The Lubetkin Legacy

Berthold: Wrest ’n’ Piece

Once in every lifetime, someone comes along with a key to open up the rusty old door of your heart. My excitement over the possibilities of romance with my new neighbour had seized my imagination, and I had come up with a seductive variation on the Gold Blend Gambit: it would be me giving the dinner party, and the next-door goddess who would be the guest. A sweet old lady, i.e. Inna, would be dispatched to her door as a decoy to invite her round for a neighbourly dinner. Then on the elected evening she would ring the bell, the door would open, and there would be Berthold Sidebottom, the distinguished actor, at his most scintillating. Da dah!

Getting to that point would take planning and preparation — a visit to the barber (one has to make the most of what one has), long-overdue laundry, maybe even a spot of shopping. Most of my clothes dated back to the time of Stephanie, who had a strong organising streak and an eye for value. Mother had always said she had the heart of a shopkeeper.

The meal itself would be Inna’s domain, the menu both exotic and irresistibly seductive: globski, klobski, sloshki. But what if she was a vegetarian? So many women are sentimental and tender-hearted when it comes to furry animals. I would have to prime Inna to find out in advance and prepare a deliciously suitable alternative. It would be Inna’s first serious outing in her new role. These musings gave a new focus to my daily routine, pushing the pain of my recent loss into a safe warehouse in the back of my mind.

However, before I could put the Gold Blend Gambit into operation, I received news from the hospital. Mother’s autopsy had been completed at last, she was found to have died of natural causes (what else?) and her body was now available for immediate burial or cremation. I had been so taken up with planning the Gold Blend Gambit that I had made no progress at all in planning the Burial at Sea.

I reached for the Yellow Pages that was propping up one leg of the armchair, and telephoned the undertaker’s firm with the largest display advertisement: Wrest ’n’ Piece. You have to wonder where they get these names from. It was a man who answered my call, a mature man with a sonorous voice, excellent diction and a funereal manner.

‘I’m so sorry about your loss, sir … No, we don’t offer burial at sea … Cremation is often felt to be a very satisfactory and dignified ceremony for all involved. Less expensive than burial, especially if the family themselves take responsibility for disposing of the ashes, which you could always sprinkle at sea or any other location of sentimental significance. Though of course expense would not be the principal consideration for most of our clients … Yes, of course we can collect from the hospital … If you would give me your address, I can send a written estimate. Let me take some details … Berthold? … Berthold Sidebottom?’

Through the crackle of the line, I thought I detected the faintest echo of a snigger. One becomes sensitive to that sort of thing.

But to my surprise, the funereal voice added, ‘RADA, 1982?’

‘Mhm?’

‘Jim Knox.’

‘Jimmy! Jimmy the Dog!’

Jimmy the Dog and I had been script buddies and booze buddies at RADA. I remembered him as a tall dark-haired, large-nosed type, with the air of a dejected beagle, the sort of actor that usually gets cast as a petty villain. He’d had moderate success with a number of small roles in TV crime series while I was carrying the torch for the Immortal Bard in provincial rep. In those days, before email and Facebook, it was easy to lose touch with friends.

‘Ha ha. Remember that night at the Dominion? When Kate Bush’s bra strap pinged?’

‘I’ll put him on the … mmm … list … mmm … mmmm …’ I hummed.

Posing as roadies, we’d gatecrashed the Prince’s Trust charity concert at the Dominion on Tottenham Court Road where Madness were topping the bill. The amazing thing is we managed to pull it off for almost an hour, until the real roadies turned up so stoned that they didn’t realise what was going on; they just giggled while security tried to hustle them out. There was a big hoo-ha because of Prince Charles and Princess Di being there, though we never actually saw them. But we got to listen to most of the concert, and Jimmy claimed he’d groped Kate Bush on the stairs before eventually some dude fingered us as phoneys.

Later that year, Madness brought out their hit single ‘Our House’, sugary with nostalgia for a vision of working-class home and community that struck a chord with Lily. She used to sing it as she pushed the Hoover around the flat, which by then was already up for grabs under the newly introduced Right to Buy. Though for Jimmy and me, stretched out on the sweaty mattresses of our student digs, it was just a great sing-along-able song.

‘But Jimmy, what made you —?’

‘Become an undertaker? Security. Regular income. I needed a deposit for a flat. I got tired of resting. And you’d be surprised how handy the drama training is in providing a touch of solemnity at the seediest occasions. How about you — Dirty Bertie?’

It was a long time since anyone had called me that. Dirty Bertie and Jimmy the Dog. We’d raised hell all over town. No party was cool without us, no girl awoke a virgin. That was our legend, anyway.

‘Mostly stage work. A bit of resting. Quite a bit, actually. And looking after my aged mother of course.’

‘Oh, yes. Really sorry to hear she died. I met her once, remember?’

I vaguely remembered that Mum had been décolletée, and had tried to ply him with sherry. That was not unusual.

‘We’ll give her a magnificent send-off, Bertie. Let’s fix a date, and you can start contacting people.’

Alarm bells rang. ‘I don’t think Mum would have wanted a big fuss made,’ I muttered. Though it was probably just what she would have wanted.

‘Are you sure? She was quite a lady, Lily. Quite a goer. I’d like to do my bit to carry the flame of her memory.’

Oh God. Had it gone beyond décolletage and sherry? ‘Look, Jimmy …’

‘Don’t worry about the expense, Bert. I’ll cut you a special deal. For old times’ sake. For Kate Bush’s bra strap.’

A wave of nostalgia rocked my voyager heart — not exactly nostalgia for Jimmy the Dog, but for friendship and that uncomplicated time when the tide of my life was at its flood, with all the currents of fortune still for the taking.