2009 - We Are All Made of Glue

by Marina Lewycka

  My boss Nathan once told me that the Nazis had made glue from human bones. Lampshades from human skin; mattresses stuffed with human hair. Nothing wasted. I was beginning to feel dizzy. Maybe it was the strobe effect of the faulty fluorescent tube, or the memories trapped in the ghost-breathed air.

  I made my way back up the stone stairs. As my fingers felt for the light switch I turned back towards the workshop, and that’s when I saw a flash of colour on top of the tool cabinet—a couple of millimetres of blue just visible above the architrave. Curious, I went back down and pulled up a chair to have a look. It was an oblong tin, a bit rusty, with a picture of Harlech Castle surrounded by an improbably blue Welsh sky. I lifted it down and eased it open. It was the sort of tin that would once have held toffees or shortbread biscuits, but all it had in it now was a few photographs. I slipped it under my arm and went back up into the light.

  From the hall, a wide staircase with a curved mahogany banister led up to the first floor. As I mounted the treads, still clutching the tin, a threadbare Axminster carpet secured by brass rods released clouds of dust under my feet. The same mahogany handrail galleried the first-floor landing, and nine doors opened off it. One of them was slightly ajar. I pushed it open. A scurry of movement. Two lean stray cats bolted out between my legs. The room was large and light, with a double window overlooking the front garden, and dominated by a massive art-deco walnut double bed on which a tattered-eared tomcat—he had the same moth-eaten look as Mrs Shapiro’s astrakhan coat—was curled up asleep. Raising his shaggy head he followed me with his eyes as I came in. The stench in here was terrible. Phew! I opened a window. “Shoo! Shoo! Piss off!” I tried to chase him out but he just looked at me with contempt. Eventually he uncurled himself, jumped down from the bed flicking his tail grumpily from side to side, and sauntered towards the door.

  This, I guessed, was Mrs Shapiro’s bedroom, for her clothes were scattered everywhere—the Scotch plaid baker boy cap, the peep-toe high heels, and on the floor by the bed a pair of peach camiknickers trimmed with cream lace, a faint stain yellowing the silk. The walnut wardrobe, carved with art-deco sunbursts, was full of clothes on satin-padded hangers, reeking of moth-balls, stylish and expensive like costumes in a Humphrey Bogart movie. A matching sunburst dressing table stood in one corner, with a triple hinged mirror facing the window through which I had a view of the garden. I rifled through layers of ancient decomposing make-up and musty, slightly stinky underwear. There was nothing of interest, so I sat down on the edge of the bed, opened the Harlech Castle tin, and spread out the six photographs.

  Most were in black and white, but the top one was in sepia, creased and tattered at the edges. It was a family portrait from the turn of the century: the mother in a lace-collared dress cradling a baby, the other arm round the shoulder of the father with a beard and a tall hat, and two children, a little girl wearing a flouncy dress and a strikingly blond toddler in white pantaloons and an embroidered shirt. There was writing on the back that didn’t seem to make sense. Until I realised it was in Cyrillic script. All I could make out was the date: 1905. He must have carried it with him, hidden in a pocket or a lining, all that way.

  Next, a wedding photograph caught my eye: a tall man, fair and handsome, grasping the hand of a pretty woman with ardent eyes and thick curly black hair pinned up beneath a crown of white blossom. They were gazing out of the photograph, wide-eyed, half smiling, as though taken by surprise at their own happiness. The man I recognised as Artem Shapiro. But who was the woman? An attractive heart-shaped face with wide-set dark eyes and a full, generous mouth. I studied it carefully, for people’s faces do change as they age, but, really, there could be no doubt. The woman in the photo was not Naomi Shapiro.

  I was still staring at the photo when suddenly I heard a sound outside in the garden—voices, and the clack of the gate. My heart thumped. Quickly I slipped the photos into my bag, closed the tin and shoved it on top of the wardrobe out of sight. In one of the panes of the triple mirror I could see a reflection of the window and, through it, the garden. A man and a woman were standing on the path; they were standing and gazing at the house. The woman was a stout redhead, wearing a vivid green jacket; the man was stocky and red-cheeked, wearing a blue parka, smoking a cigarette. The man stubbed his cigarette out on the path and spoke to the woman. I couldn’t catch his words, but I saw her toothy laugh. By the time I came down to the door they’d gone.

  9

  Rubber

  There was a different nurse on duty when I went back up to the hospital next time. She examined the papers I showed her without comment, ticked a box on Mrs Shapiro’s notes, and passed them back to me.

  “How’s she doing?” I asked.

  “Fine. She’ll be ready to go as soon as we can get her home assessment done.” She flicked through the notes. “I understand you have the key to her house. I’ll get Mrs Goodknee to ring you for an appointment.”

  Mrs Goodknee again. I imagined someone in a miniskirt with chubby dimpled knees.

  Mrs Shapiro was sitting up in bed, her hair combed back tidily, the hospital nightgown, antiseptic green, buttoned up to her throat. She seemed well; the stay in hospital had fattened her up. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes looked bluer—yes, her eyes were definitely blue.

  “Hello. You look good, Mrs Shapiro. Are they feeding you well? Are they still making you eat sausages?”

  “Not sossedge. Now is better. Now is chickens and fry pottetto. Did you bring the Wonder Boy?”

  “I tried, but he ran away,” I lied.

  I wanted to ask her about the photographs, but I held back because I didn’t want to admit that I’d been rifling through her house and had discovered the hidden tin. I would have to find another way of worming the story out of her.

  We sipped the thick, bitter tea that came around on the trolley and munched our way through the box of chocolates I’d brought in my role as next of kin.

  “Mrs Shapiro, I’m worried that your house is…well…don’t you think it’s a bit big for you to manage? Wouldn’t you be happier in a nice cosy flat? Or in a home where you’d have someone to look after you?”

  She looked at me with wide-eyed horror, as though I’d put a curse on her.

  “Why for you say this to me, Georgine?”

  I couldn’t find polite words to explain my concern about the smell and the grunge and the crumbling fabric of the house, so I just said, “Mrs Shapiro, the nurse thinks you might be too old to live on your own.” I studied her face. “She told me you’re ninety-six.”

  Her mouth twitched. She blinked. “I am not going nowhere.”

  “Mrs Shapiro, how old are you really?”

  She ignored my question.

  “What would heppen to my dear cats?” A stubborn look had come over her. “How is the Wonder Boy? Next time you must bring him.”

  I told her about Wonder Boy’s starling—“That notty boy!”—and Violetta’s plaintive mewing—“Ach! Always she is singing La Traviatal”—and the cat that sneaked upstairs to sleep on her bed. “That is Mussorgsky. Maybe it is my fault, I allow it. Darlink, sometimes I am so lonely in the night.”

  She glanced at me, and my face must have given something away, because she said, “You also are lonely, Georgine, are you? I can see in your eyes.”

  I nodded reluctantly. I was the one who was supposed to be asking the questions. But she squeezed my hand. “So, tell me about your husband—the one who was running away.”

  “Oh, it’s a long story.”

  “But not so long as mine, isn’t it?” An impish smile. “It was a story of loff at first sight?”

  “Actually, it was, Mrs Shapiro. Our eyes met across a crowded room.”

  §

  In fact it was a courtroom in Leeds, where two miners from Castleford were on trial for a picket-line scuffle. Rip was defending; he was still doing his articles and volunteering at the Chapeltown Law Centre. I was a junior reporter on the Evening Post. After the verdict was announced�
��they were cleared—we went for a celebratory drink. Later Rip drove me home to my parents’ bungalow in Kippax, and we made love in front of the fire. I remembered how I’d teased him about his name.

  Me: (Twisting my fingers into his curls.) Knock knock.

  Him: (Fumbling with my bra, his mouth wet on my ear.) Who’s there?

  Me: (Pulling him down on top of me.) Euripides.

  Him: (Hand up my skirt.) Euripides who?

  Me: (Giggling between kisses.) You rippe dese knickers off…

  §

  So he did. It was strange, because we hardly knew each other, yet it was as if we’d known each other for ever.

  “And your parents, what did they say? They were a little surprised, isn’t it?”

  “Fortunately we were dressed by the time they got back. Mum fell for him at once. He could really put on the charm. Dad thought he was a class enemy. You see Rip was from a moneyed family, and I thought he might patronise my parents. But he was nice…respectful.”

  She flicked her head impatiently. “So tell me more about loff.”

  “Well…” the memories tightened in my throat, “you could say it’s a tempestuous story of forbidden love between an almost-aristocrat and a humble girl from a mining village.”

  She nodded. “This is a good beginning.”

  They’d been out to the Miners’ Welfare in Castleford—a retirement do for a fellow pit-deputy. There’d been a singa-long and speeches, and then more beer was drunk. Dad was glassy-eyed and unusually talkative. Mum, who’d drawn the driving straw, was also not stone cold sober.

  Dad: (Mutters to Mum.) What the heck’s our Georgie brought home?

  Mum: (Whispers to me.) You’ve landed a good fish here, Georgie.

  Me: (Embarrassed, to Rip.) Meet my parents, Jean and Dennis Shutworth.

  Rip: (All charm and golden curls.) Rip Sinclair. Delighted to meet you.

  §

  Dad was wearing his best three-piece suit, the waistcoat all buttoned up. The only concession he ever made to slackness was a slightly loosened tie. Mum, on the other hand, had long since surrendered to the lure of the elasticated waistband, but she’d made a special effort for the occasion, with a cupid’s bow of cerise lipstick and a dab of Je Reviens behind her ears.

  §

  Mum: (Taking extra care with her vowels.) Rip. That’s an unusual name.

  Rip: (A dimply self-deprecating grin.) It’s short for Euripides. My parents had great hopes for me. (His smile makes my heart jump about all over the place. I’m in love.)

  Dad: (Whispers to me.) Not your type, Georgie.

  Me: (Whisper to Dad.) You’ve got it wrong. He’s not like that. He’s on our side.

  Dad: (Jaw tight. Silence.)

  Mum: (Getting in quick.) Would you care to join us for some tea?

  §

  “And so he drank the tea?” Mrs Shapiro stifled a yawn. “Mit your parents? This is quite normal in Germany.”

  “No. In Yorkshire, tea also means dinner.”

  Mum had pulled the giant-sized pack of oven chips out of the freezer, shook the contents into a Pyrex dish, and slipped a dozen pre-cooked BBQ-flavour Chicken Drumstix under the grill, heated up a tin of Jackson’s own-brand mushroom soup in the microwave and poured it over the drumsticks. My heart shrank into its boots. “Chicken chez-sewer,” she said, sprinkling them liberally with salt, in case Mr Jackson had been stingy in that regard. Rip made a great show of pleasure, chomping noisily and wiping his mouth on a torn-off square of paper towel. Mum was completely charmed.

  We’d all squeezed round the bench and table in the kitchen. Rip was wedged between Dad and the corner. I was sitting on the other side with Mum.

  §

  Dad: (Still suspicious.) So what do you do for a living?

  Rip: (A strange look of panic has come over him.) I’m training to be a…(he catches my eye)…Johnny…

  Me: (What’s going on? Why has he turned suddenly weird?)

  Mum: (From the cooker. Awed.) That sounds interesting.

  Rip:…a solicitor. (Dad is chomping a drumstick. Rip is gesturing to me behind the table—a hand movement that looks a bit like wanking.)

  Me: (Proud.) He was defending the miners in court today, Dad.

  Dad: (Determined not to be impressed.) You mean Jack Fairboys and Robbie Middon?

  Rip: (Giving me a kick under the table.) Yes, Jack and Rob. Rub. Rub…ber.

  Dad: (Gives him a funny look.) They got off, din’t they?

  Rip: (Shifty.) Absolutely. Scot free.

  Dad: (Concentrating on the ketchup bottle.) Lads being lads. Should never have gone to court.

  Rip: (More covert under-the-table wanking.) No case to answer. On the floor. By the fire. Justice was done.

  Me: (A light dawns.) Excuse me, Mum…

  §

  I squeezed out past her and into the sitting room. There it was on the floor by the fire, glistening and slippery. I picked it up and tossed it into the embers. There was a brief sizzle and a smell of burning rubber. In the kitchen I could hear Mum saying, “I like a man with a good appetite. Euridopeas! Well I never!”

  I looked across to see whether Mrs Shapiro had got the joke, but her eyes were closed, and I realised she’d drifted off to sleep long ago.

  §

  When I got home, at about three o’clock, there was a message on the answering machine from Mrs Goodknee. Would I be so kind as to ring her—a tinny, middle-aged voice. I rang, and got another answering machine. I left a message. Then I made myself a cup of tea, and took it up to my room. I’d taken the six photographs out of my bag and spread them across the floor in front of the window like playing cards. Now, crouching down beside them, I frowned as I tried to puzzle out the story I was sure was there.

  First, the Shapiro family in which Artem was the toddler, taken in 1905. Then the wedding photograph—a different woman. Artem Shapiro must have been married to someone else before Naomi. The same couple, Artem and the mystery woman, were pictured in another photograph standing in front of a fountain. There was snow on the ground. He was wearing a cap pulled down low over his eyes and smoking a cigarette, grinning broadly at the camera. She was wearing a tight-waisted coat and a beret cocked rakishly to one side, looking up at him. There was something scrawled on the back. Stockholm Dwtt…I couldn’t make out the rest of the word.

  There was a group photo, a man and four women wearing formal clothes seated around a piano. Wechsler family, London 1940 it said on the back. I looked closely, but the faces were too small to be distinct. In another of the photographs I recognised Canaan House with the monkey puzzle tree, quite a bit smaller than now, in the background. Two women were standing in front of the porch. The taller of the two looked like the brown-eyed woman in the wedding photograph. The other, curly-haired and elfin small, I didn’t recognise. I turned the picture over. On the back was written Highbury 1948.1 looked more closely—although the facial features were indistinct, there was something familiar about the defiant feet-apart pose of the smaller woman. I remembered the slight boyish figure in the light of the street lamp, pulling things out of the skip. Naomi. So they’d been together in Canaan House, they’d known each other.

  I recognised the same woman in another photo; this time she was alone, standing in an arched stone doorway, wearing a flowery dress, her dark eyes squinting into the sun, smiling. On the back was written Lydda 1950. That’s a pretty name, I thought, for a pretty woman. But who was she?

  Downstairs, the front door slammed; the house shook. Ben, coming home from school at half past four. I heard the thud of his school bag in the hall, the slap of his parka on the floor, and the thump-thump of his footsteps on the stairs. A few minutes later, I heard the Windows welcome chimes. He hadn’t even said hello. I felt something in my chest fall away and flap against my heart. Sweeping the photos together into a pile, I went down to the kitchen, made two cups of tea and carried them upstairs. I knocked on the door of his room but he didn’t answer, so I pushed it open wi
th my foot. Ben was sitting at his desk staring at the computer monitor. I caught a quick glimpse of the screen—a flash of red writing on a black page. A single word, picked out in flickering white flames, leapt out at me: Armageddon. Then with a click of the mouse the screen changed to a Microsoft sky.

  “Ben…”

  “What?”

  “What’s the matter, love?”

  “Nothing.”

  I reached out and ruffled his hair. He flinched under my touch and I withdrew my hand quickly.

  “It’s okay to feel upset, Ben. It’s a hard time for all of us.”

  “I don’t feel upset.”

  He was still staring silently at the screen, his hands clenched into fists, resting on the front of the keyboard as if waiting for me to go away. The blue light of the monitor caught the curve of his cheek and his upper lip, lightly shadowed with dark, soft down.

  “Is it school? How’s the new class?”

  “Okay. Fine. Cool.”

  The move from Leeds to London had been hard on Ben. He’d resented being plucked out of his group of friends, some of whom he’d known since pre-school playgroup, and having to fight his way into the unwelcoming circles of his North London comprehensive. He never brought any friends home, but a few times he’d come back from school later than usual, and muttered something about having been with someone called Spike. Spike—what kind of a name was that? Although I burned with curiosity, I knew better than to press for details.

  “What would you like for tea, love?”

  “Anything. Spaghetti.”

  “Okay. About half an hour?”

  “I’ll come down, Mum. All right?” he said without looking up, in a voice that meant leave me alone’.