“Not all Ukrainian women are looking out to marry an old man for his money, you know, Yateka.” In fact I was thinking these stereotypes of Ukrainian women are not helpful. Where does this idea come from?

“And why not? In my country if a young girl can make a good marriage to a wealthy senior it is good for the family. Everybody is happy. Sometimes nowadays the young girl can get AIDS, which is a terrible tragedy in my country. But this will not be a problem with Mr Mayevskyj,” she added quickly. “The only problem is his two daughters. These are not nice people at all. They have already intervened three times to prevent him marrying.”

“Is this true? He has had three fiancees?”

“Maybe they are worried about the inheritance.”

“He has inheritance?”

“He told me he is a millionaire.” Her eyes twinkled darkly. “And he has written a famous book. A history of tractors.”

I could believe he has written a history of tractors. But I must say, he didn’t look like a millionaire. Or smell like one.

“But maybe you already have a lover.” She winked.

“Maybe,” I said with a nonchalant shrug.

“You know, you can stay here if you like. There’s a spare room in the attic which cannot be used for residents because of safety reasons. It’s been empty for years.”

She gave me another twinkly look. I could feel myself blushing. There is something incredibly romantic about attic rooms.

The Malawian nurse turns out not to be Emanuel’s sister after all, though she does look a bit like Emanuel, thinks Andriy: very small and slightly built, with a round shining face. Her name is Blessing.

“I am sorry to disappoint you.” She gives him a dazzling smile that also reminds him of Emanuel.

They are sitting in the nurses’ room while Yateka and Blessing are having a tea break.

“But don’t you know some other Malawian nurses?” says Yateka.

“You know, my cousin was in a nursing home in London that was closed because of a scandal-the proprietor was stealing the residents’ money. Some of the other nurses there were from Malawi. They all lost their jobs. The agency found new jobs for them, but they had to pay another agency fee. Nightingale Human Solutions.”

Yateka wrinkles up her nose. It is a small plump nose, shiny like a stub of polished wood. Quite a nice nose, in fact.

“Would you like me to ask my cousin?” says Blessing.

“Yes, please. I give you telephone number where Emanuel is staying. Maybe you help brother and sister be reunited.” He writes the address and phone number of the Richmond house on a piece of paper and passes it to Blessing.

Another rather pleasant thought has started to nudge at the edges of his consciousness. He has heard it said that black women are incredibly sexy, but he has never before had an opportunity to find out for himself. Maybe here will be an opportunity for him? This little coupe-model Malawian nurse, she has quite an entrancing smile. And the other one-Yateka-see the way she moves, the curve of her shapely legs accentuated by those clumsy lace-up nurse’s shoes, the sway of her buttocks in her slightly-too-tight uniform. You have to admit, there is something incredibly sexy about a woman in uniform.

Stop! Stop this idiocy, Palenko! Here is a lovely high-spec Ukrainian girl sitting beside you, and still you are letting your thoughts chase about after other women. When the road forks, whichever way you choose, you can only go one way. Goodbye, Africa Yateka. Goodbye, Vagvaga Riskegipd.

Goodbye and God be with you? Or goodbye and see you again? Andriy Palenko, what’s the matter with you? Goodbye is goodbye. End of story. And yet…And yet it’s not really desire that makes that last goodbye so hard to say-it’s curiosity. Never to know where the other road would have led you. Never to know what lies beneath that taut crisp uniform; never to know whether that long-ago kiss lingers in her memory as it does in yours. Never to know what would have happened when you met.

Irina’s voice snaps him out of his reverie. She is talking about something incredibly interesting.

“I think there is only one thing to do,” she is saying. “We must give Mr Mayevskyj back his gearbox.”

“Gearbox?”

“Yateka told me he used to keep a gearbox in his room. A beloved relic of an old motorbike. But the matron found it and took it away from him.”

“Since then,” said Yateka, “he has become unstable.”

“It is enough to make any man unstable.”

“I think if he had his gearbox again, he would behave in a more normal way.”

“You are right, Irina.”

Sometimes you have to let a woman think she is right.

I AM DOG I AM SAD DOG MY MAN IS IN LOVE WITH THIS MORE-STUPID-THAN-SHEEP FEMALE HIS VOICE IS THICK AND SOFT HIS PISS IS CLOUDY HE STINKS OF LOVE HORMONES SHE STINKS OF LOVE HORMONES TOO SOON THEY WILL MATE HE WILL HAVE NO MORE LOVE FOR DOG I AM SAD DOG I AM DOG

“I think Bill the handyman will know where the gearbox is,” says Yateka. “Since Matron asked him to take it away.”

“Down the stairs at the end of the corridor, then turn left,” says Blessing.

Bill is back in his basement room, poring over an open newspaper. He is a short square man with a bald head and a clipped moustache. He looks up as Andriy comes in.

“They’ve nicked me bloody matches again. Those old birds. You can’t trust ‘em. Bunch of flaming firomaniacs. Who are you, anyway?”

“I am looking for gearbox of Mr Mayevskyj. He has been asking after it.”

Bill takes this as a reproach.

“It weren’t my idea to take it off of ‘im. I just do what Matron says.”

Even as his mouth searches for a suitably annoyed expression, his eyes fall upon Dog.

“That your dog?”

“Yes, my dog. Dog.”

“I used to have one like that. Mongrel. Called him Spango. Great ratter.”

Bill settles himself back in his chair, and passes the newspaper he has been reading over to Andriy.

“What d’you think of them, eh?”

A young woman with bare breasts and blond hair is smiling at the camera. Andriy looks at the picture. The light in the basement is dim. Actually, she looks very much like his last girlfriend, Lida Zakanovka. Could it really be her? He stares more closely. Did she come to England? Did she have a mole like that on her left shoulder?

“Nice, eh? Better than the missus. You should have seen the pair last Thursday. Magnificent.” Bill gives a companionable grunt. “You can keep it, if you like. I’ve finished with it. Any time you like, you can bring your dog down here.”

“Thank you.” Andriy folds the newspaper under his arm. He will have to look at it in daylight.

“Does he drink tea, your dog? Spango was a great tea-drinker. Here, boy…”

Bill reaches for a mug with a few centimetres of cold brown tea left in the bottom and pours it into a bowl for Dog. Dog wags his tail, and starts to drink, gulping noisily. Andriy watches, amazed. He realises for the first time how little he knows about this dog. First he was sitting up for chocolate biscuits. Now he drinks cold tea, slurping and slopping as if in ecstasy. Where did this creature come from? How did he appear so mysteriously in the night? What was he running from? Why did he choose them?

Meanwhile, Bill searches in the corners of the room and comes back with a small, heavy package wrapped in an oiled cloth inside a plastic bag.

“This must be it. She told me to throw it away. But you can’t, can you? Don’t tell her where you got it from.”

“Thank you. Dog likes your tea.”

There is no one in the nurses’ room when he takes the gearbox upstairs, so he pulls out a chair and sits down to wait. Something else is bothering him now. That mole-did Lida Zakanovka have a mole there? He unfolds the paper to take a closer look. Hm. Definitely it is like Lida. Holy bones! What is she doing in England? Here in the brighter light of the nurses’ room, he can see clearly. No, maybe this one is more pneumatic. His Lida was more like the cabriolet model. To think he wasted four years of his life over her! What a fool he was. Lucky she never got pregnant. This girl in the photo is quite something. Good curves. Not too thin. But is it Lida?