‘If you think that I’m going to take this lying down—’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Lord Husbery. ‘We don’t want any unpleasantness. I’m happy to offer you a year or two’s salary to ease your way back into civilian life. Perhaps you could buy a little tea shop somewhere? That’s a lovely job for a woman.’
‘Two years,’ she replied. ‘Two years and no gardening leave.’
‘Fine, fine.’
Margaret nodded. This was an excellent deal for her, after all, as she’d recently been offered a job with a film production company and had been planning on accepting it.
‘And what about me?’ asked Ben Bimbaum, looking distraught. ‘Do I get two years’ salary?’
‘Of course not,’ said Lord Husbery. ‘You’re not important enough. But we won’t charge you for the expense of sending your effects on. How does that sound?’
‘This is all your fault,’ said Ben, turning to George.
‘I mean …’ George shrugged, conceding the truth of this. ‘I suppose it is. But there we are. What can I do?’
‘You could resign in solidarity with me.’
After a respectful pause, George, Lord Husbery and even Margaret burst out laughing in unison, and it seemed as if they weren’t going to stop for a long time, which led Ben to stand up and march out in a huff, directly into the welcoming arms of the burly security guard, followed soon after by Margaret.
‘Well,’ said George, looking at Lord Husbery with a satisfied expression on his face. ‘On the whole, I think that went rather well, don’t you?’
THE BOUNCY-BOUNCY
The address was located outside central Odessa, near Horkoho Park, and Beverley took a taxi there, stepping out on to the almost deserted street and looking around with a growing sense of unease. A strong wind was blowing and she pulled her coat around her, staring up at the tall buildings that stood on either side of the road as she walked along in search of Number 15. When she located the imposing grey doors, she was confronted by a series of bells and checked her notes again before pressing the intercom for Apartment 4. A voice answered, speaking quickly in Ukrainian, and Beverley frowned.
‘Hello,’ she said, enunciating her words loudly and slowly, employing the unusual syntax that she often used when confronted by a foreigner. ‘I have come here … to your beautiful city … in search of the man … Pylyp.’
The woman replied by shouting something completely unintelligible into the intercom, and Beverley experienced a sinking sensation at the pit of her stomach.
‘Pylyp Tataryn,’ she said, turning back to the intercom. ‘I look for Pylyp Tataryn. Where is the man Pylyp Tataryn? Bring him to me!’
A long silence ensued, and just as she began to think that her entire journey might have been in vain, a buzzer sounded at the door, and she pushed it open with a sigh of relief.
Inside, she was surprised to discover a very pleasant courtyard, furnished with comfortable benches and with a circular pond in the centre, at the front of which stood a statue of an imposing-looking man wearing a Robin Hood hat on his head and a constipated expression on his face. She leaned forward to read the plaque that stood before it and, although she could not translate the words, she recognized the capitalized name at its heart and turned back to the stone appreciatively.
‘So, Ustym Karmaliuk,’ she said, smiling a little. ‘We meet at last.’
She took a quick selfie on her iPhone and posted it to her Instagram account before turning in the direction of the marble staircase and ascending to the third floor, where she paused outside Apartment 4, taking a deep breath to steady herself, before knocking. She heard the sound of footsteps coming slowly down the hallway inside and, when the door opened, a small woman appeared, looking as if she was fully prepared to engage in a wrestling match, should she be so challenged.
‘Hello,’ Beverley said, speaking more loudly than necessary. ‘Me: British woman.’ She tapped the space between her breasts. ‘You: Ukrainian woman.’ And here she pointed towards her new acquaintance.
‘I know I Ukrainian woman,’ she replied. ‘Why you tell me this?’
‘Oh, you speak English,’ said Beverley, breaking into a broad smile. ‘Thank God!’
‘I speak a little, yes,’ said the woman with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘Also, some French, German, Italian and Norwegian. I learn all this from schoolman teacher. You not speak Ukrainian?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ replied Beverley, shaking her head. ‘Does anyone?’
‘Ukrainians do. And some Russians and Moldovans.’
‘Still, one might call it a niche language.’
The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘Here, in Ukraine, is many Ukrainians. All speak our own language.’
‘Well, that makes sense, I suppose. Anyway, might I ask who you are? You’re not Mrs Tataryn, I assume?’
‘No, I not Mrs Tataryn. I Dr Tataryn.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Beverley, thrown off her stride.
‘I work hard for this title.’
‘I’m sure you did. I did too.’
‘You are doctor?’
‘Well, after a fashion.’
‘What you doctor of? You look like doctor of the facelifts.’
‘Actually, I was awarded an Honorary Doctorate of Letters by my old university,’ said Beverley proudly.
‘You not real doctor?’
‘I’m allowed to call myself Dr Cleverley on official correspondence.’
‘But you not real doctor, no? Doctor with hands in the blood? You pretend doctor?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘Then don’t say you doctor. You just end up looking like slut.’
Beverley frowned. The woman’s grasp of English was obviously poor so she decided to let that remark pass.
‘Who are you anyway?’ continued the woman. ‘Your name this time. No doctor.’
‘My name is Beverley Cleverley,’ replied Beverley. ‘I’m an English lady of good birth and breeding. I come in peace and mean you no harm.’
The woman stared at her and blinked several times.
‘What you want here?’ she asked. ‘You sell the cabbage?’
‘I sell the what?’ asked Beverley.
‘The cabbage. You sell the cabbage? I have woman who sell me the cabbage. I no need another.’
‘I don’t sell cabbage,’ said Beverley, astonished by the accusation. ‘Do I look like someone who sells cabbage door to door? This is a Hermès bag. It cost me eight thousand pounds.’
She held up her handbag, but the woman didn’t even look at it. She was too intent on staring at Beverley’s face.
‘Then why you here?’ she asked. ‘I busy. Is day when I scrub dead skin from heels of feet.’
‘Might I come in?’ asked Beverley, not wishing to continue this conversation on the doorstep.
‘To my home?’
‘If that’s all right.’
‘But why?’
‘Just to talk. I can explain better if I’m inside. I don’t like standing out here like a Jehovah’s Witness.’
‘Who is this Jehovah’s Witness? You are on trial?’