Excerpt from Strawberry Fields (Two Caravans) by Marina Lewycka, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Then she went on in her hysterical way about all the things that go wrong for Ukrainian girls who go west - all those rumors and stories in the papers.

"But everyone knows these things only happened to stupid and uneducated girls, Mother. They’re not going to happen to me."

"If you will please say me what are the expenses, I will try to meet them."

I kept my voice civilized and polite. The chrome-bar tooth gleamed.

"Little flovver, the expense vill be first to pay, and then you vill be pay. Nothing to be discuss. No problema."

"And you will give me back my passport?"

"Exact. You verk, you get passport. You no verk, you no passport. Someone mekka visit in you Mama in Kiev, say Irina no good verk, is mek big problem for her."

"I have heard that in England - "

"England is a change, little flovver. Now England is land of possibility. England is not like in you school book."

I thought of dashing Mr. Brown from Let’s Talk English - if only he were here!

"You have an excellent command of English. And of Russian maybe?"

"English. Russian. Serbo-Croat. German. All languages."

So he sees himself as a linguist; okay, keep him talking.

"You are not a native of these shores, I think, Mr. Vulk?"

"Think everything vat you like, little flovver." He gave me a leering wink in the mirror, and a flash of silver tooth. Then he started tossing his head from side to side as if to shake out his dandrun.

"This, you like? Is voman attract?"

It took me a moment to realize he was referring to his ponytail. Was this his idea of flirtation? On the scale of attractiveness, I would give him a zero. For a person of minimum culture he certainly had some pretensions. What a pity Mother wasn’t here to put him right.

"It is absolutely irresistible, Mr. Vulk."

"You like? Eh, little flovver? You vant touch?"

The ponytail jumped up and down. I held my breath.

"Go on. Hrr. You can touch him. Go on," he said with horrible oily enthusiasm.

I reached out my hand, which was still greasy and smelled of chips.

"Go on. Is pleasure for you."

I touched it - it felt like a rat’s tail. Then he flicked his head, and it twitched beneath my fingers like a live rat.

"I hen hear that voman is cannot resisting such a hair it reminding her of men’s oggan."

What on earth was he talking about now?

"Oggan?"

He made a crude gesture with his fingers.

"Be not afraid, little flovver. It reminding you of boyfriend. Hah?"

"No, Mr. Vulk, because I do not have a boyfriend."

I knew straightaway it was the wrong thing to say, but it was too late. The words just slipped out, and I couldn’t bring them back.

"Not boyfriend? How is this little flovver not boyfriend?" His voice was like warm chip fat. "Hrr. Maybe in this case is good possibility for me?"

That was a stupid mistake. He’s got you now. You’re cornered.

"Is perhaps sometime we make good possibility, eh?" He breathed cigar smoke and tooth decay. "Little flovver?"

Through the darkened glass, I could see woods flashing past, all sunlight and dappled leaves. If only I could throw myself out of the vehicle, roll down the grassy bank, and run in among the trees. But we were going too fast. I shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep.

We drove on in silence for maybe twenty minutes. Vulk lit another cigar. I watched him through my lowered lashes, pu≈ng away, hunched over the wheel. Pun. Stink. Pun. Stink. How much farther could it be? Then there was a crunching of gravel under the wheels, and with one last violent lurch the mafia-machine came to a halt. I opened my eyes. We had pulled up in front of a pretty steep-roofed farmhouse set behind a summery garden where there were chairs and tables set out on the lawn that sloped down to a shallow glassy river. Just like England is supposed to be. Now at last, I thought, there will be normal people; they will talk to me in English; they will give me tea.

Excerpted from Strawberry Fields by Marina Lewycka Copyright © 2007 by Marina Lewycka. Excerpted by permission of Penguin Group USA, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.