The Lubetkin Legacy

Berthold: May 6th

The day of my birthday dawned, and I gingerly removed the rubbery pink cupcake from my eye. Everything seemed normal. So far so good. I was getting bored with lying around, and my anticipation of the evening ahead was making me restless. I needed a blast of coffee, and maybe Luigi would know where I could buy one of those Clooney-type coffee machines. Just as I hauled myself out of bed, Legless Len appeared at the door.

‘What yer gonna do about them flats?’ he demanded, wheeling himself over the threshold and into the living room, looking puffy and red in the face. His forehead and his cap looked like one continuous blob of angry red.

I’d known Len for years. He was a former taxi driver — a protégé of Mother’s, who had pulled out all the stops to get him moved into a ground-floor flat and have it adapted for a wheelchair after his legs were amputated. He had repaid her by backing Mrs Crazy in the Tenants Association election. Yet somehow they had remained friends, probably united by their love of talking birds.

‘What flats?’

‘Them they’re building aht front.’

‘I’m sorry, Len, you’re going to have to explain.’

Len had an annoying habit of assuming everyone could read his mind. If indeed he had one.

‘You’ve not read the notices, Bert. You should always read the notices.’

‘What notices?’

‘Them the Council put up. The Local Authority. Them that has authority over us.’

He liked the word ‘authority’. Now I vaguely remembered someone else had mentioned those notices recently. So much had happened in the last few days, I could not be expected to remember everything, let alone something as trivial as lamp-post notices.

‘It’s nothing to do with flats, Len. It’s a lost cat.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Bert. People like you, intellectuals, you think you know everything already, so you never bother to find out.’

It was gratifying to be called an intellectual, even by someone so ill equipped to judge as Len. But his voice was uncharacteristically aggressive.

‘You follow ideas that come into your head, Bert, but you’ve got nothing to guide you, no values.’

What had got into him? He was sweating slightly, with a ghastly pallor. Maybe he too had fallen in love with the goddess from next door. I had noticed them talking in the grove once or twice. Poor fool, what chance did he stand?

‘Your problem, Bert, is that you’ve got no team that you support. See, friends come and go, your family passes away, politicians let you down, but your team is for life.’ His voice quivered with emotion.

‘Look, I’m sorry, Len, I have to go out. Can we discuss this another time?’

He had now planted himself in the middle of the room like a poisonous red toadstool in his Arsenal cap. He looked as though he was going nowhere.

‘By the time you come back it could be too late. Look!’

He gestured towards the window. I drew back the net curtain and looked out over the grove. At first nothing much seemed to be going on. Then I observed two men in hard hats strolling around among the cherry trees, looking this way and that, consulting a large sheet of paper. A van was parked at the kerb, too far away to read the name of the firm. I wheeled Len out on to the balcony. One of the hard-hat men was zapping a laser measuring tape at the trunks of the trees. The other one was making notes on a clipboard.

As we watched, another figure ran into the grove — a small fierce woman wearing a purple military-style coat with a generous sprinkling of brass buttons and a polythene shower cap. She darted up to the man with the laser measurer and grabbed it out of his hand. Next she ran up to the man with the clipboard, tore off the sheets of paper, ripped them up and scattered them in the air. Then she produced a fold-up umbrella from her carrier bag, extended it to its full length, and started hitting them over their backs and shoulders. The men didn’t hang around for more. They legged it through the grove, climbed into their van, and a moment later, it roared off down the road. The purple-coat lady — it was Mrs Crazy of course — looked around her to make sure they had all gone, then tossed the laser measurer into the bushes and struggled to re-telescope her umbrella, which seemed to be jammed, probably because it was now bent.

‘She got big crazy!’ exclaimed Inna, who had joined us on the balcony, with a tremor of respect in her voice.

The drama over, we were just about to go back into the flat when a further movement down in the grove caught my eye. A slim young woman, lithe, mahogany-skinned, a vision of pure beauty, sprinted lightly like a dryad along the curved path between the trees. She ran right up to Mrs Crazy, embraced her in her lovely arms and clasped her in a hug. I have never before felt a twinge of envy for Mrs Crazy, but she didn’t seem as ecstatic as I would have been. She disentangled herself from the embrace, shook the dryad by the hand, and disappeared like a witch into the wooden shed beside the community garden.

‘See what I mean?’ Len’s voice brought me to my senses. ‘We need to get our act together, Bert. We can’t have women taking all the glory. Action is the man’s role, innit?’

‘What many people do not realise, Len, is that innit is an expression derived from the Ancient Greek “enai” meaning “it is”.’

‘Yeah?’ He looked pleased at his own brilliance. ‘Greek! Well, blow me down! There’s a petition going around, Bert, for everybody to sign. But in my humble opinion, your mum Lily would have called for direct action. We’ve gotter get organised.’

‘Don’t mourn, organise!’ cried Flossie, displaying a level of political consciousness unusual in a bird.

‘That’s it, Flossie. You tell him.’

Len, who bred budgerigars himself, had a soft spot for Flossie — maybe the reason his friendship with Mother had endured despite their political differences.

‘What kind of action do you have in mind, Len?’

‘Well, we could occupy the Town Hall. Chain us-selves to the trees and what ’ave you. Take a leaf out of Lily’s book, God rest her soul. A lovely lady and a real positive thinker, for a communist.’

I could see now that going out for the Clooney-style coffee machine would be a futile gesture and might even backfire on me. Clooney, after all, was just a shallow cappuccino-sipping celeb, whereas I was a man of principles with more to offer an angel than mere coffee. I’d better go out and buy a padlock and chain, like the one that had been on my stolen bike. If chaining myself to a tree was what it took, so be it.