Love tells us many things that are not so.
(Ukrainian Proverb)
Four years had passed since my mum’s diagnosis of Alzheimer’s, and my coping mechanism of complete detachment - a numbness if you will - was severely tested as news of the brutal war in Ukraine took over our TV screens in late February 2022.
A young family, interviewed by a roving reporter from the safety of a German refugee shelter, shattered my illusion of being a complete drone. A shell built up over the years, and perfected during my mum’s ongoing battle with her mind, and my ongoing battle with the powers that be at her care home.
I pictured myself, the house, my small collection of antiques, my mum’s elderly cat, James, and the tears came. And then came a wail. I’m not sure if I’d ever wailed, but an inner pain rose to the surface. And something told me I had to do something. I simply had to do more.
Abergavenny held a solidarity rally on the first Saturday in March, which I’m pleased to have attended, sporting a reappropriated Marie Curie daffodil in lieu of any clothing from the more adventurous areas of the colour wheel. I found the entire event terribly moving - a minute’s silence that made my skin prickle that led on to personal accounts from local Ukrainian families and their relatives back home.
I rarely visit the town centre on busy Saturday mornings, but I felt energised by the warm air and sense of camaraderie, and hobbled along to a new coffee shop I’d read about in the monthly ‘What’s On’ flyer that makes its way through my letterbox along with charity shop bags and adverts for the local vampiric estate agents.
The coffee shop, much like the other recent openings in town, was chic, dog friendly and with a vibe that would befit Primrose Hill or the swankiest parts of Bristol, and I felt a little guilt as I breezed in, replaying scenes that had been on the news over the past few days.
The offerings were just as foreign to me as the ambience within the coffee shop, but I masked any lack of confidence I might have been feeling and ordered my first ever, and hopefully last ever, caramel macchiato.
While forcing myself to take sips of sickly coffee, I took out my phone so as to avoid eye contact with a Labrador that seemed intent on locking eyes with mine, and mindlessly began to scroll through the BBC News app for an update on all things Ukraine.
‘I think you’ve got a fan,’ came a voice from across the table. It was the Labrador’s owner - a lady in her early thirties whose yellow coat showed signs of many a walk in the mud and rain.
I took a sip of macchiato and faked a smile.
‘She’s called Merlin,’ she said, unprovoked, eager to be challenged on the name choice.
I shot them both an exaggerated smile and picked back up where I was on my phone.
‘Sorry, did I just see you at the peace rally?’
I jolted back to reality, noticing the blue clothes she wore to complement the grubby yellow coat. The Ukrainian flag come to life in most disappointing form. Merlin, too, had yellow and blue ribbons wrapped around an old leather collar and I made more of an effort to be present and smiled.
‘Ah yes, it was a good show wasn’t it,’ I said.
‘The Chronicle was there - they took a lovely shot of Merlin, I hope it makes the paper!’ she got in, pleased as punch. ’My wife and I..’
That was enough.
I glanced at my watch and shot up, desperate not to engage any further.
‘You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve forgotten that I need to be somewhere. You and Merlin have this table. And this god awful macchiato.’
I nodded, adding, ‘Slava Ukraine!’ before making a sharp exit.
*
I walked back home slowly, running through the events of the day so far and trying my hardest not to replay the unwarranted encounter. Spring blossoms were out in full force, and I longed to tell my poor mum about the adventure I’d had that morning, and to share in the beauty of so many gorgeous cherry trees as I shuffled home.
It would be a further eight days until I could show mum a particularly beautiful abstract shot of a magnolia, or to tell her about Merlin the dog, since her care home was yet again in lockdown. One solitary Covid case in a workforce of one hundred and twenty people, whether they’ve been at work or not, means a complete shutdown for two weeks. Fourteen days with not so much as a smile to comfort each other, or some familiar news from home.
I make a daily phone call for my own benefit more than my mum’s, where I ask for a brief update on the goings on with her activities, her walking, her eating and a few medical issues unrelated to her rapidly deteriorating mental state.
This two minute update per day is too much to ask, however, and I’m often waiting for ten minutes or more while incompetent receptionists hunt down even more incompetent nurses who have, on more than one occasion, told me that mum is exactly the same today as she was yesterday. And this, a luxury care home. I dread to think how the ones that charge less than six thousand pounds a month operate.
Retirement has, for the most part, been kind to me. I wanted for very little, just my small corner of the world and the health of my mum and James, and it seems so very cruel that I should have all this free time on my hands but no one to really share it with, such is the life of a bachelor.
*
The unseasonal good weather was proving to be a tonic, and I got completely lost in my beloved act of gardening whilst replaying the day’s events. I’d been rude in the cafe, I realised, but without any ill intent. I seem to have my back up at all times when in public, since Abergavenny is so different a town to the one I left. It’s always had an air of the toffee-nose, but its unfamiliarity after being away for so long stung sometimes.
I need to try harder when warmth meets me, I thought to myself while I washed the mud from my hands.
That night’s meal was a schezuan chicken with egg fried rice, and I remember telling James that the packaging probably had more flavour than the meal itself as we sat and watched Sky News, such was the dire state of Saturday night television - once the highlight of my televisual week.
The big news of the day was the Russian occupation of Zaporizhzhia Nuclear Power Plant. Doomsday seemed closer than ever, and I retrieved James from the second two-seater sofa (the one intended for mum) to have a little company as I watched with bated breath, still hungry after the most disappointing meal ever known to man.
‘I think we should watch a little less of the box, don’t you, James?’
*
I lasted just under a week without any television, focusing my down time instead on catching up with tasks and trying yet failing to read. Concentration was impossible.
Without mum around, and only James to chat with, I missed the sound of other human voices and buckled the following Thursday. Glancing at the clock and realising that it was time for House of Games, I decided that I was simply punishing myself, grabbed the remote and caught the end of a news segment about what I later understood to be the Homes for Ukraine scheme that had been announced a few days prior.
Coming to it at the tail end, I was left with more questions than answers, and pulled out my phone to fill in the gaps.
‘Gove bids to end Ukrainian refugee chaos with £350 cash for rooms offer’, read the main headline, with the sub-head, ‘Patel humiliated after fortnight of failure, while experts warn the accommodation scheme carries risks’. It was happening. We were doing something at last.
The article assumed the reader had prior knowledge of the scheme and hadn’t lost the previous few days to a self-imposed TV ban, but it gave just enough away about a ‘national’ effort whereby individuals with a spare room could open up their hearts and homes to Ukrainians.
Rather than offering a simple Visa-free route, however, the Conservatives, hot on the heels of Brexit, were making the process as difficult as they could in order to try to please everyone and to stifle criticism of their slow response to date.
‘James,’ I called, spotting him as he strutted into the room, full of himself and the food he’d just finished. ‘How would you feel about someone from Ukraine coming to live in your house?’
James jumped up on to the sofa and smoothed his way, nose first, across my thigh to lie as close to me as he could. I read his affection as affirmation.
‘It’s the least we could do, I suppose, isn’t it?’
*
In advance of doing anything practical with regard to the actual finding and matching up with a Ukrainian, or even being aware of how that was to happen, I spent the next few days blitzing the house and ensuring it was up to the standards of anyone who might come along and inspect matters.
I’ve been accused of being OCD when it comes to cleaning, so some would argue that there was little to do, but I set about on a regimented programme of decontamination. Bleach, disinfectant, paint touch-ups, new reed diffusers and candles. I had, at last, a sense of purpose outside of James and the care home.
The boiler was serviced. I had new smoke and carbon monoxide alarms fitted. I did everything and more to be the model host. Ready but, sadly, still very clueless about it all.
It was whilst lining up three small succulents in mum’s second bedroom (the one we refer to as James’s room despite him never having set foot in there), that I overheard a news item about a charity that was matching up people from across the UK with Ukrainians desperate for a Visa. I made a dash to the kitchen where my Amazon Echo was playing Radio Wales.
‘I know that voice,’ I said out loud as a woman spoke about her experience of joining the charity’s website.
‘My wife and I simply set up a profile detailing our house, the grounds.. a little about us and our beautiful dog Merlin - pronouns she/her for all three of us..’
It was the woman from the coffee shop. She’d already found a match, the odious cow.
I made a mental note of the name of the charity but could take no more of her self righteousness. It’s an admirable thing to do anything for charity, but to put yourself on the radio to ensure you’re praised is utterly distasteful, I thought. And to think of a poor Ukrainian girl having to put up with her.
‘Alexa, OFF!’
I quickly Googled the charity and found myself poring over articles about its founder, a London-based Ukrainian who had dedicated every waking hour since the onset of war to helping those fleeing for safety. And before long, I was on his website, creating a profile of my own.
The process was as easy as could be. I filled in some obligatory information about myself, being sure to mention my mum’s presence in the house so as not to look like a predatory single male.
FOUR BEDROOM HOUSE IN QUAINT MEDIEVAL TOWN OF ABERGAVENNY. Central location in walking distance of shops, mountain walks, train station and leisure centre. Use of entire room with en-suite facilities. Shared kitchen, small courtyard garden. Mother and son owner occupiers. MUST LIKE CATS. NO SMOKERS.
Being the pedant I am, I checked everything over a few more times to be sure that everything was present and correct, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and hit ‘publish’.
There was no going back now, I thought, and I stared at the screen a little longer, deep in thought and filled with worry about how it might actually pan out sharing a house with a complete stranger - not to mention one who may be traumatised, with no knowledge of English or, worse, someone messy.
I’d never lived with a female before - in fact, mum is so far the only one I can tolerate. But this was different. This was wartime.
I stared, and stewed, and checked my profile a few more times before I felt able to pull myself away from the screen and decided it would be wise to have a walk to clear my mind and to return in a few hours to look over any requests I might have.
I won’t lie, either. I expected many. I needed time to prepare myself.
*
That evening passed much like others before. I fed James before winding my way around the house with some Dettol spray and cloths in my endless quest to rid the world of house moths - an obsession that began following an infestation that put paid to some of my most treasured clothes, not to mention mum’s collection of antique Welsh blankets.
After a few hours spent distracting myself, I returned to the laptop and a looping gallery of photos of mum in full health, and I was dumbstruck to find that I was without even a single message.
Hundreds and hundreds of Ukrainians were on there but, it seemed, none wanted little old me. If only I’d found a moth that evening to take out my frustration on, but instead I sat there hitting refresh again and again; my anticipated joy having come to nothing.
‘Oh well, Jim-Jims. We’ll check in the morning, shall we?’ I asked a tired looking James who was, come one o’clock, decidedly angry with me.
I toddled on up to the bathroom with him in tow, feeling pretty downtrodden despite being more than aware that the poor Ukrainians at the other end of the internet cables and wires were probably dealing with woes I could barely imagine. James, in a huff, had already left me and found his place on the bed, and I looked at my face in the mirror as I brushed my teeth.
*
Call it a sense of pride, or spite - I woke with a cheeky grin the following day with a determination to make any ladies that may have made contact wait for me now. ‘Back in control and back in the game,’ were, I believe, my first spoken words to James who lay beside me cleaning himself.
Like so many mornings before, the alarm sounded shortly after I’d risen and dressed, such was my ingrained sense of the time and routine. The laptop was closed but left on standby, but I wasn’t going to play ball just yet.
I fed James, tidied the kitchen and put on a load of washing, glancing every now and then at the laptop’s blue light. They could all wait, I thought. I am the one in control, not them.
I made a note in my little jotter to hunt down a Ukrainian phrasebook, then scrolled through news apps on my phone for a while.
With a recorded episode of Pointless on TV for some comforting background sounds, I reached for the laptop from the arm of the sofa and picked up where I’d left off the previous evening on the home matching website.
The Ukrainian language took precedence, no doubt not to put off the poor frightened-yet-hopeful soon-to-be-refugees and I scrolled down to the area for us monoglot Brits. I quickly logged in, my suspicion taking hold instantly as I noticed no notifications at all. Surely something was amiss?
I dived into the site deeper, following every page until I finally reached my profile and messaging portal but, yet again, nothing.
‘So no one wants to live with us it seems,’ I said to an absent James who had sloped off upstairs to lie on the bed in the daytime, fully aware of the rules that had been adhered to throughout his life, to continue cleaning himself.
‘No one wants to live rent free in a three storey town house in one of Wales’ most sought after towns. What do we have to say about that? Beggars can be choosers after all!’
I checked and checked my wording and the boxes ticked - couples, pets, LGBT friendly and the like and sat there, staring aimlessly at the screen. Without conscious thought, I’d ruled out making any moves on the listings from potential guests in case, as a man, I’d come off like a desperate old man despite my own thoughts on women, but reasoned that there was no harm in me just looking to see what was in store if and when I eventually had some interest.
Row up on row, hundreds upon hundreds of listings faced me on the pages I’d avoided until that point. It read like a dating site.
I clicked the first name, unsure of what to expect, and unprepared for my reaction to the humanity and reality that, up until this point, I’d been shielded from through the television screen that shared its space with superhero movies, cartoons, celebrities and the like.
What struck me in so many of the posts was the humanity. The playing God and choosing of someone to pluck from the thousands in need felt a little too much, but the posters themselves almost had something in common - something that I couldn’t help feel a little suspicious of. They all wanted to be in London and nowhere else in the UK. In fact, if any of them knew that there were other nations in the UK I would have been very surprised as all references were to England and/or London.
The silent tears that began falling after I’d started reading quickly abated as I weighed up this information, and I breathed in deeply to compose myself, slightly ashamed of the big softy I was becoming.
Little else happened that day - I cooked and cleaned and spent hours deep in thought with James back at my side, debating whether or not to call it a day before getting too deeply involved.
Fate, however, had other ideas.
As I logged on to the matchmaking website, intent on deleting my profile before heading upstairs, I was struck by the sight of a flashing red dot emanating from the message icon. I had a bite. I had a reason.
With none of the restraint I’d had earlier in the day, I rushed to the inbox. It was real. I had a request - someone wanted to come and live with me. Of course they did! Only it wasn’t who I thought it would or could have been. Quite the contrary.
The message was from a man.
*
My name is Evhenyi Romanyuk, I am 37 years old. I am a dancer and model.
I am now in Kyiv and until the last minute I believed that soon all this would end, but Kyiv began to be bombed.
I would like to find family that will shelter me for a while and for whom I would not be a burden. I would be very grateful if you could help me find a job. I am not afraid of difficulties, the main thing is to get to safe place.
I would be no trouble. I can also provide references and help with chores.
Yours sincelery.
Evhenyi Romanyuk
*
My brain froze. A man? Sincelery?
I searched and searched and searched online for him, coming up empty handed at every turn. But hours poring over Instagram proved fruitful in the end. A breadcrumb in the shape of a theatre poster with, what shocked me to my very core, a different name. For all of the ills of social media, the simple ability to translate at the touch of a button revealed one Evhenyi Kovalenko, not the Romanyuk of his Facebook post.
James brushed against my leg, desperate to get me to switch off the lights and settle to bed so he could take his rightful place beside me, but this breadcrumb taunted deeply. Hurt, even. Was I being lied to already?
I hurriedly typed his name, the new name, into my phone browser and, where once my search was fruitless, here I had rich pickings. It was too late to go all in now, I had plenty of time to investigate thoroughly in the morning, and James had already been kept awake a full two hours past his bedtime at this point, but a curious glance at the Images tab to see what wonders awaited was too irresistible not to sample before calling it a night.
Line upon line, row upon row, of photos of my dear boy filled my screen. Like manna from heaven, I finally felt some of my worries of the past few days cease. I struck gold on my first choice of photo to explore further, and I was taken to what appeared to be Evhenyi’s online modelling profile. Quite worryingly, a Russian one, but the beauty of what I found astounded me.
While James curled into the nook at the back of my knees, the light of my smartphone was concentrated solely on my eager face as I took in the beauty of a man who had already given me a sense of hope and purpose such as I’d not felt in decades.
It’s fair to say that, despite a touch of thinning of the hair, I was witnessing a Slavic Adonis. Modelling shots stood side by side with theatre posters, head shots and full body shots. To say I was excited would be both understated and vulgar, but I am a man, and an honest one at that.
The first photo was Evhenyi’s headshot. Much like a passport photo, the detail was all in his face besides the hint at a scoop neck, black ribbed T shirt. Above the neckline, a small tuft of chest hair poked through, a mere twenty or so strands that, like the slight thinning on top, only served to add to the testosterone-fuelled energy even his photo managed to emit.
Three moles, as delicate as a constellation, sat to the right of his Adam’s apple, and a five o’clock shadow sat in contrast to the translucent porcelain skin only an Eastern European could possess.
His jawline. Square yet soft, and a flaw that an untrained eye might overlook or assume might detract - his lips seemed almost offset. A slight pull to his left, my right, giving the appearance of more space to the one side of his face. But that’s the thing with beauty - it’s not about true mirror-like perfection. It’s magical and either is or isn’t. This gentleman’s every pore, every flaw, only added to it.
As I write, I bear witness to the inadequacy of words. His eyes, were I to describe them, so deep to almost be calling, bright, one lid sweeping at a slightly lower, wider angle. It all sounds flawed, but my heart raced as I took in each and every detail.
His modelling shots were not the snaps of a chancer who has found himself walking the wrong path, paying for someone to take cheap awkward photos for a portfolio. He had the look of someone who could command the desire of anyone who dared glimpse in his direction. His brows, unkempt, uneven, only added to this masculine charm. A charm that only heterosexual men can possess - rugged imperfection.
I moved on to the next photo, to drink in as much of him as I could before I pushed my luck with James who was beginning to show off at the later than late bedtime.
Evhenyi was photographed reclining on a sofa, moodily staring into the camera. This showed the fulness of his lips so much better, and confirmed him to have a nose of the most impossibly beautiful proportions. He appeared a lot darker in this photo. Sultry and inviting. I looked away, almost embarrassed, biting my bottom lip flirtatiously.
The next photo was obviously from the same session, but this time a less successful shot. Reclining in a deep bay window of sorts, a blurred cityscape out of focus behind him. The suit appeared a little cheap, and I wondered if it might be indicative of his budget. I have a fine wardrobe that I intended to give him access to as soon as he was to land in the UK, and a smile grew and grew as I imagined dressing him, maybe even buying things for him to distract from the terrible time he must have been going through.
The third photo, a more casual shot, saw Evhenyi leaning up against a wall. He wore an oversized maroon jumper for this, and his stare met mine from a sideway glance. Cheekbones carved into his face by a master. How did we find each other, I wondered.
This final image offered no new insight, but oh how it cemented my sheer delight in appreciation of this fine Ukrainian man. A black polar neck jumper contrasting so beautifully with his sun-lit skin. The photographer seemed to be low on ideas, as he was again in something resembling a bay window, but this time looking out.
I imagined him in my front room looking across the roofs of the houses opposite, taking in the magnificent Blorenge mountain which I hoped we might one day climb together. His stubble rose into the embryos of ringlets around his most perfect ears. His hairline, higher than most, but still not detracting from his model looks and the most gentle of faces. Masculine yet fragile. Quite simply the most beautiful man I’d ever set my eyes upon.
Vowing to etch the image on my mind to recall at any given moment, I placed my phone into its charging dock and fell back into my orthopaedic pillow. Beaming, satiated and completely prepared for the new life that awaited me.
James stretched and let out a satisfying sigh, and we both fell into a deep sleep within moments.
*
I woke unnaturally early the following morning, my mind buzzing with excitement for the next stage of online exploration, desperate to formulate a response.
To ‘keep him keen’ and not reply in too desperate a fashion, I switched on the TV to catch up on the news.
There seemed to be little change overnight, and images of a devastated Mariupol were interspersed with chaotic scenes at railway stations across the whole of the Ukraine.
A ceasefire seemed a long way off, according to the newsreader, and upon mention alone of the word ‘ceasefire’ I must admit to a slight worry that the war might just fizzle out. That things would return to normal, which would be a most wonderful and just turn of events, but one that would inevitably mean that the Homes for Ukraine scheme would be dead in the water before it even became a reality.
This, of course, is what I would term an intrusive thought that isn’t at all how I felt, so rather than embrace it and stew upon it further, I switched channels in the hope of something less depressing, less hopeless, and planned a reply in my head.
I was falling in love, I’m not at all ashamed to say.
He could have chosen anyone, anywhere, but he chose me.
I was falling in love.
