“My daughter put me in here, you know, after my husband died. She says I smell. In your country, young man, what happens to old people?”
“You know, usually they live with family, but sometimes they go into monastery. Woman-only monastery is very popular with Orthodox ladies.”
“Hm! That sounds quite nice, a women-only monastery.” Mrs Gayle nibbles at a biscuit with what is left of her teeth. “Company. A roof over your head. No matron to boss you about. And the only man you have to worry about is Lord Jesus…” She searches in her bag and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “…who is probably much less demanding than a husband. Probably drinks less, too.” She roots through her handbag once more. “Have you got a light?”
“No, I am sorry. I not…”
“You’ll find a box of matches in the handyman’s room. End of the corridor, down the stairs, and it’s on your left.”
She gives Dog another biscuit, and he sits up on his back legs to take it. Andriy has never seen him do this before. The room is very hot and the smell overpowering. He is beginning to feel a bit strange.
“Go on.” She gives him a little prod with her walking stick. “Don’t hang about. The handyman’s not in at the moment.”
The handyman’s room is a den of old bits of wood, furniture awaiting repair, defunct appliances, obscure machine parts, etc, and in a cabinet along one wall an interesting array of tools. Andriy pauses in the doorway. The handyman is nowhere in sight. On a table by the door are a packet of tobacco, a large curved pipe and a box of matches. He hesitates. Then he picks the matches up, puts them in his pocket and goes back up the stairs.
On the door to the corridor is a No Smoking sign.
“Mrs Gayle. Excuse me. Do you know about smoking ban?”
“Hah! You sound just like my daughter! She’s always trying to stop me smoking. Have to smoke in here-can’t stand the stink. Have you got the matches?”
He hesitates. She pokes him with her stick.
“Come on, young man. Let an old woman have a bit of fun.”
He hands the matches over. She lights the cigarette and at once begins to cough.
“My daughter put me in here because I’m a communist, you know.” Cough, cough. “Yes, I was incarcerated because of my political views.”
“No!” Can it be true? Do such things happen in England?
“Yes. She’s married to a stockbroker. A minor scion of the aristocracy. Vile man. Now I’m in here, and they’re living in my house.” Her left eye twitches.
“How is this possible?”
“Yes, I wanted to donate it to the International Workers of the World, but they got it off me. Made me sign something. Told the social workers I was mad.” She has become so agitated that she gets another cigarette out of the pack and lights it, and starts to puff, even though the other one is still smouldering in the ashtray. “Do I seem mad?”
“No. Very not mad, Mrs Gayle.”
“But what they don’t know is, I’m coming home. I’m getting married again, and I’m coming home.” She chuckles. “Are you married, young man?” The eye twitches again. Or is it a wink? Andriy feels a moment of panic. He shakes his head. She takes a few more deep drags on her cigarette, coughs once or twice, and continues, “Yes, Mr Mayevskyj in room nine. The Ukrainian gentleman. Have you met him yet?”
By now the little room is completely filled with smoke. It must be noticeable from the corridor. If someone catches them, they could be in trouble. Andriy reaches across to stub out the cigarette in the ashtray, but quick as a flash she grabs it first and sticks it in her mouth, along with the other one.
“No you don’t, young man.” She lowers her voice to a confidential whisper, puffing away on both cigarettes simultaneously. “He has an incredible sex drive for a man of ninety-two, you know. Yes, they don’t know this yet, but we’re getting married and we’re coming to live at home.”
“That will be nice surprise for your daughter.”
“It’ll be a surprise. I don’t know about nice.”
While I was waiting for Yateka and Andriy to come back, I heard someone calling out for help. It was the old man in room nine. He had dropped his hearing aid down the back of his chair, so I helped him to find it. It turned out he was the Ukrainian resident Yateka had told us about. He put in his hearing aid and we got into a long conversation about Ukraine, the way it was when he lived there and the way it is now. Then he cleared his throat and embarked on a long speech about malfunctioning hydraulic lifts and other engineering problems, and at the end of it he suddenly took me by the hand and said I had a very beautiful figure, and would I marry him.
I said teasingly that I couldn’t marry him, because I agree with Tolstoy that a wife should share her husband’s interests, and I could never be interested in hydraulics. “Oy oy!” he exclaimed, striking his forehead. “I have other interests too. Do you care for art or philosophy or poetry or tractors?” Before I could answer, he started to recite an obscure poem by Mayakovsky about love and destiny, but he got stuck after a few lines, and became agitated and started shouting for his books. So I went to look for Yateka.
Yateka calmed Mr Mayevskyj down, and brought him a cup of tea. Then she made some tea for us, too, which we drank sitting out in the garden. It’s strange because I didn’t know any Africans in Kiev, but Yateka is the second African friend I have made in England. When I told her about Mr Mayevskyj’s marriage proposal, she grabbed my hand and laughed out loud.
“Now you understand what I mean by peculiarities,” she said. “That poor old man. He has become more mentally unstable ever since they took his gearbox away.”
“Gearbox?”
“He had a gearbox in his room. Did he not tell you about it? He said it was a relic of his beloved motorbike.”
“Why did they take it away?”
“Matron said it was not hygienic to have a gearbox in the room.”
“What is not hygienic about a gearbox?”
“I don’t know,” said Yateka. “But nobody can argue with Matron. You don’t know what she is like.”
“I cannot see the harm in a gearbox. I would let him have it.”
Yateka giggled. “You would be the perfect wife for him. Maybe you should accept his proposal. It would make him very happy. And in a few years, you will have a British passport and an inheritance.”
“Not all Ukrainian women are looking out to marry an old man for his money, you know, Yateka.” In fact I was thinking these stereotypes of Ukrainian women are not helpful. Where does this idea come from?
“And why not? In my country if a young girl can make a good marriage to a wealthy senior it is good for the family. Everybody is happy. Sometimes nowadays the young girl can get AIDS, which is a terrible tragedy in my country. But this will not be a problem with Mr Mayevskyj,” she added quickly. “The only problem is his two daughters. These are not nice people at all. They have already intervened three times to prevent him marrying.”
“Is this true? He has had three fiancees?”
“Maybe they are worried about the inheritance.”
“He has inheritance?”
“He told me he is a millionaire.” Her eyes twinkled darkly. “And he has written a famous book. A history of tractors.”
I could believe he has written a history of tractors. But I must say, he didn’t look like a millionaire. Or smell like one.
“But maybe you already have a lover.” She winked.
“Maybe,” I said with a nonchalant shrug.
“You know, you can stay here if you like. There’s a spare room in the attic which cannot be used for residents because of safety reasons. It’s been empty for years.”
She gave me another twinkly look. I could feel myself blushing. There is something incredibly romantic about attic rooms.