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

As I bent toward the tap, the orange ribbon slipped on my plait, swirling in the water. For a moment I remembered the orange balloons and banners in the square, the tents and music, and my parents, so excited, gabbing like teenagers about freedom and other such stun. And I did feel a stab of sadness. Then I picked up the wet ribbon, shook it out, and hung it over the washing line. As I looked down over the valley, my heart started to dance again. I took a deep breath. This air - so sweet, so English. This was the air I’d dreamed of breathing; loaded with history, yet as light as . . . well, as light as something very light. How had I lived for nineteen years without breathing this air? And all the cultured, brave, warm-hearted people that I’d read about in Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dickens - okay, I admit, mostly in translation - I was ready to meet them.

In fact I was particularly looking forward to meeting a gentleman in a bowler hat like Mr. Brown in my Let’s Talk English book, who looks supremely dashing and romantic with his tight suit and rolled-up umbrella, and especially with the intriguing bulge in his trousers’ zipper area, which was drawn very realistically in black ink by a previous owner of that textbook. Who wouldn’t want to talk English with him?! Lord Byron looks romantic too, despite that bizarre turban.

English men are supposed to be incredibly romantic. There’s a famous folk legend about a man who braves death and climbs in through his lady’s bedroom window just to bring her a box of chocolates. Unfortunately, the only Englishman I have met so far is farmer Leapish, who doesn’t seem to fit into this category. I hope he is not typical.

Please don’t think I’m one of those awful Ukrainian girls who come to England only to ensnare a husband. I’m not. But if love should happen to come my way, okay, my heart is open and ready.

The kettle starts to whistle. Andriy pours the water onto the teabag, adds two spoonfuls of sugar, and, cradling the hot cup in his hands, wanders down to the gate, where he sometimes stands when he has an idle moment, observing the passing cars and looking out for his Angliska rosa. Leaning on his elbows, he drinks slowly, enjoying the heat in his throat, the cool breeze blowing up The Downs, and the noisy chatter of birds doing their early-morning stun. The sun has come up over the hill and although it isn’t yet eight o’clock, he can already feel its warmth on his skin. The light is as sharp as crystal, marking out the landscape with hard crisp shadows.

He likes to come down here, to look out at this England, which, despite being just beyond the gate, still seems tantalizingly out of reach. Where are you, Let’s Talk English Mrs. Brown, with your tiny waist and tailored polka-dotted blouse? Where are you, Vagvaga Riskegipd, with your bubble gum and ferocious kisses? Since he came to England two weeks ago he hasn’t met a single Angliska rosa. He has seen them drive past, so he knows they exist. Sometimes he waves, and once one of them even waved back. And yes, she was blond, and yes, she was driving a red Ferrari convertible. She was gone in the twinkling of an eye, before he could even vault over the gate to see the rear spoiler disappear around the bend in the lane. But for sure she lives somewhere nearby, so it is only a matter of time before she reappears. Okay, so his last girlfriend Lida Zakanovka went on with a soccer player. Good luck to her. There are better women waiting for him over here in England.

He blows on the hot tea to cool it down and thinks about his last visit to England. How long ago was that? It was about eighteen years, so he must have been seven years old. He was accompanying his father on a fraternal delegation to visit the mine workers’ union in the city of She≈eld, which is twinned with his home town, Donetsk. Learn, boy, his father had said. Learn about the beauty of international solidarity. Though it didn’t do him much good when he needed it. Poor Dad.

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.