Europe of Opportunity

By Victor S. Ibanez

‘She intends to become a millionaire by the time she is 35.’
London 1999, and Lenka and Aggie (two enterprising young women from former Soviet bloc countries) become friends while working and studying in the UK. Fuelled by ambition, the coevals burst into the new Millennium, determined to live out the thwarted dreams of the older generations from their recently emancipated countries.
Circumstances, however, conspire to divert Lenka and Aggie away from both their intended goals and each other. Can they inspire one another anew and ultimately grasp hold of the opportunities available to them in this new Europe?
In a story spanning over a decade, personal and professional desires clash with the more prosaic realities of life. Told with quirky humour and with nature providing subliminal inspiration at vital moments, Europe of Opportunity traces the evolution of two dovetailing personalities at a time of great social change. It is a book that will appeal to readers of both an aspiring and introspective disposition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victor S. Ibanez
• Release date: Oct 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311392596

Book preview

Europe of Opportunity

Victor S. Ibáñez

Copyright © Victor S. Ibáñez 2014

Smashwords Edition

Contents

Part One

1 Gosling Park

2 Lenka and Aggie

3 Tibor

4 A Business Opportunity

5 Home

6 The Fisher Collection

7 Millennium

8 Into the Future

9 Interviews and Reflections

10 Trouble, Good News, and Crime

11 Exams and Goodbyes

12 Coda

Part Two

13 Gosling Park

14 Back at Aggie’s Place

15 Nudges

16 A Brief Interlude on Men

17 Let’s Work

18 Progress and Disclosures

19 Pitching

20 Europe of Opportunity

21 Targets

22 Art Exhibition

23 Opportunity into Reality

Part One

1 - Gosling Park

She intends to become a millionaire by the time she is 35 - the self-possessed, young au pair purposefully steering a pushchair through Gosling Park this glorious Sunday morning in 1999. Anything more than a cursory glance would confirm the bottle-blonde with her square Slavic face, doe eyes and straight back is no blood relation of the corpulent boy she is cheerfully chauffeuring; he of protruding chin, squinty eyes, sporting a chaos of dark curly hair. He, leaning forward in his pushchair waving his arms, every bit the irked emperor impatient for more speed from his chariot. Perhaps the two bags of groceries loaded onto the back are what are causing the journey home to pass unsatisfactorily slowly for Little Lord Fauntleroy. Or maybe it is because the lazy lump is too old and too heavy still to be riding his younger brother’s pushchair.

The tinkling chimes of nearby church bells, as fresh and virtuous as gently cascading water, inform the woman – Lenka is her name - that she is characteristically ahead of schedule. There is time to let her employer’s second youngest son briefly disembark and play in the late-August sunshine. So while the melodic clanging continues its call to the faithful, atheist Lenka fishes a ball out from underneath the child’s seat and initiates a game of football by hoofing it into the air towards a freshly-cut patch of grass. Even at his tender age, the boy, Edward, is determined to win whatever game they are now playing. His affluent genes expect success; something Lenka will have to strive for with all her might without the assists and privileges Edward will take for granted throughout his formative years.

With a smile, Lenka allows little Edward to kick the ball past her and into an imaginary goal. The little boy celebrates jubilantly in the manner of a Premier League superstar. Lenka is mature enough at 24 to allow others to shine, not just a child like Edward. She understands the importance of timing. And for now her plan is to study English for one more year and then return to the Czech Republic to find a good job. She hopes her degree in business studies from the University of Economics in Prague coupled with a strong command of two foreign languages will stand her in good stead. Certainly English, the language of much international business, is still not widely spoken in her home country, it being just ten years since the velvet revolution and the fall of communism. Forward thinking Lenka is one of the first wave of young women to come to the UK from former Soviet bloc countries on a three-year au pair visa. She knows she is ahead of the game, and fully intends to exploit the opportunities available to her in this new Europe; opportunities not open to previous generations of Czech people.

One thing that continues to slightly baffle Lenka is the way she is always described in the UK as ‘Eastern European’. ‘Look on any map and you’ll see the Czech Republic lies in the centre of Europe, not in the east,’ she would point out with Bohemian pride. But to the British, all former communist countries are lumped together and labelled ‘Eastern Europe’. And it is that kind of lazy, dismissive attitude that she and millions of others will have to work hard to overcome. But there is a growing army of Lenkas with their sleeves rolled up, ready to take on the challenge. Keen to play catch up. And then some.

Of course she was surprised when she first arrived in the UK to see how unexacting life was compared with back home. How little people had to sweat for a comfortable existence. Lenka noted this fluke-of-geography affluence hadn’t stripped the British of their compassion, yet it did imbue them with an unattractive streak of arrogance. She thought of her poor dad, who had ruined his body through a lifetime of manual labour for comparatively scant reward. Surely two severely worn discs in his lower spine, a knackered elbow and one missing finger had been worth more currency. OK, her family had security of sorts: a flat, a modest car, not too bad a life, but dad had never extended his wings and flown. None of her relatives had. They had been kept in a darkened box with thick walls and a low ceiling. Starved of choice, many had in time learnt the best survival strategy was to become as un-aspirational as the grey architecture of the town, with its ubiquitous paneláks and cracked and uneven pavements. Like insects indistinguishable from the dingy environments they crawl around in. This accepting behaviour was born of a fear of being noticed too much under the old regime. But with the fall of communism, so many bureaucratic and personal restrictions had at last been shattered. Blown to smithereens. Like democratic dynamite clearing a path through obstructive boulders, the way was now open and the future unwritten. Gone was phoney collective motivation of communist workers as depicted on the mural adorning the railway station in Lenka’s home town. See them, muscle-bound, tools in hand, looking like zealous clones. Good riddance, thought the newly-liberated townsfolk when the mural was unsentimentally prized from the wall and destroyed. Likewise, people cheered when the Russian tank that had stood menacingly atop a concrete rostrum in the centre of the town was got rid of. (At the time it was unimaginable that such detested landmarks would one day have remunerative touristic value.) In place of this vanquished oppression and the defeatist mindset it fostered came the real motivation of individual freedom and enterprise. One day Lenka, with the aid of old maps and coins, will be able to tell her grandchildren of the country she was born in – Czechoslovakia – a state that no longer exists. And of a failed political system confined to the dustbin of history.

The ball rolls into a bed of purple azaleas. Edward insists his servant retrieves it. Lenka duly obliges with a gracious smile and then tosses the ball somewhere between the two of them so as to set up a chase. ‘See who can get to it first,’ she cries. Naturally her employer’s son will be allowed to win. Or else he will kick up a fuss. But then the spoilt child suddenly tires of the game and seeks novel amusement elsewhere. He stamps aggressively three times on a discarded crisp packet, fails to make it pop, and stomps off in search of more pleasing mischief. Lenka takes advantage of a moment’s peace to sit down on a bench and take an English study book out from her bag. So many to phrasal verbs to learn thinks the advanced-level student. Put on, put down, put up, put up with, put in, put away, put towards… From within the pages of the book, an envelope plops onto her lap. A letter from mum. (Remember it is 1999 and email hasn’t yet become established as a fast and cost-free way of communicating with friends abroad. Likewise mobile phones are only just starting to appear and are a luxury item.) Lenka opens up the letter received the previous week and reads it again, not so much for the routine news but to feel a connection with home. Her unfocussed eyes rest at length on the address at the top of the page, so familiar it is virtually part of her DNA. For a few meditative moments, Lenka is able to transport herself back to her second floor bedroom, the scene of so many of her teenage yearnings. The wonky light on the wall – in Lenka’s active imagination, evocative of a goblin-like character from Czech folklore. The long shelves groaning under the weight of books – testament to the high premium the family has always placed on education. The pine desk where eager young Lenka studied hard and dreamed her expansive dreams; Joey, the family cat, curled up on the floor close by. The familiar and reassuring view from the window of neighbours coming and going, and of a much loved ash tree segueing through the seasons as it grew in parallel to the slowly maturing female face that would appear intermittently at the window opposite.

The nebulous alphabetical characters from the page that are floating in Lenka’s pupils come into sharper focus, and after a mild start she surfaces from her reverie and reads the first paragraph of her mother’s looping handwriting.

Dear Lenka

We have just come back from two weeks at the country house. Uncle Milan is feeling a bit better, but he has to go for more tests next week. Your father and I are repainting the dining room…

SMASH!

Lenka’s body jerks involuntarily and she immediately looks up, horrified. What’s happened to little Edward? Has he had an accident? What’s the cause of this harsh noise that has violated the Sunday morning tranquillity of the park?

In a frantic second, Lenka’s scanning eyes locate Edward, unhurt, thank goodness, and wearing the same startled expression as her. Raised voices lead both their pairs of eyes to the source of the drama. A man and woman, about the same age as Lenka, arguing over by the pond. The man towering crane-like over the woman, gesticulating, but she standing her ground defiantly and arguing back. Both now shouting loudly enough for anyone else present to hear what they are saying. If only Lenka or Edward could understand. For the couple are not speaking English or Czech. Yet Lenka makes out a few words of the central European language filling the air. Croatian, no, Hungarian, she deduces when she hears some internationally recognized swear words. The lanky man is unshaven and moves his limbs with a lack of coordination that makes someone of his exceptional height appear ridiculous. His dirty, stonewashed jeans are of the cheapest variety. His battered trainers fake designer. Baggy checked shirt flapping around all over the place despite the lack of any significant breeze. Scuzzy teeth. In contrast, the woman is attired in fashionable red jeans and an indigo top, both tight fitting. Her hair is tinted a determined red and her firm upper arms and thighs suggest she works out. A modest amount of make-up is all that is necessary to enhance her natural appeal.

Some broken glass and a wet patch on the tarmac beside these two account for the loud smash a few moments earlier. Possibly the remains of a vodka bottle. An elderly woman pushing a tartan shopping trolley in the vicinity is certainly convinced the demon alcohol is the cause of this shameless display. Old rodent-features hurries home to gossip to her neighbours about the gang of drunken hooligans she has just seen fighting in the park, smashing things up randomly, and to draft a letter of indignation to her local newspaper. (This she won’t bother to send because she is too stingy to buy a stamp. The price of stamps - another thing old goat’s legs has been meaning to write to someone to complain about. Moan, moan, bloody moan.)

Boyfriend/girlfriend? I don’t think so, Lenka’s intuition tells her. So what are two Hungarians doing rowing in a park in north London on a Sunday morning in 1999? Lenka supposes the woman to be an au pair like herself. But the man? It is still five years before Hungary joins the European Union, and so the few Hungarian men in the UK are either here on hard-to-acquire work permits or else… Perhaps that is why the woman seems to have the upper hand in the dispute: her status in the country is on a more solid footing. But now the giraffe-man is jabbing an accusatory digit in the face of the toned woman with the shoulder-length red hair. She swats it away defiantly and fearlessly, in the process causing her top to ride up at the back. This reveals a large sun tattoo at the base of her spine complete with flames emanating from all around the inky circle. Wheel of fire. Lenka herself has toyed with the idea of getting one of these in-vogue tattoos and secretly admires anyone plucky enough to have gone through with it. Certainly the size of the thing leaves Lenka in no doubt that the woman with the red hair is not one for half measures.

The face-off ends as abruptly as it started and the man strides away, issuing what sound like obscenities or threats over his shoulder. One phrase in particular he repeats over and over. Lenka thinks she understands it to mean ‘we’ll see’. Whatever. Time to take little Edward home.

Back at the Harris residence, a different kind of confrontation is in progress. The eldest boy, Jake, can’t find his football boots. This has blown up into a slanging match with his mum about keeping his room tidier. From downstairs, Lenka can hear irate Jake screeching that the boots must have been stolen and that he is going to call the police. That prompts counter accusations from sister Emily that Jake has stolen things from other family members in the past. Dad joins in. Jake accuses his parents of ganging up on him. Above the general hullaballoo, Jake’s feverish yell can be heard to threaten: ‘Kids in the USA sue their parents for abuse! That’s what I’m going to do to you!’ Such a sweet boy, that Jake. By now the whole household has got involved. Cue doors being slammed. Heavy stomping of feet. High-pitched shrieks. Apocalyptic sibling threats. The Labrador sleeping in the hall downstairs feels left out and starts howling at the moon.

Lenka slips into the elegant kitchen of the spacious gabled house and closes the door behind her in an attempt to stay out of the way and dampen down the racket. These domestic eruptions are not uncommon and usually soon blow over. Yet the Czech au pair can’t work out why these kids, who have everything, behave so badly and speak so disrespectfully to their parents. It is a common theme of gossip amongst her au pair friends. They all agree they will never bring up their children this way. So many of Lenka’s counterparts have to keep changing family because of wild kids or unreasonable labour demands or low pay. Or all of those.

The Harris family are Lenka’s third employers in the UK. When she first arrived, her agency sent her to the Jones family. They seemed reasonable enough at first: Mrs Jones was an accountant and Mr Jones a high-flying solicitor. Two kids aged eight and ten. Everything normal. Until one Saturday when Mrs Jones and the children were attending a function at their local church, and Mr Jones suddenly appeared in the doorway of Lenka’s room dressed in women’s clothing. He wanted Lenka to help him with his make up. Supposedly.

Lenka froze, but then saw the funny side of beholding a rotund, middle-aged man in a Marilyn Munroe wig and high-heeled shoes. From behind this unlikely garb two repressed eyes had a faintly imploring aspect. ‘Call me Wendy,’ was how the transvestite tried to put Lenka at ease. Was a silky purple blouse and a padded bra really how conservative Mr J saw himself? Lenka felt she wanted to point out to her employer that the tight pencil skirt he had squeezed into was all wrong for his stout build. Those rugby player’s legs, slightly bowed, in stockings and stilettos gave him the appearance of a bulldog in drag. Perhaps he was getting ready to go to a fancy dress party or acting in a play, Lenka told herself. The situation seemed more comical than threatening. But then Mr Jones worried Lenka with talk of them being two sisters together. Lenka warned that she was going to tell Mrs Jones everything, so then a desperate Mr Jones produced a wad of cash and waved it in Lenka’s face so hard it seemed like a weapon. Which, of course, money is, Lenka later realised. But what exactly was Mr Jones trying to buy? Her silence or her sex? Or both?

It was when a frightened Lenka threatened to call the police that Mr Jones realised the game was up. He tore off his wig angrily and tottered out of Lenka’s room on his stilt-like stilettoes. ‘By the way, you’re fired!’ he cried with his back to her. He sounded not just a coward but also as if he had been through this routine before, what with the wad of money handy and the resigned way he seemed to accept the rejection. When Lenka reported the incident to her agency, it turned out Mr Jones had indeed pulled the same stunt with the previous au pair but had promised it was a one-off and wouldn’t happen again. Unbeknown to Lenka, the agency still sent a third girl to the Jones family. Perhaps she wouldn’t complain.

What Lenka and all her au pair friends dreamed of was working for an elderly lady with just a dog that needed walking. That was the ideal job. And Lenka thought she had landed it with posting number two. Meet Mrs Greenslade: a superstitious 83-year-old spinster who had spent her life working at the British Museum and resided in a large Victorian house. The brittle-boned octogenarian was too advanced in years to look after her ivy-enveloped home and two yappy terriers on her own. Enter Lenka. But, for goodness sake, don’t open any doors with your left hand and never wear mauve. No religious imagery either or the old woman would become agitated. Mrs Greenslade lived a frugal existence and was still reasonably independent, so Lenka’s main duties were the house and the terriers, curiously named Elgin and Marbles. ‘Watch that one: he’s always running off,’ Mrs Greenslade warned Lenka, gesturing a bony finger at marbled-eyed Marbles. For two months everything was calm and normal; just clean the musty rooms, prepare a few meals, walk the dogs (don’t lose Marbles). Easy-peasy. Lots of free time to study and go out. But then Mrs Greenslade had one of her turns. She became convinced the house had been taken over by evil spirits. The senior citizen’s remedy? To run naked from room to room, upstairs and down, clutching a large vase whilst, in a strident voice, reciting Plato in ancient Greek. That wasn’t too bad. Manageable. It was when she got a bundle of newspaper and matches and tried to burn the place down in a feverish fit that Lenka decided once again to pack her bags.

‘PURGATION! PURGATION!’ foamed the possessed Mrs Greenslade, eyes saucer wide, grey hair in an exaggerated Einstein shock.

The agency let Lenka know in no uncertain terms they were getting fed up with her pickiness, so she felt compelled to accept the next offer of a family with four children. And not complain.

Whenever the Harris family zoo gets too much for her, she reflects on what some of her fellow au pairs have to put up with. Never a week goes by without one of her friends suffering some or other domestic crisis. Many a tear shed.

Lenka has never given her own family too many details of these experiences. She doesn’t want to unduly worry the folks back home: they have their own concerns. But what is it with all this weirdness in the UK? Maybe the damp weather gets to people’s brains. Or that strange milky tea.

2 – Lenka and Aggie

Early September, and Lenka begins her third and final year at the local language school. After passing her exams in June, she has now progressed to the highest level advanced class, but still feels she has much to learn before she returns home to the Czech Republic the following summer. Lenka will attend three classes a week. The rest of her studies comprise private study and of course conversing as much as possible, although the opportunities for this are limited due to her daily domestic workload. Listening to the tinny radio whilst cleaning the rooms is not the same. That is why she doesn’t mind the nuttiness chez Harris family, because each time there is an exchange of any sort between herself and a family member, Lenka’s English is improving. This dividend is what she reminds herself of every time the going gets a bit hairy. Sometimes she finds it hard to convince herself. What possible benefit can there be from being ambushed on the landing by a band of feral children armed with an ironing board and a decommissioned cat basket? But phlegmatic Lenka has learned to take the rough with the smooth.

As always there are familiar faces and plenty of new ones around the medium-sized language school campus, a square, red-brick building not far from the centre of town. Each day the college has classes at all levels – from beginners to advanced – and Lenka feels proud of how far she has come with her