The pen is mightier than the tea-towel, and Father writes his own revenge.

Never was the technology of peace, in the form of the tractor, transformed into a weapon of war, more ferociously than with the creation of the Valentine tank. This tank was developed by the British, but produced in Canada, where many Ukrainian engineers were skilled in the production of tractors. The Valentine tank was so named because it was first born into the world on the day of St Valentine in 1938. But there was nothing lovely about it. Clumsy and heavy with an old-fashioned gearbox, it was nevertheless deadly, indeed a true killing machine.

“Ugh!” exclaims Vera, when I tell her about the ham sandwich. “But of course, what else would one expect from such a slut?”

I cannot describe the smell. I tell her about the cotton wool.

“How simply ghastly! In Mother’s bedroom! But didn’t you find anything else? Was there nothing from the solicitor about her immigration status, or any advice about divorce?”

“I couldn’t find anything. Maybe she’s keeping it at work. There’s no trace in the house.”

“She must have hidden it. Of course it is only what one would expect from a highly developed criminal mind like hers.”

“But listen to this, Vera. I had a look in Stanislav’s room, and guess what I found.”

“I haven’t a clue. Drugs? Counterfeit money?”

“Don’t be silly. No, I found a letter. He’s writing to his Dad in Ternopil, saying he’s really unhappy over here. He wants to go home.”

Of course Valentina finds out the true meaning of ‘duress’. Stanislav tells her. Worse, she finds out on the same day that a letter comes from the Immigration Service, telling her that her appeal has been refused once more.

She corners my father as he is coming out of the toilet, bent over, fumbling with his flies.

“You living corpse!” she screeches. “I will show you dooh-ress!”

She is wearing yellow rubber gloves, and has in her hands a tea-towel, wet from washing up, which she starts to flick at him.

“You useless shrivel-brain shrivel-penis donkey.” Flick flick “You dried shrivelled relic of ancient goat turd!”

She flicks at his legs and at his hands that are stretched out for protection or in supplication. He backs away and finds himself pressed up against the kitchen sink. Over her shoulder he can see a pan of potatoes bubbling on the stove.

“You creeping insect I will stamp on.” Flick flick! The steam from the potatoes is misting his glasses and there is a slight smell of scorching.

“Dooh-ress! Dooh-ress! I show you dooh-ress!” Emboldened she starts to flick at his face. Flick flick. The corner of the tea-towel catches the bridge of his nose, and sends his spectacles skittering across the floor.

“Valechka, please…”

“You morsel of old gristle that dog chewed dog spat out! Thphoo!”

She pokes him in the ribs with a yellow rubber finger.

“Why you still living? You should be long ago lying beside Ludmilla, dead beside dead.”

His body is shaking and he can feel the familiar churning in his bowels. He is afraid he is about to soil himself. The stench of the burning potatoes fills the air.

“Please Valechka, darling, little pigeon…” She closes in on him, the yellow fingers now prodding, now slapping. The pan of potatoes is beginning to smoke.

“Soon you will return where you belong! Under ground. Under dooh-ress! Hah!”

He is saved by Mrs Zadchuk, ringing at the doorbell. She comes in, sizes up the situation and lays a plump restraining hand on her friend’s arm.

“Come, Valya. Leave this no-good meanie oralsex maniac husband. Come. We go shopping.”

As Crap car disappears round the corner, my father rescues the burnt potatoes and creeps into the bathroom to relieve himself. Then he phones me. His voice is shrill and breathy.

“I think she means to kill me, Nadia.”

“She really said that, about returning to the graveyard?”

“In Russian. Said all in Russian.”

“Pappa, the language doesn’t matter…”

“No, on contrary, language is supremely important. In language are encapsulated not only thoughts but cultural values…”

“Pappa, listen. Please listen.” He is still rabbiting on about the differences between Russian and Ukrainian while my mind is fixed on Valentina. “Just listen for a moment. Although it is difficult for you, the good news is that she has not been granted leave to remain. That means that maybe soon she will be deported. If only we knew how long it was going to be…But in the meantime, if you feel afraid of being in the house with her, you must come and stay with me and Mike.” I know he will not come and stay unless he is really desperate-he hates any disruption to his routine. He has never spent a night under my sister’s roof or mine.

“No, no. I will stay here. If I leave house, she will change lock. I will be out, she will be in. She is already talking like that.”

After my father has said goodbye and retreated behind his bolted door, I make three phone calls.

The first is to the Home Office: Lunar House, Croydon. I imagine a vast pock-marked moonscape, empty and silent except for the eerie ringing of unanswered telephones. After about forty rings the phone is picked up. A remote female voice advises me to put the information in writing, and informs me that files are confidential and cannot be discussed with a third party. I try to explain my father’s desperate situation. If only he could have some idea what was happening, whether Valentina can appeal again, when she will be deported. I plead. The remote voice relents and suggests I try the local immigration service for the Peterborough area.

Next I telephone the police station in the village. I describe the incident with the wet tea-towel and explain the danger he’s in. The policeman isn’t impressed. He has come across much worse.

“Look at it this way,” he says. “It could just be a marital tiff, couldn’t it? Happens all the time. If the police got involved every time a married couple fell out-well, there’d be no end to it. If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem to be interfering in his affairs when he hasn’t asked you to. You obviously don’t see eye to eye with this lady he’s married to. But if he wanted to make a complaint, he would have telephoned himself, wouldn’t he? For all we know, he’s been having the time of his life with her.”

In my mind’s eye I see a picture of my aged father, bent over, skinny as a stick, cowering under the blows of the wet tea-towel, and Valentina, large, voluptuous, gloved in yellow rubber, standing over him laughing. But the policeman has a different image in mind. Suddenly it’s clear.

“You think it was a sex-game-the wet tea-towel.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No but you thought it, didn’t you?”

The policeman has been trained to deal with people like me. Politely, he diffuses my anger. In the end, he agrees to drop by when he is doing his rounds, and we leave it at that.

The third call is to my sister. Vera understands instantly. She is outraged.

“The bitch. The criminal slut. But what a fool he is. He deserves everything.”

“Never mind what he deserves, Vera. I think we need to get him out.”

“It would be better if we could get her out. Once he is out, he will never be able to go back, and she will have the house.”

“Surely not.”

“You know what they say-possession is nine tenths of the law.”

“That sounds like a leaf from Mrs Zadchuk’s law book.”

“It was the same with me-when Dick started to turn nasty, I just wanted to run away, but my solicitor advised me to sit tight, else I could lose the house.”

“But Dick wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“Do you think Valentina wants to kill Pappa? I think she just wants to frighten him.”