Marina Lewycka - The Lubetkin Legacy

‘But you’re not a scrounger, are you, Len?’

‘Nah, that’s what I mean. They’re going to help me find employment, so I won’t be a drain on the economy. Anyway, I’m sick of being on the dole. They want to rescue me from the scrap heap of existence. Give me pride in myself. Why are you always so negative, Bert? They’re trying to do some good.’

This did indeed sound very positive, but once again the cynic in me would out.

‘Look, I’m sorry, Len, but you’re not exactly going to grow new legs, are you?’

‘Legs ain’t everything they’re cracked up to be. Ramsey managed without a leg for six months.’

‘Good luck with it, pal.’

He trundled away, leaving me with a guilty aftertaste. Had I been a bit blunt?

The lift was out of order so I climbed the stairs — see, Len, legs can come in handy at these moments? — and sat down in front of the TV to tackle my meal: rubbery chunks of reconstituted chicken floating like styrofoam in a fluorescent orange sea. I ate it straight from the box, staring at the television that was playing some pulpy sitcom punctuated by bursts of synthetic laughter. But my mind was already engaged elsewhere: I was planning Mother’s funeral.

Because she’d died in hospital of an unknown cause, I’d been told Mother would have to undergo an autopsy. This would give me time to make suitable funeral arrangements. I thought about giving her a grand East End-style send-off: a big funeral procession with a jazz band, dancing, former lovers and husbands meeting at her graveside to exchange tearful embraces and anecdotes. She’d have liked that. But I found myself lacking in energy, too exhausted even to clear her room. Besides, I reckoned if I was going to keep up the pretence that Inna Alfandari was, in fact, my mother, then the fewer people who knew about the real Lily’s demise the better. I logged on and googled ‘burial rituals’.

I wasn’t sure what religion Mother had embraced at the end, if any. She’d certainly been through a few changes. Born into a radical East End family in 1932, she related with pride that her father, Grandad Robert, was a religious pacifist: ‘Religion was like opium to him. He was addicted to it.’ Her mother, my Granny Gladys, aka Gobby Gladys, had been a strident supporter of George Lansbury, the Labour Party leader in the 1930s, and his mild vision of Christian socialism. Ted Madeley, Mother’s first husband, had been a Methodist lay preacher, but apparently none of the sobriety and self-restraint associated with Methodism had rubbed off on her — or even on him, as it turned out. For a while, when I was young, she’d championed High Church of England like my dad, Wicked Sid Sidebottom, a lapsed Anglican. In her later years, she turned to the Catholic faith like her last husband, the Ukrainian Lev ‘Lucky’ Lukashenko, who had swept her off her unsteady feet in a blaze of candlelit romance; but after their bitter divorce, she was drawn to the peaceful Buddhism of the Dalai Lama.

Maybe she would have liked a Buddhist sky burial. That would be discreet enough, since our flat is on the top floor and Tecton had installed a communal drying area on the roof, which is now unused. I glanced out of the window. The sky above Hackney was overcast. A couple of grubby pigeons flapped by, but alas no vultures. Cremation or burial seemed rather run of the mill for Mother, and would be easily discoverable, but burial at sea left few traces. Brighton Pier would be a good location — Brighton was the scene of her honeymoon with Ted Madeley, her first real love, and maybe her last. These thoughts brought on a new bout of melancholia, and I cheered myself up by googling the protocols involved.

Next day, fortified with a breakfast of two Shredded Wheats, I cycled over to Islington to drop off my bulging carrier bags full of Mother’s stuff at the Oxfam shop. It was a Saturday and the shop was heaving. I pushed my way through towards the back door where you leave donations. On the left was the changing cubicle, beneath the drawn curtains of which a woman’s bare feet were visible. The toenails were painted mauve, the ankles were swollen with matching mauve-coloured scabs that looked like flea bites. Oh horror! Suddenly the curtain was yanked aside, and a plump woman in a baggy sweater and too-tight black leggings emerged. It was Mrs Penny.

I wasn’t quick enough to look away. We couldn’t pretend we hadn’t seen each other.

‘Hello,’ I said.

She looked utterly mortified to be discovered in such a downmarket setting.

‘Fancy seeing you here, Mr L … L …’

Then with a self-conscious gesture she held up the bright green dress, under her chin, in front of the mirror and asked with a giggle, ‘Does this colour suit me, d’you think?’

‘It’s too … green.’ It looked way too small; she would never get into it.

‘You think so?’

Our eyes met in the mirror. She blushed. Then she glanced down at the two carrier bags in my hand as I deposited them by the donations door.

‘Having a clear-out?’

‘Yes, just …’

As I let go of the handles the bulging bags opened up. A peachy silk lace-trimmed camisole slid out on to the floor. I picked it up quickly and stuffed it back in the bag. She was watching curiously.

‘… freeing up a bit of space.’

‘Oh, you have to, don’t you? When you live in a small flat?’ I thought I detected a touch of malice in her voice. She turned her back for a moment to hang the green dress back on the rail and I made a dash for the door.

‘Bye-ee!’ Her voice trilled after me. I responded with a quick backward wave as I exited on to the street, to find my bicycle had been stolen.

After two hours at the police station, during which every detail of my ex-bike’s spec was minutely noted down, the bored woman in uniform gave me a crime number and told me that it was very unlikely that it would ever be recovered, and she hoped it was insured.

‘Thanks for that,’ I replied.

Waiting at the bus stop, fatigue overcame me once more and tears started prickling my eyes and nose — sniff, sniff. I recognised the warning signs. Depression. Thief of delight. Cries in the night — Stop. Always look on the — Meredith. Not my fault. The childhood stutter. Immortal Bard can help. ‘What a p-p-piece of work is a man.’ Say it again. Slowly. Again. ‘What a piece of work is a man. Noble. Infinite.’ But without Mother’s cheerful cajoling, which had saved my sanity as well as my diction, how would I ever get back on track?

A fine rain had started and the bus shelter was jammed with people chatting or absorbed in their cell phones. I ached with aloneness. The 394 bus, when it arrived, had a banner advert across its side for the latest film starring George Clooney. He looked so fucking pleased with himself. We can’t all be George bloody Clooney but, God knows, I’ve tried. In fact some people might say that I’ve followed Clooney’s career with a mildly obsessive interest. Look, I’ve got nothing against the guy personally. He always seemed a perfectly decent type, and not a bad actor. It’s the unfairness of life that was bugging me. While the bus juddered and swayed homewards between the long featureless streets and squares of local authority housing that comprise this area of London, I drew up a mental balance sheet.

Similarities between Berthold Sidebottom and George Clooney

Profession: Actor. Eyes deep brown, with interesting wrinkles.

Smile: Clooney, self-deprecatingly lopsided. Sidebottom, passable imitation.

Date of birth: 6 May 1961. Yes, we share a birthday, and that’s what made the comparison so pointed.