A short history of tractors in Ukrainian What do I know about my mother? Ludmilla (Milla, Millochka) Mitrofanova was born in 1912 in Novaya Aleksandria, a small garrison town in what is now Poland, but was then on the western flank of the Russian Empire. Her father, Mitrofan Ocheretko, was a cavalry officer, a war hero, and an outlaw. Her mother Sonia was nineteen years old when Ludmilla was born, a trainee schoolteacher, a survivor.

The Ocheretkos were not gentry but wealthy peasants from the Poltava region of Ukraine, who lived on the edge of a khutor khutor (settlement) and farmed some thirty hectares on the eastern bank of the Sula River. They were hard-working, hard-drinking Cossacks who had somehow ama.s.sed enough wealth to pay the necessary bribe to win a lucrative contract to supply horses to the Tsar's army. This in rum allowed them to save up enough to pay the considerably greater sum needed to secure for their eldest son, Mitrofan, a place in the military academy. (settlement) and farmed some thirty hectares on the eastern bank of the Sula River. They were hard-working, hard-drinking Cossacks who had somehow ama.s.sed enough wealth to pay the necessary bribe to win a lucrative contract to supply horses to the Tsar's army. This in rum allowed them to save up enough to pay the considerably greater sum needed to secure for their eldest son, Mitrofan, a place in the military academy.

Mitrofan Ocheretko seems to have been a brilliant soldier: fearless and prudent, he loved life but respected death. Unlike officers drawn from the n.o.bility, who hardly considered the peasants to be human, Ocheretko was mindful of the troops and careful with their lives, only taking risks when there was something to be gained. From the mud and slaughter of the Great War, he emerged covered in glory. His great moment came in 1916, on the Eastern Front, when he took a bullet in his thigh at Lake Naroch crawling through a bog to rescue the Tsar's cousin, who had become trapped as the spring thaw turned the sh.o.r.es of the lake into miles of churned-up mud. Ocheretko dragged the young aristocrat to safety and carried him in his arms through a hail of artillery fire.

For his bravery he was awarded the St George's Cross. The Tsar himself pinned it to his chest, and the Tsarina patted little Ludmilla on the head. Two years later, the Tsar and Tsarina were dead, and Ocheretko was an outlaw on the run.

After the revolution of 1917, Ocheretko joined neither the Russian White Army nor the Soviet Red Army. Instead, he took Sonia and the three children-my mother Ludmilla now had a younger sister and brother-back to Poltava and left them there in a tumbledown wooden cottage on the khutor khutor while he went off to fight with the rebel Ukrainian National Republican Army. It was a moment to be seized: now while Russia was tearing herself apart, this might be the occasion for Ukraine to slip free of the imperial yoke. while he went off to fight with the rebel Ukrainian National Republican Army. It was a moment to be seized: now while Russia was tearing herself apart, this might be the occasion for Ukraine to slip free of the imperial yoke.

Ludmilla hardly saw her father during those years. Sometimes he would arrive in the middle of the night, exhausted and hungry, and be gone again by the morning. "Don't tell anyone Pappa was here," her mother would whisper to the children.

The Civil War was waged through a succession of b.l.o.o.d.y ma.s.sacres and reprisals so gruesome that it seemed as if the human soul itself had died. No town, not even the smallest village, no household was left untouched. The history books tell of ingenious new ways of inflicting painful lingering death. The gift of imagination, perverted by blood-l.u.s.t, invented tortures undreamt of before, and former neighbours became enemies for whom mere shooting was too merciful. But my parents never talked to me about these horrors: I was their precious peacetime baby.

When Mother described her early childhood it was always as an idyll-long summers when the sun was hot and they ran barefoot in the fields and skinny-dipped in the Sula River, or took their cow off to the distant pastures and stayed outdoors from dawn to dusk. No shoes, no pants, no one to tell them what to do. And gra.s.s tall enough to hide in, such a merry green, sprinkled with red and yellow flowers. And the sky blue-blue, and cornfields like a sheet of gold stretching as far as eye could see. Sometimes, in the distance, they could hear shooting, and see curls of smoke rising from a burning house.

My father has positioned himself in front of the map of Ukraine, and is delivering an intense two-hour lecture to his captive one-man (Mike) audience about the history, politics, culture, economics, agriculture and aviation industry of Ukraine. His student is settled comfortably in the armchair facing the map, but his eyes are focused on a spot beyond the lecturer's head. His cheeks are very pink. In his hand he cradles a gla.s.s of Mother's home-made plum wine.

"It is often forgotten that the Civil War was more than a simple matter of whites against reds. No fewer than four foreign armies were in battle for control over Ukraina: Red Army of Soviets, White Russian Imperial Army, Polish army mounting opportunistic invasion, and German army propping up puppet regime of Skoropadski."

I am in the kitchen cutting up vegetables for soup, listening with half an ear.

"The Ukrainians were led by former Cossack atmans, or grouped under the anarchist banner of Makhno. Their aim, at once both simple and impossible, was to free Ukraina of all occupying forces."

The secret of my mother's fabulous soup was plenty of salt (they both suffered from high blood pressure), a big k.n.o.b of b.u.t.ter (they didn't worry about cholesterol), and vegetables, garlic and herbs fresh from the garden. I cannot make soup like this.

"Nadezhda's grandfather, Mitrofan Ocheretko, joined a band under the leadership of Atman Tiutiunik, to whom he became second-in-command. They were fighting in a loose alliance with the 'Ukrainian Directoire' of Simon Petlura. Ocheretko, by the way, was a very remarkable type with sweeping moustaches and eyes black like coal. I have seen his picture, though of course I have never met him."

Into the soup, when it was simmering, she dolloped teaspoons of 'halushki'- a paste of raw egg and semolina, beaten together with salt and herbs-which fluffed up into dumplings that crumbled on your tongue.

"At end of the Civil War this Ocheretko fled to Turkey. Now Sonia's brother Pavel-he by the way was a very remarkable type, railway engineer who built first rail line from Kiev to Odessa-he was friend of Lenin. Because of this, some letters were written and Mitrofan Ocheretko was rehabilitated under amnesty, and obtained a job teaching sword-fencing in the military academy in Kiev. And it was here in Kiev that Ludmilla and I first met."

His voice has gone all croaky.

"Come on, Pappa, Mike, lunch is ready!"

The time between Valentina's return to Ukraine and her re-entry into England was a time of great personal growth and intellectual activity for my father. He started pouring out poems again, which he left lying around the house on sc.r.a.ps of paper, all written in the same crabbed Cyrillic hand. I deciphered the word 'love' once or twice, but I couldn't bring myself to read them.

Every week he wrote to Valentina in Ukraine and in between letters he telephoned and talked, sometimes to her, sometimes to her intelligent-type husband. I know the phone calls were long because I saw the phone bill.

However, with my sister and me he was very cagey. He didn't want us telling him what to do. He had already made his mind up.

Vera went to visit him in September. She described her visit; "The house is filthy. He eats off newspaper. He eats nothing but apples. I tried to persuade him to go into a sheltered housing scheme, but he says you dissuaded him. I can't imagine what you think you can gain from this, Nadezhda. I suppose you're worried that if he sells the house you won't be able to inherit your share. Really! Your obsession is going too far. The house is much too big for him now. I tried to get a home help, but he refuses. As for this other sordid business-I tried to find out what's going on with this tart, but he won't talk about it at all. He just changes the subject. I don't know what the matter with him is. He was behaving most oddly. We really should see the doctor about having him certified, don't you agree? He seems to be living in a world of his own."

I held the phone away from my ear and let her rabbit on.

The next day he phoned me to describe Big Sister's visit.

"When I saw the car pulling into driveway and I saw her getting out and walking towards the house, can you imagine, Nadezhda, I performed involuntary excretion in my trousers." He said it as though his bowels were not part of him but a discrete force of nature. "You see, this Vera, she is terrible autocrat. Tyrant. Like Stalin. She is always pestering me. Must do this, must do that. Why must I always do as I'm told? Can I not make up my mind about something? Now she says I must have sheltered housing. I cannot afford sheltered housing. Too expensive for me. Better I stay here. Live here. Die here. You tell her I said so. Tell her I want her to visit me no more. You and Michael can visit."

When Mike and I next visit, we find the house and garden much as my sister described. A thin veil of dust has greyed all the white paintwork and clings to cobwebs on the ceiling. The sitting-room is full of windfall apples collected from the ground and laid out in shallow boxes and cartons on the table, chairs, sideboard and even on top of the wardrobe, filling the house with their fruity over-ripe smell. Fruit-flies hover over the Grieves and Beauty of Bath apples which, being softer, have already started to turn brown and bubble up in specks of mould that my father is too short-sighted to notice. He sits at one end of the table with his little knife, peeling, slicing and sorting them into Toshiba-sized piles. I notice how much better he himself is looking.

"Hallo! Hallo!" he greets us warmly. "Well, nothing new to report. Excellent apples! Look!" He offers us a dish of the sticky Toshiba-cooked mixture. "Today we must go to library. I have ordered some books. I am becoming very interested in this business of an engineering Weltanschauung Weltanschauung as in ideology incorporated into design of new machines." as in ideology incorporated into design of new machines."

Mike looks impressed. I raise my eyes to the ceiling. My father ploughs on, furrowing up trails of gleaming brown ideas.

"You see as Marx said himself, the relations of production are embedded in the machinery of production. Take for example the tractor. In nineteenth century, early tractors were made by the individual craftsman in his workshop. Now they are produced on a.s.sembly lines, and at the end of a.s.sembly line stands man with stopwatch. He measures the process." (The accent is on the second syllable-"pro-cm'.) To make more efficiency the worker must work harder. Now look at a man who ploughs in the field. He sits alone in cab. He moves levers and the tractor ploughs. He follows the gradient of terrain, he takes account of soil and weather. He believes he is master of the process process. But at the end of the field stands another man with stopwatch. He observes the tractor driver, makes note of his lines and turns. So certain time is allotted for the ploughing of a field, and man's wages fixed accordingly. Now, you see, in this era of computerised numerical control, even the man with stopwatch will be redundant, and stopwatch itself will be incorporated into dashboard equipment."

He flourishes the little knife with manic energy. Curls of apple peel slide off the table on to the carpet, where they are trodden into a fragrant mush.

"It's the testosterone surge," says Mike as we follow my father through the busy Sat.u.r.day morning streets of Peterborough. "Look, his back's straightened up, his arthritis is better. We can hardly keep up with him."

It is true. My father is racing ahead of us, darting and dodging through the crowd with single-minded intent. He is heading for the public library to pick up his books. He walks in a kind of rapid shuffle, bending forward from the hips, hands at his sides, head stretched out in front, jaw set, peering straight ahead.

"Oh, you men are all the same. You think s.e.x is the cure for everything."

"It cures quite a lot of things."

"It's funny, but when I talk about this business of my father and Valentina with my women friends, they're absolutely appalled. They see a vulnerable old man who's being exploited. Yet all the men I talk to-without any exception, Mike" (I wag my finger) "they respond with these wry knowing smiles, these little admiring chuckles. Oh, what a lad he is. What an achievement, pulling this much younger bird. Best of luck to him. Let him have his bit of fun."

"You must admit, it's done him good."

"I don't admit anything."

(It's much less satisfying arguing with Mike than with Vera or Pappa. He's always so irritatingly reasonable.) "Are you sure you're not just being a bit puritanical?"

"Of course I'm not!" (So what if I am?) "It's because he's my father-I just want him to be grown up."

"He is being grown up, in his way."

"No he's not, he's being a lad. An eighty-four-year-old lad. You're all being lads together. Wink wink. Nudge nudge. What a great pair of knockers. For goodness' sake!" My voice has risen to a shriek.

"But you can see it's doing him good, this new relationship. It's breathed new life into him. Just goes to show that you're never too old for love."

"You mean for s.e.x."

"Well, maybe that as well. Your Dad is just hoping to fulfil every man's dream-to lie in the arms of a beautiful younger woman."

"Every man's dream?" man's dream?"

That night Mike and I sleep in separate beds.

My father has ordered from the library several biographies of nineteenth-century engineers: John Fowler, David Greig, Charles Burrell, the Fisken brothers. Encouraged by Valentina's husband, the intelligent-type polytechnic director, he has started to research and write his great work: A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian.

The first tractor was invented by a certain John Fowler, a Quaker, an intelligent and abstemious type. No vodka, beer, wine, not even tea crossed his lips, and for this reason his brain was extraordinarily clear. Some people may describe him as a genius The first tractor was invented by a certain John Fowler, a Quaker, an intelligent and abstemious type. No vodka, beer, wine, not even tea crossed his lips, and for this reason his brain was extraordinarily clear. Some people may describe him as a genius. Fowler was a good man, who saw in the tractor a means to emanc.i.p.ate the labouring ma.s.ses from their life of mindless toil, and bring them to an appreciation of the spiritual life. He worked night and day to perfect his plans Fowler was a good man, who saw in the tractor a means to emanc.i.p.ate the labouring ma.s.ses from their life of mindless toil, and bring them to an appreciation of the spiritual life. He worked night and day to perfect his plans.

He writes in Ukrainian then translates it painstakingly into English (he studied English and German at high school) for Mike's benefit. I am surprised how good his written English is, though sometimes I have to help him with the translation.

The first tractor, which Fowler invented, was not strictly speaking a tractor at all, since it did not drag a plough. Nevertheless, it was an engine of amazing ingenuity. Fowler's tractor consisted of two engines positioned on opposite sides of the field, and connected by a looped cable, and to the cable were fixed the blades of a plough. As the engines turned, so the cable pulled the plough up and down the field, up and down. Up and down The first tractor, which Fowler invented, was not strictly speaking a tractor at all, since it did not drag a plough. Nevertheless, it was an engine of amazing ingenuity. Fowler's tractor consisted of two engines positioned on opposite sides of the field, and connected by a looped cable, and to the cable were fixed the blades of a plough. As the engines turned, so the cable pulled the plough up and down the field, up and down. Up and down.

My father's voice drones up and down like a contented harvest b.u.mble-bee. The room is warm and full of harvest smells. Outside the window, a purplish twilight is settling over the fields. A tractor is moving slowly up and down, already turning the burned-off stubble into the ground.

Six.

Wedding pictures Despite Vera's and my efforts, Valentina and her son Stanislav came back to England on 1 March. They entered at Ramsgate, on six-month tourist visas. No one at the British Emba.s.sy in Kiev objected to their visa; no one at Ramsgate gave their pa.s.sports more than a cursory examination. Once back in Peterborough, they moved in with Bob Turner. Valentina took a job at a hotel near the cathedral, and immediately went ahead with plans for the marriage to my father. This much I managed to piece together from hours of telephone conversations.

My father has tried to keep my sister and me in the dark about his plans. When we ask him a direct question he changes the subject, but he isn't a very good liar and is easily caught out. He forgets what he has told each of us, and he believes that we are still not on speaking terms. But we have started to share our information.

"Of course he sent her the eighteen hundred pounds in the end, Vera. He paid it into her bank account and she withdrew it all. And he was sending her regular payments all the time she was away."

"Really! It's too much!" Big Sister's voice hits a note of high drama. "That must have been most of his pension."

"And he sent money for the coach tickets for her and Stanislav from Lviv to Ramsgate. And then she told him she needed extra money for an Austrian transit visa."

"Of course Mother was absolutely right," says Vera. "He has no common sense."

"He'll have to stop when he runs out of money."

"Maybe. Maybe it's only just beginning."

My father has not only rescued this beautiful dest.i.tute Ukrainian woman, but he is also in a position to foster the talents of her extraordinarily gifted son.

Stanislav, who is fourteen, has been to see an independent psychologist, who, for a modest fee, paid by my father, has tested his IQ, and written a certificate declaring him to be a genius. On the basis of this, the boy (also a very talented musician, by the way, plays piano) has been offered a place at a prestigious private school in Peterborough. (Of course he is much too intelligent for the local comprehensive, which is only fit for the sons and daughters of farm labourers.) My sister, who paid good money to send her extraordinarily gifted daughters to a posh school, is outraged. I, who sent my own extraordinarily gifted daughter to the local comprehensive, am outraged too. Our rage bubbles merrily up and down the telephone lines. We have something in common at last.

And another thing. As Romeo and Juliet found to their cost, marriage is never just about two people falling in love, it is about families. Vera and I do not want Valentina in our family.

"Let's face it," says Vera. "We don't want someone so common common" (I didn't say it!) "to carry our name."

"Oh, come on, Vera. Our family is not uncommon. We're just an ordinary family, like everybody else."

I have started to challenge Big Sis's self-appointed guardianship of the family story. She doesn't like it.

"We come from solid bourgeois people, Nadezhda. Not arrivistes arrivistes."

"But the Ocheretkos were-what? Wealthy peasants..."

"Farmers."

"...turned horse-dealers."

"Horse-breeders."

"Cossacks, anyway. A bit wild, you might say."

"Colourful."

"And the Mayevskyjs were teachers."

"Grandfather Mayevskyj was Minister of Education."

"But only for six months. And of a country that didn't really exist."

"Of course Free Ukraine existed. Really, Nadia, why must you take such a downbeat downbeat view of everything? Do you think you are some kind of handmaid of history?" view of everything? Do you think you are some kind of handmaid of history?"

"No, but..." (Of course this is exactly what I think.) "When I was a little girl..." Her voice softens. I hear her fumbling for a cigarette. "When I was a little girl, Baba Sonia used to tell me the story of her wedding. Now that's that's what a wedding should be like, not this pitiful charade that our father is being dragged through." what a wedding should be like, not this pitiful charade that our father is being dragged through."

"But just look at the dates, Vera. The bride was four months pregnant."

"They were in love."

What's this? Is Big Sis a closet romantic?

Mother's mother, Sonia Blazhko, was eighteen when she married Mitrofan Ocheretko in the gold-domed Cathedral of St Michael in Kiev. She wore a white dress and a veil, and a pretty gold locket hung around her neck. Her long brown hair was crowned with white flowers. Despite her slim build, she must have been visibly pregnant. Her oldest brother Pavel Blazhko, railway engineer, later friend of Lenin, gave her away, for her father was too frail to stand through the service. Her older sister Shura, recently qualified as a doctor, was maid of honour. Her two younger sisters, still at school, pelted her with rose petals, and burst into tears when she kissed the groom.

The Ocheretko men strode into the church in their riding-boots, embroidered shirts and outlandish baggy trousers. The women wore wide swinging skirts and boots with little heels and coloured ribbons in their hair. They stood together in a fierce bunch at the back of the church and left abruptly at the end without tipping the priest.

The Blazhkos looked down on the groom's family, whom they thought uncouth, little more than brigands, who drank too much and never combed their hair. The Ocheretkos thought the Blazhkos were prissy urbanites and traitors to the land. Sonia and Mitrofan didn't care what their parents thought. They had already consummated their love, and its fruit was on her way.