The Lubetkin Legacy

Violet: Niha

It’s surprising how many people from the flats witnessed the scene with Mrs Cracey and the hard-hats in the cherry grove; Mr Rowland from the Council Planning Department has already received several phone calls when Violet phones him.

‘No, planning permission hasn’t been approved yet,’ he tells her. ‘It’s on the agenda for June. It’s not against the law, you know, to go around measuring trees.’

‘Well, they obviously assume it’s in the bag,’ she retorts in her high-heels voice, even though she’s already standing at the sink in her trainers.

‘They can assume what they like. But it still has to go to committee.’ He sounds defensive. ‘The problem with most of the letters is that objections have to be based on planning grounds — not just because people don’t like it.’

‘What exactly are planning grounds?’

‘It’s got to fit in with the Council’s own strategy on things like access, transport, amenities, etcetera.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

The line goes quiet for a moment. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘I’ll do my best with the letters I’ve received. And the petition. But I can’t promise anything.’

‘Has any money changed hands?’ she demands. ‘Is anyone making a quick buck out of this?’

‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that.’

If she hadn’t been so upset, she might have made some excuse when Greg rings her doorbell that evening shortly after six. He’s still wearing his work suit and carrying a big leather briefcase.

‘I heard about your act of heroism,’ he says with a grin.

‘Ha! You heard wrong. It wasn’t me, it was the old lady. My only act of heroism was to shout at some poor guy in the planning department.’

‘Whatever. I think you deserve a treat. I’ve got a table booked at the Niha. Will you let me take you out for an early supper?’

She would have said no, but she too feels she deserves a treat. They agree to meet downstairs in half an hour. While he goes to fetch his car, she changes into a dress and high heels, which boost her morale as well as her height.

The Niha is a small Lebanese restaurant near the Barbican, quite close to the GRM building. She’s actually been here once at lunchtime with Laura. In the evening it’s cosy, low-lit and intimate. Without asking her, Greg orders sayadieh for both of them, assuming she will approve of his choice, which of course she does, and a Lebanese red wine called Château Musar which costs twice as much as their entire meal. While they wait for it to arrive, she tells him about her conversation with Mr Rowland.

‘Planning grounds! Why didn’t they say so? They seem to make up the rules as they go along!’

‘Local government is full of self-serving jobsworths,’ he says, ‘wasting our money on red tape and vanity projects. I’m having a bit of trouble with local planners myself. I won’t bore you with the details.’

Over dessert, their conversation becomes more personal. He talks about sailing in the Solent. She tells him the difference between Bakewell tart and Bakewell pudding. When she describes, giggling, how the original cook at the White Horse Inn accidentally spread egg and almond mixture across the jam, he reaches out his hand and places it over hers.

Quietly, without a word, she draws hers away.

At nine o’clock he drops her back at Madeley Court and goes to park his car in his rented garage. No kiss, no invitation for a nightcap, not even a stray grope. So far so good, she thinks.

She locks the door, kicks off her high heels, and pads to the kitchen in bare feet to put the kettle on. While it’s boiling she changes into her pyjamas — rather frayed hand-embroidered silk which her former Singaporean room-mate left behind in place of the new M&S teddy-bear print she stole, along with Nick. Rummaging in the tin for a peppermint tea bag, she mulls over the evening with Greg. Should she let their relationship go further? He’s good-looking, more of a gentleman than Marc, and the father of a very cute kid. But much too old for her, and she’s enjoying her freedom too much.

The kettle boils. She goes into the kitchen and pours hot water over the tea bag in a yellow mug, and is just about to take it to bed with her, when her doorbell buzzes. Once. Twice. Three times.