‘It’s not up to me, miss. I just follow the guidelines.’ He looks surreptitiously at her shoes again.
‘But you must have your own opinion. Isn’t that what you’ve been trained for? Does it seem reasonable, to build a new block of flats on the garden of an existing one? Or are they pushing their luck a teensy bit, do you think?’
‘Well, there is a severe shortage of building land in the borough,’ he ventures, trying to keep the words tucked in under his little moustache. ‘We’re facing a housing crisis. The Council urgently needs the money, and we need to build more one-bedroom flats for tenants displaced by the removal of the spare-bedroom subsidy.’
Despite his schoolboy looks he’s already learning to put on that weary middle-aged air of officialdom. Maybe it goes with the job, she thinks, and wonders whether the Nairobi town planners are like that too.
‘You mean there’s a subsidy for spare bedrooms?’ This is good news, as she has two. Maybe there will be an extra subsidy for the six unslept-in beds.
He soon puts her right. ‘It’s really just clawing back of housing benefit if people are living in a property deemed to be too big for their needs. We don’t at present have enough one-bedroom flats and studios to rehouse them into, so if they can’t afford the extra rent, they may end up homeless.’
‘Homeless?’ That doesn’t sound good. ‘But these new flats they’re planning to build are two-bedroom flats. And they’re not aimed at people on housing benefit, are they? With en suites and wrap-around balconies and all that?’
‘The rents are classed as affordable. That means up to eighty per cent of the market rent.’ The flickering light bounces off his spectacles, so she can’t read the expression in his eyes. ‘It’s not me that makes the policies, miss.’
He must be just out of school, she guesses. If any official is profiting from this development, as might be the case in the Nairobi shopping mall project, it probably isn’t Mr Rowland.
Suddenly he blurts out, ‘And the cherry grove is just the start of it. They’ve got their eyes on the whole estate. They’ll let it go downhill until it can’t be repaired any more, then sell it off for redevelopment. A shame, really, because it’s one of the Lubetkin originals.’
‘Lubetkin – what’s that?’
‘He was the people’s architect. One of the great architects of the post-war consensus. We learned about him in college. Those guys weren’t just into building flats, they were building a whole new society. You’ve heard of Le Corbusier?’
‘Isn’t that a kind of French liqueur?’
‘M-m.’ He shook his head. ‘He was a French architect who believed in simple functional design. He inspired a whole generation of architects, including Lubetkin.’
‘I don’t know much about modern architecture. But I’ve been to the Lloyd’s Building.’
‘Quite special, isn’t it? If you ask me, it’s totally insane what they’re doing here. But don’t quote me on that.’
‘Thank you. That’s very helpful,’ she says.
‘In fact the whole housing scene’s insane,’ he rattles on, as if buoyed by his small act of rebellion. ‘Everything is high-end, high-spec Buy to Let for overseas investors. I can’t buy a flat in the borough on my salary. I’ve been engaged for eighteen months but I can’t afford to get married, let alone start a family. I’m still living in Walthamstow with my parents.’
‘That’s awful!’ She sighs, though in her opinion he looks far too young for marriage.
‘You need to get your letter of objection to us by the end of the month. Quote the number of the planning application. And if more people write in, it’ll carry more weight.’
He speaks very quickly and quietly, looking around to make sure no one is listening in. Then he points out the planning number and she writes it down on the back of her bus ticket.
It is 10.15 a.m. now, too late for work. She catches the bus home and phones in sick to GRM, claiming a painful wisdom-tooth treatment which she hopes will make Marc feel guilty.
Violet: A Patch of Grass and a Few Cherry Trees
Knowing something is wrong is easy, but knowing what to do about it – that’s the hard bit. She’d never thought the flats were anything special, but now she tries to picture the tall narrow building whose plans she’s just seen filling the front garden. Fourteen storeys would completely block out the view and the sun, even from the top floor of Madeley Court. And unfortunately the cherry trees would have to go. No spare-tree subsidies are on offer.
She phones Jessie, who is a bit of a green freak.
‘You can’t let them get away with it, Vi.’
‘I know. But what can I do?’
‘Listen to the voice of the trees and you’ll think of something.’
That’s so typical of Jessie. She listens, but apart from a bit of rustling, the trees aren’t saying anything at all.
The only thing she can think of is to start knocking on the doors of the flats. But the response of the residents is discouraging. No one has read the planning notices; some people reassure her that the notices are not about building flats at all, they are about a lost cat, a notorious pisser called Wonder Boy, hopefully run away or run over. Some people agree to sign a petition if one is drawn up, but nobody feels inspired to write a letter of protest.
Madeley Court seems to be home to many newcomers like herself, in transit from somewhere to somewhere else. ‘Thank you, but we’re not staying long,’ they say. ‘It doesn’t affect us.’ There are several groups of young people – students, maybe – who open the door and tell her politely, ‘This flat is private. It’s nothing to do with the Council.’
She is amazed by the variety of people who live here. Behind each door, it seems there’s someone from a different continent. Two Chinese girls stand at the door and giggle uncontrollably as she talks. An old man with an Eastern European accent and broken spectacles held together with parcel tape invites her to come inside and see his tractor gearbox. A small wiry woman, evidently an artist, comes to the door covered in paint, a dab of mauve on her nose. There are people from Europe, Latin America, India, Pakistan, China, and some she has no idea where they come from. She’s pleased to find several households from Africa; a young musician from Malawi, a couple of sad-eyed refugees from Eritrea, a large jolly Zambian family who invite her in for cassava pancakes, though there is no one, as far as she can tell, from Kenya.
There’s a range of ages too. The grumbly older people are mostly white; the young families teeming with toddlers are from a mix of ethnicities. Some old people come to the door timorously, open it on the safety chain, look at her fearfully and back away as if they think she’s going to mug them. How pathetic. Some have problems of their own they want to grouse about – repairs that need doing, complaints about their neighbours.
What do all these people have in common to bind them together? Yes, it’s a bit different to Bakewell around here. In fact it reminds her more of Nairobi – dynamic and precarious, as if it could all fall apart at any minute. A gloomy mood settles over her as she realises that nobody seems to care much about a patch of grass and a few cherry trees.
Berthold: A Coffee Jar
How to sum up a person’s full life in a ten-minute speech – especially somebody as complicated and contradictory as Mother? I had still not finished writing my funeral oration on the morning of the funeral. A gloomy mood settled over me as I tried to take up where I had left off two days ago. The Immortal Bard, usually good for a quotation or two, had abandoned me. I put my pen down and turned my melancholy gaze out of the window at the cherry grove. A quick movement down below caught my eye. It was the next-door goddess flitting between the trees like a lovely bright-plumed bird. Alas, our amorous encounter would just have to wait until after the funeral. However, a closer glimpse would surely be inspiring. I gathered up my notes and scuttled off to Luigi’s.
I was out of luck. By the time I got downstairs, it was spotting with rain and she had vanished. The coffee seemed
worse than usual too, and Luigi had swapped the Guardian for the Daily Mail. I’d have to talk with him about that, but not today. I sipped the sub-standard latte and concentrated on fitting my random notes into a fine uplifting narrative of Mother’s life, using omission and invention as necessary. The Lily that emerged on the page was a finer and more laudable person than Mother, but she also seemed bland, slightly dead. That’s what death does for you, I guess.
When I got back to the flat an hour later, buzzing with caffeine, Inna was hoovering noisily, and Flossie was having another outbreak of atheism, so I hardly heard the sound of the doorbell above the racket. Then it rang again. Ding dong! Who could it be?
My first thought was that it must be Mrs Penny, dropping in for a snap inspection. It was no good pretending we were out because the sound of the Hoover was clearly audible. Would Inna remember to play her part? Would she remember not to let slip that we were this very afternoon due to go to Finsbury Park to celebrate the funeral of the woman whom she was impersonating? Ding dong! It rang again. I braced myself and answered the door.
‘I’m sorry to bother you …’
There she stood; not Mrs Penny but the next-door goddess. Though close up she looked much younger than I had imagined, too young for a goddess, more like an angel, a trainee angel maybe: radiant, beautiful, her hair pulled back in a frisky ponytail, her teeth gleaming and her cheeks dimpling as she smiled – at me!
‘I know. I know. You’re having a dinner party. You’ve run out of coffee!’ I blurted.
She looked at me strangely and recited her introduction. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. My name’s Violet. I live next door. I’m just …’
Violet. A shy wayside flower with a heavenly perfume.
‘Violet. Ah! Do come in. I have a jar waiting for you. All things are ready, if our minds be so.’
I disappeared into the kitchen and rummaged in the cupboards. Where had I put it? It should be on the shelf with the tea. Then I spotted it on the counter beside the kettle. It was almost empty. Bloody Inna must have been helping herself. Damn her! There was hardly any left. I returned to the hallway with the near-empty jar. Inna was there – she’d turned off the Hoover and was introducing herself.
‘Hello, Blackie. I am Inna Alfandari. I am mother, or mebbe I am sister of mother. Berthold? I am mother or sister?’
‘Inna, have you been drinking the coffee?’ I cut her short.
‘Of course I drink him. You buy him for drinking, no?’
‘Yes. No. I mean, there’s hardly any left.’ I smiled apologetically at my lovely neighbour. ‘But you’re very welcome …’
She furrowed her delectable brow. ‘I’m just trying to inform the residents about the planning application.’
‘… to what little I have. Planning?’
‘Yes. The notices are on the lamp posts. Or they were, until the kids ripped them off.’
‘Notices? Yes, they’re for Wonder Boy, the lost cat. Don’t grieve. I’m sure he has found another home.’ I had to stop myself from saying, ‘Don’t grieve, my lovely.’
‘No, not those. These were for a planning application to build a block of flats on the garden. Where the cherry trees are.’
I gazed at her lovely features, the earnest pleading in her eyes. Maybe she was a touch crazed. Like Ophelia. It would add poignancy to my passion. ‘O, you must wear your rue with a difference! There’s a Violet. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.’
Withered. Died. That last line brought me to my senses with a shock. My mother. I glanced at the clock. Less than an hour to go until the woodland burial, and I still had no idea where it would take place. Green Glade. Jimmy had sent a map, with artistically hand-drawn clumps of trees, a wild-flower meadow and meandering footpaths, but no actual street names.
‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a hurry just now. Got to get to a funeral. Maybe we could continue our discussion another time. Planning. Yes, very interesting. A lot of it around.’
I thrust the near-empty jar of coffee into her hands, ‘Your guests I hope will like it,’ and ushered her towards the door, my hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
Violet: Towel
Violet wonders whether it’s worth persevering with her door-knocking campaign. Truly there are some weird people in these flats, including one who pushed her out of the door with an empty coffee jar.
The heavy rain makes it even more dismal. The walkways between the flats, although undercover, are awash. Some downpipes must be blocked because the water has brought to the surface all the nasty things that are usually hidden out of sight in gulleys: dead cigarettes, dead insects, dead fast-food wrappers, even a dead pigeon. She steps past it quickly, noting that it has two feet, so it’s not Pidgie. In the rainy season in Kenya water poured out of the sky for an hour or so and everything was washed clean, then the sun came out. But here in England it seems to be rainy season all the time.
She’s finished all her side of the block, and rings the doorbell of the first flat on the west side, waits a moment, then rings again. There is someone at home, she can hear a radio playing inside, and soon the door opens. The man who stands there is wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his middle.
‘Yes?’ he says belligerently. Then he looks her up and down and adds in a friendlier tone, ‘What can I do for you?’
She knows that look of appraisal, when a guy is trying to suss out whether to make a move on you; she would normally make her excuses and leave. But she hears a child’s voice calling from inside the flat, ‘Who is it, Dad?’
She launches into her patter. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. My name’s Violet. I live upstairs. I’m just letting people know about a planning application that will affect the residents of these flats.’
‘I’m not staying here long.’ He sounds bored.
‘There’s a proposal to build a fourteen-storey block of flats just in front of here, where the cherry trees are.’
‘Really?’ He sounds less bored.
‘Really. The notices went up on the lamp posts last week, inviting comments or objections.’
‘So you’re getting the tenants agitated?’
‘I hope so. Would you be agitated enough to write a letter to the Council?’
He smiles. Nice teeth. ‘Sure. It’s bound to affect property values.’ Actually, he has quite a nice torso too. ‘Would you like to come in? I’ll get some clothes on. I’ve just come out of the shower.’
The warning bells ring: it is not a good idea to be alone with this half-naked man in his flat. But the appearance of a boy at the door makes her relax. It’s the same boy she saw getting out of the limo.
‘Arthur,’ the man says, ‘make Violet a cup of tea, will you, while I get dressed.’ He turns to her. ‘Is tea all right? Or would you prefer coffee? I’m not sure about Arthur’s barista skills.’
‘Da-a-ad?’ whines the boy, kicking the door frame with his socked foot.
‘Tea’s fine,’ she says, and steps inside out of the rain.
Berthold: Mud
Just as Inna and I left the flat for the funeral, the heavens opened. Inna ran back to fetch her umbrella, a jolly leopard-skin-print number, which she flicked open as we raced towards the waiting minicab. Through the blur of rain, I noticed a small red car pulling up at the kerb behind us. Mrs Penny was at the wheel, staring in our direction.
‘Quick! Let’s go!’ I yelled at the driver, handing him the piece of paper with the hand-drawn map.
‘Green Glade? Never heard of it. Have you got a postcode?’
‘Um … not exactly. N4 it says. Just go!’
The minicab driver pulled away slowly. The red car didn’t follow. Phew!
‘Go where? N4’s a big area, mate.’
A steady rain was falling, drumming on the roof of the minicab. Inna was perched on the back seat next to me like a bird of ill omen, dressed all in black with a jet necklace and matching jet earrings, a dab of pink lipstick, and clutching
her wet umbrella, unaware of the lucky escape we had just had.
‘Head north,’ I told the minicab driver, ‘and I’ll phone the funeral director.’
But Jimmy the Dog was doggedly not answering.
We passed up Kingsland Road, and Inna, peering through the misted-up window, started jumping up and down, ‘Oy! Stop here! Stop! My friend will know. He come from Georgia, but been in London long time.’
The cab driver pulled up outside a shabby shop which appeared to sell mainly international phonecards and ‘herbal Viagra’. Hm. That was something I might need to look into, should matters with my beautiful neighbour approach a consummation devoutly to be wished. It was a long time since I had put the beast through his paces.
‘Ali! Ali!’ Inna shouted from the pavement outside the shop under her leopard-skin umbrella, and moments later a huge man with a black beard, a gold front tooth and an embroidered skullcap opened the door. He looked at her, laughed, and hugged her in a giant embrace. She showed him the piece of paper. He frowned and turned it this way and that, muttering something I could not hear. She stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the chin – she could not reach his cheek – and hurried back to the cab.
‘He not very sure. Mebbe Finsbury Park next-door railway.’
As the minicab driver got on the road again, the mobile in my pocket rang.
‘Jimmy? Thank God! Listen, I don’t know exactly where we’re going … have you got an address? Or a postcode?’
His voice sounded faraway and scratchy. ‘Calm down, Bertie. Meet us under the railway bridge at Finsbury Park Station. You can follow the hearse.’
Follow the hearse – that sounded like the first sensible thing I had heard all day. The cab driver put his foot down and off we went, ploughing through a tropical-style downpour; the windscreen wipers dancing their crazy hand-jive barely managed to maintain visibility. I would have asked him to pull over and wait it out, but we were now pushed for time.
The Lubetkin Legacy Page 11