There is a loud coughing sound on my left. Ms Carter has buried her face in her hankie.
“Please go on,” says the judge. “What was the disagreement about?”
“About the money,” whispers Stanislav. “She said it is not enough. She said he is not a very intelligent solicitor. She said I must come to you and ask for some more.” His voice is breaking up and there is a glint of tears in his eyes, “We need the money, you see, sir, for the baby. For Mr Mayevskyj’s baby. And we have nowhere to live. We need to return to the house.”
Aah! A silence of held-in breath possesses the courtroom. Ms Carter’s eyes are closed as if in prayer. Vera is tugging nervously at a tortoiseshell button. Even Pappa is transfixed. In the end, it is the judge who speaks.
“Thank you, young man. You have done what your mother asked. It isn’t easy for a young person to speak up in court. Well done. Now, go and sit down.” He turns to the rest of us. “Shall we adjourn for an hour? There’s a coffee machine, I believe, in the entrance hall.”
Vera nips out the back for another cigarette. The court is a non-smoking building, and like most such buildings it has a stub-strewn area outside where smokers have unofficial licence to congregate. Father refuses coffee, and asks for apple juice. There is none in the court building, so I step outside to see whether I can find a carton in a local shop.
There is a newsagent further along the road, and I am making my way towards it when I catch sight of Stanislav disappearing round the corner. He seems to be in a hurry. Without quite knowing why, I slip past the newsagent and up to the corner, watching where he goes. Stanislav is almost at the top of the road. He crosses, and turns left, up past the Cathedral grounds. I follow. Now I have to run to catch up, as he disappears from view. When I get to the spot, I see that there is a narrow snicket that leads round the back of some shops and into a maze of shabby terraced houses. It is a part of town I do not know. Stanislav is nowhere to be seen. I stand and look around me, feeling rather foolish. Did he know I was following him?
And now I realise that my hour is almost up. I hurry back, stopping in the newsagent’s I passed on the way to pick up a carton of apple juice with a straw. I cut through the car park and approach the court from the rear. Here there is a bay where bins are kept and a metal fire escape clinging to the back wall. At first-floor level on the left, I can make out Vera in her stylish peach two-piece, leaning on the railings and puffing away. There is someone else there beside her, a tall man in a suit, surreptitiously stubbing out a cigarette with his foot. As I come closer, I see that it is the judge.
Ms Carter is waiting inside with Father. He has spent most of the hour in the lavatory, and now he is in an excited mood, swinging between hope (“The judge will give her two thousand pound, and I shall be left in peace, with only memories for comfort”) and despair (“I will sell all and enter old person’s home”). Ms Carter does her best to calm him down. She is relieved when I hand over the apple juice carton. He pierces the foil with the pointed end of the straw and sucks greedily. Then Vera returns, and sits beside Father on the other side. “Sssh!” she says, trying to quieten Pappa’s noisy slurping. He ignores her. Suddenly, at the last minute, Stanislav comes running in, all out of breath and covered in sweat. Where has he been?
The usher opens the doors, and we are all summoned into the courtroom. A few moments later the judge comes back. The tension is unbearable. The judge takes his place, dears his throat, welcomes us back. Then he delivers his judgment. He speaks for about ten minutes, enunciating carefully, pausing over the words ‘petitioner’, ‘decree’, ‘application’ and ‘relief’. The barrister’s eyebrows rise a fraction. I think I notice a movement at the corner of Ms Carter’s lips. The rest of us watch blankly—even Mrs Divorce Expert. We cannot understand a word he is saying.
He finishes speaking, and there is silence in the court. We sit as if enchanted, as if the long incantation of incomprehensible words has cast a magic spell over the courtroom. The low sun throws a slanting beam of light through the tall window which catches the gold frames of the judge’s aviator-style glasses and the silver of his hair, making him blaze like an angel. Then the charm of silence is broken by a loud gurgling sound. It is Father, sucking up the last dregs of his apple juice with the straw.
Am I imagining it, or does the judge’s inscrutable face register a brief smile? Then he rises (we all rise) and he walks silently across the blue carpet in his shiny black cigarette-stubbing shoes and out through the door.
“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.”
&nb
sp; “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?”
“Alice is going to talk to her tomorrow. So, Mum, what do you think?”
“OK.” I reach forward to hug her. (How skinny she is!) “I’ll do my best. You should eat more.”
She’s right. It is stupid.
There are waiting lists at all the sheltered housing developments within reach of Cambridge, but before I can go out and visit them, I get another phone call.
“Dubov is back. Valentina is back with baby. Stanislav is back.”
His voice is excited, or maybe agitated. I can’t tell.
“Pappa, they can’t all stay there. It’s ridiculous. Anyway, I thought you’d agreed to think about sheltered housing.”
“Is all right. Is temporary arrangement only.”
“Temporary for how long?”
“Few days. Few weeks.” He coughs and splutters. “Until is time to go.”
“Go where? When?”
“Please, Nadia, why you asking so many question? I tell you, everything is OK.”
After he rings off, I realise I forgot to ask whether the baby is a boy or a girl, or whether he knows who the father is. I could ring him back, but I already know that I must go there, see for myself, breathe the same air, in order to satisfy my…what? Curiosity? No, this is a hunger, an obsession. Next Saturday I set out in the morning, full of anticipation.
The Lada is parked out on the road when I arrive. Crap car and the Rolls-Royce are in the front garden, and Dubov is there, fiddling around with some bars of metal.
“Ah, Nadia Nikolaieva!” He grabs me in a bear hug. “Have you come to see the baby? Valya! Valya! Look who is here!”
Valentina appears at the door, still wearing her dressing-gown and a pair of fluffy high-heeled slippers. I can’t say that she looks pleased to see me, but she beckons me inside.
In the front room is a white-painted wooden cot, and in it a tiny baby, fast asleep. Its eyes are closed, so I cannot tell what colour they are. Its arms reach up above the coverlet, the hands clenched in little fists beside its cheeks, thumbs out, the nails gleaming like minute pink shells. Its mouth, open and gummy, breathes and sighs and makes a little sucking sound in its sleep, and the downy skin of the fontanel rises and falls in time with the breathing.
“Oh, Valentina, it’s beautiful! He…she…is it a boy or a girl?”
“Is a girl.”
And now I notice that the baby’s coverlet is embroidered with small pink roses, and the sleeves of her little jacket are powder-pink.
“She’s beautiful!”
“I think so.” Valentina beams proudly, as though the baby’s beauty is her personal achievement.
“Have you got a name for her yet?”
“Name is Margaritka. Is name of my friend Margaritka Zadchuk.”
“Oh, lovely.” (Poor child!)
She points to a pile of lacy pink baby clothes on a chair at the side of the cot, knitted with great skill out of soft polyester yarn.
“She make it.”
“Gorgeous!”
“And is name of most famous English President.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Mrs Tatsher.”
“Ah.”
The baby stirs, opens her eyes, sees us
standing looking down into her cot, and her face puckers, poised between crying and smiling. “Guh guh,” she says, and a trickle of whitish fluid runs from the corner of her mouth. “Guh guh.” Then little dimples appear in her cheeks.
“Ah!”
She is beautiful. She will make her own life. Nothing that has happened before is her fault.
Father must have heard me arrive, for now he comes in beaming.
“Good you can come, Nadia.”
We hug.
“You’re looking good, Pappa,” It’s true. He’s put a bit of weight on, and he is wearing a clean shirt. “Mike sends his love. He’s sorry he couldn’t come.”
Valentina ignored him when he came in, and now she leaves the room, turning on her high-heeled slippers without a word. I pull the door dosed, and whisper to Pappa.
“What do you think of the baby then?”
“Is girl,” he whispers back.
“I know. Isn’t she lovely? Have you found out who the father is?”
Pappa winks and pulls a mischievous face.
“Not me. Ha ha ha.”
From one of the upstairs rooms comes the rhythmic thud-kerboom-thud of heavy metal music. Stanislav’s musical tastes have obviously matured from Boyzone. Father catches my eye and puts his hands over his ears with a grimace.
“Degenerate music.”
“Do you remember, Pappa, how you wouldn’t let me listen to jazz when I was a teenager? You said it was degenerate.”
I have a sudden recollection of him storming down into the cellar and turning the electricity off at the mains. How my cool adolescent friends sniggered!
“Aha,” he nods. “Probably it was so.”
No jazz. No make-up. No boyfriends. No wonder I started to rebel as soon as I could.
“You were a terrible father, Pappa. A tyrant.”
He clears his throat. “Sometimes tyranny is preferable to anarchy.”
“Why have either? Why not have negotiation and democracy?” Suddenly this conversation has become too serious. “Shall I ask Stanislav to turn it down?”
“No no. Never mind. Tomorrow they going.”
2005 - A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian Page 24
