“But that was different. We were different.” (We were white, of course, for one thing, I could say, but I hold my tongue.) “We worked hard and kept our heads down. We learned the language and integrated. We never claimed benefits. We never broke the law.”

“/broke the law. I smoked dope. I was arrested at Greenham Common. Pappa got so upset that he tried to catch the train back to Russia.”

“But that’s exactly my point, Nadia. You and your lem’sh friends-you never really appreciated what England had to offer-stability, order, the rule of law. If you and your kind prevailed, this country would be just like Russia -bread queues everywhere, and people getting their hands chopped off.”

“That’s Afghanistan. Chopping hands off is the rule of law.”

Both of us have raised our voices. This is turning into an old-style argument.

“Whatever. You see my point,” she says dismissively.

“What I appreciated about growing up in England was the tolerance, liberalism, everyday kindness.” (I drive home my point by wagging my finger in the air, even though she can’t see me.) “The way the English always stick up for the underdog.”

“You are confusing the underdog with the scrounger, Nadia. We were poor, but we were never scroungers. The English people believe in fairness. Fair play. Like cricket.” (What does she know about cricket?) “They play by the rules. They have a natural sense of discipline and order.”

“No no. They’re quite anarchic. They like to see the little man stick two fingers up to the world. They like to see the big shot get his come-uppance.”

“On the contrary, they have a perfectly preserved class system, in which everyone knows where they belong.”

See how we grew up in the same house but lived in different countries?

“They make fun of their rulers.”

“But they like strong rulers.”

If Vera mentions Mrs Thatcher, I shall put the phone down. There is a short pause, in which we both consider our options. I try an appeal to our shared past.

“Remember the woman on the bus, Vera? The woman in the fur coat?”

“What woman? What bus? What are you talking about?”

Of course she remembers. She hasn’t forgotten the smell of diesel, the swish of the windscreen wipers, the unsteady sway of the bus as it churned newly fallen snow into slush; coloured lights outside the windows; Christmas Eve 1952. Vera and I, muffled against the cold, snuggling up against Mother on the back seat. And a kind woman in a fur coat who leaned across the aisle and pressed sixpence into Mother’s hand: “For the kiddies at Christmas.”

“The woman who gave Mother sixpence.”

Mother, our mother, did not dash the coin in her face; she mumbled, “Thank you, lady,” and slipped it into her pocket. The shame of it!

“Oh, that. I think she was a bit drunk. You mentioned it once before. I don’t know why you go on about it.”

“It was that moment-more than anything that happened to me afterwards-that turned me into a lifelong socialist.”

There is silence on the other end of the telephone and for a moment I think she has hung up on me. Then: “Maybe it was what turned me into the woman in the fur coat.”

Vera and I decide that together we will confront Valentina outside the Imperial Hotel.

“It is the only thing to do. Otherwise she will keep on evading us,” says Vera.

“But she might just turn and run away when she sees us.”

“Then we will follow her. We will track her down to her lair.”

“But what if she has Stanislav with her? Or Eric Pike?”

“Don’t be such a baby, Nadia. If necessary we will call for the police.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to leave it to the police in the first place? I spoke to this young woman officer in Spalding who seemed really sympathetic.”

“Do you still believe that the law will oust her? Nadia, if we don’t do this, nobody will.”

“OK.” Although I make objections, I am excited by the idea. “Maybe we should arrange for five-o’clock-shadow Justin to be there. Just as back-up.”

But before we can arrange a suitable date, my father calls in a state of great agitation. A mystery man has been seen hanging around the house.

“Mystery man. Since yesterday. Peeping in at all windows. Then disappears.”

“But Pappa, who is it? You should call the police.”

I am alarmed. It seems obvious that someone is casing the house for a break-in.

“No no! No police! Definitely no police!”

My father’s experience of the police has not been positive.

“Call a neighbour, then, Pappa. And confront him together. Find out who he is. It’s most likely a burglar, looking to see what you have worth stealing.”

“Does not look like burglar. Middle-aged. Short. Wears brown suit.”

I am intrigued.

“We’ll come on Saturday. Lock your doors and windows until then.”

We arrive at about three o’clock on the Saturday afternoon. It is mid-October. The sun is already low in the sky, and a fenland mist shrouds the countryside in a damp haze, lingering around the low-lying fields and marshes, stealing like a wraith out of drainage culverts and watercourses. The leaves have started to turn. The garden is thick with windfalls, apples, pears and plums, over which a cloud of small flies hovers.

My father is asleep in his armchair by the window, his head thrown back, mouth open, a silver thread of saliva running from his lip to his collar. Lady Di’s girlfriend is curled up on his lap, her striped belly quietly rising and falling. A miasma of somnolence hangs over the house and garden, as if a fairytale witch has cast a spell, and the sleeper is waiting to be awakened with a kiss.

“Hallo, Pappa.” I kiss his scrawny stubbly cheek. He wakes with a start, and the cat jumps on to the floor, purring in greeting, rubbing herself against our legs.

“Hallo, Nadia, Michael! Good you can come!” He stretches out his arms in welcome.

How thin he has become! I had hoped that after Valentina left things would suddenly change; he would start to put on weight, and clean up the house, and everything would get back to normal. But nothing has changed, except that a bulky Valentina-shaped emptiness now sits in his heart. “How are you, Pappa? Where’s this mystery man?”

“Mystery man has disappeared. Not seen since yesterday.” I must confess to a pang of disappointment-my curiosity had been aroused. But I put the kettle on, and while it is boiling I wander outside and start to gather up the windfalls. I am concerned that my father has not pursued his annual ritual of gathering, storing, peeling and Toshiba-ing. Self-neglect is a sign of depression.

Mike settles himself in the other comfqrtable chair in listening mode.

“So, Nikolai, how’s the book coming along? Have you got any more of that excellent plum wine?” (He’s been showing too much interest in that plum wine for my liking. Doesn’t he realise it is dangerous stuff?)

“Aha!” exclaims my father, handing Mike a glass. “Now is coming a very interesting time in the history of tractors. As Lenin said of the capitalist time, the whole world is unified into one market, with concentrations of capital increasing markedly. Now in relation to engineering of tractors, my thoughts on this are as follows…”

I never found out what his thoughts were, because by this point, Mike has surrendered to the plum wine, and I have ranged out of earshot. I am paying tribute to Mother’s garden. It makes me sad to see the havoc four years of neglect have wreaked; yet it is the havoc of superabundance. In such a rich soil, everything that takes root thrives: weeds proliferate, creepers run amok, the grass is grown so tall it is almost like a meadow, fallen fruit rots, yielding curious spotted fungi; flies, gnats, wasps, worms and slugs feast on the fruit, birds feast on the worms and flies.