"What do you mean?" asks Mrs Divorce Expert. "Surely she has a solicitor."

"You know," says Ms Carter, "I'm not supposed to tell you this, but in a town the size of Peterborough, everybody on the legal scene knows each other." She pauses, grins. "And, by now, everybody knows Valentina. She's been through virtually every practice in town. They all got fed up of her, marching in with her ridiculous demands. She wouldn't take advice from anyone. She had got it into her head that she was ent.i.tled to half the house, and she wouldn't listen to anyone that told her otherwise. Then she insisted that she should get Legal Aid to fight for it in court-so arrogant, swanning in with her fur coat and fish-wife manners, demanding this and that. And all on Legal Aid. The rules are quite strict, you know. Some firms went along with it for a bit, while they were getting the fees. But if they didn't do what she wanted she just stormed out. That must have been what happened when we offered 2,000. I bet her solicitor advised her to accept it." She catches my eye. "I would have done in her position."

"But the judge can't have known that."

"I think he worked it out," chuckles Ms Carter. "He's not stupid."

"Robust!..." murmurs Vera, a faraway look in her eyes.

After the excitement of the courtroom, the house seems cold and gloomy when we get back. There is no food in the fridge, and the central heating has gone off. Dirty pans, plates and cups are piled up in the sink, and on the table are more plates and cups which haven't even made it as far as the sink. There is still no sign of Dubov.

Father's spirits fall as soon as he walks through the door.

"We can't leave him here alone," I whisper to Vera. "Can you stay with him tonight? I can't take another day off work."

"I suppose so," she sighs.

"Thanks, Sis."

"It's OK."

Father protests briefly when he hears of this arrangement, but it seems as if he too realises that things must change. While Vera goes to get some shopping, I sit with him in the front room.

"Pappa, I'm going to find out about some sheltered housing. You can't live here on your own."

"No no. Absolutely not. No shelter housing. No old person's home."

"Pappa, this house is too big for you. You can't keep it clean. You can't afford to heat it. In sheltered housing you will have a nice little flat of your own. With a warden to look after you."

"Warden! Pah!" He throws his hands up in a dramatic gesture. "Nadia, today in court the English judge says I can live in my house. Now you say I cannot live here. Must I go to court again?"

"Don't be silly, Pappa. Listen," I lay my hand on his, "better to move now, while you can still manage in your own flat, with your own door that you can lock with your own key, so you can do what you like inside. And your own kitchen where you can cook what you like. And your own bedroom where no one can come in. And your own private bathroom and lavatory, right next to the bedroom."

"Hmm."

"We will sell this house to a nice family, and we will put the money in the bank, and the interest will be enough to pay the rent."

"Hmm."

I can see his face change as I talk.

"Where would you rather be? Would you like to stay here near Peterborough, so you can be close to your friends and the Ukrainian Club?"

He looks blank. It was Mother who had friends. He had Big Ideas.

"Or would you like to move to Cambridge, so you can be near to me and Mike?"

Silence.

"OK, well, I'll look in Cambridge, so you can be near to me and Mike. We'll be able to visit more often."

"Hmm. OK"

He settles into the armchair that faces the window, leaning his head back against a cushion, and sits there quietly watching the shadows fall over the darkening fields. The sun has already set, but I do not draw the curtains. Twilight seeps into the room.

Twenty-Nine.

Last supper Mike is out when I get home, but Anna is in. I hear her bright voice chatting on the phone in the hall, lilting high on eddies of laughter, and my heart tightens with love. I have been careful not to tell her too much about Father and Valentina and Vera, and when I have talked about them, I have made light of our disharmonies. I want to protect her, as my parents protected me. Why burden her with all that old unhappy stuff?

I kick my shoes off, make myself a cup of tea, put some music on, and stretch out on the sofa with a pile of papers. Time to catch up on a bit of reading. Then there is a tap on the door and Anna puts her head round.

"Mum, have you got a minute?"

"Of course. What is it?"

She is wearing skin-tight jeans and a top that barely covers her midriff. (Why does she dress like this? Doesn't she know what men are like?) "Mum, I want to talk to you." Her voice is serious.

My heart has started to thump. Have I become so engrossed in my father's drama that I have failed my own daughter?

"OK. I'm all ears."

"Mum," she settles herself on the end of the sofa by my feet, "I've been talking to Alice and Alexandra. We went out for lunch last week. That was Alice on the phone just now."

Alice, Vera's younger daughter, is a few years older than Anna. They have never been dose. This is something new. I feel a p.r.i.c.k of disquiet.

"Oh, that's nice, dear. What did you talk about?"

"We've been talking about you-and Aunty Vera." She pauses, watches me widen my eyes in feigned surprise. "Mum, we think it's stupid, this feud you have with Aunty Vera."

"What feud is that, love?"

"You know. About the money. About Grandma's will."

"Oh," I laugh, "why have you been talking about that?" (How dare they? Who told them? Trust Vera to go blabbing.) "We think it's really stupid. We don't care about the money. We don't care who gets it. We want us all to get on together like a normal family-we get on together, Alice, Lexy and me."

"Darling, it's not as easy as that..." (Doesn't she realise that money is all that stands between us and starvation?) "And it's not just about money..." (Doesn't she realise how time and memory fix everything? Doesn't she realise that once a story has been told one way, it cannot be retold another way? Doesn't she realise that some things must be covered up and buried, so the shame of them doesn't taint the next generation? No; she's young, and everything is possible.) "...But I suppose it's worth a try. What about Vera? Hadn't someone better tell Vera?"

"Alice is going to talk to her tomorrow. So, Mum, what do you think?"

"OK." I reach forward to hug her. (How skinny she is!) "I'll do my best. You should eat more."

She's right. It is is stupid. stupid.

There are waiting lists at all the sheltered housing developments within reach of Cambridge, but before I can go out and visit them, I get another phone call.

"Dubov is back. Valentina is back with baby. Stanislav is back."

His voice is excited, or maybe agitated. I can't tell.

"Pappa, they can't all stay there. It's ridiculous. Anyway, I thought you'd agreed to think about sheltered housing."

"Is all right. Is temporary arrangement only."

"Temporary for how long?"

"Few days. Few weeks." He coughs and splutters. "Until is time to go."

"Go where? When?"

"Please, Nadia, why you asking so many question? I tell you, everything is OK."

After he rings off, I realise I forgot to ask whether the baby is a boy or a girl, or whether he knows who the father is. I could ring him back, but I already know that I must go there, see for myself, breathe the same air, in order to satisfy my...what? Curiosity? No, this is a hunger, an obsession. Next Sat.u.r.day I set out in the morning, full of antic.i.p.ation.

The Lada is parked out on the road when I arrive. c.r.a.p car and the Rolls-Royce are in the front garden, and Dubov is there, fiddling around with some bars of metal.

"Ah, Nadia Nikolaieva!" He grabs me in a bear hug. "Have you come to see the baby? Valya! Valya! Look who is here!"

Valentina appears at the door, still wearing her dressing-gown and a pair of fluffy high-heeled slippers. I can't say that she looks pleased to see me, but she beckons me inside.

In the front room is a white-painted wooden cot, and in it a tiny baby, fast asleep. Its eyes are closed, so I cannot tell what colour they are. Its arms reach up above the coverlet, the hands clenched in little fists beside its cheeks, thumbs out, the nails gleaming like minute pink sh.e.l.ls. Its mouth, open and gummy, breathes and sighs and makes a little sucking sound in its sleep, and the downy skin of the fontanel rises and falls in time with the breathing.

"Oh, Valentina, it's beautiful! He...she...is it a boy or a girl?"

"Is a girl."

And now I notice that the baby's coverlet is embroidered with small pink roses, and the sleeves of her little jacket are powder-pink.

"She's beautiful!"

"I think so." Valentina beams proudly, as though the baby's beauty is her personal achievement.

"Have you got a name for her yet?"

"Name is Margaritka. Is name of my friend Margaritka Zadchuk."

"Oh, lovely." (Poor child!) She points to a pile of lacy pink baby clothes on a chair at the side of the cot, knitted with great skill out of soft polyester yarn.

"She make it."

"Gorgeous!"

"And is name of most famous English President."

"I'm sorry?"

"Mrs Tatsher."

"Ah."

The baby stirs, opens her eyes, sees us standing looking down into her cot, and her face puckers, poised between crying and smiling. "Guh guh," she says, and a trickle of whitish fluid runs from the corner of her mouth. "Guh guh." Then little dimples appear in her cheeks.

"Ah!"

She is beautiful. She will make her own life. Nothing that has happened before is her fault.

Father must have heard me arrive, for now he comes in beaming.

"Good you can come, Nadia."

We hug.

"You're looking good, Pappa," It's true. He's put a bit of weight on, and he is wearing a clean shirt. "Mike sends his love. He's sorry he couldn't come."

Valentina ignored him when he came in, and now she leaves the room, turning on her high-heeled slippers without a word. I pull the door dosed, and whisper to Pappa.

"What do you think of the baby then?"

"Is girl," he whispers back.

"I know. Isn't she lovely? Have you found out who the father is?"

Pappa winks and pulls a mischievous face.

"Not me. Ha ha ha."

From one of the upstairs rooms comes the rhythmic thud-kerboom-thud of heavy metal music. Stanislav's musical tastes have obviously matured from Boyzone. Father catches my eye and puts his hands over his ears with a grimace.

"Degenerate music."

"Do you remember, Pappa, how you wouldn't let me listen to jazz when I was a teenager? You said it was degenerate."