Marina Lewycka - Two Caravans

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 fiancee. She was celebrating last night with whisky 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 the 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 greyish-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 yoghurt pot. Interesting. Andriy wraps the gearbox back in its oiled cloth and tucks it in a corner.

As he is closing up the drawer he hears a screech of tyres on the gravel drive below the window. He raises the blind. A huge black car has pulled up outside. An elegant streaked-blonde woman with a horsy 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.

“Goodbye, 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 into 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 realise 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 afterwards? 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 afterwards?

“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 behaviour, 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 theatre 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!”