A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian

Eight. A green satin bra

Another crisis. This time it’s the telephone bill. It is more than seven hundred pounds, almost all of which is for phone calls to Ukraine. My father rings me.

“Can you lend me please five hundred pounds?”

“Pappa, this has to stop. Why should I pay for her to make telephone calls to Ukraine?”

“Not just she. Stanislav also.”

“Well, both of them. They can’t just ring up and chat to their friends. Tell her she must pay it herself out of her wages.”

“Hmm. Yes.” He puts the phone down.

He telephones my sister.

She rings me.

“You’ve heard about the telephone bill? Honestly! Whatever next?”

“I told him he must get Valentina to pay. I’m not going to subsidise her.” My voice is Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells.

“Of course that’s exactly what I said, Nadezhda.” My sister is even better at D. of T. W. than I am. “And do you know what he said? He said, she can’t pay for the telephone bill because she has to pay for the car.”

“But I thought he bought her the car.”

“Another car. A Lada. She’s buying it to take back to Ukraine.”

“So she has two cars?”

“It seems so. Of course these people-they are communists. I’m sorry, Nadezhda. I know what you’re going to say. But they’ve always had everything they wanted, every luxury, every privilege, and now they can’t rip off the system any more over there, they want to come over here and rip off our system. Well, I’m sorry…”

“It’s not quite as simple as that, Vera.”

“You see in this country, communists are harmless little people with beards and sandals. But once they get into power, suddenly a new vicious type of personality emerges.”

“No, it’s the same people who are always in power, Vera. Sometimes they call themselves communists, sometimes capitalists, sometimes devoutly religious-whatever they need to be to hang on to power. The former communists in Russia are the same people who own all the industries now. They’re the real rip-off merchants. But the professional middle classes, people like Valentina’s husband, have been hardest hit.”

“Of course I knew you would disagree with me, Nadezhda, and really I don’t want to argue about this. I know where your sympathies really lie. But I could see straightaway what kind of people they were.”

“But you haven’t seen them yet.”

“But I can see from your description.”

Silly cow. No point in arguing with her. But still it irks me that she doesn’t think twice about lashing out at me, even in our new alliance.

I telephone my father.

“Aha,” he says. “Yes, the Lada. She bought it for her brother. You see her brother was living in Estonia, but he was expelled because he failed the Estonian Language examination. He is pure Russian, you see. Talks pure Russian. Couldn’t speak one word of Estonian. But after independence, this new Estonian Government wants to expel all Russians. So her brother must go. Now Valentina, she speaks Ukrainian and Russian. Speaks both very good. Stanislav, too. Good vocabulary. Good pronunciation.”

“About the Lada.”

“Aha, yes, Lada. Her brother had a Lada, you see, which was smashed up. Smashed his face up, too. In a night, he went fishing, catching fish through a hole in ice. Very cold, sitting long time on a snow, waiting for some fish. Very cold in Estonia. So to make himself warm he drinks vodka. Now alcohol of course is not a combustion fuel in the way of kerosene or gasoline that is used for tractors, but it has certain warming properties. But at some cost. Well, cost is this. He drinks too much, skids on ice. Smashes up Lada. Smashes up his face, too. But I ask myself, why should I helping a man who is not only not a Ukrainian, but is so much a Russian that he fails Estonian Language examination? Tell me this.”

“So she bought him a new Lada?”

“Not new. Second-hand. Not too expensive, by the way. One thousand pounds. You see in this country Lada is not considered to be chic car.” (He pronounces it the French way-“sheek’. He fancies himself as a bit of a francophone.) Too heavy body for engine size. Inefficient fuel consumption. Old-style transmission. But in Ukraina a Lada is good because plenty of spare parts. Maybe it isn’t even for her brother. Maybe she will sell and make a good profit.”

“So she’s driving about in two cars?”

“No. Lada sits in garage. Rover sits on drive.”

“But she has no money to pay the phone bill.”

“Aha. Telephone. Now here is a problem. Too much talking. Husband, brother, sister, mother, uncle, auntie, friend, cousin. Sometimes Ukrainian but mostly Russian.” As if he wouldn’t mind paying the bill if it was for talking in Ukrainian. “Not intelligent talking. Chatterbox talking.” He wouldn’t mind paying the bill if it was for talking about Nietzsche and Schopenhauer.

“Pappa, tell her if she doesn’t pay the phone will be cut off.”

“Hmm. Yes.” He says yes, but his tone says no.

He can’t do it. He can’t stand up to her. Or maybe he doesn’t really want to. He just wants to complain, to have our sympathy.

“You must be firmer with her.” I can feel his resistance down the telephone line, but I plug on. “She doesn’t understand. She believes that in the West everyone is a millionaire.”

“Aha.”

A few days later he rings again. The Rover has broken down again. This time it’s the hydraulic braking system. Oh, and it failed its MOT. He needs to borrow more money.

“Only until I get my pension.”

“You see?” I rage at Mike. “They’re both completely mad. Both of them. Why can’t I come from a normal family?”

“Think how dull it would be.”

“Oh, I think I could put up with a bit of dullness. I just don’t want all this-not at my time of life.”

“Well don’t let yourself get too worked up about it, because one thing you can be certain of-it’s going to get worse.” He takes a can of cold beer from the fridge and pours it into two glasses. “You’ve got to give him a chance to have his bit of fun. You shouldn’t interfere.”

Afterwards, I regretted that I hadn’t interfered more, and earlier.

It’s impossible, I realise, to keep tabs on things by phone. Time for another visit. I don’t warn my father this time.

Valentina is out when we arrive, but Stanislav is there. He is up in his room doing his homework, bent low over the page. He works hard. Good boy.

“Stanislav,” I say, “what’s going on with this car? It seems to be causing a lot of trouble.”

“Oh, no trouble. It’s all right now. All fixed.” He smiles his cute chipped-tooth smile.

“But Stanislav, can’t you persuade your mother it would be better to have a smaller car that’s more reliable than this big shiny monster that costs a fortune to run? My father hasn’t got that much money, you know.”

“Oh, it’s OK now. It’s a very nice car.”

“But wouldn’t you have been better off with something more reliable, like a Ford Fiesta?”

“Oh, Ford Fiesta is not a good car. You know, when we were coming here on the motorway we saw a terrible accident between a Ford Fiesta and a Jaguar, and the Ford Fiesta was quite crushed underneath the Jaguar. So you see the bigger car is much better.”

Is he serious?

“But Stanislav, my father can’t afford a big car.”

“Oh, I think he can.” Sweet smile. “He has enough money. He gave Anna some money, didn’t he?” The spectacles slip down his nose. He pushes them back, and looks up at me, meeting my eyes with a cool stare. Maybe not such a good boy.

“Yes, but…” What can I say? “…that’s up to him.”

“Exactly so.”

There are quick footsteps on the stairs and Valentina bursts into the bedroom. She chides Stanislav for talking to me. “Stop talk this bad-news peeping no-tits crow.” She has forgotten that I speak Ukrainian, or she doesn’t care.

“No matter, Valentina,” I say. “It’s you I want to talk to. Shall we go downstairs?”

She follows me down into the kitchen. Stanislav comes down too, but Valentina sends him into the next room where Pappa is explaining at length to Mike about the comparative safety features of different braking systems, stubbornly avoiding reference to the specific problems of the Rover, while Mike is striving against the odds to steer the conversation in this direction.

“Why you want for talk?” Valentina positions herself opposite me and a little too dose. Her lipstick is an angry red smudge around the edges of her mouth.

“I think you know why, Valentina.”

“Know? Why I know?”

I had planned a rational discussion, a cool unfolding of logical arguments which would end up in a gracious admission of guilt on her part, a smiling, rueful acceptance that things would have to change. But all I feel is a burning, blinding rage and my arguments desert me. Blood beats in my head.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” I have slipped into the mongrel language, half-English half-Ukrainian, fluent and snappy.

“Ah-shamed! Ah-shamed!” she snorts. “You shame. No me shame. Why you no visit you mamma grave? Why you no crying, bringing flower? Why you making trouble here?”

The thought of my mother lying neglected in the cold ground while this usurper lords it in her kitchen drives me to a new pitch of fury.

“Don’t dare to talk about my mother. Don’t even say her name with your filthy-talking boil-in-the-baggage mouth!”

“You mother die. Now you father marry me. You no like. You make trouble. I understand. I no stupid.”

She speaks the mongrel language too. We snarl at each other like mongrels.

“Valentina, why are you driving around in two cars, when my father doesn’t have enough money to pay for the repairs on one car? Why are you talking on the telephone to Ukraina while he’s asking me for money to pay the bills? You tell me!”

“He give you money. Now you give him money,” the big red mouth taunts.

“Why should my father pay for your cars? For your telephone bills? You have work. You earn money. You should contribute something to the household.” I have worked myself up into a lather of righteous anger, and the words come pouring out, some English, some Ukrainian, mixed up any old how.

“You father buy me nothing!” She leans forward and shouts into my face so close that I can feel a fine shower of saliva on my skin. I can smell armpits and hair lacquer. “No car! No jewel! No clothes!” (She pronounces it in two syllables-cloth-es.) “No cosmetic! No undercloth-es!” She yanks up her t-shirt top to display those ferocious breasts bursting like twin warheads out of an underwired, ribbon-strapped, lycra-panelled, lace-trimmed green satin rocket-launcher of a bra.

“I buy all! I work! I buy!”

When it comes to bosoms, I have to admit defeat. I am lost for words. In the silence that fells, I hear my father’s voice in the next room, droning on. He is telling Mike the story about pencils in space. I have heard it many times before. So has Mike.

“In early days of space travel, one interesting problem emerged from experiments with weightlessness. Americans found that for writing notes and keeping records, normal ink pen would not work without gravity feed. Scientists undertook intensive research, finally developed high-technology pen to work in conditions of no gravity. In Russia, scientists faced with same problem found different solution. Instead of pen, they used pencil. That is how Russians put pencils into space.”

How can my father be so blind to what is happening to him?

I turn on Valentina.

“My father is an innocent man. Stupid but innocent. You spend all your money on tart underwear and tart make-up! Is it because my father’s not enough for you, ey? Is it because you’re after another man, or two or three or four, ey? I know what you are, and soon enough my father will know. Then we’ll see!”

Stanislav exclaims, “Wow! I didn’t know Nadezhda could speak such Ukrainian!”

Then the doorbell rings. Mike answers. It’s the Zadchuks. They’re standing on the doorstep with a bunch of flowers and a home-made cake.

“Come in! Come in!” says Mike. “You’re just in time for tea.”

They hover in the doorway. They have caught sight of Valentina’s thunderous face. (The breasts are re-covered.)

“Come in,” says Valentina with a pout. They are her friends, after all, and she may need them.

“Come in,” I say, “I’ll put the kettle on.” I need time to rally, to get my breath back.

Although it is October, the weather is mild and sunny. We will drink tea in the garden. Mike and Stanislav set out deck-chairs and an old wonky camping table under the plum tree.

“Good you come,” says Pappa to the Zadchuks, settling back into the creaking canvas. “Good cake. My Millochka used to make like this.”

Valentina takes this as a slight.

“In Tesco is better.”

Mrs Zadchuk is offended.

“I like baking cake better.”

Mr Zadchuk springs to her defence.

“Why you buying cake in Tesco, Valentina? Why you no baking? Woman should bake.”

Valentina is still in full eruption-mode from her encounter with me.

“I no time to baking. All day working for money. Buy cake. Buy clothes. Buy car. No-good meanie husband give no money.”

I am afraid the t-shirt will come up again, but she satisfies herself with a dramatic bosom-lunge in my father’s direction. Alarmed, he looks to Mike for help. Mike, not knowing enough Ukrainian to understand what is going on, fatally returns to the subject of cake, and ingratiates himself with Mrs Zadchuk by helping himself to another large slice.

“Mmm. Delicious.”

Mrs Zadchuk’s pink cheeks glow. She pats his thigh.

“You good eat. I like man good eat. Why you no eat more, Yuri?”

Mr Zadchuk takes this as a slight.

“Too much cake make fatty turn. You fatty, Margaritka. Little bit fatty.”

Mrs Zadchuk takes this as a slight.

“Better fatty than skinny. Look Nadezhda. She starving Bangladesh-lady.”

I take this as a slight. Righteously, I draw in my stomach. “Thin is good. Thin is healthy. Thin people live longer.”

All of them turn on me with howls of derisive laughter.

“Thin is hunger! Thin is famine! Everybody thin drop over dead! Ha ha!”

“I like fatty,” says my father. He places a placatory wizened hand on Valentina’s breast and gives it a little squeeze. Blood rushes to my head. I jump up and accidentally catch the leg of the table, sending the teapot and the remains of the cake sliding on to the ground.

The tea party has not been a success.

After the Zadchuks have gone, there is still the washing-up to be done, and some dirty linen to be washed. Valentina pulls on rubber gloves over pearlised-pink-tipped fingers. I shove her aside.

“I’ll do it,” I say. “I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. You’re obviously too fine for this, Valentina. Too fine for my father, don’t you think? Not too fine to spend his money, though. Eh?”

She lets out a shriek. “Vixen! Crow! You get out my kitchen! Out my house!”

“Not your house! My mother’s house!” I shriek back.

My father comes running into the kitchen.

“Nadezhda, why you poking your nose in here? Not your business!”

“Pappa, you crazy man. First you say Valentina spends all your money. Lend me a hundred pounds. Lend me five hundred pounds. Then you say I shouldn’t poke my nose in. Make your mind up.”

“I say lend money. I no say poke nose in.” His jaw is clenched. His fists are clenched. He is beginning to shake. I remember when this look used to strike terror in me, but I am taller than he is now.

“Pappa, why should I give money for you to spend on this grasping deceitful painted…” Bitch, bitch, bitch! I think. But my feminist mouth won’t say it.

“Go out! Go out and never come back! You are not my daughter Nadezhda!” He fixes me with pale demented eyes.

“Fine,” I say. “Fine by me. Who wants you for a Dad anyway? You cuddle up with your fat-bosom wife and leave me out of it.”

I grab my things and rush out to the car. After a few moments, Mike follows.

As we leave the outskirts of Peterborough and head out for the open country, Mike ventures, in a jocular sort of way, “What a crazy bunch you are.”

“Shut up!” I shriek. “Just shut up and keep your nose out of it!” Then I feel ashamed. I have surrendered to the madness. We drive home in silence. Mike searches the radio waves for soothing music.