FLASH I SNIFF LISTEN I HEAR BAD WHEELIE NOISE WHOO WHAA WHOO WHAA I RUN FIELD RIVER I DRINK SMALL ANIMALS SCUFFLE SMELL OF GRASS AND EARTH DEAD THINGS ROTTING ANIMAL SMELLS FRESH PISS BADGER FOX WEASEL RABBIT I RUN ROAD FIELD WOOD ROAD WOOD STOP SNIFF SNIFF I SMELL MAN FEET GOOD STRONG FEET SMELL I GO SEEK MAN FEET SMELL I RUN I RUN I AM DOG
I jumped.
I fell. The ground was soft. I rolled, picked myself up, and I ran. Mama, Papa, help me, please. I am little Irinochka.
I was thinking—the trees—I must get into the trees. I scrambled up the bank into the woods, dodging between low branches. Here I would have a chance. If I was lucky, the trees would stop the bullets. I braced myself for the shots as I ran, flinching, waiting for the bang that would tell me I was dead. There were no shots. All I could hear were footsteps, his and mine, crashing through the undergrowth and dead branches on the ground. Crash. Crash. No shots. Why no shots? Maybe I was dead already. It was so dark. Dark like the cupboard under the stairs. Dark like a grave. Before, there’d been a faint glimmer from the headlights, but now I was past that, running into pitch blackness. It was too dark to run. Too many obstacles, shadows that turned into trees, branches that hit you in the face, tree roots that grabbed at your legs, terrors invisible. No moonlight here. On one side, I thought I could see the edge of the woods, the gray gleam of sky through the trees.
I veered right, slithered down the bank back onto the track, and sprinted silently along the grass. I could still hear him behind me in the woods. Crash. Crash.
Now there was a bend and the track climbed steeply uphill, with a jagged hedge on one side. Above the hedge I could see the sky, stars, breathless, skipping up and down as I ran. I stopped, panting for breath. My chest was exploding. Blood was pounding in my ears—boom boom boom boom—Keep going. Don’t stop now. You are younger and fitter. You can outrun him. I tripped on a tree root, fell, picked myself up, and ran on—boom boom boom. When I couldn’t run any longer, I stood still in the lee of a tree trunk and listened. My breath was coming in great gulps. I could still hear the crunch of footsteps in the woods, I couldn’t tell how far behind me. So he hadn’t given up yet. I ran again, wildly, stumbling and tripping. Slow down. Take care. If you fall, you are finished.
This is how a hunted animal feels, I thought, gasping for breath, terror rushing in through all your senses, drowning in your own fear. I found a gap in the hedge and squeezed through, the thorns grabbing at my clothes. On the other side was starlight, a long plowed field. I was breathing wildly, panting, choking. I tried to run, but the furrows were impossible, so I walked for a bit, breathing slow mouthfuls of air, stumbling in the ruts. Then I stopped, crouched, and listened. Silence. No footsteps. No gun. Nothing.
A bit farther up I cut back onto the track and ran again, more slowly now. My heart was banging about like a wild bird in a cage. Is it finished? Has he gone? How will you know? Last time, he waited until you thought he’d gone, then he came back.
As I climbed the hill, the sky grew lighter. When I couldn’t run anymore I carried on walking. I didn’t stop for a long time. At last I found a hollow where a big tree had been uprooted. I made a bed of dry leaves and pulled some branches over for shelter, so I would be invisible from the track. I lay there, keeping quite still, waiting for my heart to slow down—boom boom—watching the dawn breaking, pink and peachy, with little clouds like angels’ wings.
Andriy is the first to wake, conscious of something warm and heavy on his legs. He thinks at first it is Emanuel who has rolled over onto him in the night. He gives him a gentle shove and comes up against warm fur covering solid muscle. Holy whiskers!
The creature is huge and hairy and it snuffles in its sleep. He sits up and rubs his eyes. The dog sits up too and gazes at him with what he can only describe as adoration in its soft brown eyes. It is a big, handsome dog, short-haired and mainly black, with some white hairs around its muzzle and belly, which give it a mature, distinguished air.
“Woof!” it says, beating its sturdy tail against the side of the Land Rover.
“Hey, Dog!” says Andriy, rubbing its ears. “What are you doing here?”
“Woof!” says Dog.
E
manuel wakes next, to the sound of the tail thumping rhythmically against the side of the Land Rover, and he seems less pleased to see the dog.
“Is okay, Emanuel. Is good dog. No bite.”
“In Chichewa we have a saying. Where the dog pisses, the grass dies.”
“Woof,” says Dog. Andriy can see that despite himself Emanuel is quite taken with the enthusiastic tail wagging and the tongue hanging out, wet and pink, between the sharp white teeth.
But the most passionate meeting is between Tomasz and Dog—such a foot-nuzzling, face-licking, tail-beating, jumping-up, rolling-on-the-ground frenzy. Finally in a snuffling ecstasy Dog finds Tomasz’s sneakers on the hood of the Land Rover, and though Tomasz tries to stop him he runs off with one in his jaws and chews it completely to pieces. Well, this is quite a splendid dog, thinks Andriy, for the sooner those sneakers disappear the better. And a dog with such a good sense of smell may help you find a missing person.
I AM DOG I AM HAPPY DOG I RUN I PISS I SNIFF I HAVE MY MEN THEY GO TO PISS IN THE WOOD MAN PISS HAS GOOD SMELL THIS MAN’S PISS SMELLS OF MOSS AND MEAT AND HERBS THIS IS GOOD I SNIFF THIS MAN’S PISS SMELLS OF GARLIC AND LOVE HORMONES THIS IS ALSO GOOD BUT LOVE HORMONES ARE TOO STRONG I SNIFF THIS MAN’S PISS SMELLS TOO SOUR BUT HIS FEET SMELL GOOD I SNIFF IN THIS WOOD ARE OTHER MAN SMELLS VOMIT MAN-SMOKE WHEELIE OIL I SNIFF NO DOG SMELLS I WILL MAKE MY DOG SMELL HERE I RUN I PISS I AM HAPPY DOG I AM DOG
Yola feels the dog is showing far too much enthusiasm, sticking its nose up her skirt on any excuse, in a way that reminds her of…No. She is a mature and respectable woman, and there are some secrets she is not going to share with any nosy-poky book readers.
It also shows a great interest in urine. When the women wake up, about an hour after the men, it tries to accompany each of them in turn as she goes to urinate in the woods and has to be driven off.
“Where is this dog from?” asks Yola. “It should go to its home.” But nobody seems to know. Then it looks at her with such tender appeal in its eyes that her heart melts instantly, for she is a soft-hearted woman, and she takes Irina’s orange ribbon and ties it under the dog’s chin in a charming bow.
Marta observes that the dog’s paws are scratched and bleeding, as though it has run some distance, and she applies some excellent Polish antiseptic ointment. They even share some of their bread with it, which is all they have for breakfast, but this is unnecessary, as it disappears into the woods and comes back later with a rabbit in its mouth.
After eating, it stretches itself out at Tomasz’s feet, its head resting on its paws and one ear cocked, to listen to their discussion. For now it seems they must engage in endless discussions about where to go, which is completely unnecessary, because Yola had already decided they are going to Dover.
Doubtless they will even find the Ukrainian girl there. She wasn’t such a bad girl after all, but probably she brought this disappearance upon herself by too much indiscriminate smiling. Once these gangster types get an idea into their heads, what can you do? And the flowers were a nice gesture.
As far as Yola is concerned, everything is clear. Andriy, who to his credit has apologized in a gentlemanly way for his outburst last night, got them into this jar of pickles from flirting with the farmer’s wife, and now he must get them out of it, quick quick, before police come.
“When police is involved, one small thing may go on forever. Everything unnecessarily tied up in paper.” She knows from experience just how bureaucratic a bureaucracy can be. She was married to a bureaucrat once. “Meanwhile poor Mirek is waiting for us in Zdroj. Mirek; Masurian goats; plums ripe in garden. Time to go home.” She wipes a dramatic tear from her eye.
“Who is Mirek?” whines the hippy-hair Tomasz, with a face like a belly ache.
“Mirek is my beloved son.”
“Beloved also of God,” adds Marta, rolling her eyes heavenward. “One of God’s special ones.”
Why does Marta always go on about the poor boy’s difficulty, unnecessarily broadcasting it to the whole world? She has already scared off at least two potential husbands with her pious mewlings. Yola gives her a discreet kick.
“And his father? Is his father also waiting?” Tomasz persists.
“His father is gone.” Yola fixes Tomasz with her steely eye. “Why you asking so many questions, Mr. Stinking Feet? You got enough problems of your own without sticking your nose into mine.”
Now everybody wants to have their say.
“We go London,” says one Chinese girl. “In London is plenty Chineses. Plenty money work for Chineses. Better than in strawberry.”
“I have an address for a man in England. Wait, please, thank you.” Emanuel starts to shuffle through his papers. Shuffle shuffle. “Outstanding good man. His name is Toby Makenzi, and with his help I hope I will recover my sister’s wherebeing.”
“Emanuel, why you not coming to Poland with us?” says Yola kindly. That boy needs a mother, not a sister, she is thinking. Maybe even a little brother. And Tomasz says, “Emanuel, if you come in Poland I will teach you to sing and play the guitar.”
In Yola’s opinion, Emanuel is already a much better singer than Tomasz.
“I wonder where Vitaly is,” Marta says. Yola noticed Marta earlier looking at Vitaly out of the corner of her eye, in a way that can only mean one thing, and she thinks it ironic, to say the least, that someone so religious should be attracted to someone with such an air of sin about him. But it is often the way.
Then Tomasz starts up again, giving her that doggy eye.
“I will go to Dover with you. From there to Poland. Boat, bus. We go all together. Maybe your boy needs a father? What you say, Yola?”
Yola smiles noncommittally. “First you get new shoes.”
Hair too long. Bad smell. Not her type.
“Andriy? What is your plan now?” she asks
Andriy says nothing for a few minutes, and Yola is about to ask him again, when he says in a quiet voice, “I will first find Irina.”
The others all fall silent. Marta starts to cry.
I must have fallen asleep. I woke up when a beam of sunlight struck the hollow where I was curled up. My limbs were stiff from the cold damp ground. My whole body was aching. I stood up, stretched. Then I remembered. Vulk. The woods. Running. Was he still out there waiting for me? I crouched down again. It was too soon to celebrate, but I was alive, unharmed, and it was a new morning.
The sun must have been up for a few hours. The air was still fresh and misty, that soft mistiness that promises a warm day to come. You know how some mornings you wake up and you’re full of happiness just at being alive? I could hear birdsong and the bleating of sheep and another sound, farther away, a sweet, joyful sound. Church bells. It must be Sunday. In Kiev on Sundays you hear bells ringing out like this all over the city, and you see all the country women coming in wearing their best clothes with their headscarves tied over their ears and their gold teeth flashing, and crossing themselves as they come out of church, and Mother makes curd cake with raisins, and even our cat Vaska gets cream for a treat, then he licks his paws and rubs them behind his ears—will you remember me when I get home, Vaska? Will I ever get home? Suddenly, my eyes were full of tears. Sniff. Snuffle. Stop it. You must keep a clear head and keep your eyes open. Make a plan.
Below me, I could see the track between the field and the woods along which I had run last night. I remembered my terror. My thumping heart. The stars jumping above the jagged hedge. In daylight the path looked so nice and rustic as it wound its way innocently up the woody hill. In the other direction, it curved away below the contours of the land and disappeared from view. Where was I? How far did we come last night? How long did I black out for?
I scanned the fields one by one; maybe from here I’d be able to see the strawberry field. I’d recognize it from the two trailers. The landscape seemed familiar, but I soon realized that all fields look much the same, like a pattern of brown and green handkerchiefs, sprinkled with parsley. Do they sprinkle
handkerchiefs with parsley? Maybe not. There was a lane rising between tall hedges, a row of poplars. I counted them—one, two, three, four, five. Were they the same poplars? Not far away was a cluster of trees that could be the copse at the top of the strawberry field. But where was the trailer? Over in the west I saw a strange white field that gleamed like a lake. But the edges were too square. It looked more like a field covered in glass or plastic. Were there any such fields nearby? I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t see any houses at all, just a stubby church spire rising from a clump of trees over near the shining field. Maybe there was a village there, hidden by the fold of the land; maybe over there were church bells and people walking to Sunday worship.
Down below, where the bottom of the track must reach the road, something was glinting—I could glimpse a flash of sunlight on metal through the leaves. It must be a parked car. My heart started up again—boom boom. My stomach twisted. Was he still down there waiting for me? Would he come looking for me? I lowered myself silently back into the hollow and pulled a branch down to cover me from view. This time, he wouldn’t get me. However long he waited, I would wait longer.
If Andriy found driving forward with the trailer difficult, reversing it is even worse. It seems to have ideas of its own. It is late morning by the time they are ready to leave. Emanuel stands watch, waving him on as he backs out of the woody picnic spot onto the lane. Yola, Marta, and the Chinese girls are in the back of the Land Rover, with Dog at their feet. Tomasz is in the trailer, trying to catch up on his sleep.
Once they are on the main road, the driving is easier. It is quite interesting to tow something so heavy, he thinks, you have to plan ahead to avoid sudden maneuvers. He has started to get a feel for it by the time they get to the Canterbury bypass, when suddenly he spots a police car up ahead and two officers checking the passing cars. Holy bones! Are they on to him already? He makes a sharp left turn, puts his foot down, and now finds himself heading on a one-way road into the city center, the trailer swinging along behind, and the others all shouting different directions at him from the back. The shouting is pointless. It just distracts him. There is nowhere to go but straight ahead.
Strawberry Fields Page 7