The Lubetkin Legacy

Violet: A Patch of Grass and a Few Cherry Trees

Knowing something is wrong is easy, but knowing what to do about it — that’s the hard bit. She’d never thought the flats were anything special, but now she tries to picture the tall narrow building whose plans she’s just seen filling the front garden. Fourteen storeys would completely block out the view and the sun, even from the top floor of Madeley Court. And unfortunately the cherry trees would have to go. No spare-tree subsidies are on offer.

She phones Jessie, who is a bit of a green freak.

‘You can’t let them get away with it, Vi.’

‘I know. But what can I do?’

‘Listen to the voice of the trees and you’ll think of something.’

That’s so typical of Jessie. She listens, but apart from a bit of rustling, the trees aren’t saying anything at all.

The only thing she can think of is to start knocking on the doors of the flats. But the response of the residents is discouraging. No one has read the planning notices; some people reassure her that the notices are not about building flats at all, they are about a lost cat, a notorious pisser called Wonder Boy, hopefully run away or run over. Some people agree to sign a petition if one is drawn up, but nobody feels inspired to write a letter of protest.

Madeley Court seems to be home to many newcomers like herself, in transit from somewhere to somewhere else. ‘Thank you, but we’re not staying long,’ they say. ‘It doesn’t affect us.’ There are several groups of young people — students, maybe — who open the door and tell her politely, ‘This flat is private. It’s nothing to do with the Council.’

She is amazed by the variety of people who live here. Behind each door, it seems there’s someone from a different continent. Two Chinese girls stand at the door and giggle uncontrollably as she talks. An old man with an Eastern European accent and broken spectacles held together with parcel tape invites her to come inside and see his tractor gearbox. A small wiry woman, evidently an artist, comes to the door covered in paint, a dab of mauve on her nose. There are people from Europe, Latin America, India, Pakistan, China, and some she has no idea where they come from. She’s pleased to find several households from Africa; a young musician from Malawi, a couple of sad-eyed refugees from Eritrea, a large jolly Zambian family who invite her in for cassava pancakes, though there is no one, as far as she can tell, from Kenya.

There’s a range of ages too. The grumbly older people are mostly white; the young families teeming with toddlers are from a mix of ethnicities. Some old people come to the door timorously, open it on the safety chain, look at her fearfully and back away as if they think she’s going to mug them. How pathetic. Some have problems of their own they want to grouse about — repairs that need doing, complaints about their neighbours.

What do all these people have in common to bind them together? Yes, it’s a bit different to Bakewell around here. In fact it reminds her more of Nairobi — dynamic and precarious, as if it could all fall apart at any minute. A gloomy mood settles over her as she realises that nobody seems to care much about a patch of grass and a few cherry trees.