Two Caravans Part 22

The driver was a young man about the same age as Andriy. He had small round gla.s.ses, some fluffy ginger curls on his chin that looked as if they were struggling to be a beard, and ginger hair pulled into a ponytail-a thick curly ponytail, not like...In my opinion men should not have long hair. Andriy's hair is not too long. And it is not too short.

"My name's Rock."

In fact it was hard to imagine someone who looked less like a rock. He reminded me of a shy little snail travelling in his sh.e.l.l home. We introduced ourselves, and it was just as well we were soon on friendly terms, because the caravan went as slowly as a snail, and it was clear that the journey was going to be a long one.

Nine Ladies

It will be a miracle if we ever make it to Sheffield, thinks Andriy. This old single-decker bus must be fifty years old at least, with prehistoric transmission, only four gears plus reverse, on a long angled gear-stick, like the old Volgas. The engine drones like a swarm of bees, and when it picks up speed-the maximum is forty Ks per hour-the whole body shakes and vibrates. Even in Ukraine, to undertake a long journey in such a vehicle, you would call in the priest and ask for a blessing or two.

There is something else he notices-the smell from the engine. It is actually quite a pleasant smell. It reminds him-this seems strange-of the little restaurant on the corner of Rebetov Street. Fried potatoes. Irina sits up and sniffs the air.

"Fish and chip?" she says.

"Nearly," says Rock. "Actually, it runs on used chip fat-I converted it missen. Burns up t'excess by-products of consumerism. Not strictly legal, because you don't pay tax on it. But, as Jimmy Binbag said, the chips of wrath are wiser than the vinegar of instruction."

She is sitting next to him at the front, gripping onto the edges of the double seat. Andriy catches her eye.

"Are all Angliski drivers crazy?" she whispers in Ukrainian.

"Seems so," he whispers back. "At least this one is not speed maniac."

"So where are you two from, then?" Rock relaxes into a steady thirty Ks per hour, resting his forearms on the wheel and rolling a cigarette at the same time.

"Ukraine. You know it?"

"Aye." He pauses to lick the paper. "We had some Ukrainians up in Barnsley. Miners."

"My father was miner," says Andriy.

"Snap," says Rock. "Mine too. Before he died."

"He died in accident?"

"Neh. Pneumoconiosis. Black lung."

"Mine died in accident. Roof falling down."

"f.u.c.kin' roof fall. That's tragic. Sorry, pal."

"You still miner?" asks Andriy.

"Neh. They shut all t' pits round us. Anyroad, me dad said I were too soft. Said I should get educated, instead. What use is educated in Barnsley, I said. Anyroad, I went to college and did mechanical engineering. But then I thought to missen, in't engineering part of t' problem? So I decided to do this, instead."

Still resting his forearms on the wheel, he strikes a match and lights the cigarette. Puffs of sweetish smoke billow through the bus. "You still a miner?"

"I was. Before Father's accident. Now I cannot go back down. I cannot work underground. So I have no work. I come in England for picking strawberry."

"Aye, it's all c.r.a.p. As Jimmy Binbag said, when t' toilet of capitalism is flushed, all t'c.r.a.p rains down on them below."

He takes another deep puff and holds the smoke in his lungs. Then he pa.s.ses the cigarette to Andriy. Andriy shakes his head.

"My father said, when miner goes underground, death may visit. When miner smokes, death is invited."

"Jesus! I bet that put you off! Anyroad, I thought they'd shut all t' mines in Ukraine."

"Many was shut. Then we open them again."

"You opened t' mines?"

"Miners did it. With our hands."

"Weren't that a bit dangerous?"

"Of course. Also illegal. Working in seam one metre tall. Thirty-seven degrees of heat. One hundred per cent of humidity. No ventilatsya ventilatsya. No safety vikhod vikhod. No power tool. Only with pick in our hand we go back underground to cut coal. Then we sell it for money. You know, in this time there is no other work. We have to live."

"Holy f.u.c.k."

The swarm of bees drones on, soothing and purposeful. A few drops of rain spatter against the windscreen. Irina sighs and stirs, her head heavy on his left shoulder. She is asleep. She hasn't heard anything. One day, he will tell her the whole story: the bright spring morning; the hole in the ground, gaping like a wound, where they lowered themselves into the earth; the stifling darkness that swallowed them up. Those first tremors. Then the long roar of the explosion. The shaking. The tumbling boulders from the roof. The voices shouting, screaming. Then the silence. Black dust. He moves his arm up and enfolds her, pulling her head onto his chest. Her hair flows over him like streamers of dark silk.

Behind the front seats, a curtain made out of an old sheet has been strung across the bus. It is only partly drawn and Andriy can see into the back, where all the seats have been taken out apart from four, which are arranged around a square makeshift table. In one corner is a low cupboard with a gas ring on top, and some cardboard boxes in which clothes, food and pans are jumbled together. The rest of the floor s.p.a.ce is taken up by a double mattress, with some grey-brown tousled bedding.

"You convert this bus youself?"

"Aye. It weren't hard."

"I would like to do something like this. Get old bus. Convert. Travel round world."

Would Irina come with him, he wonders, on a trip like this? And Dog? On the mattress in the back of the bus, Dog is snoring and farting in his usual vigorous way and Rock's dog, curled up beside him, is sniffing and sighing more delicately.

"I'm not sure Alice would make it round t' world."

"Alice is your girlfriend?"

"Neh, Alice is the bus. My girlfriend's called Thunder."

Hm. Interesting name for woman. Quite s.e.xy.

"She is also miner?"

"Neh. They don't have women miners over here. Mind you, if they did, she'd be ace."

"Rock, if you not miner or engineer, what work you do?"

"Me?" Rock takes another long drag on his cigarette and adjusts the little round gla.s.ses that have slipped over to one side. "I suppose you could say I'm a warrior, like."

"Warrior like? This is your job?"

"Neh, not a job. More like a calling. Aye, an earth warrior. Defending t' earth from t' vile clutches of corporate greed." He starts to giggle.

"Hm. This is original."

"Aye, you see there's this ancient stone circle up in t' Peaks. Three thousand year old. And some greedy b.a.s.t.a.r.d wants to open up a quarry right beside it. So us warriors-we've made a camp there, up in t' trees. They can't blast the quarry without cutting t' trees down. And now they can't cut t' trees down, because of us"-he giggles again-"defending our ancient British heritage from tentacles of globalisation, in Jimmy's immortal words."

This Jimmy sounds an interesting type.

"But why for they make quarry in such historic place?"

"Greed, man. Sheer greed. All for export. Building boom in America. Turn muck into bra.s.s. Jimmy calls 'em t' enemy within."

He has become quite agitated, staring all around him with anxious eyes.

"In Ukraine was same," says Andriy soothingly. "Everything was sold. Now is nothing left."

"Was it Ukraine where they had all them protests? Summat about t' election? Orange banners an' all that?" His voice has become calm again, almost dreamy.

"That also was greed. Few businessmen have got all public a.s.set into their hand. Now they will sell to West."

"Andriy, you are talking complete rubbish!"

She sits bolt upright, rubbing her eyes.

"I thought you were asleep."

"How can I sleep when you talk such rubbish?"

"Is not rubbish, Irina. You know nothing about our lives in the East."

They have slipped into Ukrainian, and raised their voices. Rock watches them with a benign smile on his face, leaning low over the steering wheel. The bus is going incredibly slowly now, barely ten Ks per hour.

"I know what is good for Ukraine, Andriy"-she stabs her finger at him-"and it is not to be dominated by Russia."

What's got into her? OK, so now it is time for re-education to begin.

"Is not domination, is economic integration, Irina. Integrated production, integrated market." He speaks slowly and clearly. Can she, a young girl with a head full of feminine things, be capable of understanding such ideas? "Ukrainian economy and Russian economy was one. Without Russia, Ukrainian industry collapsed."

"Andriy, Russia has been robbing Ukraine under the Tsars, under communism, now under economic integration. It is just a different name for the same thing. At least with Yuschenko we can build our own independent economy."

Her voice has taken on an irritating preachy note which is not at all attractive in a woman. She should stick to womanly topics, not meddle her pretty nose in politics.

"Irina, the main people who have been robbing Ukraine are our fellow Ukrainians. Kravchuk, Kuchma, your Timoshenko-all of them billionaires. You know, when they closed coal mines in Donbas, there was European money to help miners, for new industries to replace old. What happened? All money went into pockets of officials. New Ukrainian officials, not Russian. Mobilfon-men. Mines were sold, stripped of machinery, closed. No new industries replaced them. In desperation, miners went underground themselves to dig for coal. Can you imagine in what conditions? Can you imagine this for one moment, Irina?"

"There's no need to shout."

"I'm sorry." She is right. Shouting will not bring him back. "In one of these mines my father died."

"Oh, Andriy!" She puts her hands up to her mouth. "Oh, why didn't you tell me before? I'm very sorry. I'm so very sorry."

Tears brim up into her eyes, and there's such a look of pain on her face that he has to take her in his arms again to comfort her. He will have to go more softly with re-education next time.

"It's not your fault, Irina. Please don't cry. You didn't kill him with your own hands."

She sighs. She buries her face in him. He strokes the dark bird's-wing of her hair that settles against his chest.

Wait a minute-what's happening now? The bus seems to have slowed almost to a halt and is drifting gently across the road. Rock is slumped forward over the wheel, sighing softly and still giggling a little. Andriy leans over, grabs the wheel, and tries to guide the bus back on course, giving Rock a hard dig with his elbow at the same time. Rock shakes his head, blinks, smiles, resettles the gla.s.ses which have almost slipped off his nose, then takes control of the wheel again.

"No stress, our lad. Time for a little kip."

At the next service station he pulls off the road, parks the bus, drapes himself over the steering wheel, and in a few minutes he is fast asleep. Irina wanders off to find the washroom. Andriy sits in the bus, listening to the snoring sounds of Rock and the dogs, and feeling impatience build up in him like steam in a cylinder. Will they ever get to Sheffield?

"What's the matter with him?" whispers Irina, climbing up into the seat beside him, looking bright-faced and relaxed.

"Tired from driving. You know, this old bus. No power steering."

He has a pretty good idea about the cigarette, but he doesn't want to alarm her.

Half an hour or so later Rock wakes up, scratches his head, shakes himself all over like a dog and immediately goes off in search of something to eat. As he steps down out of the bus Andriy notices for the first time how small he is-he looks like a curly-haired elf in his baggy earthy clothes as he skips off towards the service area. He returns a few minutes later with a bottle of water, an orange, a loaf of sliced bread and four bars of chocolate. Andriy reaches in his pocket for some money, but Rock shakes his head.

"No stress. I liberated them."

He peels the orange methodically, sharing out the segments one at a time between the three of them. Then he breaks up the chocolate bars and does the same. Then he carefully counts out the slices of the loaf. He seems to be in no hurry to go anywhere. Behind the little round gla.s.ses, his eyes have gone pink.

"I can drive if you like it," says Andriy.

"No stress," says Rock.

Half an hour later, when they have finished eating, he fills up the tank from a drum in the luggage box, hands Andriy the keys to the bus and crawls into the back.

"Move over, Maryjane," he says, and stretches out between the dogs. Soon, the three of them are snoring in chorus with the drone of the engine. In the front pa.s.senger seat Irina seems to have drifted off to sleep too.

Sitting behind the wheel, Andriy is doing his best to concentrate on the road. Well, for one thing, he was right about the steering-this old bus is even worse than the Land Rover. The gear movement is fiendish, too. Fortunately, once they are on the road, there isn't much steering or gear-changing to do, nothing much to do, in fact, but to sit there and watch the kilometres slip slowly by.

The promised rain has not materialised, and the sky is still heavy and hot. It is early evening now, and the traffic has built up a bit. Not that it makes any difference to him-theirs is by far the slowest vehicle on the road. It is surprising, he thinks, that Sheffield doesn't seem to be getting any closer. Surely they would have seen a sign for it by now. On their left is a sign for Leeds. Is that not somewhere in the north? Then a sign to York. Well, at least they are in the right county. But isn't Sheffield supposed to be in South Yorkshire? Where has it disappeared to?

Irina wakes up, and reaches over to touch his hand.

"Are we nearly there now?"

"I think so."

"Tell me something else about this Sheffield."

"Well, you know, Sheffield is the first city in England to be declared a socialist republic, and the ruler, this Vloonki, is known throughout the world for his progressive policies."