Earlier this year Mrs Dubova obtained a second 6 months visa and arrived via Ramsgate in March. She once more moved into Mr Turner's house. She and my father were married at the Immaculate Conception in Peterborough in June.

After the wedding Mrs Dubova did not move in with our father, but carried on living at Hall Street in Mr Turner's house. When the school term ended, Mrs Dubova (now Mayevska) and Stanislav moved into our father's house. However, she did not share a room with our father, and the marriage has never been consummated.

At first things seemed to be working out all right. We believed that although Mrs Dubova (now Mrs Mayevska) might not love our father in a romantic sense, she would at least be kind and caring to a frail elderly man in his last years. However, after only a few months, things have begun to go very wrong.

As I write I feel a terrible sense of guilt, and also a sweet secret feeling of release. The Judas kiss in the garden, the bliss of malice without accountability. My father must never know. Mike and Anna must never know. Valentina will suspect, but will never know for sure.

I ask the secret correspondent at the Home Office to protect our anonymity. I sign the letter and post it to my sister. She signs it and posts it to the Home Office. There is no reply. My sister rings a couple of weeks later and is told the letter has been filed.

Next time I phone my father to ask how things are, he is evasive.

"Everything OK," is all he will say. "Nothing out of normal."

"No more arguments?"

"Nothing out of normal. Husband wife. Quarrelling is normal. Not too bad." Then he starts to talk about aviation. "You see, in love as in aviation, all is a matter of the balance. Uplift is greater in a long thin wing, but at cost of greater weight. So in same way, argument and occasional bad temper is a cost of the love. In design of aircraft wing, the secret of success is to achieve correct ratio between lift and drag. Is same with Valentina."

"You mean she has plenty of uplift but she's a bit of a drag." (Ha ha.) There is a long silence on the other end of the phone as he tries to puzzle out what I have said.

"Pappa," I say, "that's enough about aviation. Can't you see I'm worried about you?"

"I'm all right. But my arthritis is coming back. This wet weather."

"Would you like me and Mike to come up and see you?"

"No, not now. Later, maybe. After a while."

My sister gets even shorter shrift.

"He won't answer any of my questions. He just rambles on about this and that, on and on. I really think his mind's going," she says. "We should see the doctor to get him certified insane. Then we could say he was of unsound mind when he entered into the marriage."

"He's always been like that. He's no worse now than he was. You know he's always been a bit mad."

"Of course that's true. Quite mad. But somehow I feel this is worse. Does he talk to you about Valentina?"

"Not really. He says they have their arguments, but nothing out of the normal. Remember the arguments he used to have with Mother? Either things have settled down, and they're getting on OK, or he doesn't want us to know how bad it is. He's worried that you'll laugh at him, Vera."

"Well of course I'll laugh at him. What does he expect? But still, he's our father. We can't let this frightful woman do this to him."

"He says everything's all right. But he doesn't sound all right."

"Maybe she listens to him when he talks on the phone. Just a thought."

Christmas gives us the excuse we need for a visit.

"It's Christmas, Pappa. Families always get together at Christmas."

"I'll see what Valentina says."

"No, just tell her we're coming."

"All right then. But no presents. No presents for me, and I get none for you."

This 'no presents' idea comes from his mother, Baba Nadia. I was named after her. She was a village schoolteacher, a stern and pious woman, with straight black hair that didn't go grey until she was seventy (a sure sign of Mongolian ancestry, said my mother), and a great follower of Tolstoy and his cranky ideas that captivated the Russian intelligentsia of the time: the spiritual n.o.bility of the peasantry, the beauty of self-denial, and other such nonsense (said my mother, who had suffered her mother-in-law's p.r.o.nouncements on marriage, child-rearing, and the best way to make dumplings). And yet. And yet when I was a child my father had made me such wonderful gifts. There were model aeroplanes made from balsa wood and powered with rubber bands-and all the street turned out to watch them fly. There was a garage with an inspection pit made from wood and riveted aluminium, with a lift operated by a rubber-band that raised the d.i.n.ky-cars on to the roof, and a curved ramp so that you could roll them down again. One Christmas there was a farmyard, a 'khutor' like the one that was home in Ukraine-a sheet of green-painted hardboard surrounded by a painted wall, with a hinged gate that opened, a farmhouse with windows and a door that opened and a little byre with a sloping roof for the die-cast cows and pigs. I remember these gifts with wonder. It is so long since I remembered the things I once loved about my father.

"But Valentina and Stanislav-maybe they would like presents," he says. "They are really quite traditional, you know." Ha! Not the Nietzsche-reading intellectuals he took them for.

I enjoy choosing presents for Valentina and Stanislav. For Valentina, I wrap a particularly cheap and nasty bottle of perfume which I got free in a supermarket promotion. For Stanislav I choose a mauve polyester jumper my daughter once brought home from a school jumble sale. I wrap them elaborately, with little bows. We get my father some chocolates and a book about aeroplanes. He always really likes presents, even though he says he doesn't.

We drive over on Christmas afternoon. It's one of those grey, penetratingly cold days that seem to have taken over from white Christmases. The house is gloomy, cheerless and dirty, but my father has hung a few Christmas cards (including some saved from last year) on a string across the ceiling to brighten things up. There is no food in the house. For Christmas dinner they ate reheated microwave packs of sliced turkey b.r.e.a.s.t.s with potatoes, peas and gravy. There are not even any leftovers. In a pot on the stove are some greying cold boiled potatoes and the remnants of a fried egg.

I remember when Christmas dinner was a big fat bird with salt-crisped skin and oily juices oozing out of it, fragrant with garlic and marjoram and kasha stuffed in its plump tummy and roasted shallots and chestnuts round the side, and home-made wine that made us all tipsy, and a white cloth and flowers on the table, even in winter, and silly presents, and laughter and kisses. This woman who has taken the place of my mother has stolen Christmas and replaced it with boil-in-the-bag food and plastic flowers.

"Why don't we all go out for a meal," says Mike.

"Good idea," says my father. "We can go to Indian restaurant."

My father likes Indian food. There is a restaurant called the Himalaya in the desolate concrete shopping parade that was added on to the village in the 19605. For a while, after our mother died, he lived on take-outs which they delivered, and he got to know the proprietor.

"Better than Meals on Wheels," he would say, "better taste." Until one day he overdosed on vindaloo, with unpleasant consequences that he took great pleasure in describing to anyone who would listen. ("Hot on way in. Hot hot on way out.") We are the only people in the restaurant, Mike, Anna and I, and Pappa, Valentina and Stanislav. The heating has been turned down and the room is chilly. There is a smell of rising damp and stale spices. We choose a table nearest to the window, but there is nothing to see outside except the glint of frost on car roofs and the glare of a street-light across the road. The restaurant has maroon flock wallpaper and parchment light-shades with Indian motifs. Jazzed-up Christmas carols from a local pop radio station play in the background.

The proprietor greets my father like a long-lost friend. My father introduces me and Mike and Anna. "My daughter, husband, granddaughter."

"And these?" The proprietor indicates Valentina and Stanislav. "Who are they?"

"This lady and her son are coming from Ukraine," says Pappa.

"And who is she? Wife?" It's obvious that word has gone around the village, and now he wants confirmation of the scandal. He wants his own bit of hot gossip.

"They are from Ukraine," I say. I cannot bring myself to say, Yes, wife. "Can we see the menu?"

Thwarted, he fetches the menu and plonks it on the table.

"Could we have a bottle of wine?" asks Mike, but the restaurant is unlicensed.

We will have to make our own cheer.

We order. My father loves lamb bhuna. My daughter is a vegetarian. My husband likes dishes that are very hot. I like oven-baked dishes. Valentina and Stanislav have never eaten Indian food before. They are wary, condescending.

"I want only meat. Plenty meat," says Valentina. She chooses a steak from the English selection. Stanislav chooses roast chicken. We wait. We listen to the pop music and the babble of the DJ. We watch the frost glint on the car roofs. The proprietor stands behind the bar and watches us discreetly. What is he waiting for?

Anna squeezes up beside Mike and starts to fold his napkin into an elaborate origami flower. She is a Daddy's girl, as I once was. Watching them together makes me feel sad and happy at the same time.

"Well," says Mike. "Christmas again. Isn't it good to go out for a meal together? We should do it more often."

"Great," I say. He doesn't know about the letter to the Home Office.

"Did you get any nice presents, Stanislav?" asks Anna, her voice bubbling with Christmas excitement. She doesn't know, either.

Stanislav got socks, soap, a book about aeroplanes and some tapes. Last year he got a black jacket with a fur collar. Real fur. The year before he got skates from his father.

"Is better in Ukraina, Christmas," says Valentina.

"Well why don't you..." I try to stop myself, but Valentina knows what I am saying.

"Why for? For Stanislav. All is for Stanislav. Stanislav must have good opportunity. Is no opportunity in Ukraina," she turns on me loudly. "Is only opportunity for gangster prost.i.tute in Ukraina."

Mike nods sympathetically. Anna goes quiet. Stanislav smiles his cute chip-toothed smile. Behind the bar the proprietor has gone very still. My father looks as if he is miles away, on a tractor somewhere.

"Was it better under communism?" I ask.

"Of course better. Was good life. You no understand what type of people is rule country now."

Her syrup-coloured eyes have a heavy, glazed look. Today is her first day off work in two weeks. The black eyeliner has smudged and run into the wrinkles below her eyes. If I'm not careful, I will begin to feel sorry for her. Tart. s.l.u.t. Boil-in-the-bag cook. I think of Mother and harden my heart.

"My school was better," says Stanislav. "More discipline. More homework. But now in Ukraina you have to pay the teachers if you want to pa.s.s the exams."

"No different to your new school then," I say drily. Mike kicks me under the table.

"No different to my school," chirps Anna. "We're always having to bribe our teachers with apples."

Stanislav looks astonished.

"Apples?"

"Just a joke," says Anna. "Don't children in your country give their teachers apples?"

"Apples never," says Stanislav. "Vodka, yes."

"You in university teacher?" Valentina asks me.

"Yes."

"I want for help Stanislav in OxfordCambridgeUniversity. You working CambridgeUniversity. So you help?"

"Yes, I work in Cambridge, but not at Cambridge University. I am at the Anglia Polytechnic University."

"Angella University? What is this?"

My father leans across and whispers, "Polytechnic."

Valentina raises both eyebrows and mutters something that I cannot understand.

Our meals arrive. The proprietor seems to hover for a long time around Valentina as he sets out the dishes before her. She manages to flash her syrupy eyes his way, but it is a half-hearted flirtation. It is late and we are all too hungry for courtesies. The lamb bhuna is stringy, and we have to cut it up into tiny pieces for my father. The vegetable curry has no vegetables in it apart from cabbage. Mike's hot curry is too hot. Stanislav's oven-cooked chicken is dry and tough. Valentina's steak is like a slab of wood.

"Everything all right?" asks the proprietor.

"Lovely," says Mike.

Afterwards, Mike drives my father and Anna and Stanislav home in the car and I walk home with Valentina. The pavements are icy, and we cling on to each other, first for balance, but after a while the clinging becomes companionable. Despite the dismal meal, some seasonal cheer has rubbed off on us. Peace on earth, goodwill to all men, sing the Christmas angels in the crispy sky. I realise there will not be another opportunity like this.

"How are things going?" I ask.

"Good. Everything good."

"But what about the arguments? You seem to have a lot of arguments." I keep my voice neutral, friendly.

"Who telling you?"

"Valentina, it's obvious to anybody." I don't want to betray Stanislav, and I don't want to land my father in it.

"You father is no easy man," she says.

"I know." I know that I couldn't put up with my father day in day out as she does. I begin to regret my letter to the Home Office.

"All time he making trouble for me."

"But Valentina, you worked in an old people's home. You know old people can be difficult."

What did she expect? A refined elderly gentleman who would shower gifts on her, and pa.s.s away quietly one night? Not my tough cantankerous stubborn old father.

"You father more difficult. Trouble with cough cough cough. Trouble with nerves. Trouble with bath. Trouble with pi-pi." As she turns towards me, the moonlight catches her handsome Slavic profile, the high cheekbones, the curved mouth. "And all time, you know, kiss kiss, touching here, here here..." Her gloved hands caress her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, thighs, knees through the thick coat. (My father does that?) I feel like gagging, but I keep my voice steady.

"Be kind to him. That's all."

"I kind," she says. "As my own father. You no worry."

She slips on the ice and grips my arm tighter. I feel her warm sensuous bulk rest briefly against me and smell the strong sugary perfume, my Christmas gift, which she has sprayed on to her neck and throat. This woman who has taken the place of my mother.

Ten.

Squishy squashy My father is excited. The inspector from the Immigration Service has come to call. Soon Valentina's immigration status will be confirmed and their love will be sealed for ever. Without the fear of deportation hanging over them, the cloud of misunderstanding will lift and it will once more be as when they were first in love. Maybe even better. Maybe they will start a new family. Poor Valentina has been so anxious and this has sometimes made her irritable, but soon their troubles will be at an end.

The inspector is a middle-aged woman with flat lace-up shoes and parted hair. She carries a brown briefcase, and refuses my father's offer of tea. He shows her around.

"This is my room. This is Valentina's room. This is Stanis-lav's room. You see, plenty room for everybody."

The inspector makes notes of where everyone lives.

"And this is my table. You see, I prefer to eat by myself. Stanislav and Valentina eat in the kitchen. I cook for myself-look, Toshiba apples. Cooked by Toshiba microwave. Full of vitamins. You like to try?"

The inspector refuses politely, and makes more notes.