Marina Lewycka: Two Caravans

“I’ve got a few things to do,” says Rock. “Got to surrender missen to t’ vile clutches oft’ missus. I’ll meet you back here at six o’clock.”

Irina announces that she too will take a look at the shops. Andriy watches her vanish into the crowd, Dog padding along behind her, still wet from his splash in the fountains. Then he reaches for his wallet and takes out a piece of paper. He needs to find a telephone.

I was thinking about Natasha in War and Peace , how she and Pierre have their blazing moment of love, and all her beauty and passion flow into him, and all his intellect and strength flow into her, and they face the world together from their glorious tower of love. When you read it, tears will come into your eyes, I promise, unless you have a heart of stone. And then, after she has found the one , the passion slowly dissolves into a gentle everyday love and she becomes a solid housewife, devoted to their four children, and interested in household and family matters. I wonder whether the same thing will happen with Andriy and me. Already I can see the first signs. For example I noticed today that Andriy needs some new underpants. The ones he is wearing will soon be in the same condition as the warrior underpants. This is not appealing in a man.

That’s what was in my mind as I set out to find the street of shops and market stalls we’d come through earlier, because I had noticed they were selling such items-sexy styles in interesting colours, not the universal dark green baggy type you get in Ukraine. And some very small ladies’ knickers made of lace. I thought if I could find my way back to that street, I could have a look. But somewhere I must have taken a wrong turn, for I found myself in unfamiliar surroundings which seemed to be a commercial district, with redbrick office buildings and only a few cafes and shops, none of them selling clothing, but cleaning products, stationery, office equipment and other useless stuff. I must have been walking for almost half an hour, getting increasingly lost. The wet dog was following me, sometimes running on ahead, sometimes lagging behind or disappearing up an alley, sniffing at pissy lamp posts all the time in his disgusting way.

The sun was still hot, but the shadows were lengthening on the pavement. There was nobody on the streets here, and a one-way road system, so the few cars were going quite fast. The dog had disappeared somewhere and I was on my own. I was trying to work out where I had gone wrong and find somebody I could ask the way when I noticed that a large grey car was crawling along beside me, and the driver was staring at me and mouthing something. I ignored him, and he drove off. At the corner of the street a blonde woman was standing smoking a cigarette. She was wearing ridiculous satin shorts and high-heeled boots. As I hurried towards her to ask for directions, the car pulled up alongside her and the man wound down his window. They exchanged a few words and she got into his car. Hm. Obviously I didn’t want to hang around in this place. So I turned and tried to retrace my steps, walking quickly, when another young woman came sauntering up the road towards me on spiky high heels. She looked familiar. I stared. It was Lena. She spotted me at the same moment.

“Hi, Lena,” I said in Ukrainian, reaching out to take her hand. “What you doing here?”

“What you think?” she said.

“I heard about the accident. The minibus. I was so upset. Was that at our farm?”

“I don’t know what you talking about,” she said.

Close up, she looked even younger. She had grown her hair a bit, and put on white powder like a mask and a smear of very bright red lipstick that accentuated her babyish pout. It was smudged at the edges, as if she had been kissing. Her black stockings and high-heeled shoes looked absurd on her skinny legs. She looked like a child who had been trying on her mother’s clothes and playing with her make-up. Apart from her eyes. There was nothing childish about her eyes.

“How are the others? Tasya? Oksana?”

“I don’t know.”

She had stopped, and was staring straight ahead, over my shoulder. I turned and followed the line of her gaze. She was looking towards the forecourt of an office block, where a number of cars were parked. Right at the back, half hidden behind a white van, was a huge black shiny four-by-four. I must have walked right past it.

I felt a terrible sick feeling rise up in me. My heart started up. Boom. Boom. Run, run, shouted my racing heart, but my feet stayed rooted to the ground. I looked at Lena, but her eyes were completely dead.

There is a telephone box at the top of the square, near to the cafe. Andriy fumbles in his pocket for change, puts a couple of coins in the slot and dials the number on the piece of paper. There is a series of clicks, followed by a long single tone. What does that mean? He dials again. The same empty tone. He listens for a long time, but nothing happens. A blank. He was half expecting it. He sighs. This is it, then. His journey’s end. Vagvaga Riskegipd. A blank. Ah, well.

A middle-aged woman is sitting at a small round table on the pavement outside the cafe. He shows her the piece of paper.

“Oh,” she says, “that’s an old number. You have to dial 0114 instead of 0742. But you don’t need that, because you’re in Sheffield. You just put 2 before the main number.”

He fishes a pencil stub out of his pocket and she writes it down for him.

He tries again with the new number. This time there is a ringing tone. After several rings, a woman picks up the phone.

“Alloa?” She speaks in the same broad regional dialect as Rock.

“Vagvaga?” He can hardly control the excitement in his voice. “Vagvaga Riskegipd? Vagvaga?”

There is a moment’s silence. Then the voice on the other end of the phone says, “Bugger off.” There is a click, followed by the dialling tone. He feels a stab of frustration. So close, yet still so far. Was that her voice on the end of the phone? He can’t recall her saying anything at all to him that night. How old would she be now? The voice on the phone sounded crackly and breathless, like an older woman’s. He resolves to wait a few minutes and try again.

When he goes back into the square the same middle-aged woman is still sitting at her table, drinking coffee. She has been joined by a friend, and their shopping bags are clustered around them on the ground. On impulse, he approaches her once more with his piece of paper.

“No luck?” She smiles at him.

“What is this name?” he asks her.

She looks at him oddly.

“Barbara Pickering. What did you think it was?”

He stares at the paper. Ah. His twenty-five-year-old eyes see what his seven-year-old eyes had not seen: Roman script.

“What is mean bugger off?”

She looks at him oddly again.

“That’s enough. Bugger off now, will you?” And turning her back on him, she resumes her conversation with her friend.

He had meant to ask her for some change as well, but now he can’t. He goes to the telephone again and puts a pound coin in the slot.

“Alloa?” the same woman answers.

“Barbara?” Barr-baah-rrah. Barbarian woman. Wild. Untamed. An incredibly sexy name.

“She’s not here.” The voice hesitates. “Was it you that called before?”

“My name is Andriy Palenko. I am from Ukraine. Donetsk. Twin town with Sheffield.”

“Oh,” the woman says, “I thought you was some nutter. Barbara’s not lived ‘ere for years. She’s up in Gleadless now. I’m ‘er mum.”

“I met her many long times ago. I was first coming to Sheffield with my father for Ukrainian miners’ delegation.”

“Were it that big do at t’ City Hall, wi’t’ Ukrainians? I were there too. By, that were a night!” A cackling sound down the line. “All that municipal vodka!”