The Lubetkin Legacy (23 page)

While Violet is standing in the semicircle of onlookers in the cherry grove watching Berthold's liberation, she feels a tug at her sleeve. It's Arthur; he's wearing his school uniform but he's not going to school. He seems agitated.

‘Len's gone all funny. Come and see!'

She's already late for work, but she follows the kid to Len's ground-floor flat where the front door is wedged open with a chair. The flat is untidy, with stuff scattered everywhere, and a bad smell. There are the posters of football players in dynamic goal-scoring poses pinned on the walls, but Len is slumped in his wheelchair in a starkly different pose in front of the switched-off television. His crutches are on the floor, his cap is askew, his eyes are glazed, and his breathing is coming in quick gasps like a drowning man.

‘Len, what's the matter? Shall I call an ambulance?'

‘Nah. I'll be all right. No fuss.' His voice is faint and slurred, so that she has to bend right down to make out what he is saying; as she puts her ear to his lips she notices a strange smell on his breath, sweet and synthetic, like pear drops.

‘I think there's a bottle of Diet Coke in the back of the fridge. That should do it. I just couldn't find it,' he says.

She opens the fridge. There is nothing in there but an opened tin of baked beans, green with mould, a half-empty plastic bottle of gone-off milk and a white carton with a chemist's label on. The fridge's power is off.

‘There's nothing in here. Only some mouldy beans.'

‘No Coke?'

‘I can't find any. Shall I make you a cup of tea?' She hands Arthur the key to her flat. ‘Quick, nip up and get some milk from my fridge.'

Arthur disappears, half running half skipping.

‘How long has your fridge been off?' she asks Len.

He looks confused. ‘My leccy got cut off last week. I should be all right when I start my job.'

The flat is hot and stuffy, with the sun beating in through the south-facing windows.

‘Are you sure?'

‘They cut my benefit because of my spare bedroom. But I've got an appeal lodged. And I'm registered with an agency for tele-sales, so I should be all right soon. Just pass me my crutches, love.'

She helps him lever himself out of the wheelchair with his crutches, and he flops into an armchair.

‘Will you just check on the budgies, love? They're in the next room.' He nods his head towards an open door, from where there's a chorus of chirping and a disgusting smell a bit like the parrot cage next door where Berthold and the mad old lady live.

There are three cages in the little room, with four brightly coloured birds in each, all hopping about and twittering. It's enough to drive anybody mad. Their water bottles are dry and the seed dispensers are almost empty. She takes them over to the kitchen to fill them up.

Just then the door opens and the boy comes back with a bottle of milk. He's not alone. A young woman is with him – she recognises the girl who cleaned her flat the day she moved in, but she's not wearing her Homeshine uniform or carrying her brushes. She feels a rush of annoyance. Why is this slum girl following her around? She doesn't want to be reminded about poverty in Kenya right now. She's done her bit by refusing to
work for HN Holdings. Isn't that enough? Now she just wants to get on with her life.

‘She was waiting for you outside your flat,' says the boy. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?'

‘Yes. Find out where Len keeps his tea bags.' She turns to the girl, whose name she remembers is Mary Atiemo, and says in a firm voice, ‘Look, Mary, in England you can't just turn up on somebody's doorstep. You have to ring and make an appointment first. As John Lennon said, an Englishman's home is his castle.' John Lennon? That doesn't sound right. Maybe it was Oscar Wilde. Or Shakespeare. Or one of those guys who go around making up quotations.

‘Please, ma'am, I need your help.' The girl lowers her eyes and places her hands together in an imploring gesture, which, for some reason, Violet finds intensely irritating. Len and Arthur are staring at her open-mouthed, so she softens her tone a bit. ‘Anyway, I can't afford a cleaner right now.'

‘I will clean for you for nothing,' says Mary. ‘I just need somewhere to stay.'

The kettle boils and she makes four cups of tea. Len adds a saccharine tablet and sips slowly, which seems to perk him up a bit, though he still looks pale. She doesn't know whether it's safe to leave him, but she promised Berthold she'd join him for a coffee, and she has an appointment with Gillian Chalmers in an hour.

‘Look, you've chosen a very inconvenient time,' she tells the girl. ‘Besides, I'm moving out soon.'

‘I will not stay for long.'

‘I'm sorry. Whatever sort of trouble you've got yourself into, it's not my responsibility. You've got to learn to stand on your own two feet. Look, Len here stands on his own two feet, and he hasn't even got any feet!' Nobody smiles at her joke.

‘I will do so, ma'am. My feet are good. But I can no longer stay in my room. I will not work for Homeshine Sanitary.'

‘Have you got fed up with cleaning?' Her Grandma Njoki had told her that slum people were usually lazy, as well as dishonest.

‘Cleaning okay. But now he wants I do other things for clients. Things I will not do. Even though I am poor, I still have my life.' She lowers her eyes and stares stubbornly at the floor.

Violet doesn't ask what things, because it suddenly seems horribly clear. ‘Tell me, who is this “he” who tells you this?'

‘Mr Nzangu. The boss.'

So that's where she heard the name before. Her head spins.

‘Mr Horace Nzangu? But he's a businessman in Nairobi.'

‘Mr Lionel Nzangu. It is his son. They run a business to help people come to London. But I thought it was for cleaning work. He didn't say …'

Violet's heart thuds and she sees now that she has no choice, she has to let the slum girl stay in her flat. But before she can get the words out of her mouth, Arthur pipes up, ‘You can come and stay with us. We've got a spare room.'

The girl beams, flashing her chipped tooth. ‘That is very kind. I will clean your flat. God will reward you.'

Violet is left with the guilty feeling that she has not been kind. She wonders how Mary Atiemo will get on with Greg. Should she warn her? But what could she say?

‘I've got to go. I'm supposed to be at work.'

She hates being late – punctuality, her Grandma Njoki used to tell her, was among the benefits brought by Britain to backward people. But now she'll be leaving soon it doesn't seem to matter so much.

She runs up the stairs two at a time and knocks on Berthold's door.

I didn't have the means to take Violet out to Luigi's to celebrate the temporary reprieve of the cherry trees, so I invited her to come up to the flat for a coffee instead. Not coffee from the Clooney coffee machine, not even Gold Blend, but Lidl own-brand. That's what we were reduced to.

‘I can't stay long,' she said. ‘I'm supposed to be at work.'

‘Work?'

‘I work in International Wealth Preservation.'

‘Blimey, I could do with a bit of that.'

She giggled as if I'd said something hilarious, and I thought, if Meredith had still been alive, she would have been roughly the same age as Violet, giggling at my crappy jokes.

‘I think the cherry trees'll be all right for the time being. Thanks to you, Berthold. But you need to keep an eye on Len. He's had a funny turn.' She flashed a smile, finished her coffee quickly and was gone.

A few minutes later, I saw her crossing the grove wearing a rather fetching little lilac outfit, stopping briefly to chat with the colourfully dressed elders from the tent, who were sitting out on the bench in the sunshine.

‘Nice girl, but skinny.' Inna was putting Flossie's cage out on to the balcony so she could enjoy the sunshine. ‘Too young. Need more fat. Other one, fatty council lady, look better for you.' She fixed me with a shrewd eye. ‘You still homosexy, Mister Bertie?'

I shrugged, not dignifying her absurd obsession with a reply. To me Violet seemed not skinny but perfectly formed.
However, Inna had identified something that was puzzling me too. Although Violet had seized my heart, strangely my lust had been stirred not by her but by plump, ageing Mrs Penny. There was something urgent in her desire that roused a response in me. Likewise the Immortal Bard's passion was torn between the dark lady of his lust and the blond angel of his spirit. Sometimes the male beast is a mystery, even to men. I sighed.

‘It's time for lunch. Let's open a tin of tuna.' I buttered some bread, and chopped up a lettuce. ‘You were going to tell me about your murky past in Moldova, Inna.'

‘So you're going to tell me why you're looking for a new job, Violet?' Gillian Chalmers perches like a tiny blonde bird behind her vast polished desk on which are two porcelain cups, both empty, and a pile of slip cases in different colours. The monitor shows a picture of the Lloyd's Building at night, the windows blazing with light. ‘It seems like a very sudden decision. Why didn't you come and talk to me first?'

Gillian's eyes are sharp like pencil leads. A mesh of fine wrinkles is etched on her skin and deeper lines around her mouth. She read somewhere that women who spend too long in front of a computer develop wrinkles.

‘I just …' she starts apologetically. Gillian's grey gaze confuses her. ‘I know I should have …'

From across the desk, she can smell Gillian's subtle perfume and a faint horsey whiff of ashwagandha. The light slanting through the blinds throws a criss-cross of shadows across her face like a cage. This remote, trapped, ageing woman seems a million miles away from the tigerish go-getter she saw in action in the Lloyd's Building.

‘The thing is, Violet, you should have asked me first, before putting my name down for a reference. It puts me in a difficult position.'

‘I know. I'm sorry. You were away in Bucharest, and I didn't want to miss the deadline.'

‘Mmm. Well, I wish you every success finding a new job, Violet. But I need to know why you want to leave GRM.'

‘It's hard to explain,' Violet mumbles. ‘It's a matter of principle.'

‘Oh? Principle? That sounds interesting. Tell me more.' Gillian leans forward on her elbows. She looks tired and irritable. Her mascara has run into the creases of skin under her eyes. The office is cold but she has the air con on full blast, and is warming herself up with a cup of ashwagandha that looks like faintly tinted hot water.

‘So. Wealth Preservation turned out to be … not what I expected. I didn't agree with the practice of setting up shell companies in tax havens. In poor countries like Kenya, you see, when rich people take money out, there's less to go around for schools and hospitals, and … it just didn't seem right.'

‘Ah. It didn't seem right.' Gillian's expression is blank, apart from the pencil-point eyes, fixed on her face. ‘And what about Marc Bonnier? Did you have a disagreement with him?'

She shivers. Surely Gillian knows of Marc's reputation, like everybody else at GRM. He probably told her himself, smiling his twinkling smile, not exactly bragging, but giving the impression that he was a bit of a lad.

‘It's not a personal disagreement, if that's what you mean.' She takes a breath. ‘I told him I didn't think it was ethical, facilitating tax evasion in poor countries. I'm not criticising Marc. I just don't want to be part of it.'

‘But it is personal, isn't it?' The pencil-point eyes seem to bore into her. ‘You can tell me the truth, Violet.'

Her mind searches for neutral words which don't sound accusing or vengeful: that would be cheap. She doesn't want to get back at him – she just wants to learn her lesson and move on. But Gillian isn't making it easy for her. Keeping her tone even, she describes how she found the inflated invoices for the buckets.

‘Marc said it was the way business is done here. I decided it wasn't for me.'

‘That's interesting.' Gillian sits back, and tilts her head. Her expression doesn't alter. ‘As it happens, I agree with you, Violet. It's unethical, and it's not the way we do things at GRM. Can you forward me the invoices?'

‘Yes. I'll try.'

‘Thank you. If you prefer, you can come back to International Insurance?'

She considers the possibility, but only for a moment. The world outside of GRM, even with all its chaos and hardship, has more attraction. ‘I think I'd like to try something different.'

‘Well, please give me the details of this job you're applying for.'

She takes a gulp of breath and makes a split-second decision. ‘It's with an NGO based in Nairobi that encourages women's enterprise across southern Africa. You see, women are often the family breadwinners, and a small input of capital and training can make a massive difference to –' She stops.

Gillian is staring out of the window, expressionless.

‘I'll be pleased to give you a reference, Violet.' The lines around her mouth have softened, but her eyes still look sad.

By the time she leaves Gillian's office it is almost one o'clock, and people are starting to stream towards the elevators for lunch. On impulse, she takes the lift up to the fourth floor, and walks along the corridor past Marc's office. The door is closed, but she can see through the peephole in the frosted glass that he's not in. She still remembers the key code. Her heart is beating hard, but she knows this is her only chance; another time, she won't get past security into the building without an
appointment. If he returns, she'll make up some excuse. She taps in the code and opens the door.

The room feels musty and still, as if no one has been in for a while. The sun is beating in through the open blinds of the south-facing window. Whereas Gillian's office was cold, his is hot. The faintest trace of his musky aftershave lingers in the air, and there's a wilted bunch of red roses in a glass vase on his desk. Who gave him those? He hasn't wasted any time, has he? A burst of anger drives her courage. She turns on the computer and logs on – it still recognises her password – finds the HN Invoice file and presses PRINT. On Marc's cabinet next to the coffee machine a small printer-copier whirrs into life.

‘Violet?' His voice startles her.

She turns. Her heart thumps. There he is, standing in the doorway, watching her. How long has he been there? How much has he seen?

‘Marc …'

‘Violet, I'm glad you've come. Look, we need to talk. Will you have lunch?' A new frown has gathered between his eyebrows, and the line of his mouth is hard, but he is still formidably good-looking. She'd almost forgotten.

‘I'm sorry, Marc. I was just looking for something. I can't come for lunch.'

‘Come on, Violet, I owe you an apology. Just a little lunch won't hurt.' His smile twinkles. ‘I promise not to bite.'

‘No … I … I'm busy.'

‘Busy?' He frowns. ‘What are you doing in here, Violet?'

‘Oh, just … printing something off. Some personal stuff.' He's still staring in that disconcerting way. She can feel the blood rushing through her head. ‘I uploaded it on here because I haven't got a printer at home. I know I shouldn't, but …!' She shrugs and performs a little hopeless giggle.

‘Personal stuff?' He sounds incredulous.

‘Am I interrupting something?' A woman's voice.

Gillian is standing there watching them with cool eyes.

Violet winces. It must look as though she went straight from their meeting to find Marc in his office. In other words, it looks bad.

‘Not at all, Gillian! Are we still on for lunch?' Marc steps forward, smiling; his expression has switched instantly.

Watching their exchange of looks, Violet realises how little she knows about them. Marc and Gillian were an item for years. Does Gillian still have feelings for him? Was she foolish to trust her when she blabbed on about Marc and the invoices?

While Marc turns towards Gillian, she quickly gathers the four invoices from the printer and slips them into her bag.

‘Of course. We need to catch up.' Gillian's eyes are now resting on her. ‘And you, Violet, will you join us too?'

‘I'm sorry. I'd love to, Gillian, but I have to … prepare for a job interview.'

So those two had already planned to have lunch together! She sees in their faces that they have secrets going way back. In a flash it dawns on her that she doesn't belong here: not in this triangle, not in this environment.

As she leaves Marc's office, she feels their eyes following her as she walks back to the lift. Outside on the pavement, she hurries away from the GRM building, gulping in lungfuls of cool fresh traffic fumes.

On the corner near the traffic lights is a newsagent, where she makes a copy of the GRM re-invoices she has just printed off. She puts the originals in an envelope and posts them to Gillian Chalmers at GRM. The copies she folds into another envelope to take with her to Nairobi.

Then she catches the 55 bus to join Laura for lunch.