Marina Lewycka - Two Caravans

She is perhaps more mature than he imagined, but the confusing light can play all sorts of tricks. She is tall, too, taller than him, with blond hair pinned in an untidy nest on top of her head. She is wearing tight white trousers that catch the dazzle of the headlights, revealing a shape that is not as shapely as he dreamed, maybe more sedan model, but still definitely the blonde blue-eyed Angliska rosa . She steps forward without noticing him lurking by the caravan, and strides up into the field.

“ Lawrence!” she shouts, in a voice that is sharp and resonant with fury. “ Lawrence, where are you? Come here, you bastard!”

Her words echo around the valley, and are met with silence.

Despite his initial disappointment, Andriy thinks he should seize the moment, if only for the sake of the Ferrari. This is after all a night of magic, in which two amazing things have already happened, and all sorts of mysteries and transformations may be possible. He steps out of the shadows opening his palms in a gesture of appeasement.

“Lady…”

She swings round to face him.

“And who are you?” she barks. Really, her voice is not as he had imagined it either.

“Lady…”

Suddenly his English deserts him. So stepping forward he does something he has seen older men do in Ukraine, but has never done before in his life, something that would normally make him cringe with embarrassment to think of; but now it just seems the right thing to do. He takes her hand, lifts it to his lips and kisses it.

The effect is instantaneous. The Angliska rosa grabs him in both her arms, and kisses him ferociously on the mouth. This is a pleasant surprise. He knows he is quite attractive to women-well, he’s had some successes in the past-but never before has the magic been so immediate. Leaning back on the bonnet of the Ferrari, she pulls him down on top of her and kisses him vigorously. Her lips are warm and taste of whisky. Her body, like the upholstery of the four-by-four, is firm but yields to his touch.

“You’ll do, poppet.” She rips open the buttons of his shirt. What’s going on here? Is this a typical English display of passion? He notices with another small stab of disappointment that the sports car is not a Ferrari at all but a Honda (still, it is a sports car, and a red one) and her Angliska rosa mouth is insistent and dominating in a way that reminds him strangely of…yes, his first kiss. Vagvaga Riskegipd sitting astride him on the steps of Sheffield City Hall, forcing her determined little tongue between his lips. These Angliski women!

Then he hears the engine-roar of another car pulling into the field, but when he tries to take a look, she yanks his head down firmly, his mouth on hers. Her tongue is working hard. The next thing he hears is Yola’s voice, shrieking from the top of the field, “Dumpling! Dumpling! Watch out!”

Fighting back against the blonde’s embrace, he lifts his head and sees the farmer standing by the Land Rover, staring back at him. He doesn’t look very pleased. Pinned to the bonnet of the sports car in the grip of the blonde, Andriy is starting to wonder whether it was wise to surrender to the passion of this unpredictable Angliska rosa .

“What the hell…? You bitch! You bloody bitch!” The farmer strides towards them. The Angliska rosa looks up over Andriy’s shoulder and with her free hand, not the one that is fumbling with his fly zip, she gestures at the farmer with two fingers. Andriy tries to seize the moment to escape, but the blonde holds him fast, and now the enraged farmer runs forward with a roar, and flings himself onto Andriy’s back. Holy whiskers! This is not turning out at all according to plan. He is trapped between the two of them like the meat in some mad sandwich. The farmer’s weight is crushing the breath out of him. As the farmer thrashes about, his rough hands grappling with Andriy’s throat, the blonde wriggles out from underneath them, clambers back into the sports car and turns the engine on. The car lurches forward and the farmer slides off the bonnet onto the ground with a thud.

“Watch out, my Dumpling!”

Andriy, still hanging onto the bonnet, hears Yola’s shriek at the top of the field, and looking round he sees her tottering down between the clumps of strawberries in her flimsy high-heeled sandals. The farmer sees her too as he picks himself up.

“Go back, Primrose!” He waves her away.

The car reverses, revs up a bit, then suddenly accelerates forward. There is a horrible crunch. The farmer falls writhing to the ground. The car reverses and revs up again. Andriy is hanging onto a windscreen wiper with one hand and hammering on the glass with the other.

“Stop! Stop!”

“My Dumpling!”

He hears Yola’s cry behind him, but he can’t quite see what’s happening. As the car lurches forward again, he flings himself off and lands on top of the farmer, who is rolling on the ground twisted up in agony, his mouth open as if in a scream, though only faint gurgling noises are corning out. Andriy disentangles himself shakily and stares in horror. The bones of the farmer’s left leg are sticking out all over the place. The car is reversing and revving up again.

“My poor Dumpling!” Yola stumbles down the field and diving forward, tries to drag the farmer free. But he is too heavy for her. The car is heading at them. Andriy staggers to his feet and the two of them manage to heave the writhing farmer out of the way, missing by inches the front bumper of the car, which has picked up some speed, the blonde Angliska rosa grinning like a maniac behind the wheel.

Crash! With a horrible rip of metal, it ploughs into the rear end of the men’s caravan, which topples off its pile of bricks and lands at a crazy angle on its axle.

The Angliska rosa gets out to inspect the damage to her car. Then she walks over to the farmer squirming on the ground in the glare of the headlights, and gives him a kick.

“You sleazy bastard. Next time it’s curtains.”

“Wendy,” he groans, “it was nothing. Just a bit of slap and tickle.”

Yola has been keeping out of the blonde’s way, but self-control is not her strong point.

“Slapping ticker! What is slapping ticker? Eh?” She lays into him with her fuchsia-tipped toes. “I am primrose, not slapping ticker!”

“Yola, please…” Andriy struggles to restrain her, but she breaks free and takes a run at the farmer.

“Get off him!” shouts the blonde. “He may be a sleazeball, but he’s my sleaze, not yours!” She dives at Yola, catching her off balance with one foot poised for a kick, and grabbing her round the waist she wrestles her to the ground. They are both panting and tearing at each other’s hair.

“You all sleazes!” Yola writhes and thrashes, but the blonde is bigger and stronger than she is. “Let me go!”

“Stop! Please! Be calm!” cries Andriy, grabbing the blonde and holding her fast in his arms. “Lady, please…”

Seizing the moment, Yola scrambles away and takes cover in the men’s caravan. He grasps the blonde’s hand, which is clenched into a fist, and tries to raise it to his lips, but she wrenches it free, swings wide and lands it on his jaw with a crack.

Stars appear in the black space behind his eyes.

The Chinese girls are staring out of the window, trying to work out what is going on in the field below. Shifting between the blaze of headlights and the pools of darkness, the action is disjointed and confusing. They see the car reversing and driving forward. They see Yola launch herself at the body on the ground. They hear the smash as the car ploughs into the caravan. They see Irina standing with Marta, a little way below the caravan, watching the events at the bottom of the field. At some point in all the chaos, Vulk’s four-by-four pulls in through the open gate and drives silently up round the margin of the strawberry rows to the women’s caravan, headlights off. Irina looks round and sees him appear out of the darkness. She screams and makes a dash for the copse, but this time he chases and catches her. The Chinese girls witness the abduction, but they are unable to stop it. Vulk bundles Irina struggling and yelling into the back of his vehicle, and drives off into the night.