‘Just do your best. It doesn’t matter if you get the odd word wrong. In fact it might enhance the audience experience, if you see what I mean. If you could get here for six thirty, we could just walk it through.’
Bronwyn had quite a sexy voice, deep and smooth with a slight regional burr, so I replied, ‘No problem, Bronwyn. See you later.’
Ha! That would be one in the eye for Nazi McReady and his tarrgets. But how the fuck would I get to Poplar with no credit on my Oyster card? The problem was solved when Eustachia called back to say she would love to go out to see a film.
‘There’s that new George Clooney on release.’
‘I’ve got a better idea. Wouldn’t you prefer a night at the theatre?’
Berthold: Lucky
Bronwyn turned out to be not nearly as sexy as her voice – tall and toothy, sporting long beige dreadlocks with coloured beads on the ends and rainbow-patched dungarees – in fact my stereotype of a lesbian. Was she or wasn’t she? I studied her carefully, but it is hard to tell nowadays. Anyway, I decided not to pursue matters. But she was nice. She gave me a £20 advance on my stipend, ordered a double espresso and a cup of tea for Eustachia from the relieved bar manager, and led me backstage to meet the rest of the cast.
Then the ten-minute bell rang. Soon that hush of expectation settled on the audience, which hit my blood like a drug. My pulse quickened. My senses were alert. My breath was controlled. I was ready.
When you’re onstage with the lights on you, it’s hard to make out the faces of the audience, even in a space as small as The Bridge. Squinting, I scanned the dark, steeply tiered benches, which were about half full, mainly with young people funkily dressed like arts students. There was a smell of damp socks and patchouli, and you could hear in the background the hiss of the espresso machine, a hum of conversation from the bar, and the rumble of trains passing overhead. It all added to the atmosphere. Then I spotted Eustachia in the front row, smiling with a bemused expression as she watched me shuffling on with the rope around my neck.
I wondered what she made of the play, and of my performance. It isn’t easy to stammer on command, but when I declaimed, ‘P-p-plunged into torment … stark naked in the stockinged feet in Connem-mara,’ I fancied I caught the glint of a tear in her eye. She had never heard me stammer seriously before, but the funny thing is, this time it wasn’t real. I was acting. Even when Pozzo tugged on the rope, I felt a professional calm run through me. I took control of Lucky’s lucklessness and made it my own. I didn’t need anyone to tell me: I knew I was good.
She waited for me as I came out of the dressing room, and threw her arms around me. ‘You were wonderful, Berthold! I’m so glad you brought me to see that, instead of wasting an evening on some George Clooney trivia. It was so profound – a scathing indictment of local government bureaucracy. People hanging around endlessly waiting for something that never appears. Actually – what was it about?’
‘PhDs have been written about it.’ I brushed aside her question as if I knew the answer but couldn’t be bothered with it. ‘Did you really mean that about George Clooney?’
‘Oh, absolutely. Give me Berthold Sidebottom any day.’
I pulled her towards me and kissed her long and hard on her lips. She gasped with surprise, then melted like a warm marshmallow in my arms.
The actors who were Estragon and Pozzo passed us on their way out and gave us a little round of applause.
I settled like a habitué into the passenger seat of Eustachia’s car and we glided swiftly through the near-empty streets of the old East End, close to where Grandad Bob had worked on the docks and Gobby Granny Gladys had ended her days. Even Poplar had become trendy enough to boast its own theatre. This creep of culture can only be a good thing, I thought, spreading enlightenment to the de-industrialised wastelands.
As we approached Madeley Court, Eustachia slowed down. ‘Would you like to come back to my place and meet Monty?’
‘Who’s Monty?’ I imagined some aged relative or lurking lover.
‘Monty the Mongrel. Have you forgotten?’
Indeed I had. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more.’
Actually, there were several things I would like more, including another exchange of body fluids, but you can’t say that to a woman, can you?
Eustachia lived in a one-bedroom flat in the basement of a four-storey house in the almost trendy area north of the Pentonville Road, not far from where my repossessed flat had been. When she had picked me up at the Priory Green Estate and driven me to Madeley Court, she had said it was on her way home; in fact I realised she must have driven well past her destination. Out of fancy, or out of pity? I might ask her one day.
The door to her flat was down a flight of stone steps. You could smell the whiff of damp as you walked in, despite the scented candles and bowls of potpourri dotted about. As soon as she opened the inner door, a scrap of brown fur hurled itself against our legs, yapping hysterically. It was a creature of exceptional ugliness, with short legs, a blunt nose, one eye bigger than the other and a coat the texture of a toilet brush. I felt an urge to kick it, but I controlled myself.
‘Say hello to Berthold, Monty,’ said Eustachia.
‘Yah! Yah! Yah!’ said the dog.
I continued to control myself. ‘He’s adorable,’ I said.
‘Oh, I’m glad you think so, Berthold. I was afraid you wouldn’t like him. You can see why I couldn’t bear the thought of having him put down.’
‘Mmm. You’re a goddess of salvation.’
I felt a sharp pricking in my ankles. Monty’s teeth? Monty’s fleas? Or my imagination?
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.
My heart sank. What I had in mind was a shot of whisky, or at least a glass of wine – even Lidl sweet sherry would do. Despite the earlier promise of the George Clooney moment, I had a sudden fear that this relationship was doomed.
‘Have you got any …?’
‘I don’t usually keep alcohol in the flat, because of my diet. Not having it means I’m not tempted. Not by that, anyway.’
Temptation. My heart did a little fish-flip. ‘I get it. A cup of tea would be great.’
‘I’ve got redbush, if you prefer?’
‘No, please! Nothing healthy!’
Despite the lack of alcohol, we somehow made it to the bedroom. I guess she had to be more proactive, to make up for the all-round sobriety. Monty, shut outside, whimpered and scratched piteously at the door. His distress brought back a sudden terrible flash of memory of my first day at school, the closing clunk of the heavy safety-glass door; Mother out of reach on the other side. Love, comfort, kindness, protection – all on the other side. I cried and banged my little fists on the door, but by the time someone came to open it, she had gone. The teacher took my hand and led me to meet my new classmates. ‘Don’t be a crybaby. That’s enough blubbing. You’re a big boy now.’ At that moment, I had been cast out from Eden.
Such a desolate flashback would be enough to put anyone off his stride, and I’m sorry to say it put me off mine. That and the baleful stare of the row of teddies lined up on the bookshelf by her bed. The beast had become a mouse. Oh dear. As George Clooney must surely know, performing onstage is not the same as performing in bed. Quick as a flash, Eustachia ducked down under the duvet and popped him in her mouth. He cheered up a bit, but then the mousiness crept back.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s been a stressful day.’
‘Just a cuddle would be fine,’ she said.
I pressed her against me, and so she fell asleep in my arms with her coppery hair, loosed from its inane ponytail, spreading like autumn across my chest; but I lay awake for a long time listening to the unfamiliar sounds of people and cars passing close to our basement window and the occasional growling of Monty outside the bedroom door, wondering where the current of life was bearing my drifting boat.
Sometime in the small hours, when I made my nocturnal visit to the bathroom, Monty was
lying in wait for me, with a strategic sense worthy of his namesake, the hero of El Alamein.
‘Grrr!’ I heard his snarl in the darkness, but before I could locate him he pounced at my bare ankles. His teeth, though small, were very sharp. Thus I too acquired purple stigmata, though in my case human kindness had nothing to do with it.
Worse, I’d somehow managed to leave the door slightly open and the mongrel, smelling his mistress’s bouquet, leaped on to the bed and started to hump her slumbering form through the bedclothes. At this point my self-control snapped, and I’m ashamed to admit I kicked my rival out into the hall.
He yelped, and Eustachia moaned in her sleep.
‘Don’t worry, Stacey,’ I murmured. ‘Everything’s all right. I’m here to protect you.’ My sense of manhood restored, I drew her close. And in a while, groping for trouts in a peculiar river, we made the beast with two backs. My ship entered her harbour. I found out countries in her. I spent my manly marrow, pouring my treasure into her lap. At last, Cupid’s fiery shaft was quenched.
I drifted off into a rounded sleep.
Berthold: Teddies
‘Brrrrrr!’ A ghastly clamour of siren bells ripped my slumber asunder. It seemed as though I had only been asleep for a moment.
Eustachia jumped up, banged her fist on the alarm clock, then hurtled out of bed and gathered her scattered clothing from the floor. ‘My! I’m going to be late for work!’
After a night like that, what one needs most in the morning is a strong cup of coffee. But I was out of luck.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she called from the kitchen.
‘Have you any …?’ I started to croak weakly, but I already knew what the answer would be.
‘Help yourself to toast! Just pull the door behind you when you leave! Don’t worry about Monty – his walker will pick him up later!’
She placed a cup of weak tea down on the bedside table and touched my bare shoulder with her hand.
‘Berthold …!’ Whatever it was she meant to say, she didn’t say it.
‘Stacey …!’ I didn’t say it either.
I squeezed her hand and let her go, and fished out the tea bag with my fingers.
The teddies at the side of the bed watched me jealously, as they must have watched over her and loved her through her unhappy childhood; as nobody had loved her since. Until now. An unfamiliar tremor quickened in my chest. I was the man who would cherish and protect her, whose love would oust the teddies. I leaped out of bed to share my insight with her, but I could already hear the sound of her car firing up, and I could see from the desolate look in Monty’s eyes as the car puttered away down the street that he was in love with her too. I felt tempted to kick him again, but I controlled myself.
I arrived back at Madeley Court to a scene of unspeakable desolation. Six mature trees had been felled, their leaves spilled like green blood over the pavement. Immature cherries hung in green clusters that would never ripen into scarlet. The cherry grove was now a cherry grave. The two chainsaw guys were busily chopping up the limbs and stacking them in neat piles. Little groups of people came by to watch, and others watched from the balconies of their flats. The kid who had attacked Flossie was taking pictures on his mobile. I wondered where Violet was, who had blazed like a comet briefly across my path and had now curved off on a different trajectory.
In a way, I was glad she wasn’t here. It would have broken her heart.
Violet: Karibu
The Nairobi night is warm, perfumed and full of stars so bright and close you almost feel you can reach up your hand and pluck them out of the sky. You only have to walk a few metres away from the low airport buildings to feel its immensity pressing down on you. Violet waits in the taxi queue, letting the smells and sounds of home flood in on her.
‘Langata,’ she tells the driver. ‘Kalobot Road.’
At her grandmother’s house there is a whole reception party waiting for her with hugs, tears and fizzy drinks.
‘Karibu! Karibu mpenzi! Ilikuwaje safari?’
All seven cousins are there and nine children, including three gorgeous babies she hasn’t seen before. The din of adults chattering, babies yelling, kids demanding attention, singing, clapping and the television on full blast in the background is overwhelming. She sits on a wooden chair and gulps down the 7 Up Lynette pours for her, though what she really wants is a cup of milky coffee and her bed.
After they have all gone, she follows her grandmother upstairs to the small mauve-painted bedroom which was once her mother’s. She is already missing her parents and the airy calm of their house in Bakewell. Her Grandma Njoki sits down on the edge of her bed and asks for news about her family. Through the waves of tiredness, Violet assures her that they are well and send their love.
‘When you getting married, mpenzi?’ Her grandmother always asks this. ‘Soon you be over the hill. How old you are?’
‘Only twenty-three. Plenty of time yet. And you, Nyanya, when are you going to find yourself a new man?’
Her grandmother laughs, the big white false teeth flashing in the pink cave of her mouth. ‘You’re a naughty girl even thinking on it. You think God will let me forget Josaphat so soon?’
She asks her grandmother whether she knows of someone called Horace Nzangu.
But Njoki looks blank. ‘He knew Josaphat?’
‘I think Babu Josaphat knew him.’
During her stay in Bakewell she’d shown her parents the copies of the Nzangu GRM re-invoices. They were shocked, angry and alarmed. But their attempts to dissuade her from following up this old story had only fired her sense of adventure.
‘Daddy told me Nzangu used to be a junior administrator in the Mbagathi District Hospital when Babu worked there. He left under a cloud, accused of rinsing and reselling used syringes and surgical instruments back to the hospital.’
‘Why you talking about this jinai, Violet?’
‘Nyanya, you used to say that Babu Josaphat was killed because he stumbled upon some corruption in the hospital, and went to the police.’
But Njoki shakes her head and says she can’t remember a thing, and Violet realises sadly that she probably isn’t saying this from fear, that she really is losing her memory. Her hair is completely white now and her skin wrinkled like Cadaga-tree bark, but her teeth still gleam like piano keys, she wears a flower-patterned pinafore over her dress and she still smells of coconut oil.
‘Mpenzi!’ Njoki holds her tight in her skinny arms. ‘You got so thin! Thanks be to God you have come home. Go to sleep now.’
Berthold: Pigeon Fancy
‘Cooo-cooo-cooo.’
I was gazing down from my window and sipping a melancholy cup of Lidl own-brand while pondering arboricide, impotence in all its dismal aspects, the fickleness of fame, and other depressing themes, when I noticed there was a bird perched up on the balcony edge close to Flossie’s cage – a feral pigeon, no doubt displaced from its nest by the tree carnage below.
‘Shut up, Flossie,’ Flossie replied.
‘Cooo-cooo-cooo,’ it warbled, puffing out its iridescent throat-feathers, cocking its head on one side and eyeing her seductively with a round unblinking eye.
‘God is Coo. Cooo-cooo.’
The pigeon hopped closer to Flossie’s cage. I noticed it only had one leg and a scarred stump where the other should be. Maybe it was the same one I had rescued from the wheels of the white van on the weekend that Mother had died. It seemed to be on intimate terms with Flossie. Cooo-coo, cooo-coo. Maybe it had found love – like me.
Then I heard the sounds of Inna scuffling and banging in her bedroom. I thought at first she had got Lookerchunky in there, but it seemed to be going on for an incredibly long time, even by his standards. And there was no singing. Eventually I knocked on the door to see what was going on, and found her sitting by the dressing table, surrounded by heaps of belongings which she was cramming into cases, bags and boxes. Her loose black hair that rippled down her shoulders now had a broad silver
channel at the parting.
‘Hey, Inna, what are you doing?’
‘I leaving here, Bertie! I going back in Ukraina, wit Lev!’
‘Is that a good idea, Inna? You know there’s a war on.’
‘Oy, this war will soon finish. She is only for crazies. East, west, we all Ukrainian. Good Ukrainian soldiers don’t want fight good Ukrainian people, they want beetroot soup, kvass, eppy life. Only foreign want war. Europevski, Russki, Americanski, all crazy. Better make love, drink vodka, sing beautiful song of my country. Oy ty pyesnya! Pyesenka dyevicha … Mm-m-mmm …’
‘It’s a matter of democracy, Inna,’ I sighed, for by now I was only half convinced myself. ‘Surely everybody wants that. Good governance, the fight against corruption …’
‘No democracy. Only oliharki fighting against each other. Some oliharki got friend wit Mister Putin, some oliharki got friend wit Mister Cameron. But every olihark got same big house in London, inside wife blonde wit big titties, gangster wit big gun by door, and outside good British policeman for protection. Mmm-m-mmm …’ She started to wail her song again as she carried on packing.
‘Look, we have to stop Putin from taking over the world!’
However self-evident this was, Inna doggedly pursued her own batty agenda. ‘No, no! Putin got popular because he stop Netto in knickers of time. Same like Mister Jeff Kennedy got popular because he stop Russia in Cuba wit Bay of Pork …’ She paused for a moment, and sat back with a smile of reminiscence. ‘Ah! That was good time for Dovik and me!’
‘Look, Inna …’ It was hard to know where to begin to correct her addled perspective. ‘History tells us a slightly different story –’
‘Pah! What use history? History got us Great Patriotic War against Nazi. Twenty million Soviet citizen dead. In history everybody slightly dead. Mmm-m-mmm …’ She looked at me as though I was a Nazi, and carried on with her packing.
The Lubetkin Legacy Page 26