“We don’t need accommodations,” said Andriy. “We have our own.”
“Well, the pay’s the same, with accommodations or without. Take it or leave it.”
I did a quick calculation in my head.
“We take the job,” I said. “Without the accommodations.”
He got quite moody when I asked to borrow some money to buy the waitressing clothes. “You have to think capitalist,” I said. “See it as an investment.” I promised I’d share my money and my extra tips with him. I’d seen a shop with a big sign in the window saying SALE 50% REDUCTIONS, and I couldn’t wait to have a look. I would go in the morning on the way to work.
When we got back to the trailer, there was a metal barrier with a padlock across the entrance to the site, but that was all right because we weren’t going anywhere. By then, we were starving hungry. Maria had packed a whole feast for us of her peculiar food. She’d even put in some tins of steak for the dog, but Andriy said that was ridiculous and the dog should go and catch some pigeons and sent him off outside and Andriy ate the dog’s food.
There was an embarrassing moment when I had to go to the toilet, but fortunately it was dark by then. When I had to change into my nightie, that could have been embarrassing too, but Andriy very courteously pretended to be reading one of my books, even though he can’t really read English, and when it was his turn to get undressed, I pretended to read the book. But I did sneak a look. Mmm. Yes. Definitely more interesting without the Ukrainian trousers.
I stretched out on the bunk that had been Yola’s, and he crawled onto the bunk that had been Marta’s. We didn’t even fold out the double bed, because that would have meant we were going to sleep together. It was so quiet in the warm enclosed space of the trailer that we could hear each other’s breathing. Then I started to wonder what it would be like to sleep together in the double bed. Because really he has very nice hands. Sun-browned, with golden hairs. And arms. And legs. And he is also very gentlemanly, with good manners, just like Mr. Brown, who is always saying please and excuse me and pardon. And I liked the polite way he talked to Emanuel and to Toby McKenzie’s parents, and even to the dog, and the attentive way he listens to people. Including me. Okay, I admit he isn’t very educated, but you can see he’s no fool. But is he the one? When it’s your first time, you have to get it right.
I lay listening to his breathing and wondering if he was lying awake listening to mine. Just as I was beginning to drift off to sleep, the dog came back and woke us up by barking at the door. Andriy got up to let him in and gave him a drink of water—slurp slurp slurp—and spread the old bit of blanket from the Land Rover down by the door for him to sleep on. The dog fell asleep almost immediately, whistling and snoring very loudly—sss! hrrr! sss! hrrr!—which made us both laugh. After that, I didn’t fall asleep for ages. My heart just wouldn’t slow down. I kept thinking of all the things that had happened to me since I left home, and about him, lying so close in the dark, and wondering what he was thinking.
“Andriy. Are you asleep?”
“No. Are you?”
“No.”
“We’d better try to get some sleep. It’ll be hard work tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
In the darkness, I could hear the faraway sound of the city, a restless throbbing hum that is never still, like when you hold a shell to your ear and hear the sound of the sea, even though you know it’s just the blood rushing around inside your own head.
“Andriy. Are you asleep yet?”
“No.”
“Tell me about this Sheffield.”
“You know, this Sheffield is one of the most beautiful cities in England. Maybe in the whole world. But not many people know this.”
“What is it like?”
“It is entirely built of white stone with magnificent domes and towers. And it is set on a hill. So you can see it from a long distance away—it looks as though it is shimmering and glimmering in the light as you approach.”
“Like the Lavra monastery in Kiev?”
“A bit like that, yes. Go to sleep now.”
I AM DOG I AM BAD DOG I RUN MY MAN EATS DOG FOOD GO RUN CATCH PIGEON HE SAYS I RUN I COME TO MANY-PIGEON PLACE EVERYWHERE PIGEON PIGEON PIGEON I JUMP I CATCH PIGEON I EAT STRINGY MEAT MOUTH FULL OF FEATHERS NO GOOD HERE IS MEAT SMELL GOOD MAN FOOD MAN SITS ON BENCH EATS BREAD WITH MEAT HE PUTS BREAD AND MEAT ON BENCH I JUMP I CATCH I EAT BAD DOG SAYS THE MAN I RUN I AM BAD DOG I AM DOG
Kitchen hand! How have you allowed this to happen, Andriy Palenko? Your definite plan was to drop them both off in London, then go on to Sheffield. Now suddenly you are not just kitchen hand, but kitchen arms, legs, shoulders, back, feet, et cetera. The feet are the worst. If the floor wasn’t so greasy you could go barefoot. Yes, when you get your first week’s pay, you’ll have to get some of those spacecraft-style sneakers.
During the split in their shift, they just wandered around the streets, which was not intelligent because by the time the evening shift starts their feet are already aching. The heat is intense in the kitchen, and the atmosphere frenetic. Do this! Fetch that! Faster! Faster! All the time his hands are wet and slimy from the strong detergent, his sleeves soaked, his feet skidding on the slippery floor, and each breath taking in a lungful of steam and grease.
The chef, Gilbert, is an Australian, a big beefy man with a terrible temper, but a magician in the kitchen, wielding the big knives, chopping and slicing like a wizard. This cooking business—Andriy had always thought of it as women’s work, but seeing Gilbert go at a piece of meat with a blade, then fling it in a smoking pan with a hiss of burning—that looks quite interesting. Maybe he will even learn something. Gilbert has two assistants who are from Spain—or maybe Colombia—who fly around at Gilbert’s command, and a team of choppers, stirrers, and assemblers. And there is Dora, the only woman in the kitchen, who does desserts. Then there are the kitchen hands—himself and Huan—who clear and scrape the plates, wash the dishes, mop up spillages, and hump big sacks of stuff when the others command—really it’s like being a slave with ten masters, of whom Dora, who is maybe Croatian or Montenegran, and no beauty, is the worst.
As the evening wears on, there is less shouting from Gilbert and more shrieking from Dora. More dirty plates to clean. More soap and steam. He can already feel an itchy rash developing between his fingers. At least on the coal face you could set your own pace. When Gilbert slips outside for a cigarette, the Colombians sometimes let him taste one of the special dishes, but after a while his gut aches as much as the rest of his body, and all he wants is to sit down near the open back door, where occasionally a slight breeze stirs the soupy air.
Sometimes, as the double doors swing open, he catches a glimpse of Irina in the dining room, gliding from table to table—she has been put to serving drinks, so she seldom comes into the kitchen. She’s done her hair in two plaits, which makes her look even younger, like a voluptuous schoolgirl in her black-and-white uniform. You can see the eyes of the men following her as she moves around the room. Who is she smiling at like that? Why is her blouse so low-cut? Why did she find it necessary to buy such a short skirt? When she bends over to pour a drink you can see…no, not quite. Look at the way that man is staring at her.
Long after the chefs and wait staff have gone home, the kitchen hands still have to clear up and mop the floor and get everything straight for the next day. Irina waits in the dining room, sitting on one chair with her feet up on another, picking at a dish the Colombians prepared for her.
It is almost one o’clock by the time they can go. The night is still and starry. Andriy breathes in huge gulps of the cool smoke-tainted air until he feels quite dizzy. They still have a good half hour’s walk back to the trailer. He walks, putting one foot in front of the other, like a robot. Robot. The word means “work” in Russian. That’s what he is. A machine that works.
“Not so fast, Andriy.”
He realizes she’s struggling to keep up with him.
“Sorry.”
“Look, Andriy. This is for you. I can pay you back what I borrowed.”
She reaches down into the opening of that absurdly low-cut blouse and pulls out a rolled-up twenty-pound note.
“Where did you get this?”
“A man gave it to me. A customer.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why. He just did. I was serving his drink.”
“I saw him staring down into your blouse. You look like a tart in those clothes.”
“No I don’t. I look like a waitress. Don’t be so stupid, Andriy.”
“Keep your money. I don’t want it.”
“No, you take it. It’s for you. What I borrowed. Why are you being like this?”
“I said I don’t want it.”
He sticks his hands in his pockets, and thrusts his chin down, and they walk on in silence like that. Why is he being like this?
The way that old man looked at me made my skin crawl like maggots. He got out his wallet, took a twenty-pound note and rolled it between his fingers very ostentatiously, then as I leaned forward with his glass, he pushed it down inside my bra. I could feel it there all evening, stiff and prickly between my breasts.
The restaurant had been quite busy, with all the tables occupied and a few people waiting by the door, the waiters rushing from table to table trying to keep their cool, and Zita the manageress strutting around showing people to their tables with that lipsticky smile. He was sitting near the window, so probably no one else even noticed. Maybe I should have given it back. But I thought, I’ll never see him again, and I can pay Andriy back straightaway, and that’ll make things easier between us. Then Andriy got all moody, and that was the last thing I needed, because I have enough unpleasant thoughts to deal with tonight.
And the most unpleasant is this—that twenty-pound-note man reminded me of my Papa. Same build. Same rimless glasses. Same old-age-porcupine hair. He was sitting at a table on his own. I stared for a moment, startled by the likeness, then I caught his eye and quickly looked away. Probably this is how it all started—the business of the twenty-pound note—with that quick exchange of looks. But this is what’s been bothering me—had my Papa been like that? Making a fool of himself over a young girl, peering down into her blouse?
Because the girl Papa left home for, Svitlana Surokha, is almost the same age as me—in fact, she was two years ahead of me at secondary school. She is one of those girls everybody likes, pretty, with fair curly hair like a starlet, and blue eyes and a turned-up nose, always laughing and making jokes about the teachers. Then at Shevchenko University, where Papa is professor of history, she was one of the Orange student organizers. And they’d fallen in love. Just like that. That’s what Papa told Mother, and that’s what Mother told me, crying into the night, using up box after box of tissues, until her nose was all red and her eyes were puffy and squinty like a piglet’s.
Not a pretty sight. Really, no one could blame Papa for falling out of love with someone so middle-aged and unattractive who nagged at him all the time, and falling in love with someone so young and pretty and full of fun. “Fallen in love”—the pretty blond-haired student activist and the distinguished Ukrainian historian, drawn together by a love of freedom. What could be more romantic than that?
Of course, I felt sorry for Mother, with all her sniffling and soggy tissues. But really, everyone knows it’s a woman’s fault if she can’t keep hold of her man. She just has to try harder. The worst thing was, even Mother knew it, and she did try harder, dyeing her hair and putting on bright pink lipstick and that silly pink scarf. But then she couldn’t stop herself nagging at him in a really humiliating way. “Vanya, don’t you love me just one little bit?” It only made things worse. I’ll never make that mistake.
That Mr. Twenty Pounds—his appearance reminded me of Papa—an elderly respectable man, probably with a middle-aged wife and family tucked away somewhere out of sight. But the look in his eyes was the look of Vulk. Hungry eyes. You like flovver…? Greedy eyes. The way the man watched me was not romantic, it was like a cat watching a mouse, concentrating on its every movement, anticipating the pleasure of catching it.
Had my dear craggy crumpled Papa looked at Svitlana Surokha in that way? Is that what men are like?
Andriy had his head down and that moody look on his face and he was walking too fast for me again, but I wasn’t going to ask him to slow down. I wasn’t going to be the first to speak. I didn’t even blame Papa. I just felt a big empty hole of disappointment in the middle of my heart, not only with Papa, but with this whole man-woman-romance thing. You go through life waiting for the one to come along, kisses by moonlight, eternal love, Mr. Brown and his mysterious bulge, faithful beyond the grave; then suddenly you realize that what you’ve been waiting for doesn’t exist after all, and you’ll have to settle for something second-rate. What a let down.
So when after ten minutes of silence Andriy suddenly slipped his arm around me, I just pulled away. “Don’t!”
And then straightaway I wished I hadn’t, but it was too late. Sorry, I didn’t mean it. Please put your arm back. But you can’t say that, can you?
That’s it, then. In a few days he’ll collect his week’s wages, then he’ll be off to Sheffield. No point in hanging around here and making a fool of himself, chasing after a girl who has not the slightest interest in him. This London, it is exciting, it gives you plenty to think about, and to tell the truth he is glad he stayed here for a short time and tasted its bittersweet flavors. And it will be good to travel north with money in his pocket. But it’s time to go. The girl will be all right. She can stay in the accommodations that come with the job, whatever they are, and she seems to be bringing home something in tips as well as her wages. Probably that’s why she wears that blouse. Well, that’s her business. It means nothing to him. She can sort out her passport, though she seems to be in no hurry to do this, and save up for her fare, and even buy a few nice clothes if that’s what she wants. He doesn’t have to worry about her. He will take the trailer, and Dog. He is quite looking forward to being by himself, on the road.
They are within a block of the place where the trailer and Land Rover are parked when they hear the sound of Dog barking furiously and an intermittent dull thudding noise. As they get closer the sound intensifies, along with a babble of shrill voices. He quickens his step, then breaks into a run.
As they turn the last corner, they see a horde of children surrounding the trailer, pelting it with bricks. Dog is barking frantically, dodging the stones, and trying to chase them off. Where did these little buggers come from? In the shadowless orange glow of the street lights the small figures are dancing about like a bizarre bacchanal. One of them has set a pile of sticks and paper under one end of the trailer and is tossing lighted matches at it.
“What you doing? Stop it!” Andriy races toward them swinging his arms. The children stop, but only for a second. Nearest to him is a raggedy boy with hair like a rat’s nest. Their eyes meet. The boy picks up half a brick and lobs it at him.
“Yecontgitmeeyafacka yecontgitme!”
It falls short. Andriy runs at the little fiend, grabs him by both arms and swings him around, throwing him sideways. The kid staggers as he hits the ground.
“Fackyafackyafackincant!”
Andriy grabs at another kid, who dodges out of his way and starts to run, and another who wriggles out of his grasp, lithe as a cat, and darts off, showering him with spit. Even Irina is getting stuck in. She snatches one of the boys by the arm, and when he spits and swears at her she spits and swears back and gives him a hard wallop on the behind. Where did she learn those words? Dog snarls and launches himself at the boy with the matches just as the fire starts to catch on the paper. The smell of smoke drifts toward them. The children scatter, shouting and throwing stones behind them as they run. Dog chases after the stragglers, snapping at their heels.
The paper has caught fire and now the sticks are crackling under the trailer, sending smoke and
sparks into the air. Dog is going mad. Quick as a flash, Andriy unzips his trousers and pees on the flames. There is a hiss and a bit of smoke, but not too much damage to the trailer. Why is she looking at him with that grin on her face? It was an emergency. Well, let her look. Let her grin. What is she to him?
He sits down on the step of the trailer and rests his head in his hands, surrendering to the fatigue. But she has to come and squeeze down beside him. Her arm, her thigh—where her skin touches his, it’s like hot steel. This girl—why does she have to get under his skin? If it isn’t going to lead to any possibility, why can’t she just leave him alone?
The thought makes him feel bleakly irritated, both with her and with himself. And something else is bothering him—the look in the rat-boy’s eyes as he swung him into the air. They weren’t the sparkling mischievous eyes of a naughty kid having fun. They were blank dead-pool eyes—eyes that have already seen too much. Like the naked girl in the four-by-four. Like the Ukrainian boys on the pier. Why are there so many people in the world with those dead zombie eyes?
“Andriy?”
“What?”
“We can’t stay here.”
“Why not?”
“Those children—they’ll come back while we’re asleep. They’ll set fire to the trailer with us inside.”
“No they won’t.”
Why can’t she just shut up and leave him alone?
“They might. And even if they don’t come back tonight, the trailer won’t be safe here. They’re bound to be back.”
“Well, we can move it in the morning.”
He feels exhaustion like a trickle of molten lead seeping and solidifying inside his limbs. He must have pulled his shoulder swinging the boy, and there are other obscure aches in his back and legs. He needs to sleep.
Strawberry Fields Page 22
