The Lubetkin Legacy

Berthold: A Coffee Jar

How to sum up a person’s full life in a ten-minute speech — especially somebody as complicated and contradictory as Mother? I had still not finished writing my funeral oration on the morning of the funeral. A gloomy mood settled over me as I tried to take up where I had left off two days ago. The Immortal Bard, usually good for a quotation or two, had abandoned me. I put my pen down and turned my melancholy gaze out of the window at the cherry grove. A quick movement down below caught my eye. It was the next-door goddess flitting between the trees like a lovely bright-plumed bird. Alas, our amorous encounter would just have to wait until after the funeral. However, a closer glimpse would surely be inspiring. I gathered up my notes and scuttled off to Luigi’s.

I was out of luck. By the time I got downstairs, it was spotting with rain and she had vanished. The coffee seemed worse than usual too, and Luigi had swapped the Guardian for the Daily Mail. I’d have to talk with him about that, but not today. I sipped the sub-standard latte and concentrated on fitting my random notes into a fine uplifting narrative of Mother’s life, using omission and invention as necessary. The Lily that emerged on the page was a finer and more laudable person than Mother, but she also seemed bland, slightly dead. That’s what death does for you, I guess.

When I got back to the flat an hour later, buzzing with caffeine, Inna was hoovering noisily, and Flossie was having another outbreak of atheism, so I hardly heard the sound of the doorbell above the racket. Then it rang again. Ding dong! Who could it be?

My first thought was that it must be Mrs Penny, dropping in for a snap inspection. It was no good pretending we were out because the sound of the Hoover was clearly audible. Would Inna remember to play her part? Would she remember not to let slip that we were this very afternoon due to go to Finsbury Park to celebrate the funeral of the woman whom she was impersonating? Ding dong! It rang again. I braced myself and answered the door.

‘I’m sorry to bother you …’

There she stood; not Mrs Penny but the next-door goddess. Though close up she looked much younger than I had imagined, too young for a goddess, more like an angel, a trainee angel maybe: radiant, beautiful, her hair pulled back in a frisky ponytail, her teeth gleaming and her cheeks dimpling as she smiled — at me!

‘I know. I know. You’re having a dinner party. You’ve run out of coffee!’ I blurted.

She looked at me strangely and recited her introduction. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. My name’s Violet. I live next door. I’m just …’

Violet. A shy wayside flower with a heavenly perfume.

‘Violet. Ah! Do come in. I have a jar waiting for you. All things are ready, if our minds be so.’

I disappeared into the kitchen and rummaged in the cupboards. Where had I put it? It should be on the shelf with the tea. Then I spotted it on the counter beside the kettle. It was almost empty. Bloody Inna must have been helping herself. Damn her! There was hardly any left. I returned to the hallway with the near-empty jar. Inna was there — she’d turned off the Hoover and was introducing herself.

‘Hello, Blackie. I am Inna Alfandari. I am mother, or mebbe I am sister of mother. Berthold? I am mother or sister?’

‘Inna, have you been drinking the coffee?’ I cut her short.

‘Of course I drink him. You buy him for drinking, no?’

‘Yes. No. I mean, there’s hardly any left.’ I smiled apologetically at my lovely neighbour. ‘But you’re very welcome …’

She furrowed her delectable brow. ‘I’m just trying to inform the residents about the planning application.’

‘… to what little I have. Planning?’

‘Yes. The notices are on the lamp posts. Or they were, until the kids ripped them off.’

‘Notices? Yes, they’re for Wonder Boy, the lost cat. Don’t grieve. I’m sure he has found another home.’ I had to stop myself from saying, ‘Don’t grieve, my lovely.’

‘No, not those. These were for a planning application to build a block of flats on the garden. Where the cherry trees are.’

I gazed at her lovely features, the earnest pleading in her eyes. Maybe she was a touch crazed. Like Ophelia. It would add poignancy to my passion. ‘O, you must wear your rue with a difference! There’s a Violet. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.’

Withered. Died. That last line brought me to my senses with a shock. My mother. I glanced at the clock. Less than an hour to go until the woodland burial, and I still had no idea where it would take place. Green Glade. Jimmy had sent a map, with artistically hand-drawn clumps of trees, a wild-flower meadow and meandering footpaths, but no actual street names.

‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a hurry just now. Got to get to a funeral. Maybe we could continue our discussion another time. Planning. Yes, very interesting. A lot of it around.’

I thrust the near-empty jar of coffee into her hands, ‘Your guests I hope will like it,’ and ushered her towards the door, my hand resting lightly on her shoulder.