The Lubetkin Legacy (17 page)

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.

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.

To my surprise, Inna also burst into tears. ‘My good Jew husband never eat kobaski!' she wailed. ‘Oy, he was good man! He said I do anything for you, Inna, but I not eat kobasa! Now he dead! Murdered by olihark! I missing him too bad!'

The two of them were at it, blubbing like a burst water main. Should I join in like a new man? What would George Clooney have done? Soon they had their arms around each other and were blubbing on to each other's shoulders. This was definitely not in the script.

‘Okay. Tell us what happened to your husband, Inna,' I said, sceptical of the tale about the oligarch, which she had mentioned before.

‘Killed by biznessmyen. Arkady Kukuruza. You know it?'

‘I can't say I do.'

‘He want buy secret of bacteriophage, mekka big profit. Dovik say, my friend you cannot mek profit from this. It come out of toilet. Kukuruza say, “Alfandari, I can mek profit from anythink. You look out, you next time dead.” '

The gist of her tale was that this gangster-oligarch tracked down the hapless Dovik in London and made him an offer he didn't realise he couldn't refuse.

‘What a farrago of bollocks, Inna, if you'll pardon the mixed metaphor.'

‘He invite him in restoran for biznyess talk, and mek him to eat poison slatki!'

Poison slatki! I felt the blood drain out of my head. Is that where she got the idea? Is this practice common in her neck of the woods? While I was reviewing my options, she started her sinister keening once more.

‘
Povee vitre na Ukrainou!
Blow wind into Ukraina. Beautiful song. Beautiful country. People has beautiful heart. Only problem is oliharki. They make all money blow away out of my country. Money flies into Vest, but people cannot follow! Oy-oy-oy!'

‘Shut up, Inna!' I commanded. Let's face it, there's only so much bollocks that a man can be expected to put up with on his birthday, especially when he's just on the point of making it with the woman of his dreams. But to my dismay instead of listening to me, my lovely neighbour too was getting bewitched by this bullshit.

‘It's exactly the same in my country, Inna!' she cried. ‘They rob the people and spirit the money away into secret bank accounts! And we facilitate them! The money flies away but the people have to stay behind in poverty. Thousands of Africans drown in the sea trying to follow where their money has gone!'

‘Oy, Blackie, world is same everywhere! Better we eat, drink, sing, forget all this sad story!'

Then Inna disappeared into the kitchen again and came back with a small bottle of vodka and a plate of freshly baked slatki, filling the air with their almond and honey scent. Violet stopped crying and her face lit up. Panic seized me. As she reached to take one, I grabbed the plate from Inna and crammed all six of them into my mouth. Would George Clooney have been man enough to sacrifice himself for the woman he loved?

Violet stared, and her round brown eyes filled up with tears again.

Inna took her in her arms. ‘Oy! Oy! You no cry, Blackie! This man no good for you. He lady-man, too much like sweetie slatki. You will find better one.'

‘No, Inna, I'm not gay …' I spluttered out a mouthful of crumbs, feeling suddenly wheezy and tight-chested.

‘Poor Bertie, you still feeling sad for you mama. I understand.'

To deny being gay is incredibly uncool, according to George Clooney, and I didn't want to sound like a homophobe, so I shut up. Anyway, it seemed like Violet hadn't heard, for she started to moan, ‘I just messed up on a perfect job and I spilled wine all over my boss! I've ruined my life!'

I wanted to hold her close in a comforting embrace and explain the sacrifice I had made to save her from possible poisoning, but Inna had already got her arms around her, so I had to content myself with pouring another round of vodka.

We raised our glasses.

‘To absent loved ones!' I said, and would you believe it, I started to blub too.

All that went on for at least an hour, then someone – I think it was Violet – started to giggle. By then the vodka bottle was empty, and so was the bottle of Pinot Noir I had bought as the perfect accompaniment for globalki, as well as a bottle of sweet sherry that Inna had discovered under her bed.

Flossie was asleep, her cage covered with a tablecloth to keep her quiet. Inna was asleep with her head on the table; stray silver hairs had escaped from her plaits and were trailing through the gravy. I fell asleep on the sofa, with the rose-silk angel snuggled up chastely in my arms.

I have no idea how George Clooney celebrated his birthday.

I woke up next morning to the sound of rain drumming on the rusting lid of the barbecue on the balcony. I was a year older. Violet in her silk pyjamas was gone and Inna was standing over me in her ghastly sea-green candlewick dressing gown with a cup of weak instant coffee and a grumpy expression on her face. There were still traces of gravy in her hair.

‘Oy, she no eat nothing!' she moaned. ‘No golabki no kobaski no slatki! Skinny little blackie bird!'

I was still in the sitting room, still fully clothed. My neck was cricked from the too-short sofa, my mouth tasted of wet dog and my gut was smouldering like a volcano, probably from the slatki, but mercifully I was still alive. There was nothing but a mess of dirty plates and glasses on the table to remind me of the night before, which I hoped Inna would soon tackle.

‘Put it down there, Inna,' I gestured her to put the cup on the coffee table beside me, while I shrank back into the glooming peace of my thoughts.

The instant coffee was lukewarm by the time I drank it; then I staggered into the bathroom for a pee. I vaguely remembered that I had already been once or twice in the night. I should really talk to Dr Brandeskievich about my prostate. Does George Clooney have these problems? I wondered. It would be good to have a man-to-man on the topic, to share mutual misgivings about the onset of mortality. I seemed to remember that on one of those bathroom trips I had glanced
out of the window and seen a ghostly figure – or a figure and its ghost – standing in the grove, staring up at the flats, the light from the street lamp lighting up a double blur of white hair like a halo, but maybe it was just a hallucination brought on by the toxic slatki.

Inna interrupted my reverie with a typically crude allegation. ‘You no make love on to nice-looking girl because you love man. I understand. No problem wit me.'

‘Look, Inna, how many times do I have to repeat …'

She pursed her lips and stared out of the window at the relentless rain. I followed the line of her gaze and caught sight of something that set my sluggish heart pounding. There at the kerb behind the cherry trees, a little red car was parked and a woman wearing green was getting out of it, unfurling an umbrella. She made her way along the winding path through the cherry grove towards the flats.

‘Inna! We have a visitor!' I yelled.

‘Wait!' Inna said. ‘I quick quick dressing!'

‘No need. You're fine as you are.' The sea-green candlewick dressing gown and gravy-crusted hair could only add to the impression of senile dementia. ‘This time you are my mother, Okay? Not sister. Mother. A bit confused.' I flapped my hands and rolled my eyes.

She nodded and mimicked.

‘Remember your birthday?'

‘First of March, 1932!'

‘First of March, 1932!' echoed Flossie, understandably irritable at being woken up by having the tablecloth yanked off her cage.

There was not even time to dash into my bedroom and put some fresh clothes on. I smoothed the crumpled front of my shirt, where the rose-silk angel had so recently laid her lovely head. On the cream M&S 100% cotton I found a long curly
black hair, which I removed and folded into the breast pocket close to my heart.

Then the doorbell rang.
Ding dong!

Mrs Penny was wearing the same green dress she had been trying on in Oxfam when we last met, the buttons straining a bit over her breasts. Her plump bare ankles, made shapely by the high heels, bore the same ghoulish flea-bite stigmata as before.

‘Come in, Mrs Penny!' I shook her lettuce-limp hand. ‘Please meet my mother, Lily!'

Inna scuttled up in her sea-green dressing gown, flapping her hands and rolling her eyes.

‘Hey ho! First of March, 1932!' she cried.

So far so good.

‘It's so lovely to meet you,' gushed Mrs Penny, shaking out her wet umbrella and propping it by the door. ‘I've heard so much about you from your son. Actually, I think we nearly met the other day, when you were getting into a taxi in the rain. You seemed in a bit of a rush.'

‘We were going to a friend's funeral.'

‘Hey ho! Rain it! Rain it! Every day!' added Inna with gusto.

‘I hope you don't mind me dropping in like this. I was just passing, and I thought we could resolve the transfer of the tenancy now. It's a good idea to change the tenancy over while you're still … er … with us in mind as well as body, Mrs Lukashenko? Not that you won't be with us for years to come. But you never know what is waiting around the corner.'

Inna peered around the corner into the hall and shook her head. ‘Nobody there.'

‘Quite.' Mrs Penny smiled and produced a clear plastic
file-envelope from her shoulder bag. ‘I've brought the paperwork with me, Mr Lukashenko. We've got it registered as a joint tenancy all the way back in 1953. Mr and Mrs Ted Madeley.'

‘Look, my name's not Lukashenko, it's Sidebottom. She remarried twice. My father was Sidney Sidebottom,' I said.

‘Sidebottom? That's a nice name,' she said without a trace of irony. I looked at her closely. She wasn't even smiling. ‘When was that? Do we have certificates with dates?'

‘First of March, 1932!' said Inna.

‘It was 1960. I have the paperwork somewhere. She gets confused,' I murmured to Mrs Penny, at the same time doing a quick eye roll in Inna's direction.

She flapped her hands, rolled her eyes and chortled, ‘Hey ho! Rain it, rain it!'

‘Ding dong!' squawked Flossie, making Mrs Penny jump.

‘Oh, I'd forgotten the parrot,' she giggled. ‘Have you had her long?'

‘Twenty years,' I replied. ‘She was a gift from Mother's last husband, Mr Lev Lukashenko. Isn't that right, Mother?'

‘Hey ho! Lucky Lily.' Inna flapped her hand and rolled her eyes.

Mrs Penny made a note. ‘That explains it,' she said. ‘We've had a letter in the housing office from a Mr Lukashenko, claiming the tenancy of the flat. Would you believe it – he said you'd passed away!'

Inna shrieked involuntarily, and rolled manic eyes in my direction.

‘Totally nuts,' I said with a discreet hand-flap in her direction. ‘He was only after her money, you know. And the flat. Mother divorced him. Isn't that so, Mum?'

‘First of March, 1932!' Inna flapped her hands.

Mrs Penny made another note. ‘So he's not living here?'

‘Absolutely not! I've been here for eight years, and he's never been near the place. He went back to Ukraine, I think.'

‘That's funny. Mr Lukashenko's letter was posted in London,' said Mrs Penny. ‘He gave this as his address.'

My heart skipped a beat. The bastard! He must have got someone over here to write it for him as soon as he received my invitation to the funeral.

‘Who this Lucky Skunky?' asked Inna.

‘Your ex-husband, Mother. You've forgotten him already. No wonder. She hasn't seen hide nor hair of him in years. Have you, Mother?'

I caught Mrs Penny's eye and tapped my temple with my finger, though Inna was doing such a good job my gesture was superfluous.

‘Husband dead,' she sighed. ‘Oy! Good man, good hair, good whisker, all dead.'

‘Three husbands! No wonder she gets confused,' Mrs Penny looked from me to Inna curiously.

‘That's why we wanted to change the tenancy agreement sooner rather than later, Mrs P-Penny. She's not going to get any
less
confused. It can only get worse.'

Under her scrutiny, I could feel my stress level getting stratospheric. My pulse was pounding; my brain had become a compost heap of rotting recollections in which truths and untruths copulated promiscuously.

‘Hm. Quite.' She chewed her biro. ‘Are there other family members who might have an interest in the flat? Siblings? Grandchildren?'

You don't know the half of it, I thought, but I didn't mention the twins. Why complicate things? Their tearful claim that the flat had been their childhood home was obviously a lie, since it wasn't built until 1952 or 1953. At most they could have lived there for a few months before their mother dumped
philandering Ted Madeley and moved on. As for the story that his marriage with Mother was bigamous, I doubted it was true. But even if it was – who could prove it?

‘I don't think so. What do you think, Mother?' I said.

‘First of March, 1932!' she affirmed.

‘With the current housing shortage in London, you'd be amazed the lengths people go to. We have to be so careful.' Mrs Penny narrowed her eyes. ‘There have even been cases of people pretending a dead relative was still alive.'

‘Unb-believable!' My heart skipped a beat. ‘B-but surely, as her only child, I have rights?' My old stutter was knocking at my jaw, threatening to undo all Mother's careful therapy.

‘Usually the spouse is the successor, if there is one. According to our guidelines, there can only be one succession per tenancy, apart from by marriage, where it's automatic. In your mother's case, with all the divorces and name changes, we'll have to line up all the ducks.'

‘Ducks? Two divorces. The first husband died.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry.'

‘Of natural causes,' I added, to preclude any doubt.

‘That helps. What about utility bills? Whose name are they in?'

‘Only Mother's. I can't lay my hands on them right now, but I can forward them.'

I'd cleared out all that old stuff when I prepared Mother's room for Inna, but more would inexorably arrive, as is the way with bills.

‘And do you have evidence of relationship and residence, Mr … er … Lukashenko?' She bit her biro so sharply I heard it crack.

‘Berthold Sidebottom. My father was Sidney Sidebottom, her second husband. I've got my b-birth certificate somewhere.
My name's not on the b-b-bills, but I do have corresp-pondence at this address going b-back years.'

‘Lovely!' said Mrs Penny. ‘May we see?' Suddenly, with largesse to dispense, she had become royal.

I dashed into my bedroom and riffled through the shoe box where I kept my papers. There was library membership, dental appointments, invitations to auditions, the hire purchase agreement for my bicycle, even my pitiful bank statements. I could have found more, but I didn't want to leave Inna alone with Mrs Penny for a moment longer than was necessary.

When I rejoined them in the sitting room, Inna was saying, ‘First of March, 1932,' and Mrs Penny was shaking her head, ‘Would you believe it!'

I wondered what the question was.

‘That's pretty.' Mrs Penny pointed to the shiny brass casket on the mantelpiece. ‘Is it antique? Your mother was just explaining it contains ashes, but I didn't get her drift.'

‘Yes, it's …' My mind went blank.

‘God is dead!' Flossie prompted.

‘… it's a p-parrot. A deceased parrot. Flinna was her name. Originally, we had two, but one died.'

‘Shut up, Inna!' squawked Flossie.

‘Take no notice,' I chuckled, ‘she gets confused. Here, here are some p-papers showing my address.'

I fanned out a handful and held them in front of her. All those official-looking bits of paper brought a smile to her bureaucrat face at last.

‘May I?' She pulled out a chair, sat herself down at the table, and went through them one by one, ticking boxes on the green printed form headed Tenancy Transfer, making notes in her file. I could feel my chest tighten as I watched. It's at times like this that I would normally get the sherry bottle out, but we'd polished it all off last night.

‘We can complete the procedure later, if you could drop by my office one day next week with your birth certificate and your mother's marriage certificate to your father. Originals, please – we can't accept photocopies.' She handed me a card. ‘Are you happy to hand over the tenancy of this flat to your son, Mrs Lukashenko?'

Inna glanced from her to me. ‘Is council flat. I like him privat.'

I felt like leaning across and slapping her. It would be just like her to bugger it up at the last minute.

Fortunately, Mrs Penny took that as a yes. ‘If you could just sign here, Mrs Lukashenko.'

She pushed the green form, and her blue biro, across to Inna, who picked them up and signed her name:
Inna Alfandari
.