The Lubetkin Legacy

by Marina Lewycka

  Sid had an inventive mind, and over the next few years he borrowed from his in-laws and floated a number of get-rich-quick schemes: land in Madagascar, gold in Peru, chickens in Bulgaria, ostrich farming in Kenya. All colourful and fascinating ways of quickly losing other people’s money.

  The Lupsets let their son-in-law know in many not-so-subtle ways that they thought their daughter had married beneath her. This stirred Sid to fury. She started to come home with unexplained bruises. They had a quiet word with the newsagent, his former employer, who happened to belong to the same Masonic lodge. Irregularities in the books were discovered. Yvonne’s parents persuaded the newsagent not to prosecute, but they threatened Sid with exposure should he ever lay a hand on their daughter again. Sid, who had always been quick-tempered, was now eaten up with uncontrollable rage which he could not vent on Yvonne. Besides, she had taken to drinking gin and tonic at the wrong times of day and was doing enough damage to herself already. She was thirty-three when she died. Fortunately Howard, aged eight, was big enough and tough enough to withstand a belting.

  As his tale unfolded on that long-ago road trip, Howard’s sombre profile flickered in the headlights of the oncoming cars; like Sid, he was quite a performer. That was all well and good, I said, and I could understand why Sid was drawn south by the great magnet of London, seeking opportunity and anonymity in the age-old tradition of fortune-seekers and ne’er-do-wells. But I couldn’t understand why lovely widowed Lily Madeley had fallen for this scoundrel when he showed up in the Widow’s Son looking for digs.

  Howard turned towards me, and the car drifted into the fast lane. I clutched the sides of my seat and prepared to die, but there was nothing behind us, or if there was, its brakes were good.

  ‘She wanted a child, Bert. Ted was dead, and she was getting on a bit. It wasn’t him she fell for, it was me.’

  I’d been smitten by the image of the beautiful Yorkshireman with brooding eyes and the silent waif-like child at his side, and I could understand how they had pierced Lily’s tender heart. I had been conceived soon after …

  ‘Heh heh heh!’ Fast forward thirty-plus years. Howard took a deep drag on his cigarette and swung one leg over the arm of his chair, chuckling, ‘Then I decided I’d had enough belting, and it was your turn. I’m sorry, little Bertie.’ He didn’t look sorry at all.

  ‘And there was something else I’ve been trying to remember. The rope. A canal. A bridge …’

  ‘Ah yes …!’

  At that moment, the sound of a key in the lock made us both turn. The door opened and Inna appeared in the hall, looking flushed and windswept. There was something different about her appearance, she looked somehow younger and livelier, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  ‘Hello, Bertie. Hello …’ She looked from me to Howard.

  He looked from her to me.

  ‘Howard, let me introduce Inna, a friend of Mother’s. She’s living here now.’

  A knowing smile spread over his face. ‘Onshontay, madame.’

  He kissed her hand and winked at me. I could tell what he was thinking. Her cheeks were pink from the wind and her eyes were bright, but for godssake, she must be in her seventies.

  ‘Inna, this is Howard, my –’

  ‘Aha! I know. I understand. No problem wit me.’ She winked theatrically at me and did a little bow to him. ‘You like it slatki, Mister Howvord?’

  ‘No,’ I interrupted. ‘No, thanks, Inna. We’re fine.’

  I still didn’t trust her.

  ‘You want I go out?’ she asked.

  ‘No …’

  ‘What are slapki?’ asked Howard, nursing a lewd smile.

  ‘Aha! I think you will very like it, Mister Howvord!’ She pursed her mouth kissily. ‘Very sweety sweet.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Despite her age, he looked genuinely interested, the old rake.

  ‘No, thanks, Inna. Really.’

  ‘Nuh, you no like you no ittit, Mister Bertie.’

  With a huff, she disappeared into the kitchen. Howard did gross finger-pointing gestures behind her back. I shook my head. He wiggled his fingers lustfully. I could see where this was going and I reckoned alcohol was needed.

  ‘Look, I think I’ll go and get that whisky after all. It goes well with slatki. Have you still got that tenner, Howard?’

  All was quiet as I crossed the twilit grove, and the lights were on in Luigi’s. There was something I needed more than whisky: calm, coffee and common sense. The temptation was too great. Luigi greeted me like a long-lost friend, although it was barely a week since I’d been in. I leaned my elbows on the counter and inhaled. Soon the heavenly aroma of coffee banished the sour smell of whisky breath and the dangerous scent of slapski, as the present banishes the past.

  ‘The usual? Latte with?’ He wielded the tamper. ‘Where you been, boss? I been missing you.’

  ‘My mother died. I had my bike nicked. I sustained an injury at the funeral.’ I hadn’t intended to get emotional, but once I’d started, it just poured out of me. ‘And, to be frank, the coffee’s gone downhill in here. You’re taking this austerity thing too literally, Lu.’

  ‘Okay. Sorry about your mum, boss. I got some of that old blend left, I make it special for you.’ He reached under the counter.

  ‘Thanks, Lu.’ I felt better after I’d got it off my chest. ‘And I don’t like this new newspaper you’ve signed up for either. A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. I preferred the Guardian.’

  ‘I know, boss, but is cheaper, and other customers like it.’

  An unwelcome thought butted into my mind. Could my lovely neighbour be a covert Daily Mail reader? Surely she was too sweet and guileless for that poisonous brew? I picked it up just out of curiosity and positioned myself with my coffee by the window where I could see the comings and goings in the street. The coffee was barely acceptable, but the newspaper was utterly engrossing, full of tax avoidance scams and celebrities’ boob jobs gone wrong. And Kardashians, whatever they are. You don’t get that in the Guardian.

  I’d almost finished the coffee when a swift black shadow in the street outside the window caught my eye. It was her. She was running in the direction of the flats, like a darling deer fleeing the hunter’s arrows. I thought of springing up to follow, but I didn’t act on my impulse because she would already be halfway through the grove – and besides, I was halfway through a fascinating article in the Daily Mail speculating that George Clooney had had cosmetic treatment on his wedding tackle – testicle smoothing, apparently – which filled me with an agreeable Schadenfreude.

  When I had finished reading, I took the change from Howard’s tenner and strolled up the road to Lidl to get the whisky.

  Twenty minutes later I opened the door to the flat to be greeted by the pleasant steamy smell of kobaski in yushka, beneath which a faint whiff of whisky was still noticeable, and a slight taint of burning in the air. Inna was bustling about in her pinny, laying the table with a clatter. Howard was slumped in the same armchair holding a bloodstained handkerchief to his nose. There were some small spots of blood on the carpet.

  ‘Hi, Inna,’ I greeted her with a peck on the cheek. ‘Everything okay?’

  She pushed me away. ‘Oy! You tell me he homosexy!’

  Howard moaned, dabbing his nose, ‘I like a bit of slapski, but I didn’t think she’d get quite so rough.’ I noticed some pieces of broken china on the floor. ‘Did you get the whisky? Blimey, you don’t get much for a tenner these days.’

  Just then, the doorbell rang. Ding dong! Inna scuttled over to open it, still holding a fistful of cutlery in her hand.

  A woman’s voice, as sweet as a harp. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you. I’ve run out of coffee …’

  Violet! I jumped up. My heart was beating madly.

  ‘Sorry. We got no coffee.’ Inna slammed the door.

  When his nose had stopped bleeding and he had finished most of the whisky, Howard wandered out into the night with an air of disappoi
ntment. I accompanied him to the lift.

  ‘Come back and see me again, won’t you?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Bertie, not while she’s here. Don’t know what you see in her.’

  ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘It never is.’

  With a sigh, the pissy lift carried him away.

  Inna was equally adamant. ‘I telled him go boil his kobaska. He nearly set fire on flat. Look!’

  There was indeed an ugly burn-mark on the upholstery. I extracted the orange Bic lighter from down the back of the armchair, where it had lodged itself, and put it in my pocket. It was still half full. We’d had a lucky escape.

  ‘Calm down, Inna.’ I put my hand on her arm, and then I realised what had changed about her appearance.

  Instead of a neat silver coil at the back of her head, there was a coil of glossy black. She had dyed her hair. But why?

  Violet: Horace Nzangu

  Violet washes and oils her hair in the shower and wraps it in a warm towel. While it’s drying, she picks up the phone and dials her parents’ number in Bakewell.

  Handling your parents can be tricky, steering that fine course between their protectiveness and her need to live her own life. She’d intended to wait until she had a new job lined up or some good news to share before phoning her mum – easier to keep up a cheerful tone with texts and emails than to hide the unhappiness in your voice – but after her run-in with Marc and her conversation with Mr Rowland, something has snapped inside her. She’s lost the confidence, drummed into her for twenty-three years by her parents and her schools, that here in Britain it doesn’t matter who you are or where you come from, that hard work pays off, the good guy always triumphs, and integrity wins through in the end.

  ‘Violet, that big city is depressing you, why don’t you come back home for a while?’ Her mother, as always, can tell when she’s upset. ‘It’s so nice up here in summer.’

  It’s a tempting thought, to pack in her job and have her mother look after her while she chills in her bedroom, listens to music, and applies for new jobs. But she knows she would be fed up in less than a week – especially as all the kids she was at school with have moved away, apart from the drop-outs who hang around the square with spliffs and hard-luck stories. After London, the smallness of Bakewell depresses her.

  ‘Thanks, Mum. I’ll think about it. But it’s cool here, honestly. I’ve met loads of interesting people, and I’m campaigning to save a grove of cherry trees. Don’t worry about me.’

  Saying the words out loud makes her feel more positive.

  ‘So you have become a tree-hugger, mpenzi?’

  ‘Sort of. I guess.’

  Her mother laughs. ‘Like Wangari Maathai. She was a great Kenyan fighter for trees and for human rights. Whenever Wangari had something to celebrate, she planted a Nandi Flame tree.’

  She has heard this story about Wangari Maathai several times, but never taken much notice before.

  ‘Yeah, I remember those trees. Beautiful. Like cherry blossom.’

  ‘Wangari said trees and people both have rights, and they need each other.’

  ‘It’s true. I wish she was here in London! The trees have brought the people together.’

  She’s noticed that in the face of their common enemy, the community spirit at Madeley Court has come alive. Neighbours now greet each other and stop to talk, and all the bitching is about the Council, not about each other. There are always little knots of people down in the grove, and the tambourine girls, who apparently are mostly sixth-formers at the local school, have started putting on regular noisy shows, which, if she’s to be perfectly truthful, can get a bit annoying. It’s like Langata, both the friendliness and the racket.

  ‘Wangari linked the deforestation of Kenya to the despoilment of the country’s wealth. But even she couldn’t stop it. There is a new corruption scandal every day,’ her mother says.

  ‘Talking of corruption, Mum, when you were in Kenya, did you ever hear of someone called Horace Nzangu? A businessman?’

  ‘Nzangu. It’s quite a common name …’ Her mother pauses. ‘I think there was someone called Nzangu in our hospital many years ago, who was involved in a scandal about reusing syringes.’

  ‘Hm. Grandma once mentioned that while Babu Josaphat was working in the hospital administration he discovered some wrongdoing relating to supplies and went to the police. Then she clammed up. She wouldn’t say any more.’ She still remembers Njoki’s tight angry mouth and frightened eyes. ‘Could that be the same man?’

  ‘Could be. Your Babu’s body was found by the roadside soon after he went to the police. No one was sure whether it was an accident or a deliberate killing. In those days there was much talk of witchcraft, and everyone was afraid. People who spoke out died mysteriously, so Njoki never talked about it.’ Her mother lowers her voice. ‘Be careful, Violet. These people are more powerful and ruthless than you can imagine.’

  The sad resignation in her mum’s tone makes her feel irritated. Why do people just accept all that crap without doing anything about it?

  ‘But that’s all old history and folk tales. If we know there’s a crime, we should speak up, right?’

  ‘Of course we must speak the truth, even if it means taking a risk. But who will listen to us if we don’t have any evidence?’

  ‘I think I may have the evidence.’

  Berthold: Money Troubles

  My dismal existence, already thrown into crisis by the death of my mother, imminent homelessness, unrequited love and the revelations about my criminal past, was now under attack on a new front. I had long been in avoidance about my financial situation, but the irrefutable evidence came out one day when my debit card was declined in Lidl. To my utter humiliation, in front of a whole queue of lunchtime shoppers, I was outed as a pauper.

  ‘Look, there must have been a mistake. I’m a regular customer in here. Don’t you recognise me? I spend hundreds of pounds … well, lots of pounds, on your crap products. I could switch my loyalty to Waitrose, you know. You’re not the only supermarket around here,’ I blustered.

  ‘Cash or card?’ the pretty check-out girl repeated. Her name-tag was full of zs and chs. Polish, perhaps.

  I knew in my heart that I was doomed and the pound of flesh would eventually be carved from me, but you have to protest, don’t you, at the sheer pettifogging meanness of life? I took a breath, stabbed the air and bellowed, ‘Therefore, Jew, though justice be thy plea, consider this! That, in the course of justice, none of us should see salvation! WE DO PRAY FOR MERCY AND THAT SAME PRAYER DOTH TEACH US ALL TO RENDER THE DEEDS OF MERCY!!!’

  Why was I shouting? Surely Portia hadn’t shouted at Shylock? The girl pressed the buzzer for the manager who arrived, harassed and sweaty, in a polyester shirt with a pile of nappy boxes under his arm.

  ‘This gentleman is refuse to pay,’ said the girl. ‘He make anti-Semitic speech.’

  The people in the lengthening queue behind were stabbing me with their eyes.

  In the end, I returned the bottle of sherry and a jar of coffee to the shelves. Fortunately, I had enough cash in my pockets for a tin of tuna, a loaf of sliced bread and an iceberg lettuce. Still, it was a wake-up call. There would be no more lattes at Luigi’s for the foreseeable future.

  I stumbled back to the flat with my pitiful bag of retail therapy, where another outrage awaited me, in the form of a small blue letter that had been slipped under the door while I was out.

  Dear Berthold,

  We’ve been watching you and we think there is something fishy going on, you are trying to rob us of our birthright. We need to resolve the flat, and we would like to come to an arrangement with you without having to involve solicitors. We are getting desparate with waiting.

  Your loving sister,

  Jenny

  PS: Our pet bunny is buried under a cherry tree in the garden so you can see why we are despirate to come home to be near his grave. Margaret

  I crumpled the letter
and threw it into the recycling bin, annoyed but not alarmed. Howard had alerted me to their wiles. No wonder they wanted to avoid the law. Ha! Their bloody pet bunny of fifty years ago! And they call that despirate (sic). I could bloody show them what desperation is.

  While Mother was alive, she had enjoyed three pensions – her DSS ‘old age’ pension, her NHS pension from her speech therapist years, and a widow’s pension from Ted Madeley. In other words, she was comfortably provided for, if not quite in the oligarch league, and we’d lived sheltered from the cold winds of austerity. Her pensions, plus whatever money she had received from my dad, had been enough for us both to manage on comfortably, covering the rent, living expenses, evenings out at the Curzon, and even the occasional little holiday. I felt tempted to leave the pensions in place just for a while, until my finances were on a more secure footing, but Jimmy had warned me against it.

  ‘You’ll get done. Besides, your finances are never going to be secure, are they?’

  He was probably right. My own income was the pittance I got from Jobseeker’s Allowance augmented occasionally by short-run, ill-paid roles in small grant-funded theatres where the stage set was inevitably a table and a wooden chair and the actors could sometimes outnumber the audience – a commitment to Art which I doubt George Clooney has ever experienced.

  Like many actors, I was no stranger to the dole office, but I always regarded the dole as a stopgap, not a solution. I mean, no one can really live on £72.40 a week, can they? My case worker was a handsome young black guy called Justin, with a gold front tooth and a degree in media studies. He took my case seriously, as though my appearance in a series of deadbeat fringe shows was his personal contribution to the arts. He persuaded the local Job Centre to subscribe to The Stage, and for his sake I read it regularly, and attended auditions whenever something promising came up.

  My last such foray had been to audition for the part of Lucky in Waiting for Godot at The Bridge, a fortnight before Mother died. Fortunately, I didn’t get it. Who wants to spend their evenings dragged around by a rope on a draughty stage under a railway bridge in Poplar? Justin had been curious when I gave him my edited feedback.