The Lubetkin Legacy

Violet: Towel

Violet wonders whether it’s worth persevering with her door-knocking campaign. Truly there are some weird people in these flats, including one who pushed her out of the door with an empty coffee jar.

The heavy rain makes it even more dismal. The walkways between the flats, although undercover, are awash. Some downpipes must be blocked because the water has brought to the surface all the nasty things that are usually hidden out of sight in gulleys: dead cigarettes, dead insects, dead fast-food wrappers, even a dead pigeon. She steps past it quickly, noting that it has two feet, so it’s not Pidgie. In the rainy season in Kenya water poured out of the sky for an hour or so and everything was washed clean, then the sun came out. But here in England it seems to be rainy season all the time.

She’s finished all her side of the block, and rings the doorbell of the first flat on the west side, waits a moment, then rings again. There is someone at home, she can hear a radio playing inside, and soon the door opens. The man who stands there is wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his middle.

‘Yes?’ he says belligerently. Then he looks her up and down and adds in a friendlier tone, ‘What can I do for you?’

She knows that look of appraisal, when a guy is trying to suss out whether to make a move on you; she would normally make her excuses and leave. But she hears a child’s voice calling from inside the flat, ‘Who is it, Dad?’

She launches into her patter. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. My name’s Violet. I live upstairs. I’m just letting people know about a planning application that will affect the residents of these flats.’

‘I’m not staying here long.’ He sounds bored.

‘There’s a proposal to build a fourteen-storey block of flats just in front of here, where the cherry trees are.’

‘Really?’ He sounds less bored.

‘Really. The notices went up on the lamp posts last week, inviting comments or objections.’

‘So you’re getting the tenants agitated?’

‘I hope so. Would you be agitated enough to write a letter to the Council?’

He smiles. Nice teeth. ‘Sure. It’s bound to affect property values.’ Actually, he has quite a nice torso too. ‘Would you like to come in? I’ll get some clothes on. I’ve just come out of the shower.’

The warning bells ring: it is not a good idea to be alone with this half-naked man in his flat. But the appearance of a boy at the door makes her relax. It’s the same boy she saw getting out of the limo.

‘Arthur,’ the man says, ‘make Violet a cup of tea, will you, while I get dressed.’ He turns to her. ‘Is tea all right? Or would you prefer coffee? I’m not sure about Arthur’s barista skills.’

‘Da-a-ad?’ whines the boy, kicking the door frame with his socked foot.

‘Tea’s fine,’ she says, and steps inside out of the rain.