Marina Lewycka - Two Caravans

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.

“Goodbye. 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 whisky.”

“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 caravan.

“Hi. Where’re 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 travelling in his shell home. We introduced ourselves, and it was just as well we were soon on friendly terms, because the caravan went as slowly as a snail, and it was clear that the journey was going to be a long one.

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 gear-stick, 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 at the front, gripping onto 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 metre tall. Thirty-seven degrees of heat. One hundred per cent 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 windscreen. 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 apart from 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 grey-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.”