“Yes, that is inevitable.” The old man beams. He raises his hands as if in surrender.
He is completely bald, completely toothless, and his skin hangs in loose wrinkles; he sits in a wheelchair and his urine dribbles down a plastic tube into a bag at his leg. So this is his rival in love. Yet there is a such an untamed energy about him that Andriy can feel its magnetism.
“What a pleasure it is to talk in Ukrainian.” He leans forward eagerly in his wheelchair. “Ah! Such a beautiful language, which can express both poetry and science with equal fluency. You are from Donbas, I guess from your accent, young man? And you have come all this way to return my gearbox to me? I wonder how it ended up there—these swindling Africans must have stolen it and traded it for vodka.” He races on before Andriy can get a word in. “And this new young woman Irina is also from Ukraina. She is my latest love. What a beauty! Such a figure! A very cultured type of Ukrainian, by the way. Have you met her?”
“Yes, I have met her. She is indeed very cultured. But…”
“Stop!” The old man raises a gnarled hand. “I know what you will say. She is too young for me. But how I see it is this. To find wisdom and beauty in one individual is rare. But in a marriage, this combination is possible.”
“You are thinking of marriage?”
“Of course. I think it is inevitable.”
Inevitable? What has Irina been saying to him? Perhaps she is not as innocent as she appears. That smile—who else has she been grinning at? What a fool you are, Andriy Palenko, to think it was specially for you.
“But you have also proposed marriage to Mrs. Gayle and two other ladies previously. And all have accepted.”
“Ah”—he waves his hands in the air and smiles gummily—“these were just passing fancies.”
“Mr. Mayevskyj, it is not gentlemanly to offer marriage to so many women.”
Mr. Mayevskyj shrugs with such a smug little smirk that Andriy feels an urge to punch the old goat on the nose. Control yourself, Palenko. Be a man.
“Women are weak creatures, and easily tempted, Mr. Mayevskyj. It is not gentlemanly to take advantage of their weakness.”
“You see in our situation there are no other men for these foolish creatures to love.” The old man is still smirking. “Apart from you, now, of course. And by the way I have heard certain murmurings in this direction also, young man.”
“Murmurings about me?” Andriy feels a panicky quiver in his chest.
“There is one lady who says a mysterious Ukrainian visitor has proposed marriage to her. This same Mrs. Gayle, in fact. Formerly my fiancée. She was celebrating last night with whiskey bottle. She has already made announcement to her family.”
The quivering in his chest becomes more violent. He can almost smell the rabbit hutch closing in on him.
“It is all completely untrue.”
“This would be good marriage for you. Passport. Work permit. Inheritance. Big house,” the old man continues with enthusiasm. “Only family may cause problem. Same like my family. Children nose-poking in parent’s love affair.”
Holy whiskers! This would be an original outcome to his adventure—he will marry Mrs. Gayle, Mr. Mayevskyj will marry Irina, and they will all live happily together in Peterborough, end of story.
“Mr. Mayevskyj, if there has been some misunderstanding about my intentions, I will do my best to clarify with those concerned. And you must do same. You must tell these old ladies that you have no intention to marry. If you refuse this, I will take away your gearbox.”
“My dear Francis Barnett. We had many happy times.” His lower lip puckers like a child’s about to cry. “Is it so wrong to long for love?”
“Mr. Mayevskyj, you are old. It is better for you to love your gearbox and to leave ladies to their follies.”
The old man gazes at the gearbox.
“Maybe I have been too dissipated in my affections.”
Andriy takes some tissues from a box by the bed, cleans the residual oil from the gearbox, and places it on the bedside table.
“Now, you must promise me that you will tell these ladies that you have taken vow of chastity, and there must be no more talk of marriage. Next problem is where to hide gearbox so that Matron does not find it and remove it again.”
Mr. Mayevskyj taps his nose. “This Matron is very nose-poking type. If she catches any hint of this gearbox, it will definitely be removed. Let me think. In this bottom drawer”—he lowers his voice and points to a battered piece of chipboard furniture—“I am keeping my specially adapted undergarments. However, since I am not permitted to wear them, no one ever looks inside. Maybe if you put it there, buried beneath, I will be able to take it out and talk to it from time to time.”
Andriy opens the drawer. Inside is a jumble of grayish-white cotton and lengths of elastic sewn on with black button thread, some pieces of pink foam rubber, and a coil of clear plastic tubing attached to an empty yogurt container. Interesting. Andriy wraps the gearbox back in its oiled cloth and tucks it in a corner.
As he is closing the drawer he hears a screech of tires on the gravel drive below the window. He raises the blind. A huge black car has pulled up outside. An elegant streaked-blond woman with a horsey face is getting out of the passenger side; out of the driver’s side comes a tall dark man who looks like—Andriy can think of no other way to describe him—a minor scion of the aristocracy.
“Good-bye, Mr. Mayevskyj. I wish you a long life and much happiness with your gearbox. Now it is time for me to return very quickly to Donbas.”
I wish it would rain soon. Everyone is sweating and grumbling. You can feel the electricity in the air. I can even feel it in my body. A good storm will clear the heat and tension. Yateka has disappeared somewhere. Andriy has gone to give Mr. Mayevskyj his gearbox. I am sitting in the dining room, waiting for him to come back. I wish I could open the French doors onto the rose garden, but they are locked in case anyone should try to escape. Beyond the rose beds is the little gravel path that leads down to our secret garden.
Twice, he kissed me there yesterday. The first time was beautiful, like heaven, and I just wanted to believe it was real. The second time it was solid, like the earth, and all my doubts disappeared. Yes, definitely he’s the one. I can still feel the imprint of his hands on me, hot and strong, as if he’s already taken possession of me. And that melting feeling in my body. Last night, I thought it was going to be the night. Then that annoying dog intervened. Well, I suppose it was quite a good thing that it saved us all from the fire. But how much longer do I have to wait? I just wish it would come soon.
Who would have thought I would come all this way only to lose my virginity, not to a romantic bowler-hatted Englishman but to a Donbas miner? There are plenty of those where I’ve come from, but the strange thing is that in Ukraine we would probably never have met. We’re from different worlds, me from the advanced Westward-looking Orange world, him from the primitive Blue and White industrial East, that old derelict Soviet world that we are trying to leave behind. And even if we had met, what would we have had to say to each other—a professor’s daughter and a miner’s son? Being over here in England together makes us more equal. It’s as though destiny has brought us together. Just like Natasha and Pierre—they’d been acquainted for years, and yet it took a whole war and peace before they could see each other with new eyes and realize they were meant for each other.
I admit there are some things that frighten me. Will it hurt? Will I know what to do? Will he still love me afterward? Will I get pregnant? You can’t let these fears stop you. And there’s something else that worries me, something so vague that it’s not easy to put into words, and yet in a way it’s the most frightening thing of all: Will I still be the same person afterward?
“What are you dreaming of?”
It was Yateka. She had crept up behind me and put her hands over my eyes. I knew it was her by her voice, but I said, “Andriy?”
“Aha!” she laughed and let go of my eyes.
“You are dreaming about that naughty man.”
“He is not naughty, Yateka. He is the best man in the world.”
She gave me a funny look.
“You think so?”
“Actually, I think he is wonderful. Gentlemanly and thoughtful and brave. How he rescued everybody from the fire—that is quite typical of his behavior, you know. The only problem is his dog, but maybe eventually he will give it away. You know what I like best about him, Yateka? I like the way he says, ‘You are right, Irina.’ Not many men can say this.”
“Irina, I think maybe the Ukrainian millionaire will be better for you. There’s something about Andriy…”
“What?”
She gave me another funny look.
“What is it, Yateka?”
Then she laughed. “I think Ukrainian men are just like Zambian men.”
What did she mean?
“Have you got a boyfriend waiting for you in Zambia?” I asked. “What will you do when you finish your training?”
“You know, Irina, I have only three weeks of this slavery left. After that, if I get a good report from Matron, I can work in NHS and earn good money. And I can do proper nursing work, not this minimum-wage toilet-cleaning type of work I do here. My dream is to train for theater nurse, or intensive care. And I will be free—free of Four Gables, free of Matron, free of Nightingale Human Solutions.” She gave my hands a squeeze. “So don’t worry for me, Irina. And good luck with your millionaire!”
Before I could protest, we were distracted by a sound of shouting outside in the driveway, and a few moments later Andriy came rushing in with a wild look in his eyes and blood pouring from his nose.
“Andriy, what has happened?” I put my arms around him—my own wounded warrior.
“Irina, I must leave this place immediately. Will you come with me?”
“Of course, Andriy. But why?”
“There has been big misunderstanding. Go and get your things. I will explain later.”
I hugged Yateka.
“Good-bye. Thank you for your kindness.”
“I’m sure you will come back,” she said.
So there we were, back on the Great North Road, Andriy, me, and the dog. As usual, the river of cars was streaming past and nothing was stopping. Fortunately the rain hadn’t started yet. Andriy still seemed very agitated, so I gave his hand a friendly squeeze.
“What happened? Why did we have to leave so suddenly?”
“It was all big misunderstanding.”
“What misunderstanding?”
“Nothing. It’s finished now.”
“You said you’d tell me. Andriy, you promised.”
“This old lady, Mrs. Gayle. She said I had proposed marriage to her. Then announced it to her daughter and son-in-law and told them they must move out of house because she is coming back. Then she celebrated with whiskey.”
“Andriy, you have been lecturing me about smiling too much at old men, and now you are doing same thing exactly.”
“It is completely different.”
“In what way is it different?”
“It was misunderstanding.”
“I cannot see any difference. You must have given her some encouragement.”
“Irina, this is no laughing matter. These people are terrible, what barbarians. You cannot imagine what they said to me.”
His face was like a thunderstorm.
Fortunately just at that moment, a car pulled up—in fact it was not a car, it was a van. Or a bus. In fact it was a bus turned into a trailer.
“Hi. Where you going?”
“We are going only to Sheffield,” said Andriy emphatically.
“Great. Get in. I’m going up that way.”
The driver was a young man about the same age as Andriy. He had small round glasses, some fluffy ginger curls on his chin that looked as if they were struggling to be a beard, and ginger hair pulled into a ponytail—a thick, curly ponytail, not like…In my opinion men should not have long hair. Andriy’s hair is not too long. And it is not too short.
“My name’s Rock.”
In fact it was hard to imagine someone who looked less like a rock. He reminded me of a shy little snail traveling in his shell home. We introduced ourselves, and it was just as well we were soon on friendly terms, because the trailer went as slowly as a snail, and it was clear that the journey was going to be a long one.
nine ladies
it will be a miracle if we ever make it to Sheffield, thinks Andriy. This old single-decker bus must be fifty years old at least, with prehistoric transmission, only four gears plus reverse, on a long, angled gearshift, like the old Volgas. The engine drones like a swarm of bees, and when it picks up speed—the maximum is forty Ks per hour—the whole body shakes and vibrates. Even in Ukraine, to undertake a long journey in such a vehicle, you would call in the priest and ask for a blessing or two.
There is something else he notices—the smell from the engine. It is actually quite a pleasant smell. It reminds him—this seems strange—of the little restaurant on the corner of Rebetov Street. Fried potatoes. Irina sits up and sniffs the air.
“Fish and chip?” she says.
“Nearly,” says Rock. “Actually, it runs on used chip fat—I converted it missen. Burns up t’ excess by-products of consumerism. Not strictly legal, because you don’t pay tax on it. But, as Jimmy Binbag said, the chips of wrath are wiser than the vinegar of instruction.”
She is sitting next to him in the front, gripping the edges of the double seat. Andriy catches her eye.
“Are all Angliski drivers crazy?” she whispers, in Ukrainian.
“Seems so,” he whispers back. “At least this one is not speed maniac.”
“So where are you two from, then?” Rock relaxes into a steady thirty Ks per hour, resting his forearms on the wheel and rolling a cigarette at the same time.
“Ukraine. You know it?”
“Aye.” He pauses to lick the paper. “We had some Ukrainians up in Barnsley. Miners.”
“My father was miner,” says Andriy.
“Snap,” says Rock. “Mine too. Before he died.”
“He died in accident?”
“Neh. Pneumoconiosis. Black lung.”
“Mine died in accident. Roof falling down.”
“Fuckin’ roof fall. That’s tragic. Sorry, pal.”
“You still miner?” asks Andriy.
“Neh. They shut all t’ pits round us. Anyroad, me dad said I were too soft. Said I should get educated, instead. What use is educated in Barnsley? I said. Anyroad, I went to college and did mechanical engineering. But then I thought to missen, in’t engineering part of t’ problem? So I decided to do this, instead.”
Still resting his forearms on the wheel, he strikes a match and lights the cigarette. Puffs of sweetish smoke billow through the bus. “You still a miner?”
“I was. Before Father’s accident. Now I cannot go back down. I cannot work underground. So I have no work. I come in England for picking strawberry.”
“Aye, it’s all crap. As Jimmy Binbag said, when t’ toilet of capitalism is flushed, all t’ crap rains down on them below.”
He takes another deep puff and holds the smoke in his lungs. Then he passes the cigarette to Andriy. Andriy shakes his head.
“My father said, when miner goes underground, death may visit. When miner smokes, death is invited.”
“Jesus! I bet that put you off! Anyroad, I thought they’d shut all t’ mines in Ukraine.”
“Many was shut. Then we open them again.”
“You opened t’ mines?”
“Miners did it. With our hands.”
“Weren’t that a bit dangerous?”
“Of course. Also illegal. Working in seam one meter tall. Thirty-seven degrees of heat. One hundred percent of humidity. No ventilatsya. No safety vikhod. No power tool. Only with pick in our hand we go back underground to cut coal. Then we sell it for money. You know, in this time there is no other work. We have
to live.”
“Holy fuck.”
The swarm of bees drones on, soothing and purposeful. A few drops of rain spatter against the windshield. Irina sighs and stirs, her head heavy on his left shoulder. She is asleep. She hasn’t heard anything. One day, he will tell her the whole story: the bright spring morning; the hole in the ground, gaping like a wound, where they lowered themselves into the earth; the stifling darkness that swallowed them up. Those first tremors. Then the long roar of the explosion. The shaking. The tumbling boulders from the roof. The voices shouting, screaming. Then the silence. Black dust. He moves his arm up and enfolds her, pulling her head onto his chest. Her hair flows over him like streamers of dark silk.
Behind the front seats, a curtain made out of an old sheet has been strung across the bus. It is only partly drawn and Andriy can see into the back, where all the seats have been taken out except four, which are arranged around a square makeshift table. In one corner is a low cupboard with a gas ring on top and some cardboard boxes in which clothes, food, and pans are jumbled together. The rest of the floor space is taken up by a double mattress, with some gray brown tousled bedding.
“You convert this bus youself?”
“Aye. It weren’t hard.”
“I would like to do something like this. Get old bus. Convert. Travel round world.”
Would Irina come with him, he wonders, on a trip like this? And Dog? On the mattress in the back of the bus, Dog is snoring and farting in his usual vigorous way and Rock’s dog, curled up beside him, is sniffing and sighing more delicately.
“I’m not sure Alice would make it round t’ world.”
“Alice is your girlfriend?”
“Neh, Alice is the bus. My girlfriend’s called Thunder.”
Hm. Interesting name for woman. Quite sexy.
“She is also miner?”
“Neh. They don’t have women miners over here. Mind you, if they did, she’d be ace.”
“Rock, if you not miner or engineer, what work you do?”
“Me?” Rock takes another long drag on his cigarette and adjusts the little round glasses that have slipped over to one side. “I suppose you could say I’m a warrior, like.”
Strawberry Fields Page 27