The Lubetkin Legacy

Violet: Dralon

In quiet moments at work Violet finds herself scanning employment ads and job-search sites. There’s plenty of unpaid work experience out there, but the actual jobs now are mainly in tech start-ups or property development, which don’t interest her.

Marc treats her with formal politeness, and makes no reference to their dinner date. Remembering the look in his eyes as he dabbed at the wine on his groin with a napkin now brings a small smile of satisfaction to her face. But the truth is that her flame of enthusiasm for her job has fizzled out. She wants something different — but what? She doesn’t know. The only two jobs for which she applies both require references — of course they would. She can’t name Marc Bonnier or Gillian Chalmers as referees without explaining why she wants to leave GRM, so she bangs in the applications just giving her academic references, knowing she doesn’t stand much chance.

Meanwhile, the campaign to save the cherry trees has taken off. On Sunday evening she finds herself sitting squeezed thigh-to-thigh between Greg Smith — that is the towel-man’s name — and Mrs Cracey on the maroon Dralon couch in Mrs Cracey’s sitting room that smells faintly of cat pee. A couple of thin multicoloured cats are hanging around looking for an inviting knee to jump on to. The wheelchair man, whose name is Len, is parked in one corner. Mrs Tyldesley, the artist lady who lives next to Mrs Cracey, sits opposite them on a matching Dralon armchair sketching away. Greg’s son Arthur is perched on a kitchen stool, sucking his biro with concentration and scribbling on a notepad. They are drafting a petition to the Council to save the cherry trees.

The room reminds her of her grandmother’s sitting room in Nairobi, with the same heavy Dralon furniture, a crucifix on each wall, and frilly net drapes obscuring the windows, even down to the same print of Jesus holding a lantern and knocking on a closed door, which her grandmother used to tell her represented the door of her heart. The sad look on Jesus’ face always made her feel a twinge of guilt, and she pays her penance now by volunteering to type up the petition and email it to Greg who will run some copies off at work.