Marina Lewycka - A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian

“Mikhail Lewis, my son-in-law. Distinguished trade unionist and computer expert. My daughter Nadezhda. She is a social worker.” (Pappa! How could you!)

Over tea and a packet of past-sell-by-date biscuits I have found in the larder, we gradually discover the reason for the mystery man’s visit. It is simple enough: he has come to find his wife and son, and to take them home to Ukraina. He has grown increasingly concerned about the letters he has been receiving from England. Stanislav is not happy at his school, where he says the other boys are lazy, obsessed with sex, they boast endlessly of their material possessions, and the academic standard is low. Valentina is also unhappy. She has described her new husband as a violent and paranoid man, from whom she is seeking a divorce. Though now that he has met the respected gentleman-engineer (with whom he has already enjoyed a stimulating correspondence on the subject of tractors) he is inclined to believe that she may have exaggerated a little, as she has sometimes been known to do in the past.

“One may forgive a beautiful woman a little exaggeration,” he says. “The important thing is that all is forgiven, and now it is time for her to come home.”

He has come over to England on an exchange programme with Leicester University to extend his knowledge of superconductivity, and he has been allowed to take some weeks’ leave in addition. His mission is to find his wife (although he granted her a divorce, he has never for one moment ceased to consider her as such) and woo her, and win back her heart. “She loved me once-surely she can love me again.” On his free days, he has caught the train from Leicester and lain in wait outside the house, hoping to catch her by surprise. He has scoured the town, and enlisted the help of the President of the Ukrainian Club, but as the days have gone by and she has not appeared, he fears he may have lost her for ever. But now-now he has met the eminent Mayevskyj and his charming daughter and distinguished son-in-law-now maybe they will help him in his endeavours.

I can see my father stiffen, as he realises that this renowned leading Ukrainian scholar is also a rival in love. It is one thing for him to divorce Valentina himself, quite another to have her snatched away from under his nose.

“This you must discuss with Valentina. My impression is she is absolutely determined she must stay in England.”

“Yes, for such a beautiful flower, the wind in Ukraina blows very hard and cold at this moment. But it will not always be so. And where there is love, there is always enough warmth for the human soul to thrive,” says the intelligent-type husband.

“Tosh!” I snort into my teacup, but manage to disguise it as a sneeze.

“One snag remains,” says my father. “Both have disappeared. Valentina and Stanislav. No one knows where they are. She has even left two cars here.”

“I know where they are!” I cry. Everyone turns to stare at me, even Mike, who cannot understand a word of what is going on. My father catches my eye and glowers, as if to say, Don’t you dare tell him.

“The Imperial Hotel! They’re living at the Imperial Hotel!”

The pubs in Peterborough are all busy on Saturday afternoon, with shoppers, market folk and tourists. The Imperial Hotel is heaving. Some regulars have taken their drinks outside on to the pavement and are clustered around the doorway, talking about the football. I park the Ford Escort a few yards away. We decide Mike should be sent in to reconnoitre-he will merge with the crowd. He is to look out for Valentina or Stanislav, and if he sees them he is to slip out discreetly and alert Dubov, who will then move in for his charm offensive. He and my father are sitting in the back of the car, with excited looks on their faces. For some reason everyone is talking in whispers.

After a few moments Mike emerges, pint in hand, to report that there is no sign of Valentina or Stanislav. Nor is there anyone who matches my description of Bald Ed. There is a double sigh of disappointment from the back of the car.

“Let me look!” says Pappa, his arthritic ringers struggling with the catch of the car door.

“No no!” cries Dubov. “You will frighten her away. Let me look!”

I am worried that my father seems to be on another emotional rollercoaster, I fear that Dubov’s competitor presence has pricked his male pride, and rekindled his interest in Valentina. He knows she is no good for him, but he cannot resist the magnetism that draws him despite himself. Foolish old man. It can only end in tears. Yet beneath the contrariness of his behaviour, I sense that he is driven by a deeper logic, for Dubov has the same magnetism, the same seductive energy as Valentina. Father is in love with both of them: he is in love with the life-beat of love itself. I can understand the fascination, because I share it too.

“Shut up, both of you, and stay where you are,” I say. “I’ll go and look.”

The back doors of the car are fitted with childproof locks that cannot be opened from the inside, so they have no choice in the matter.

Mike has found a seat near the door. A crowd of young men is clustered around the TV screen, and every few minutes they let out a chorus of roars. Peterborough are playing at home. Mike has his eyes fixed on the screen as well-his pint is now drunk half-way down. I go up to the bar and look around. Mike was right-there is no sign of Valentina, Stanislav or Bald Ed. Suddenly there is a surge of cheering. Someone has scored. The man pulling pints at the other end of the bar had his head lowered, but now as he turns towards the TV our eyes meet, and at once we recognise each other. It is Bald Ed-but he isn’t bald any more. Some scraps of shaggy grey fluff cover his pate. His belly has grown, and started to sag down over his belt. In the weeks since I last saw him, he has really let himself go.

“You again. What do you want?”

“I’m looking for Valentina and Stanislav. I’m a friend, that’s all. I’m not from the police, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“They’re gone. Done a runner. Moonlight.”

“Oh no!”

“Appen yer scared them off last time.”

“But surely…”

“Her and t’ lad. Both gone. Last weekend.”

“But have you any idea…?”

“‘Appen she reckoned she were too good for me.” He looks at me with sad eyes.

“You mean…?”

“I don’t mean nothing. Now, fuck off, will yer? I’ve got a pub to run, and I’m on me own.”

He turns his back once more and starts to gather glasses.

“Oh no! Gone!” There are gasps of dismay from the rival lovers in the back seat, then a glum silence settles over the car which, after a few moments, is broken by a long trembling sigh.

“Come, come, Volodya Simeonovich,” murmurs my father in Ukrainian, reaching his arm around Dubov’s shoulder. “Be a man!”

I have never heard him use the patronymic before. Now he and Dubov are starting to sound like something out of War and Peace .

“Alas, Nikolai Alexeevich, to be a man is to be a weak and fallible creature.”

“I think we all need cheering up,” suggests Mike. “Why don’t we go in for a drink?”

The crowd has dispersed at the end of the match and we manage to find enough stools to squeeze around the table; even a chair with a back for Pappa. The noise in the pub is too much for him, and he withdraws into a wide-eyed blankness. Dubov perches his broad buttocks on the small round stool spreading his knees for balance, chin up, alert, drinking in the atmosphere. I notice his eyes scanning the crowd, keeping a hopeful watch on all the entrances.

“What would everyone like to drink?” asks Mike.

Father asks for a glass of apple juice. Dubov asks for a large whiskey. Mike orders another pint. I would really like a cup of tea, but I settle for a glass of white wine. We are served by Bald Ed, who for some reason brings the drinks over to our table on a tray.