Mike nods sympathetically. Anna goes quiet. Stanislav smiles his cute chip-toothed smile. Behind the bar the proprietor has gone very still. My father looks as if he is miles away, on a tractor somewhere.
“Was it better under communism?” I ask.
“Of course better. Was good life. You no understand what type of people is rule country now.”
Her syrup-coloured eyes have a heavy, glazed look. Today is her first day off work in two weeks. The black eyeliner has smudged and run into the wrinkles below her eyes. If I’m not careful, I will begin to feel sorry for her. Tart. Slut. Boil-in-the-bag cook. I think of Mother and harden my heart.
“My school was better,” says Stanislav. “More discipline. More homework. But now in Ukraina you have to pay the teachers if you want to pass the exams.”
“No different to your new school then,” I say drily. Mike kicks me under the table.
“No different to my school,” chirps Anna. “We’re always having to bribe our teachers with apples.”
Stanislav looks astonished.
“Apples?”
“Just a joke,” says Anna. “Don’t children in your country give their teachers apples?”
“Apples never,” says Stanislav. “Vodka, yes.”
“You in university teacher?” Valentina asks me.
“Yes.”
“I want for help Stanislav in OxfordCambridgeUniversity. You working CambridgeUniversity. So you help?”
“Yes, I work in Cambridge, but not at Cambridge University. I am at the Anglia Polytechnic University.”
“ Angella University? What is this?”
My father leans across and whispers, “Polytechnic.”
Valentina raises both eyebrows and mutters something that I cannot understand.
Our meals arrive. The proprietor seems to hover for a long time around Valentina as he sets out the dishes before her. She manages to flash her syrupy eyes his way, but it is a half-hearted flirtation. It is late and we are all too hungry for courtesies. The lamb bhuna is stringy, and we have to cut it up into tiny pieces for my father. The vegetable curry has no vegetables in it apart from cabbage. Mike’s hot curry is too hot. Stanislav’s oven-cooked chicken is dry and tough. Valentina’s steak is like a slab of wood.
“Everything all right?” asks the proprietor.
“Lovely,” says Mike.
Afterwards, Mike drives my father and Anna and Stanislav home in the car and I walk home with Valentina. The pavements are icy, and we cling on to each other, first for balance, but after a while the clinging becomes companionable. Despite the dismal meal, some seasonal cheer has rubbed off on us. Peace on earth, goodwill to all men, sing the Christmas angels in the crispy sky. I realise there will not be another opportunity like this.
“How are things going?” I ask.
“Good. Everything good.”
“But what about the arguments? You seem to have a lot of arguments.” I keep my voice neutral, friendly.
“Who telling you?”
“Valentina, it’s obvious to anybody.” I don’t want to betray Stanislav, and I don’t want to land my father in it.
“You father is no easy man,” she says.
“I know.” I know that I couldn’t put up with my father day in day out as she does. I begin to regret my letter to the Home Office.
“All time he making trouble for me.”
“But Valentina, you worked in an old people’s home. You know old people can be difficult.”
What did she expect? A refined elderly gentleman who would shower gifts on her, and pass away quietly one night? Not my tough cantankerous stubborn old father.
“You father more difficult. Trouble with cough cough cough. Trouble with nerves. Trouble with bath. Trouble with pi-pi.” As she turns towards me, the moonlight catches her handsome Slavic profile, the high cheekbones, the curved mouth. “And all time, you know, kiss kiss, touching here, here here…” Her gloved hands caress her breasts, thighs, knees through the thick coat. (My father does that?) I feel like gagging, but I keep my voice steady.
“Be kind to him. That’s all.”
“I kind,” she says. “As my own father. You no worry.”
She slips on the ice and grips my arm tighter. I feel her warm sensuous bulk rest briefly against me and smell the strong sugary perfume, my Christmas gift, which she has sprayed on to her neck and throat. This woman who has taken the place of my mother.
Ten. Squishy squashy
My father is excited. The inspector from the Immigration Service has come to call. Soon Valentina’s immigration status will be confirmed and their love will be sealed for ever. Without the fear of deportation hanging over them, the cloud of misunderstanding will lift and it will once more be as when they were first in love. Maybe even better. Maybe they will start a new family. Poor Valentina has been so anxious and this has sometimes made her irritable, but soon their troubles will be at an end.
The inspector is a middle-aged woman with flat lace-up shoes and parted hair. She carries a brown briefcase, and refuses my father’s offer of tea. He shows her around.
“This is my room. This is Valentina’s room. This is Stanis-lav’s room. You see, plenty room for everybody.”
The inspector makes notes of where everyone lives.
“And this is my table. You see, I prefer to eat by myself. Stanislav and Valentina eat in the kitchen. I cook for myself-look, Toshiba apples. Cooked by Toshiba microwave. Full of vitamins. You like to try?”
The inspector refuses politely, and makes more notes.
“And will I be able to meet Mrs Mayevska? When does she come back from work?”
“She is always coining at different time. Sometimes early, sometimes late. Better you telephone first.”
The inspector makes another note, then she puts her notebook away in her brown briefcase and shakes my father’s hand. He watches her small turquoise Fiat disappear around a bend in the road, and telephones me with the news.
A fortnight later Valentina gets a letter from the Home Office. Her application for leave to stay in Britain has been refused. The inspector has found no evidence of a genuine marriage. She flies into a rage at my father.
“You foolish idiot man. You giving all wrong answer. Why you no show her you love-letter poem? Why you no show her wedding picture?”
“Why should I show her a poem? She did not ask to see poem, she asked to see bedroom.”
“Hah! She see you no good man to go into woman bedroom.”
“You no good woman shut husband out of bedroom.”
“What you want in bedroom, eh? Thphoo! You squishy squashy. You flippy floppy. Squishy squashy flippy floppy!” she taunts. She puts her face close to his, and her voice gets louder and louder. “Squishy squashy! Flippy floppy!”
“Stop! Stop!” my father cries. “Go! Go! Go away! Go back to Ukraina!”
“Squishy squashy flippy floppy!”
He pushes her away. She pushes him back. She is bigger than he is. He stumbles, and bangs his arm against the corner of the dresser. A livid bruise rises.
“Look what you done!”
“Now you go crying to daughter! Help, help, Nadia Verochka! Wife beating me! Hah hah! Husband should beat wife!”
Maybe he would beat her if he could, but he cannot. For the first time, he realises how helpless he is. His heart fills with despair. Next day, when she is at work, he telephones me and tells me what happened. His words come stumbling, limping out, as though just speaking it aloud hurts. I express concern, but I feel smug. Wasn’t I was right about the official view of penetration?
“You see, this matter of erectile dysfunction, Nadia. Sometimes it happens to the male.”
“It doesn’t matter, Pappa. She shouldn’t mock you like that.” Stupid man, I think. What did he expect?
“Don’t tell Vera.”