“Twenty-one thousand pounds? That’s not much, is it? So would their house—this house for example—would that be classed as an asset?”
“If no one else is living there, and the person is in a home, it could be sold to cover the home fees.” She was still making notes, pausing ruminatively, looking around her and chewing on the end of her biro.
“But what if the person didn’t want to sell?”
“Don’t worry.” She took my hand and squeezed it between her little chipolatas. “I can see no reason for her to go into residential care at this stage. I’m going to recommend a means-tested care package that’ll support her continuing to live at home.”
I held back my impulse to say I was sure she didn’t need a care package. There was something about her that made me want tp take a big juicy bite, but I hugged her instead. It was irresistible, really, that soft pink bolster of flesh. Probably she was used to it, because she just stood there and smiled.
“You’re very demonstrative, Mrs Sinclair,” was all she said.
§
Mrs Shapiro, on the other hand, was disappointed in Ms Baddiel.
“Not Jewish. Too fet.”
She shook her head with a grumpy face.
I’d rushed around to the hospital immediately to tell her the good news, and we were sitting in the day room again, in front of the window. The honker lady kept wandering in and out, making smoking gestures at me, trying to catch my eye, but I ignored her.
“She said you can have a care package in your own home.”
“Vat is this peckedge? Vat is in it?”
She wrinkled up her nose, as though she could smell it already.
“Well, maybe a home help, to help you keep the place clean. Someone to help with your shopping and cooking.”
“I don’t want it. These people are all teefs.”
I tried to persuade her, worried she’d lose her chance to get back home through her own stubbornness, but she looked at me with a little smile.
“You are a clever-knodel, Georgine. But I heff another news for you. I heffhed a visitor.”
She produced a card from the pocket of the candlewick dressing gown, a garish orange-and-green card, with a bold black inscription across the top in mock-Gothic letters: Wolfe & Diabello. Beneath, in smaller letters, a name: Mr Nick Wolfe.
“Quite a charming man, by the way. He has made me an offer to buy up my house.”
I gasped. My breath was really taken away. These people, they don’t miss a trick.
“Mr Wolfe! How much did he offer you?”
She turned the card over. On the back, written in blue biro, was the figure: £2 million.
“Very nice-looking man, by the way. Would be a good husband for you, Georgine.”
I felt suddenly out of my depth. The social workers, the nurses, I could handle them; but men who flashed around those amounts of money scared the pants off me.
“It’s a lot of money. What did you say?”
“I said I will think about it.”
She caught my eye and smiled impishly.
“What for I need two millions? I am too old. I already heff all what I need.”
The nurse—it was the brisk young woman I’d met on my first visit—was happy with the care package, and a date was set for Mrs Shapiro to return home. I promised I’d be there to meet her, and would drop in regularly until she was settled. There was one more thing I needed to sort out before she came home. I didn’t want Damian or Mr Diabello—whichever one of them had the key—barging into the house while she was there on her own. I must get that Asian handyman to change the back-door lock. I rang the number on the card and made an appointment with him for the next day.
16
The handyman
Mr All arrived on a bicycle. I’d been expecting a man in a van, so I didn’t notice him at first, wobbling quietly up the lane. He was smaller and tubbier than I recalled, and he was wearing a pink-and-mauve striped woolly hat pulled right down over his ears, which was sensible, because the morning was cold. It was hard to tell how old he was; his face looked young, but his beard and moustache were heavily flecked with grey. He didn’t look at all like a handyman—for one thing he didn’t seem to have any tools.
He jumped off his bike, removed the cycle clips from his ankles, straightened out his trouser bottoms—they were grey flannel, with neat creases down the fronts—and greeted me with a polite nod of the head. I noticed now that there was a small leather bag—it could have been a woman’s handbag—on a long strap slung across his chest, with the head of a hammer poking out at one side.
“I have come to fixitup lock,” he announced.
He pushed his bicycle up the path, and propped it in the porch at the front door.
“Jews live here?”
There was something sharp in his voice that took me aback.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Mezuzah.” He pointed out something that looked like a small tin roll pinned on to the door frame. It had been painted over, and I hadn’t noticed it before.
“Strange thing for me,” he muttered. “Never mind. Here in London is no broblem.”
He took his pink and mauve cap off—I saw now that his black hair was also threaded through with grey—and stuck it in his pocket, along with the cycle clips.
“You Jewish?”
I shook my head. “Yorkshire. It’s almost a religion.”
He gave me a funny look—I don’t think he realised it was a joke. His dark eyes darted around, taking in the details.
“Every house speaks its history to one who knows how to listen.”
So, not your typical handyman, I thought.
“Where you have this broblem lock?”
There was something cutely hamster-like, I thought, about the way he sometimes confused his ‘p’s and ‘b’s, though I have no evidence that hamsters actually do this.
I led him through to the kitchen. The back door was heavy pine, painted to look like walnut, with two panels of blue engraved glass.
“For this one you have lost the key?”
“That’s right.”
“Hm.” He stroked his beard. “Locked up.”
“Yes—that’s why I called you.”
“Hm. Only way to open must be with force. You want me to do this?”
“I…I don’t know. I thought maybe you could unscrew something.”
“This type of lock sits inside door frame, not screwed on outside.”
“Oh, I see.” Actually, now he pointed it out, it was totally obvious.
“But usually,” he said, stroking his beard again, “usually there exists more than one key for every door.” He turned the door handle up and down. “You do not have another key? You have lost it, too?” He sounded reproachful, as though I’d been unreasonably careless.
“It’s not my house. I’m just feeding the cats while the owner’s in hospital.”
“The key that proves the ownership of the house.”
I was beginning to feel annoyed. I wanted a handyman, not a philosopher.
“I think it’s been stolen. Really, if you can’t help, Mr Ali, I don’t want to waste any more of your time.”
“Certainly I can help. But better not to break down the door if we can open it by some other way. You have looked for another key?”
“Where should I look?”
I was thinking that a lad in a van might have been easier to deal with. He looked at me as though I was completely stupid.
“How can I know this? I am a handyman, not a detecteef.”
He scanned the room with his hamster eyes, then he started opening cupboard doors and pulling out drawers, rifling through the mouldy tea towels and crusty cutlery.
In the built-in pine cupboard at the side of the chimney breast was a jumble of crockery, pots, tins, jars, bowls, vases, candlesticks, and other stuff which could loosely be described as bric-a-brac. Mr Ali stood up on a chair and went through it all methodically, working from the top down,
taking each item from the shelf, shaking it, and replacing it. Inside an ornate silver coffee pot on the middle shelf, he found a bundle of obsolete ten-shilling notes and a bunch of keys.
“Try.” He passed them to me. One of the keys fitted the back door.
“So now your broblem is fixit,” he beamed.
“Yes, thank you very much, Mr Ali.” I resisted a sudden urge to stroke his little hamster head. “But I’d still like you to change the lock, if you can, so the person who took the other key can’t use it.”
He rubbed his chin. “I understand. In that case I must buy new lock.”
He replaced his cycle clips and wobbled off down the road.
As soon as he was out of sight, I took the opportunity to continue my investigation of the house. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I was driven by the conviction that there must be a stash of documents or letters somewhere that would provide the key to Mrs Shapiro’s story, and the identity of the mystery woman with beautiful eyes. However, apart from Mrs Shapiro’s bedroom, all the upstairs rooms were sparsely furnished, with nowhere much to hide anything, and I began to feel disheartened. From an upstairs window, I watched the cold shadows sidle into the garden. A few cats were still prowling around; I caught sight of Wonder Boy in the bushes beside the mews block and Violetta sitting on the roof of a ruined outhouse. The bedroom I was in had a bleak institutional feel, compared with the stinky decadence of Mrs Shapiro’s room. Mrs Sinclair’s old burgundy-coloured curtains, which I’d put in the skip, had been spread as bedcovers on the two single beds. I checked the drawers, but they were empty, and there was nothing under the mattresses. I drew a blank. When I looked out of the window again, some minutes later, Wonder Boy was up on the outhouse roof, too; he appeared to be raping Violetta. I banged on the window and he slunk away.
§
Mr Ali was gone for ages, maybe an hour, and I was getting fed up of hanging around in the dank empty smelly house. Next time I need a handyman, I was thinking, I’ll get someone out of Yellow Pages. I returned to Mrs Shapiro’s bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the garden path through the mirror, wishing he would hurry up. And that’s when my eye fell on another drawer in the dressing table, a low, curved, concealed drawer without a handle, beneath the mirror. I hadn’t noticed it before, and I realised it had been designed not to be noticed. I eased it open. It was full of jumbled jewellery—necklaces, earrings, brooches. A lot of it seemed rather grotty and broken, but there were one or two pieces that looked as though they might be valuable. Was it wise for her to keep it here in the house? As I lifted out a blue bead necklace I saw there was a photograph underneath the jewellery at the bottom of the drawer. I pulled it out to add to my collection, but it was only a landscape in black and white of a not very appealing hillside, barren and rocky, planted with terraces of shrubby trees. In the valley below was a scattering of flat rooftops. It looked like Greece. I turned it over. On the back was written Kefar Daniyyd and two lines of verse.
I send my love across the sea And pray that you will come to me
§
Naomi
§
Another name: Daniyyel. How did he come into the story? Had Naomi had a secret lover? There was a long person-shaped shadow in the foreground—it must be the photographer standing with his back towards to the sun. So who had taken the photo?
Then I heard the tink-tink of a bicycle bell outside, and a moment later Mr Ali reappeared.
“Very sorry for delay. I was looking everywhere for right size of the lock. Old-style lock not easy to find.”
It took him less than ten minutes to lever out the old lock and fit the new one. I took one of the new keys and put it back on the key ring in the coffee pot; the other I put in my pocket with a smile. In my imagination, I pictured Mrs Goodney and Damian tiptoeing around to the back of the house at dusk, fiddling and fiddling with the old key, trying to get it to fit. In the end they gave up and stomped away, tripping on brambles and ending up covered in cat poo. Serve them right.
I settled up with Mr Ali—he asked for ten pounds, plus the cost of the lock, but I persuaded him to take twenty—and thanked him profusely.
“Always better,” he said, packing his tools back into his shoulder bag, “first to try the non-violent solution.”
17
The care package
It was quite late next evening—it must have been after ten o’clock—when the telephone rang.
“Is that Mrs Sinclair?”
A grating voice, familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“Speaking.”
“This is Margaret Goodney from the social work department at the hospital.”
Surely she wasn’t still at work.
“Oh, hello, Mrs Goodney. Is everything all right?”
I smirked to myself. Maybe she and Damian had already tried their key and failed to get in.
“I think you know what I’m ringing about.”
“No. I don’t know. Please tell me.”
In my mind’s eye I could picture her at the other end of the telephone, smoking a cigarette, wearing her lizard-green quilted jacket, covered in cat poo.
“I know what you’re up to.”
“Excuse me?”
“That ridiculous care package you and Mrs Whatsit’ve cobbled together. You should keep your nose out of this. Leave it to the professionals.”
“Ms Baddiel is a professional.”
“She’s not a professional.” An ugly nasal sneer. “She’s a box-ticker. Those local authority social workers don’t know what real social work is.”
Before I could muster a reply, she struck again.
“You won’t get away with it, you know. If I have to, I’ll call the police in.”
I was completely thrown.
“I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You persuaded her to name you as next of kin, didn’t you? We’ve seen it all before, you know—someone befriends a vulnerable old person, then the next thing we know, they’ve altered the will and the new friend gets the lot.”
My adrenaline was up. I could feel my heart starting to race.
“Nobody has altered any will.”
“But that’s what you’re after, isn’t it—the house?” she hissed.
I suppose I should have put the phone down, but I was too shocked.
“I’m not after anything.”
“Being all friendly, going round and cleaning up, feeding the cats.”
“It’s called being a good neighbour. Looking out for the vulnerable in our society. Wouldn’t you do the same?”
“Nobody does all that without expecting something in return.” Her malevolent rusty-gate voice made me wince. “You’re not family. In fact you hardly seem to know her. And all of a sudden you go barging into her life, taking over her affairs.”
“You’re accusing me of…”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Mrs Sinclair. I’m just saying that if you were to be found to be applying undue pressure or benefiting in an improper way from this relationship, then it would be a matter for the police.”
It took a moment for the sheer audacity of it to sink in.
“I’m the one who should be reporting you. You and Damian. I know your little plan. Then you have the nerve to ring me up in the middle of the night and accuse me…”
“I’m not accusing you, Mrs Sinclair. Get this straight, will you? I’m just advising you of the consequences that could follow from certain actions.”
She put the phone down. In the silence that followed, I could hear the clock ticking, and the faint ker-chunga-chunga coming from Ben’s room. I realised my hands were shaking.
§
Despite the veiled threat in Mrs Goodney’s phone call, Mrs Shapiro was discharged before the end of the week and returned home by taxi to an ecstatic welcome from Violetta, a languid welcome from Mussorgsky, and a dead pigeon from Wonder Boy. The other four were all there too, rubbing against
her legs, rolling on their backs and purring like trail bikes.
I’d cleaned up the mess in the hall, put a fan heater on to take the chill off the place, brought some shopping in, and put a vase of flowers on the hall table. I’d also replaced the key in the lock, so she’d be able to use the back door. She looked in good shape, and excited to be back. She took off her astrakhan coat and emptied out a carrier bag which contained the pink candlewick dressing gown and one high-heeled shoe. The other was lost. She was still wearing the Lion King slippers on her feet.
I made a pot of coffee and some sardines on toast—probably not a good idea I soon realised—and we sat at the table in the kitchen. The cats circled around, attracted by the smell of the sardines, and I wiped some bread in the oil and put it down for them. They gobbled it up in a flash, and carried on circling. Wonder Boy leapt up on to Mrs Shapiro’s lap, and started kneading her thighs vigorously with his big bruiser paws; from time to time, he reached one out and snatched a piece of sardine-on-toast from her plate. Violetta sat on my knee, purring sweetly when I stroked her.
“You heff been a very good friend for me, Georgine. Without you I’m sure they would heff put me away into the oldie-house.”
We clinked our cups together.
“To friendship.”
But something still niggled at the back of my mind. Each time I looked at her I found myself wondering about the other woman in the photo, Lydda.
“Don’t you have a family, Mrs Shapiro? Any sisters? Or brothers? Anyone who could look after you?”
“Why for I need someone to look after me? All was okay before this accident.”
“Any grown-up children? Or even cousins?” I persisted.
“I am not need nobody. I am okay.” She bit fiercely into a piece of toast.
“But even if you’re all right now, you’re not getting any younger and…”
“I think I will sue the Council.”
“…of course I’m happy to help, but…”
“They should be tekking care better of the pavements. They think we elect them only for giving our money away to immigrants? I am paying rets on this house sixty year. I think they must pay me a compensation.”
2009 - We Are All Made of Glue Page 11
