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A Novel
by Marina Lewycka
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As I bent toward the tap, the orange ribbon slipped on my plait, swirling in
the water. For a moment I remembered the orange balloons and banners in the
square, the tents and music, and my parents, so excited, gabbing like teenagers
about freedom and other such stun. And I did feel a stab of sadness. Then I
picked up the wet ribbon, shook it out, and hung it over the washing line. As I
looked down over the valley, my heart started to dance again. I took a deep
breath. This air - so sweet, so English. This was the air I’d dreamed of
breathing; loaded with history, yet as light as . . . well, as light as
something very light. How had I lived for nineteen years without breathing this
air? And all the cultured, brave, warm-hearted people that I’d read about in
Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dickens - okay, I admit, mostly in translation - I was ready
to meet them.
In fact I was particularly looking forward to meeting a gentleman in a bowler
hat like Mr. Brown in my Let’s Talk English book, who looks supremely dashing
and romantic with his tight suit and rolled-up umbrella, and especially with
the intriguing bulge in his trousers’ zipper area, which was drawn very
realistically in black ink by a previous owner of that textbook. Who wouldn’t
want to talk English with him?! Lord Byron looks romantic too, despite that
bizarre turban.
English men are supposed to be incredibly romantic. There’s a famous folk
legend about a man who braves death and climbs in through his lady’s bedroom
window just to bring her a box of chocolates. Unfortunately, the only
Englishman I have met so far is farmer Leapish, who doesn’t seem to fit into
this category. I hope he is not typical.
Please don’t think I’m one of those awful Ukrainian girls who come to England
only to ensnare a husband. I’m not. But if love should happen to come my way,
okay, my heart is open and ready.
The kettle starts to whistle. Andriy pours the water onto the teabag, adds
two spoonfuls of sugar, and, cradling the hot cup in his hands, wanders down to
the gate, where he sometimes stands when he has an idle moment, observing the
passing cars and looking out for his Angliska rosa. Leaning on his elbows, he
drinks slowly, enjoying the heat in his throat, the cool breeze blowing up The
Downs, and the noisy chatter of birds doing their early-morning stun. The sun
has come up over the hill and although it isn’t yet eight o’clock, he can
already feel its warmth on his skin. The light is as sharp as crystal, marking
out the landscape with hard crisp shadows.
He likes to come down here, to look out at this England, which, despite being
just beyond the gate, still seems tantalizingly out of reach. Where are you,
Let’s Talk English Mrs. Brown, with your tiny waist and tailored polka-dotted
blouse? Where are you, Vagvaga Riskegipd, with your bubble gum and ferocious
kisses? Since he came to England two weeks ago he hasn’t met a single Angliska
rosa. He has seen them drive past, so he knows they exist. Sometimes he waves,
and once one of them even waved back. And yes, she was blond, and yes, she was
driving a red Ferrari convertible. She was gone in the twinkling of an eye,
before he could even vault over the gate to see the rear spoiler disappear
around the bend in the lane. But for sure she lives somewhere nearby, so it is
only a matter of time before she reappears. Okay, so his last girlfriend Lida
Zakanovka went on with a soccer player. Good luck to her. There are better women
waiting for him over here in England.
He blows on the hot tea to cool it down and thinks about his last visit to
England. How long ago was that? It was about eighteen years, so he must have
been seven years old. He was accompanying his father on a fraternal delegation
to visit the mine workers’ union in the city of She≈eld, which is twinned with
his home town, Donetsk. Learn, boy, his father had said. Learn about the beauty
of international solidarity. Though it didn’t do him much good when he needed
it. Poor Dad.
Excerpted from Strawberry Fields by Marina Lewycka Copyright © 2007 by Marina Lewycka. Excerpted by permission of Penguin Group USA, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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