Two Caravans Part 6

She stares, feeling a little embarra.s.sed at her own shabbiness. Already the curly-haired smiling strawberry-picking Vitaly with his appealingly wayward air has dissolved into this new smoothly confident businessman who slips effortlessly between Polish and English.

"It is a pity you have to go back so soon. I can find you an excellent employment in this area. High wage. Comfortable living situation."

"Oh, Vitaly, how you speak temptation! I would stay, but I think Ciocia Yola wants to go home. She misses her son." She catches the sinful twinkle in his eye, and thinks how pleasant it would be to lead him back to the path of righteousness.

At that moment, Yola and Tomasz reappear with thunderous faces. They have not been able to change their tickets. The office is closed. They have been told by someone-they are not sure who-that they must come back tomorrow or go to the office in town and queue for a possible cancellation. Now they are arguing about who it was who gave them this information, and what exactly she said. Yola says she was the office cleaner or maybe another disgruntled pa.s.senger, and her word is not to be trusted. Tomasz says she was an official from the port authority, and it is unfortunate that Yola sent her away with a wasp in her ear without listening to what she had to say.

"Why could they not simply put a notice up, instead of making us run around like idiots in this heat?" fumes Ciocia Yola. "Where is toilet? Did you find toilet, Marta? Who is this?" She stares. "Vitaly?"

Vitaly extends his hand, and shakes hers warmly.

"I hear you are thinking of returning to Poland, Yola."

"Who has told you this?"

"Ciocia, I told him," says Marta in her most soothing voice. "Don't be cross. But Vitaly says he can find us excellent high-wage work in this area. Vitaly, tell Ciocia what it is you do."

"Recruitment consultant. Cutting edge fwhit fwhit dynamic employment solution consultant with advance flexible capacity for meets all your organisational staffing need." He seems to be picking up speed as he repeats it.

"My G.o.d!" says Yola. "Vitaly, you have become somebody."

He lowers his head modestly.

"I am working for British company. Nightingale Human Solution. I have been on training seminar training seminar."

"Trenning semeenar-what is this, Vitaly?" Marta cannot conceal the wonder in her voice.

"Oh, is nothing," Vitaly smiles modestly. "Anyone can do it. You only have to learn some words in English. And of course contacts. The main thing is to have contacts."

"You have contacts, Vitaly?" asks Yola. Despite her previous status as supervisor and gang-mistress, she too is awestruck by this newly transformed Vitaly.

"He has mobilfon," whispers Marta.

Only Tomasz seems unimpressed.

"We are not seeking new employment, thank you, Vitaly. We are planning to return to Poland as soon as we can change our tickets."

"Ah, changing tickets is impossible. You will have to buy new tickets. You will need money for this."

"This excellent employment you talking about," Yola pursues. "What is this high wage?"

Vitaly pauses for a moment as though performing mental arithmetic.

"It will be in region of five or six hundred pound a week. Depends on performance. Maybe even more."

They all gasp, even Tomasz. It is three times what they were earning in the strawberry field before deductions.

"And you can say goodbye to caravan. You will be staying in luxury hotel."

"And so this employment-what will we do?" asks Marta.

"Poultry." Vitaly slips back into English. "You will be contributing to the dynamic resurgence of the poultry industry in the British Isles. Or as we say in Polish"-he winks at Marta-"you will be feeding chickens."

Marta pictures herself surrounded by a happy flock of plump brown birds, who cluck and strut as she scatters handfuls of grain among them. Her heart melts.

But Tomasz whispers to Ciocia Yola, "Think of Mirek. Remember the police."

"Yes." Ciocia Yola looks dejected. "We want no trouble. Better we go back. If we can find some way with these idiots who are running ferryboats these days. We will try again tomorrow. What do you say, Marta?"

Before Marta can say anything, Vitaly intervenes.

"I have heard, through my contacts, that as the farmer is not killed, merely injured, is no problem with police."

"But even if he is injured," says Tomasz, "they must make enquiries."

"It will be only formality. It would be pity, I think, to pa.s.s by this opportunity to earn plenty good English money. Think of investments you made in your fare for coming here. Think what luxuries you can buy for your son with this money, Yola."

"Mhm," says Yola. Marta can see the thoughts pa.s.sing across her face.

Suddenly, there is a burst of loud merry music by her ear. Di di daah da! Di di daah da! Marta jumps. It is Vitaly's mobile phone.

"Please excuse me!" He whips it out of his breast pocket and starts jabbering in a language that is not English, nor Polish, nor Ukrainian, nor Russian, waving his free hand in the air. He is getting very agitated. An argument seems to be developing. At one point, he covers the phone with his hand, and whispers to the others, "I'm very sorry, forgive me. Urgent business matter."

Marta tries to catch some words, but he is talking too fast. Yola and Tomasz are conferring together, weighing up the joy of chickens against the joys of returning to Poland, when suddenly the Chinese girls appear, clutching their well-licked stubs of ice-cream cones. They stop in mid-lick and start to giggle when they recognise Vitaly. They too are amazed at his transformation.

"He has become a...what are you, Vitaly?"

Vitaly beams, stows his phone in his pocket and puts his dark gla.s.ses back on.

"Dynamic employment cutting edge fwhit fwhit recruitment consultant for all you flexible solution."

He performs a small bow. The Chinese girls giggle even more, but Vitaly quietens them with a dramatic hand gesture, and continues in his astonishingly fluent English, "If you ladies are also seeking a new employment, I have number of interesting possibilities which I would be happy to present for your consideration."

They exchange glances that are both nervous and excited.

"I may be able to find good position for you in Amsterdam. Have you been to Amsterdam? It is a city of extraordinary beauty, built entirely on water. Like Venice, but even better."

"I have see pictures," says Chinese Girl Two. "Is more beautiful than Kuala Lumpur."

"But no doubt you have boyfriends waiting for you back in China? You girls get up to all sorts of tricks, eh?" Vitaly's voice has become suddenly low and sweet like honey. "You naughty Chinese girls sometimes sleeping with boyfriend, eh? Make nice love?" This is more like the old smilingly sinful Vitaly than the new businessman Vitaly, thinks Marta, though she is rather surprised by his questions.

"Not boyfriend," says Chinese Girl One. Chinese Girl Two just shakes her head sadly.

"No boyfriends. That is very good news. Well"-he consults his mobile phone again, and presses a few b.u.t.tons-"I think there may be good position for you looking after children in family of diplomat. Chinese diplomat based in Amsterdam. He has six children, three boys and three girls, and you will look after three each, so that is why two persons are required. They are very intelligent children, so great care and patience are needed. You must never beat them or shout at them. Do you think you will be able to do this?"

"Yes, yes," they exclaim. "But..."

He catches Chinese Girl Two's eye and quickly adds, Temporary job. Three months only. Regular nannies are on vacation. "Hey, don't be afraid, you know me. You can trust me-I am your friend, I look after you." He winks. "You will live with this family in their large luxurious house in the heart of Amsterdam's old city. You will have your own elite apartment, and you will travel everywhere by boat. It is very prestigious position with high level of responsibility, and pay will be commensurate. You will be in euros." He glances once more at his phone. "Five thousand euros per month."

They gasp; it sounds a lot, even though they have no idea of the exchange rate from euros to pounds to yuan or ringgit. "I need to make some telephone calls to ascertain full details, and see whether this job is still available. I will meet you here tomorrow at midday. Bring your bags with you. And pa.s.sports."

"I too would be interested in such a job looking after children," says Marta.

Suddenly, the fluffy brown chickens seem much less appealing. Vitaly looks at her, studies her for a moment, focusing his gaze on her nose, and smiles kindly.

"I think looking after chickens is better for you."

After his disagreeable doze on the beach, Andriy decides it is time to take a look around Dover. Dog, still wearing his orange ribbon under his chin, comes with him, padding along at his side, sometimes going off to follow an interesting trail, then racing to catch up.

The sky has turned heavy and the light has a greyish, dirty hue. His head is aching from sleeping in the sun, and a cloud of pessimism has settled over him. He had felt so sure earlier that he would find Irina in Dover-a feeling based partly on a hunch, and partly on the fact that he too came into England via Dover, though with a different agent. But now he doesn't know where to start. He finds the streets of Dover depressing: shops closed, houses and hotels run-down, people sullen, with tight faces. It feels like a town whose heart has died. In fact it reminds him of Donetsk, idlers with no work hanging about the streets, drinking, begging, just staring. Too many strangers like himself, looking for something that isn't there, waiting for their luck to change. And all the time the dismal grating noise of the sea in the background, and the miserable wail of gulls.

As he wanders through the streets, the impossibility of his task grows on him. Where should he start to look? And why is he even looking for this girl? What happened to her has happened, and although of course you would have prevented it if you could, really she is not your responsibility. Her boxer boyfriend should be looking after her. Bye-bye, end of story.

Retracing his footsteps back to the beach, he pa.s.ses a young man with a bucket and a fishing rod. He looks Ukrainian, with his round face and dark eyes, but it turns out he's Bulgarian. He says, in a mixture of broken English, Bulgarian and Russian, that he has been fishing off the pier-he points vaguely beyond the beach-and the fish are for sale. Andriy buys a small mackerel and two other unspecified fish for fifty pence, and starts to feel more cheerful.

The others are already at the caravan by the time he gets back. The Chinese girls are sitting inside poring over their horoscopes and whispering with suppressed excitement. Tomasz has found an old piece of tarpaulin and some blue rope in the lorry park on the way back, for which he has amazing plans. Yola and Marta are eating ice creams, and Marta has brought one back for him. Emanuel has had the foresight to fill up the two empty Coca-Cola bottles with clean water from the public toilets.

Andriy feels a p.r.i.c.kle of annoyance when they tell him about their encounter with Vitaly. Bye-bye strawberry, hm? h.e.l.lo mobilfon? The others are talking excitedly about their new employment prospects. Will his pride allow him to ask Vitaly to find something for him? And if he does, will it be like the mark-up on the cans of beer-a business opportunity disguised as a favour?

"Come, Andriy," says Marta. "It will be the last night we will all spend together. We must celebrate." And suddenly Dog comes bounding up with a partly frozen chicken in his jaws.

Dear sister, Dear sister, Our small strawberry family is at an end. The Polish mzungus are to undergo chicken employment and the Chinese girls are designed for Amsterdam. Only Andree and I and the Dog will endure in the caravan. For our celebration Toemash has induced a bottle of Italian wine and we found a field near Dover which is blessed with an abundance of carrots which Martyr confronted with eagerness. The Dog also has bestowed a frozen chicken upon us. Our small strawberry family is at an end. The Polish mzungus are to undergo chicken employment and the Chinese girls are designed for Amsterdam. Only Andree and I and the Dog will endure in the caravan. For our celebration Toemash has induced a bottle of Italian wine and we found a field near Dover which is blessed with an abundance of carrots which Martyr confronted with eagerness. The Dog also has bestowed a frozen chicken upon us. While Martyr was knifing the carrots Andree and I went about to collect firewood and so we fell upon a shaded hollow where we came upon Toemash and Yola walking together and talking with solemn voices. And when they came back to the caravan Yola was holding the hand of Toemash and in the other hand a pair of woman's underwearings. While Martyr was knifing the carrots Andree and I went about to collect firewood and so we fell upon a shaded hollow where we came upon Toemash and Yola walking together and talking with solemn voices. And when they came back to the caravan Yola was holding the hand of Toemash and in the other hand a pair of woman's underwearings. Then Toemash and Andree constructed a tip-top tent from the tarpaulin and blue rope collected by Toemash, and I was given to sleep on my own in the back of the landrover befitting my small size. Then Toemash and Andree constructed a tip-top tent from the tarpaulin and blue rope collected by Toemash, and I was given to sleep on my own in the back of the landrover befitting my small size. The feast prepared for us by Martyr was outstanding and also Toemash's wine and soon it was time to sing. Toemash has composed an outstanding song about a band of travellers and their stories of love and misbehaviour which he sang with the companionship of his guitar and I would be very interesting to learn to play a guitar for Toemash has already taught me some chords. On my turn I sang the Benedictus from the B Minor Ma.s.s of Bach which Sister Theodosia taught to me and we gave thanks for the Friendship we have enjoyed together in the strawberry place. And in my heart I prayed once more to be reunited with you dear sister and for the speedy deliverance of Irina for I knew a storm was coming for the red sun went down through an angry swelling of white and grey clouds which obscured the rising of the moon. The feast prepared for us by Martyr was outstanding and also Toemash's wine and soon it was time to sing. Toemash has composed an outstanding song about a band of travellers and their stories of love and misbehaviour which he sang with the companionship of his guitar and I would be very interesting to learn to play a guitar for Toemash has already taught me some chords. On my turn I sang the Benedictus from the B Minor Ma.s.s of Bach which Sister Theodosia taught to me and we gave thanks for the Friendship we have enjoyed together in the strawberry place. And in my heart I prayed once more to be reunited with you dear sister and for the speedy deliverance of Irina for I knew a storm was coming for the red sun went down through an angry swelling of white and grey clouds which obscured the rising of the moon.

When I had finished the chips, I licked the sc.r.a.ps off the paper. Then I licked the grease off the paper. Then I considered my options.

If I turned right, I would be heading towards the row of poplars and the gleaming white field. If they were the same poplars, that way would take me back to the strawberry field, where I could collect my bag and the bit of money I'd saved, and the others would look after me and help me get away. If I turned left, it would probably take me towards Dover. I'd go to the police and they would send me back to Kiev, where my mother would be waiting for me with tears in her eyes. "I warned you, Irina, but you wouldn't listen!" she'd say, sniffling all over me. And I'd hang around in the apartment, just me and Mother and the cat, getting on each other's nerves, wishing Pappa was there, and dreaming of coming to England.

I turned right.

The sun had gone down and the light had started to fade, and now an annoying wind had sprung up. I'd better keep moving or I'd freeze to death.

I started to walk, swinging my arms briskly by my sides for warmth because I only had a light jumper. Lucky I'd put my jeans on over my shorts the other evening, when the midges started to bite. The lane wound around between tall hedges, so most of the time I couldn't see where I was going, sometimes climbing a bit, sometimes dropping down again. Nothing looked familiar. The row of poplars had disappeared from view altogether.

I lost track of how far I'd walked. A car pa.s.sed, its headlights blazing, but it didn't stop. Then it started to rain. I didn't mind at first, because I was thirsty, and I stuck my tongue out to catch the water. Then my jumper started to get soaked through and I started to shiver, with the wind tugging at my wet clothes and lashing the rain into my face. This was dire!

I started to run, my head bowed into the rain, my hands stuffed down into the pockets of my jumper. Another car pa.s.sed and I waved my hand, but it had already whooshed away in a cloud of spray. Just as I could feel the rain penetrating through to my skin, I came upon an old shed or garage made of corrugated iron, set back from the road. I pushed the door and it creaked open. Inside it smelt of oil, and a hulk of some old motor was rusting in the corner under a plastic sheet. There was even a chair. That was a bit of luck! I sat down. The chair wobbled. It only had three legs. Well, there was nothing for it but to sit and wait until morning.

Snug in the warmth of her bunk, Marta listens to the rain pattering on the curved roof of the caravan, a soft, intimate tapping sound, like a friend asking to be let in. She is thinking about Irina. On the other single bunk, Ciocia Yola is muttering in her sleep, engrossed in some nocturnal argument. Even in sleep, her aunt usually finds someone to berate. The raindrops get louder, more insistent. A brisk wind has picked up, rattling the lightweight panels of their fragile home and blowing through the check curtains that are drawn across the opened windows. The Chinese girls in their double bed are wide awake too, huddling close together. Ciocia Yola wins her dream argument with a final snort and gets up to close the windows. Marta puts the kettle on and spreads some slices of bread with margarine and apricot jam, and the inside of the caravan is soon warm and steamy. They all sit on the edge of the double bunk in their nightclothes, eating bread and jam, and talking in whispers for no particular reason.

Then there is another louder tapping sound outside, and men's voices. Marta opens the door. Andriy and Tomasz are standing there looking like two wet socks on a washing line. Their awning has blown away. Although this is a women's caravan for women only, Ciocia Yola relents when she sees how bedraggled they are.

"Come in. You can shelter from the storm."

They towel themselves dry, and sit on the edge of the bunk too. Marta pours them steaming mugs of black sweet tea. Then she hears Dog barking softly-snoof! snoof!-and there is another knock on the door. Dog and Emanuel have come to join them. They are not wet-it was dry in the back of the Land Rover-they just want company. To have friends come from afar is a pleasure To have friends come from afar is a pleasure, says Emanuel, wiping his feet on the mat as he comes in.

Somehow all seven of them squeeze in, Andriy perched on a stool, Tomasz, Emanuel and Dog sitting on the floor, the women huddling up on the double bunk, drinking tea, eating the rest of the bread and jam, and listening to the rain hammering on the roof. I will always remember this night, thinks Marta. Friendship like this is a gift from G.o.d.

After a while, when they start to feel sleepy, Tomasz and Andriy stretch out in the single bunks and Emanuel curls up on the tiny floor s.p.a.ce in between. Marta and Yola squeeze into the double bed with the Chinese girls, and Dog goes underneath. Marta, who is in the middle, has to nudge off her aunt and the nearest Chinese girl with her elbows. The girl's weight, when she rolls down onto Marta, is surprisingly firm and warm. She wonders which of the two it is. Even though she never got to know very much about the Chinese girls, the closeness of their caravan life has made them somehow intimate.

As she drifts between sleeping and waking, Marta rehea.r.s.es last night's meal over in her head. Really, it was a masterpiece. First she fried Andriy's fish in margarine with wild garlic leaves, and some mushrooms which Tomasz brought back from the field. She used just a splash of wine to make a delicious sauce for the chicken, which was cut into small pieces and simmered slowly in herbs and tea. It was unfortunate that their earlier shopping was so limited, she said to her aunt, with a note of reproach in her voice, but there was still some stale bread left which she cut into delicate croutons and fried lightly with a sprinkling of fresh roadside marjoram to make a tasty accompaniment. The carrots were chopped into fine julienne strips, then boiled and served with a margarine and apricot glaze. She regrets the theft of the carrots, which she knows is a sin, but prays that their owner will be rewarded in heaven, for when we feed the poor, we feed Our Lord. And although there was only a small teacup of wine each, it was enough for them to raise a toast in honour of their friendship, and a happy reunion in the unspecified future.

"To all caravan dwellers everywhere!" Tomasz said, raising his cracked cup.

In fact n.o.body gets very much sleep that night. They lie awake listening to the storm outside, and talking in low whispers, until at last the wind drops, the rain patters away, and the sky grows light.

Vitaly is waiting for them at the ferry terminal next day. He is talking on his phone again and looking around with an edgy, anxious air. Marta notices for the first time the restlessness in his eyes, and it makes her feel uneasy. After the intimacy of last night, his brash mobile-phone patter seems to strike a false note. But he smiles with delight when he sees them.

He has a companion with him, a young man with the same shaven head and a complexion as dark as his own, but older, with slightly coa.r.s.er features and a scar across his left cheek which has caught the tip of his lip, whom he introduces as Mr Smith.

"Mr Smith will be your escort," he says to the Chinese girls. "He will accompany you to Amsterdam and introduce you to family of distinguished diplomat. Is this not so, Mr Smith?"

Mr Smith smiles, and the scar on his upper lip pulls tight against his teeth.

"Ladies. Please come with me. You have your pa.s.sports?"

He leads them through the crowd to a large silver car that is parked outside.

"Goodbye," they say, waving their hands through the darkened gla.s.s.

Song Ying, known to the others as Chinese Girl One, comes from Guangdong Province in southern China. Her father works in a new bank in a large industrial town, and is a person of some standing in the local community. Her mother is a teacher. Song Ying is their only child, and they dote on her, sparing no expense, so she is raised with rather an elevated expectation of what her life will be. She is a bright girl, and they have paid for her to have private lessons. At nineteen, she pa.s.ses the entrance exams to be accepted into the prestigious Beijing University Business School. Her parents have saved up enough money for the fees. Her course starts in the autumn. Or at least that's when it was due to start.

Sixteen months ago, her mother became pregnant. The authorities had become lax about the one-child rule, and she thought she might get away with it, but recently, in one of their periodic bouts of orthodoxy, they have been tightening up again. She is summoned to the provincial council and given the choice of aborting the foetus or paying a substantial tax. Song Ying's mother uses some of her savings to have an ultrasound scan done privately. The scan tells her that she is carrying a boy. Song Ying's parents discuss the choice facing them late into the night. Her father urges her mother to have the abortion, but her mother weeps so much that in the end he relents. They go ahead and have the child; and they pay the tax.

The tax takes up all the money they have saved for Song Ying's education and more, leaving them in debt. The baby is beautiful. He is spoiled by all the members of the family, and grows fat very quickly. Song Ying's mother is happy and hardly notices Song Ying any more, except to tell her, "Look, you have a beautiful brother. Isn't that enough?" Song Ying's father takes a promotion in order to help pay the extra tax, and another night-job in a restaurant. "Don't worry," he tells his daughter, "I will find you a good job in the bank even without a university degree." Song Ying cries into her pillow at night, but n.o.body hears.

Then Song Ying learns of a college in England where for a modest fee overseas students can enrol and get a student visa, without having to attend any cla.s.ses. With a student visa, she can come to Britain to study, and still work part-time. No one will check how many hours she is working. The college will gladly confirm that she is attending cla.s.ses, so long as she pays the fees. They will even help her to find a job. She can work all the hours she likes, and so favourable is the exchange rate with the yuan that, even after paying for the airfare and the college fees, the money she earns will more than fund her first year of university in Beijing-she does the calculations carefully, for she cannot afford to make a mistake. Then she applies to the college, is accepted, and signs an agreement to pay for her airfare and her fees from the wages she will earn.

The college is not what she expected-it is just some rooms above a betting shop in a shabby street miles from the centre of London. There are only four cla.s.srooms. Most of the students, like herself, have not come to study. Her job in a busy restaurant often leaves her feeling too tired to concentrate on the few English cla.s.ses she does attend. Through the college, she meets Soo Lai Bee, a Malay-sian Chinese girl, who has enrolled for an English language course (the college does run some genuine courses alongside its other activities). For Song Ying, having grown up without brothers or sisters in the intensely protected environment of her parents' home, to have the company of another girl of her age is delightful. They speak the same language, and they have so much to talk about. Soo Lai Bee is sympathetic to her troubles, and has problems of her own to share. They become inseparable. When the college puts out information about the strawberry-picking job, and offers to provide (for a fee, of course) the requisite papers declaring that they are students of agriculture, they both decide on the spur of the moment to give it a try.

Although the college found Song Ying the strawberry-picking job, she has not yet earned enough to pay her college fees, let alone save enough for university. However, she is hard-working, intelligent and ambitious. Surely she will find a way to achieve her dream?

To be Chinese in Malaysia you have to be twice as clever and work twice as hard to get anywhere, that's what Soo Lai Bee's father told her. Even then, it's not always enough. So when Soo Lai Bee, known to the others as Chinese Girl Two, got five straight A's in her STPM exams and still failed to get a place in medical school, while a number of b.u.miputra Malay students with lower grades got quota places, her hopes were dashed. It's because the Chinese are too successful in Malaysia, her father muttered darkly. If the majority b.u.miputra population gets resentful, there will be riots against the Chinese. Look at Indonesia. Even so, it rankled. Her parents, who were ambitious for her, agreed that she should study in England.

Yes, it would cost a lot of money. But her father had funds, having built up a successful family construction business. If you're Chinese in Malaysia, the only way to do business is to team up with a b.u.miputra company. They get the contract, under regulations which restrict granting of contracts to non-Malays, then you buy the contract from them. They get the business, you do the work, the law is observed, and everybody is happy.