Vera and I decide that together we will confront Valentina outside the Imperial Hotel.
“It is the only thing to do. Otherwise she will keep on evading us,” says Vera.
“But she might just turn and run away when she sees us.”
“Then we will follow her. We will track her down to her lair.”
“But what if she has Stanislav with her? Or Eric Pike?”
“Don’t be such a baby, Nadia. If necessary we will call for the police.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to leave it to the police in the first place? I spoke to this young woman officer in Spalding who seemed really sympathetic.”
“Do you still believe that the law will oust her? Nadia, if we don’t do this, nobody will.”
“OK.” Although I make objections, I am excited by the idea. “Maybe we should arrange for five-o’clock-shadow Justin to be there. Just as back-up.”
But before we can arrange a suitable date, my father calls in a state of great agitation. A mystery man has been seen hanging around the house.
“Mystery man. Since yesterday. Peeping in at all windows. Then disappears.”
“But Pappa, who is it? You should call the police.”
I am alarmed. It seems obvious that someone is casing the house for a break-in.
“No no! No police! Definitely no police!”
My father’s experience of the police has not been positive.
“Call a neighbour, then, Pappa. And confront him together. Find out who he is. It’s most likely a burglar, looking to see what you have worth stealing.”
“Does not look like burglar. Middle-aged. Short. Wears brown suit.”
I am intrigued.
“We’ll come on Saturday. Lock your doors and windows until then.”
We arrive at about three o’clock on the Saturday afternoon. It is mid-October. The sun is already low in the sky, and a fenland mist shrouds the countryside in a damp haze, lingering around the low-lying fields and marshes, stealing like a wraith out of drainage culverts and watercourses. The leaves have started to turn. The garden is thick with windfalls, apples, pears and plums, over which a cloud of small flies hovers.
My father is asleep in his armchair by the window, his head thrown back, mouth open, a silver thread of saliva running from his lip to his collar. Lady Di’s girlfriend is curled up on his lap, her striped belly quietly rising and falling. A miasma of somnolence hangs over the house and garden, as if a fairytale witch has cast a spell, and the sleeper is waiting to be awakened with a kiss.
“Hallo, Pappa.” I kiss his scrawny stubbly cheek. He wakes with a start, and the cat jumps on to the floor, purring in greeting, rubbing herself against our legs.
“Hallo, Nadia, Michael! Good you can come!” He stretches out his arms in welcome.
How thin he has become! I had hoped that after Valentina left things would suddenly change; he would start to put on weight, and clean up the house, and everything would get back to normal. But nothing has changed, except that a bulky Valentina-shaped emptiness now sits in his heart. “How are you, Pappa? Where’s this mystery man?”
“Mystery man has disappeared. Not seen since yesterday.” I must confess to a pang of disappointment-my curiosity had been aroused. But I put the kettle on, and while it is boiling I wander outside and start to gather up the windfalls. I am concerned that my father has not pursued his annual ritual of gathering, storing, peeling and Toshiba-ing. Self-neglect is a sign of depression.
Mike settles himself in the other comfqrtable chair in listening mode.
“So, Nikolai, how’s the book coming along? Have you got any more of that excellent plum wine?” (He’s been showing too much interest in that plum wine for my liking. Doesn’t he realise it is dangerous stuff?)
“Aha!” exclaims my father, handing Mike a glass. “Now is coming a very interesting time in the history of tractors. As Lenin said of the capitalist time, the whole world is unified into one market, with concentrations of capital increasing markedly. Now in relation to engineering of tractors, my thoughts on this are as follows…”
I never found out what his thoughts were, because by this point, Mike has surrendered to the plum wine, and I have ranged out of earshot. I am paying tribute to Mother’s garden. It makes me sad to see the havoc four years of neglect have wreaked; yet it is the havoc of superabundance. In such a rich soil, everything that takes root thrives: weeds proliferate, creepers run amok, the grass is grown so tall it is almost like a meadow, fallen fruit rots, yielding curious spotted fungi; flies, gnats, wasps, worms and slugs feast on the fruit, birds feast on the worms and flies.
Underneath the washing-line, half hidden in the long grass, a piece of shiny cloth catches my eye. I bend down closer to look. It is the green satin bra, the colour now almost faded out. A startled earwig scurries out of one of the enormous cups. On impulse I pick it up and try to read the size on the label. But that too has faded away, washed out by soap powder, sun and rain. Holding this tattered relic in my hands gives me a strange sense of loss. Sic transit gloria mundi.
I don’t know what makes me look up from my contemplation, but at that moment my eye catches a movement, a fleeting figure perhaps, at the side of the house. Then it is gone; maybe it was just a brownish shadow, or maybe a glimpse of someone in brown. The mystery man!
“Mike! Pappa! Come quick!”
I run into the front garden which is still dominated by the two rusting cars. At first it seems there is no one there. Then I see someone standing very still in the shadow of the lilac tree. He is quite short and squat, with curly brown hair. He is wearing a brown suit. There is something strangely familiar about him.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t say anything, nor move towards me. His stillness is uncanny. Yet he is not frightening. His face is open, attentive. I come a couple of steps closer.
“What do you want? Why do you keep coming here?”
Still he says nothing. Then I remember where I have seen him before: he is the man in the photographs I found in Valentina’s room-the man with his arm around her strapless shoulders. He is a little older than the man in the photos, but it is definitely him.
“Please, say something. Tell me who you are.”
Silence. Then Mike and Pappa appear at the front door. Mike is rubbing his eyes sleepily. Now the man steps forward, and stretching out his hand says one word.
“Dubov.”
“Ah! Dubov!” My father rushes forward, seizes both his hands, and lets flow a stream of rapturous welcome in Ukrainian. “Highly esteemed Director of Polytechnic in Ternopil! Renowned leading Ukrainian scholar! You are most welcome in my modest house.”
Yes, it is Valentina’s intelligent-type husband. As soon as I realise this, I recognise also the resemblance to Stanislav: the brown curls, short build, and now, as he steps out of the shadows, the dimpled smile.
“Mayevskyj! Acclaimed engineer of first order! I have been honoured to read your fascinating thesis on tractor history which you sent to me,” he says in Ukrainian, pumping my father’s hands up and down. Now I understand why he did not respond to my questions. He does not speak English. My father introduces us.
“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.
“Cheers!” Mike lifts his glass. “To…” He hesitates. What is the appropriate toast for such a diverse group of people with such conflicting desires and needs? “To the triumph of the human spirit!”
We all raise our glasses.