“So what did he say?”
We are all gathered around Ms Carter in the lobby, drinking coffee out of polystyrene cups from the machine, though caffeine is the last thing we need.
“Well, he granted Mr Mayevskyj a divorce, which is what we applied for,” says Ms Carter, with a huge smile on her face. She has taken offher black jacket and there are circles of sweat under her English-rose armpits.
“And the money?” asks Vera.
“He made no award, since none was applied for.”
“You mean…?”
“Normally, an agreement about finances would happen at the same time as a divorce, but since she was not represented, no claim was made on her behalf.” She is struggling to keep a straight face.
“But what about Stanislav?” I am still uneasy.
“A good try. But it needs to be done formally, with proper representation. I think that’s what Paul is explaining to Stanislav.”
The young barrister has taken his wig and gown off, and is sitting in the corner next to Stanislav with his arm around his shoulder. Stanislav is crying his eyes out.
Father has been following the discussion eagerly, and now he claps his hands with glee.
“Got nothing! Ha ha ha! Too greedy! Got nothing! English justice best in world!”
“But…!” Ms Carter raises a warning finger. “But she could still make an application to the court for maintenance. Though in these circumstances it might be more usual to apply to the child’s father. If she knows who it is. And if…and if…” She can no longer control her giggles. We wait. She pulls herself together. “If she can find a solicitor to represent her!”
“What do you mean?” asks Mrs Divorce Expert. “Surely she has a solicitor.”
“You know,” says Ms Carter, “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but in a town the size of Peterborough, everybody on the legal scene knows each other.” She pauses, grins. “And, by now, everybody knows Valentina. She’s been through virtually every practice in town. They all got fed up of her, marching in with her ridiculous demands. She wouldn’t take advice from anyone. She had got it into her head that she was entitled to half the house, and she wouldn’t listen to anyone that told her otherwise. Then she insisted that she should get Legal Aid to fight for it in court-so arrogant, swanning in with her fur coat and fish-wife manners, demanding this and that. And all on Legal Aid. The rules are quite strict, you know. Some firms went along with it for a bit, while they were getting the fees. But if they didn’t do what she wanted she just stormed out. That must have been what happened when we offered £2,000. I bet her solicitor advised her to accept it.” She catches my eye. “I would have done in her position.”
“But the judge can’t have known that.”
“I think he worked it out,” chuckles Ms Carter. “He’s not stupid.”
“Robust!…” murmurs Vera, a faraway look in her eyes.
After the excitement of the courtroom, the house seems cold and gloomy when we get back. There is no food in the fridge, and the central heating has gone off. Dirty pans, plates and cups are piled up in the sink, and on the table are more plates and cups which haven’t even made it as far as the sink. There is still no sign of Dubov.
Father’s spirits fall as soon as he walks through the door.
“We can’t leave him here alone,” I whisper to Vera. “Can you stay with him tonight? I can’t take another day off work.”
“I suppose so,” she sighs.
“Thanks, Sis.”
“It’s OK.”
Father protests briefly when he hears of this arrangement, but it seems as if he too realises that things must change. While Vera goes to get some shopping, I sit with him in the front room.
“Pappa, I’m going to find out about some sheltered housing. You can’t live here on your own.”
“No no. Absolutely not. No shelter housing. No old person’s home.”
“Pappa, this house is too big for you. You can’t keep it clean. You can’t afford to heat it. In sheltered housing you will have a nice little flat of your own. With a warden to look after you.”
“Warden! Pah!” He throws his hands up in a dramatic gesture. “Nadia, today in court the English judge says I can live in my house. Now you say I cannot live here. Must I go to court again?”
“Don’t be silly, Pappa. Listen,” I lay my hand on his, “better to move now, while you can still manage in your own flat, with your own door that you can lock with your own key, so you can do what you like inside. And your own kitchen where you can cook what you like. And your own bedroom where no one can come in. And your own private bathroom and lavatory, right next to the bedroom.”
“Hmm.”
“We will sell this house to a nice family, and we will put the money in the bank, and the interest will be enough to pay the rent.”
“Hmm.”
I can see his face change as I talk.
“Where would you rather be? Would you like to stay here near Peterborough, so you can be close to your friends and the Ukrainian Club?”
He looks blank. It was Mother who had friends. He had Big Ideas.
“Or would you like to move to Cambridge, so you can be near to me and Mike?”
Silence.
“OK, well, I’ll look in Cambridge, so you can be near to me and Mike. We’ll be able to visit more often.”
“Hmm. OK”
He settles into the armchair that faces the window, leaning his head back against a cushion, and sits there quietly watching the shadows fall over the darkening fields. The sun has already set, but I do not draw the curtains. Twilight seeps into the room.
Twenty-Nine. Last supper
Mike is out when I get home, but Anna is in. I hear her bright voice chatting on the phone in the hall, lilting high on eddies of laughter, and my heart tightens with love. I have been careful not to tell her too much about Father and Valentina and Vera, and when I have talked about them, I have made light of our disharmonies. I want to protect her, as my parents protected me. Why burden her with all that old unhappy stuff?
I kick my shoes off, make myself a cup of tea, put some music on, and stretch out on the sofa with a pile of papers. Time to catch up on a bit of reading. Then there is a tap on the door and Anna puts her head round.
“Mum, have you got a minute?”
“Of course. What is it?”
She is wearing skin-tight jeans and a top that barely covers her midriff. (Why does she dress like this? Doesn’t she know what men are like?)
“Mum, I want to talk to you.” Her voice is serious.
My heart has started to thump. Have I become so engrossed in my father’s drama that I have failed my own daughter?
“OK. I’m all ears.”
“Mum,” she settles herself on the end of the sofa by my feet, “I’ve been talking to Alice and Alexandra. We went out for lunch last week. That was Alice on the phone just now.”
Alice, Vera’s younger daughter, is a few years older than Anna. They have never been dose. This is something new. I feel a prick of disquiet.
“Oh, that’s nice, dear. What did you talk about?”
“We’ve been talking about you-and Aunty Vera.” She pauses, watches me widen my eyes in feigned surprise. “Mum, we think it’s stupid, this feud you have with Aunty Vera.”
“What feud is that, love?”
“You know. About the money. About Grandma’s will.”
“Oh,” I laugh, “why have you been talking about that?” (How dare they? Who told them? Trust Vera to go blabbing.)
“We think it’s really stupid. We don’t care about the money. We don’t care who gets it. We want us all to get on together like a normal family-we get on together, Alice, Lexy and me.”
“Darling, it’s not as easy as that…” (Doesn’t she realise that money is all that stands between us and starvation?) “And it’s not just about money…” (Doesn’t she realise how time and memory fix everything? Doesn’t she realise that once a story has been told one way, it cannot be retold another way? Doesn’t she realise that some things must be covered up and buried, so the shame of them doesn’t taint the next generation? No; she’s young, and everything is possible.) “…But I suppose it’s worth a try. What about Vera? Hadn’t someone better tell Vera?”