The Lubetkin Legacy
Page 31
‘You told me to be careful, Lynette.’
‘I was careful. I gave them a false name. At first they weren’t interested. The man I talked to said they investigated Nzangu before and he was clean. I wasn’t surprised they said that, but now they knew we were on his trail. So I put the phone down.’
‘Then …?’ She tries to raise her head, sending a shooting pain through her shoulder and arm.
‘Then someone else rang me back from the bureau. They must have traced my number. He said I must come to the bureau right away, they just got some fax from England that confirmed the same things I told them. They arrested Nzangu. They wanted to know where your papers were so you could help them with their inquiry.’
‘But weren’t you scared it was a trick?’ She remembers Queenie’s strange phone call. Did they get her too?
‘I was scared like a sungura, but Archie took me over there and he waited outside. I said you was British citizen kidnapped, and if you disappear questions will be asked in English Parliament. That put fear into them.’
‘How did you find me?’ She remembers the sack over her head, the long bumpy ride on the floor of the taxi-van, the echoing room full of buckets. ‘I thought no one would ever rescue me and I would die in that place.’
‘When they caught him, Nzangu talk-talk non-stop like a kasuku. He told them he got this warehouse full of gear out near Mlolongo where they could have took you. Maybe he got scared they killed you and he be done for murdering a British citizen.’
‘Oh! How I started to cry when they told me they found you! Lying on the floor tied to the chair like a chicken, all covered in blood!’ Njoki lets out a wail. ‘My little girl! I thought I lost you same like I lost Jo.’
The nurse intervenes. ‘Sshh. Quiet. Let her rest.’
‘I’m her grandmother, you know!’ Njoki retorts. ‘I lost my dear husband to this same mfisadi. They left him by the road for dead. Now they try to steal my grandchild away!’
‘It’s okay, Nyanya Njoki. I’m still alive.’ She grits her teeth and heaves herself up until she is sitting with her back against the iron frame of the bed. There is something she needs to ask. ‘That fax from England, Lynette – did it have a name on it?’
‘I can’t remember. Gideon? Giles? Gilbert? I think it began with G.’
‘Gillian?’
‘Could be. Does it matter now we found you?’ Lynette can’t stop dimpling her shiny round cheeks.
Njoki’s voice is shrill and querulous. ‘Main thing is to catch the mfisadi over here. The ones that got Jo, and now they nearly got you! Oh God, when I saw you lying like dead and covered in blood –’
‘You better go now,’ the nurse interrupts. Njoki is holding her so tight she has to be prised away. ‘You making her stressed. We need to change the dressings, then she can sleep.’
The nurse offers her two tablets with a glass of water and unwinds the bandage from her head. ‘It’s looking better. Nothing too serious. Just a big bruise on the temple. You’ll be black and blue for a few days. The arm is broken in three places. That will take a bit longer. How does it feel?’
‘Mmm. It hurts, but it’s more the shock.’ Every bone in her body jangles with pain when she moves, but beyond the pain she feels contentment that glows in her like sunlight. She’s still alive, and she’s done something that needed to be done, her aching body tells her. ‘I feared I was going to die in there. They’d dump my body by the roadside, and nobody would find those papers.’
‘Try to get some sleep now,’ says the nurse. ‘You want me to draw the curtains?’
‘No. No, leave them open.’
She slides back down on the pillows and gazes out of the window. Her eyelids are drowsy. The nurse must have given her a sedative. Through the square of glass she can see the tops of the trees in the hospital garden. Close by the window, the gracious arch of a Nandi Flame tree heavy with blossom burns bright against the sky. A fat grey njiwa flutters its wings and settles among the flowers, cooing its heart out. It reminds her of … something … what does it remind her of?
Njoki and Lynette kiss her and leave arm in arm, small white shoes, pretty red sandals, tap-tapping together across the polished floor.
Berthold: Gravity
As soon as the credits rolled, people started shuffling towards the exit of the cinema, dragging their feet on the worn carpet. Stacey and I waited and topped up our glasses with the wine we had bought at the bar (‘Oh, go on then, just a drop!’). Science fiction is not my favourite genre, and I found the storyline was over-complicated and the helmets obscured George Clooney and Sandra Bullock’s faces. I was more captivated by Stacey’s profile as she sat beside me in the dark, the curve of her cheek and chin, the nape of her neck where the fine coppery hairs curled, her sweet perfume, and beneath the perfume the faint nutty scent of her skin. She was wearing the same tight-fitting green Oxfam dress, which no longer seemed too tight but made her look sensual and shapely like a leafy Venus. My hand had strayed down in between the top buttons and she let it rest there.
‘That ending was so beautiful, didn’t you think?’ Sniffle sniffle. ‘I didn’t know whether it was real or whether it was a dream.’
She leaned closer to me, hunting in her bag for a tissue. A teardrop hung on her cheek, gleaming in the darkness like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear.
‘Mm,’ I replied. It had been my idea, from a perverse mixture of motives, to see this film, but the special effects had made me feel queasy in a way that brought to mind slatki with vodka.
‘But I think I prefer the theatre,’ she sniffed. ‘It’s much more real. I used to be quite a George Clooney fan because we were both born in 1961, but recently I’ve been noticing how old he looks.’
‘Old? He’s only …’
‘Don’t you think he’s a bit overrated?’
‘Actually, Stacey …’ I took a sip of wine and paused to savour my moment of triumph, ‘I think, in fact, George Clooney’s quite a good actor.’
As the house lights rose and the real world came into focus around us, we stayed in our seats and drained the last few drops of lukewarm Sauvignon Blanc into our glasses. Suddenly Stacey started weeping again as though a floodgate of emotion had been opened.
‘It reminds me of how I felt when Monty died. I kept hoping he wasn’t really dead.’
Was there a note of accusation in her voice?
‘It wasn’t my fault, you know, Stacey. I tried to grab his lead, but he just dashed across the road. The van appeared out of nowhere.’ I put my arm around her. ‘White van of destiny meets cute little dog.’
‘You took his body to the pub and got drunk.’
‘We had to give him a proper send-off.’
‘I’m not blaming you, Bertie. I’m just telling you how I feel.’ Something in her voice told me she was blaming me. ‘He was the cutest dog in the world.’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘Do you think there’s an alternative universe somewhere, where he’s alive?’
‘I’m sure there is.’ I held her hand.
I didn’t tell her that thirteen years ago the same thing had happened to a cute little girl I was looking after. Was it my fault? I had tormented myself with this question ever since. Sometimes, even now, I would catch a glimpse of a girl or a young woman that took me off guard and spun me over into an alternative life, the life that might have been mine if Meredith had still been alive, if Stephanie and I had still been together.
Stephanie had never forgiven me, and I had never forgiven myself. Our relationship eventually collapsed under the weight of her accusations: ‘You were supposed to be responsible, Bertie. How could you have let go of her hand? You’re a typical mummy’s boy, irresponsible, careless, self-obsessed!’
Was I? Or was I, in fact, as Stacey suggested kindly through a sniffle, just terminally unlucky?
However, this particular cloud had a silver lining. Monty’s demise opened up the way for Stacey to move into my flat. I even let her bring the teddies, which she arranged on Mother�
��s dressing table beside the bottle of L’Heure Bleue left by Mother and finished off by Inna. It felt strange and sinful at first to make love in Mother’s bed, so full of ghosts, but after a while even that became wonderfully ordinary.
Stacey took over the chair of the Tenants Association vacated by Mrs Cracey, and helped to mount a lively campaign against the proposed fourteen-storey building in the garden, insisting, as Lubetkin would have done, that it should fit harmoniously with its environment and should provide affordable homes for low-income families. When Len’s ground-floor flat became available, she helped me arrange for Margaret and Jenny to get the tenancy, aided by the fact that Margaret was now in a wheelchair. So as one chapter closed, a new chapter opened in the life of Lubetkin’s Mad Yurt.
From time to time the old mood would come over me, and I would launch into a morose soliloquy on canine and human mortality, the wanton destruction of urban trees, the housing crisis, the unravelling of the post-war consensus, George Clooney’s love life and other evils and inequities of our time.
Stacey would watch me with a small smile. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Bertie,’ she would say.
Acknowledgements
This book came from hours spent walking around London, discovering among the acres of new building sites bristling with cranes the remnants of a different, older London, different not just in architecture but also in the human values embedded in those buildings. These included some by Berthold Lubetkin, which exemplified not just bold experimentation with new materials, notably concrete, but an exceptional eye for grace and beauty, as well as a commitment to building a London fit for the needs of its ordinary residents.
I had many guides and interpreters on these walks, whose insights have found their way into these pages, so first of all a big thank you to those who helped me with the basic history and geography. Thanks especially to Donald Sassoon with his comments on the text, and to Joseph Rykwert, who knows a thing or two about modernist architecture. I have learned so much from their generously imparted knowledge, and any mistakes are purely my own. Thanks to Susannah Hamilton for telling me more than I thought I would ever want to know about International Insurance, to Baiju Shah from Sheffield University for checking the Kenya sections, to Glenda Pattenden for her detailed maps of Ally Pally, to Sarah White for first taking me there and for helping me through a personal challenge which almost derailed the book, and to my daughter Sonia for telling me which bits were boring, as only one’s children can.
I would also like to thank my agent, Bill Hamilton, and the great team at A. M. Heath, for keeping me on course, and Juliet Annan, my editor at Fig Tree, without whom this book would have been a third longer and much duller. Thank you to Jon Gray for another inspired book jacket. And thank you to Shân Morley Jones for meticulous attention to the proofs, and for claiming, even after the seventh reading, that the book still made her laugh.
THE BEGINNING
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First published 2016
Copyright © Marina Lewycka, 2016
Jacket Design: © gray318
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-0-141-93249-1