The Lubetkin Legacy

by Marina Lewycka

  Calling her Blackie is one thing – she guessed from the old lady’s tone that it was meant more descriptively than offensively. But no one has called her a vegetable before. What does it mean?

  She opens the door. ‘Vegetable?’

  ‘You it it? I cook golabki kobaski slatki. Tomorrow half of seven.’ The old lady’s face crinkles up into a smile.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Though she doesn’t see at all.

  ‘I am mother-sister from Lily.’ Behind the sparkly spectacles, her dark eyes dance bright and merry.

  ‘Mhm?’

  ‘I cook. You no vegetable, okay?’

  ‘Okay?’

  The old lady chortles and disappears into the dusk rubbing her hands. Seriously weird.

  She closes the door and slices a tomato and toasts some slightly stale bread to go with her omelette, half regretting that she had turned down a proper meal in a restaurant. Then she skypes her Grandma Njoki in Nairobi.

  ‘Violet! Violet mpenzi!’ A blurred and pixelated image of a wrinkled brown face with rubbery pink gums and pearly-white false teeth fills the screen of her laptop. ‘When you coming to visit us in Nairobi?’

  ‘As soon as possible, Nyanya Njoki! I’m saving up.’ Which is not entirely true, but suddenly seems like a good idea.

  Berthold: May 6th

  The day of my birthday dawned, and I gingerly removed the rubbery pink cupcake from my eye. Everything seemed normal. So far so good. I was getting bored with lying around, and my anticipation of the evening ahead was making me restless. I needed a blast of coffee, and maybe Luigi would know where I could buy one of those Clooney-type coffee machines. Just as I hauled myself out of bed, Legless Len appeared at the door.

  ‘What yer gonna do about them flats?’ he demanded, wheeling himself over the threshold and into the living room, looking puffy and red in the face. His forehead and his cap looked like one continuous blob of angry red.

  I’d known Len for years. He was a former taxi driver – a protégé of Mother’s, who had pulled out all the stops to get him moved into a ground-floor flat and have it adapted for a wheelchair after his legs were amputated. He had repaid her by backing Mrs Crazy in the Tenants Association election. Yet somehow they had remained friends, probably united by their love of talking birds.

  ‘What flats?’

  ‘Them they’re building aht front.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Len, you’re going to have to explain.’

  Len had an annoying habit of assuming everyone could read his mind. If indeed he had one.

  ‘You’ve not read the notices, Bert. You should always read the notices.’

  ‘What notices?’

  ‘Them the Council put up. The Local Authority. Them that has authority over us.’

  He liked the word ‘authority’. Now I vaguely remembered someone else had mentioned those notices recently. So much had happened in the last few days, I could not be expected to remember everything, let alone something as trivial as lamp-post notices.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with flats, Len. It’s a lost cat.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Bert. People like you, intellectuals, you think you know everything already, so you never bother to find out.’

  It was gratifying to be called an intellectual, even by someone so ill equipped to judge as Len. But his voice was uncharacteristically aggressive.

  ‘You follow ideas that come into your head, Bert, but you’ve got nothing to guide you, no values.’

  What had got into him? He was sweating slightly, with a ghastly pallor. Maybe he too had fallen in love with the goddess from next door. I had noticed them talking in the grove once or twice. Poor fool, what chance did he stand?

  ‘Your problem, Bert, is that you’ve got no team that you support. See, friends come and go, your family passes away, politicians let you down, but your team is for life.’ His voice quivered with emotion.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, Len, I have to go out. Can we discuss this another time?’

  He had now planted himself in the middle of the room like a poisonous red toadstool in his Arsenal cap. He looked as though he was going nowhere.

  ‘By the time you come back it could be too late. Look!’

  He gestured towards the window. I drew back the net curtain and looked out over the grove. At first nothing much seemed to be going on. Then I observed two men in hard hats strolling around among the cherry trees, looking this way and that, consulting a large sheet of paper. A van was parked at the kerb, too far away to read the name of the firm. I wheeled Len out on to the balcony. One of the hard-hat men was zapping a laser measuring tape at the trunks of the trees. The other one was making notes on a clipboard.

  As we watched, another figure ran into the grove – a small fierce woman wearing a purple military-style coat with a generous sprinkling of brass buttons and a polythene shower cap. She darted up to the man with the laser measurer and grabbed it out of his hand. Next she ran up to the man with the clipboard, tore off the sheets of paper, ripped them up and scattered them in the air. Then she produced a fold-up umbrella from her carrier bag, extended it to its full length, and started hitting them over their backs and shoulders. The men didn’t hang around for more. They legged it through the grove, climbed into their van, and a moment later, it roared off down the road. The purple-coat lady – it was Mrs Crazy of course – looked around her to make sure they had all gone, then tossed the laser measurer into the bushes and struggled to re-telescope her umbrella, which seemed to be jammed, probably because it was now bent.

  ‘She got big crazy!’ exclaimed Inna, who had joined us on the balcony, with a tremor of respect in her voice.

  The drama over, we were just about to go back into the flat when a further movement down in the grove caught my eye. A slim young woman, lithe, mahogany-skinned, a vision of pure beauty, sprinted lightly like a dryad along the curved path between the trees. She ran right up to Mrs Crazy, embraced her in her lovely arms and clasped her in a hug. I have never before felt a twinge of envy for Mrs Crazy, but she didn’t seem as ecstatic as I would have been. She disentangled herself from the embrace, shook the dryad by the hand, and disappeared like a witch into the wooden shed beside the community garden.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Len’s voice brought me to my senses. ‘We need to get our act together, Bert. We can’t have women taking all the glory. Action is the man’s role, innit?’

  ‘What many people do not realise, Len, is that innit is an expression derived from the Ancient Greek “enai” meaning “it is”.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He looked pleased at his own brilliance. ‘Greek! Well, blow me down! There’s a petition going around, Bert, for everybody to sign. But in my humble opinion, your mum Lily would have called for direct action. We’ve gotter get organised.’

  ‘Don’t mourn, organise!’ cried Flossie, displaying a level of political consciousness unusual in a bird.

  ‘That’s it, Flossie. You tell him.’

  Len, who bred budgerigars himself, had a soft spot for Flossie – maybe the reason his friendship with Mother had endured despite their political differences.

  ‘What kind of action do you have in mind, Len?’

  ‘Well, we could occupy the Town Hall. Chain us-selves to the trees and what ’ave you. Take a leaf out of Lily’s book, God rest her soul. A lovely lady and a real positive thinker, for a communist.’

  I could see now that going out for the Clooney-style coffee machine would be a futile gesture and might even backfire on me. Clooney, after all, was just a shallow cappuccino-sipping celeb, whereas I was a man of principles with more to offer an angel than mere coffee. I’d better go out and buy a padlock and chain, like the one that had been on my stolen bike. If chaining myself to a tree was what it took, so be it.

  Violet: Niha

  It’s surprising how many people from the flats witnessed the scene with Mrs Cracey and the hard-hats in the cherry grove; Mr Rowland from the Council Planning Department has already received several phone ca
lls when Violet phones him.

  ‘No, planning permission hasn’t been approved yet,’ he tells her. ‘It’s on the agenda for June. It’s not against the law, you know, to go around measuring trees.’

  ‘Well, they obviously assume it’s in the bag,’ she retorts in her high-heels voice, even though she’s already standing at the sink in her trainers.

  ‘They can assume what they like. But it still has to go to committee.’ He sounds defensive. ‘The problem with most of the letters is that objections have to be based on planning grounds – not just because people don’t like it.’

  ‘What exactly are planning grounds?’

  ‘It’s got to fit in with the Council’s own strategy on things like access, transport, amenities, etcetera.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  The line goes quiet for a moment. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘I’ll do my best with the letters I’ve received. And the petition. But I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘Has any money changed hands?’ she demands. ‘Is anyone making a quick buck out of this?’

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that.’

  If she hadn’t been so upset, she might have made some excuse when Greg rings her doorbell that evening shortly after six. He’s still wearing his work suit and carrying a big leather briefcase.

  ‘I heard about your act of heroism,’ he says with a grin.

  ‘Ha! You heard wrong. It wasn’t me, it was the old lady. My only act of heroism was to shout at some poor guy in the planning department.’

  ‘Whatever. I think you deserve a treat. I’ve got a table booked at the Niha. Will you let me take you out for an early supper?’

  She would have said no, but she too feels she deserves a treat. They agree to meet downstairs in half an hour. While he goes to fetch his car, she changes into a dress and high heels, which boost her morale as well as her height.

  The Niha is a small Lebanese restaurant near the Barbican, quite close to the GRM building. She’s actually been here once at lunchtime with Laura. In the evening it’s cosy, low-lit and intimate. Without asking her, Greg orders sayadieh for both of them, assuming she will approve of his choice, which of course she does, and a Lebanese red wine called Château Musar which costs twice as much as their entire meal. While they wait for it to arrive, she tells him about her conversation with Mr Rowland.

  ‘Planning grounds! Why didn’t they say so? They seem to make up the rules as they go along!’

  ‘Local government is full of self-serving jobsworths,’ he says, ‘wasting our money on red tape and vanity projects. I’m having a bit of trouble with local planners myself. I won’t bore you with the details.’

  Over dessert, their conversation becomes more personal. He talks about sailing in the Solent. She tells him the difference between Bakewell tart and Bakewell pudding. When she describes, giggling, how the original cook at the White Horse Inn accidentally spread egg and almond mixture across the jam, he reaches out his hand and places it over hers.

  Quietly, without a word, she draws hers away.

  At nine o’clock he drops her back at Madeley Court and goes to park his car in his rented garage. No kiss, no invitation for a nightcap, not even a stray grope. So far so good, she thinks.

  She locks the door, kicks off her high heels, and pads to the kitchen in bare feet to put the kettle on. While it’s boiling she changes into her pyjamas – rather frayed hand-embroidered silk which her former Singaporean room-mate left behind in place of the new M&S teddy-bear print she stole, along with Nick. Rummaging in the tin for a peppermint tea bag, she mulls over the evening with Greg. Should she let their relationship go further? He’s good-looking, more of a gentleman than Marc, and the father of a very cute kid. But much too old for her, and she’s enjoying her freedom too much.

  The kettle boils. She goes into the kitchen and pours hot water over the tea bag in a yellow mug, and is just about to take it to bed with her, when her doorbell buzzes. Once. Twice. Three times.

  Berthold: L’Heure Bleue

  Inna, bless her, spent two hours in the kitchen with her pinny on labouring over the menu for my birthday, while I took myself off to the bathroom for a fragrant relaxing soak, taking care to keep my injured eye dry. Without its pink cupcake cover, the wound and surrounding bruise looked ghoulish – but ghoulish is sexier than comical, I surmised. Though of course you can never tell with women.

  I splashed myself with Eau Sauvage and put on my cream M&S 100% cotton shirt, freshly washed and pressed (by Inna) after its last outing at Mother’s funeral, but the suit wasn’t back from the dry cleaner’s yet, so I wore my black jeans. Inna wore her black skirt and silk blouse, with her pearl earrings and her hair pinned up with a tortoiseshell comb for the occasion. She had put on lipstick and sprayed on some of Mother’s perfume to cover up the smell of cooking. The moody musky fragrance of L’Heure Bleue awoke in me a sentiment of nostalgia and longing akin to love, and I poured us a little aperitif of sweet sherry from Lidl in memory. Then we sat down at the table to await the arrival of the woman who, I felt in my bones, would change my life. As the minutes ticked by, my eyes strayed more than once to the brass casket on the mantelpiece containing Mother’s mortal remains and I even imagined I heard her whisper a tender admonishment to get married again, and to keep always to the sunny side. I felt her presence in the room, certain that she was glad and excited for me on this important evening as I waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  At half past eight I said to Inna, ‘Are you sure you invited her? Are you sure she said she’ll come?’

  ‘Definitely I ev invited. Half of seven. She said no vegetable okay.’

  ‘God is dead! Shut up, Indunky Smeet!’ Flossie was anxious too, and sounding off randomly.

  At nine o’clock I said, ‘Hadn’t you better go and find out what happened?’

  Violet: Cholera Big Leak

  Violet feels both relieved and annoyed. Relieved because it’s only that dotty old lady from next door standing there buzzing the bell, not some sinister killer or mugger, nor even Greg with his disconcerting stare. Annoyed because it’s after nine o’clock, and she wants to tell her to go away, but finds herself politely inviting her to come in.

  ‘You come it golabki kobaski slatki wit us?’ The old lady peers around the hallway with undisguised curiosity.

  How long has this old lady managed to survive in the UK with such appalling English? Those people who bang on about compulsory English lessons for foreigners may have a point. Her Grandma Njoki has never even been to England, but even she can speak better.

  ‘I make for you is get cold, you come it.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Maybe another time.’

  ‘Not other, come now, Berthold waiting.’

  Berthold: that’s the name of that funny old guy next door who gave her an empty coffee jar.

  ‘Please give my apologies to Berthold, but I’ve already had my supper.’

  ‘You no worry, Berthold make no problem – he homosexy, no ladies.’

  She hadn’t guessed he’s gay, but that’s definitely a plus: she can relax and have fun without worrying about giving out the wrong signals or attracting unwanted advances.

  ‘You Africa?’ The old lady studies her with frank curiosity. ‘Which country you from?’

  ‘I was born in Kenya but I’ve lived –’

  ‘Aha, Kenya! My husband, Dovik, been there for bacteriophage research. Cholera. Big leak.’

  What on earth is she on about? Maybe she should go and say hello out of friendliness, so he doesn’t think she’s homophobic. But it is getting late.

  ‘It’s really a bit too late. I’m just on my way to bed.’

  ‘No worry. He got birthday. New chain special for you.’

  ‘Chain?’ What does this signify? The guy is a weirdo, but he seems harmless enough.

  ‘I’d love to. But as you can see, I’m already in my pyjamas.’

  ‘
Pyjama no problem.’

  The old lady seizes her hand and pulls her out through the door into the night.

  Berthold: Silk Pyjamas

  Like it says in the song, she was wearing pink pyjamas when she came. Not that pale girly shade of pink but a deep rose colour made of heavy silk with an embroidered pattern at the ankles and cuffs. Sort of harem meets M&S. Her hair was loose and tumbled over her shoulders. She looked divine. I was touched that she had gone to so much trouble for my birthday.

  ‘Violet!’ I pulled out a chair for her at the table. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she murmured. ‘I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.’

  ‘No matter,’ I said. ‘How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?’

  An expression of sweet puzzlement glimmered on her face. Then Inna bustled in with a steaming plate of golabski covered in thick juicy gravy she calls yuksha – one of her specialities and not nearly as bad as it sounds.

  ‘Pliss. Ittit!’ she growled.

  A look of panic flitted across the angelic features. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve already had supper. I couldn’t manage another thing.’

  ‘Oy! You no like my golabki?’ Thunderclouds gathered on Inna’s brow.

  I intervened. ‘It’s okay, Inna. She needs to preserve her figure.’ To my surprise a thundercloud also gathered on the heavenly brow, so I quickly added, ‘Which in form and moving is express and admirable.’

  Inna grumpily lifted the golabki and slapped them down in front of me. That was good as I was starving by now. Then she fetched a plate of kobaski – sausages covered in the same juicy gravy – and slapped them down in front of Violet, who raised her delicate pale palms in a gesture of refusal.

  ‘Oy! Oy! You no eat kobasa. You Jew?’

  Violet silently cut off an inch of the kobaski and raised it to her lips. As she bit, a fat gob of gravy slithered off and landed on the knee of her silk pyjamas making a dark oily stain. She looked down, and burst into tears.