The Lubetkin Legacy (29 page)

I put Flossie out on the balcony to bear witness, and withdrew into the quiet seclusion of my flat to lick my existential wounds. Mother was dead. Violet was gone. Inna was still out. Eustachia had work to do. All the women who had buoyed me up in the last few months were floating other boats, and I was on my own, my life drifting aimlessly until something or someone took command. The relentless whine of the chainsaws in the grove chorused my impotence, while a rodent of self-hatred gnawed at my guts. I had taken Mother for granted, I had behaved badly towards Inna, I had let Violet down, I had taken advantage of Eustachia's neediness. I was the rat.

I had not fixed a definite date with Eustachia when we parted. Should I give her a ring now, or would that upset the balance of power in our relationship? Loneliness and male pride warred briefly in my chest. I picked up the phone, and found that some idiot – Inna, no doubt – had left it off the hook. How long had I been incommunicado? What if Violet had called for a last-ditch rescue? What if the police had found my bike? What if someone had been trying to contact me with a fabulous stage role?

Tutting, I dialled Eustachia's office number and got an answering machine. ‘Would you like to see a film, Stacey?' The message I left was studiedly neutral in tone.

Meanwhile, at a lower level, life rumbled on. Unbuckling my belt, I went and settled myself in the loo with my jeans around my ankles, pulled the Lubetkin book off the shelf, and looked in the index for Priory Green.

The Priory Green Estate, where Eustachia had found me clinging to the railings, was one of Lubetkin's largest projects of social housing in London. To the modernist architects, the bombed cities of post-war Europe seemed like so many blank canvases on which to erect their dreams. Priory Green was conceived before the war but not completed until 1958. The plans had been drawn up to generous Tecton proportions and constructed out of top-class Ove Arup reinforced concrete; all the flats had a private balcony, habitable rooms faced south, east or west, and communal facilities included a circular laundry with a tall chimney, which I hadn't noticed yesterday. But during the war, building work was suspended and Harold Riley, the alderman who had commissioned the work from Tecton, was ousted and disgraced following a disagreement about two deep concrete air-raid shelters he'd had built under the Town Hall in defiance of the party line.

By the time work restarted on the estate after the war, the housing need was much greater, the political climate had changed, and Harold Riley was surcharged and personally bankrupted by his political rivals. Lubetkin himself had retreated from London; he supervised the project at arm's length from his farmhouse in Gloucestershire, a disillusioned and embittered old man.

Reading this filled me with a deep melancholy that was only partially alleviated by a particularly satisfying bowel movement. Above the noise of the water rushing into the cistern as I flushed, I heard another mournful call:
Ding dong!
Hoiking up my jeans, I went to answer the door.

It was the postman, with an envelope in his hand. Why hadn't he just put it through the letter box?

‘Outstanding postage due. One pound and eleven pence. That's eleven pence owing because the postage now costs fifty-three pence. And one pound administration charge.'

‘Blimey. Let me see the letter.' I didn't want to be paying out all that for junk mail. Besides, I wasn't sure I had one pound and eleven pence. He handed it over. It was a small white envelope, handwritten to Mr Berthold Sidebottom. The postmark gave nothing away. ‘Hang on a minute.'

I could have just stepped back into the flat with it in my hand and slammed the door, but looking down I noticed a solid black chukka boot resting on the threshold. He had obviously been in this situation before. I had ten pence left over from my shopping, there were three twenty pences in the loose change jar and I found a fifty-pence coin in the pocket of Inna's black cardigan hanging in the hall. The postman took it all, gave me change, and made me sign something.

‘Thanks, mate. By the way, your zip's undone.'

The letter was from someone called Bronwyn at The Bridge Theatre in Poplar, asking me whether I was available immediately to take up the role of Lucky in their production of
Waiting for Godot
, for which I had recently auditioned. Apparently the actor who had been playing Lucky had unluckily tripped over the rope, slipped off the stage and broken his leg, and the understudy was re-sitting his finals. She apologised for writing, but said that they had tried to phone and got a ‘number out of service' message. They didn't have my mobile number. She added a PS on a personal note, saying that she'd been at the audition, had loved the way I delivered Lucky's speech with a stammer, and hoped I would integrate it into my performance.

The stammer. Yes. I recalled that it was the rope that had brought on the stammer, and I had stammered helplessly all through the audition. One of the panel had had the bright idea of tethering me with Lucky's rope while I spoke to see how I looked, and I had come out in a cold sweat. Unfortunately,
Beckett's broken lines did not work the same flowing magic as Shakespeare's; in fact they made it worse. ‘God with white b-b-beard … since the death of b-b-Bishop b-b-Berkeley … it is estab-b-blished b-b-beyond all doubt … that man … for reasons unknown … lab-b-bours ab-b-bandoned …'

The letter was dated two days ago. I phoned straight away. Bronwyn was ecstatic. She would email over a copy of the script right away, she said. What was my email address? Could I start tonight?

‘Tonight?'

‘Would that be okay, Mr Sidebottom? You're familiar with the play, aren't you? Our bar manager has been standing in, but he's been struggling, even with the text in his hands.'

‘I'm not sure I could memorise it in a couple of hours. It's quite complicated.'

‘Just do your best. It doesn't matter if you get the odd word wrong. In fact it might enhance the audience experience, if you see what I mean. If you could get here for six thirty, we could just walk it through.'

Bronwyn had quite a sexy voice, deep and smooth with a slight regional burr, so I replied, ‘No problem, Bronwyn. See you later.'

Ha! That would be one in the eye for Nazi McReady and his tarrgets. But how the fuck would I get to Poplar with no credit on my Oyster card? The problem was solved when Eustachia called back to say she would love to go out to see a film.

‘There's that new George Clooney on release.'

‘I've got a better idea. Wouldn't you prefer a night at the theatre?'

Bronwyn turned out to be not nearly as sexy as her voice – tall and toothy, sporting long beige dreadlocks with coloured beads on the ends and rainbow-patched dungarees – in fact my stereotype of a lesbian. Was she or wasn't she? I studied her carefully, but it is hard to tell nowadays. Anyway, I decided not to pursue matters. But she was nice. She gave me a £20 advance on my stipend, ordered a double espresso and a cup of tea for Eustachia from the relieved bar manager, and led me backstage to meet the rest of the cast.

Then the ten-minute bell rang. Soon that hush of expectation settled on the audience, which hit my blood like a drug. My pulse quickened. My senses were alert. My breath was controlled. I was ready.

When you're onstage with the lights on you, it's hard to make out the faces of the audience, even in a space as small as The Bridge. Squinting, I scanned the dark, steeply tiered benches, which were about half full, mainly with young people funkily dressed like arts students. There was a smell of damp socks and patchouli, and you could hear in the background the hiss of the espresso machine, a hum of conversation from the bar, and the rumble of trains passing overhead. It all added to the atmosphere. Then I spotted Eustachia in the front row, smiling with a bemused expression as she watched me shuffling on with the rope around my neck.

I wondered what she made of the play, and of my performance. It isn't easy to stammer on command, but when I declaimed, ‘P-p-plunged into torment … stark naked in the
stockinged feet in Connem-mara,' I fancied I caught the glint of a tear in her eye. She had never heard me stammer seriously before, but the funny thing is, this time it wasn't real. I was acting. Even when Pozzo tugged on the rope, I felt a professional calm run through me. I took control of Lucky's lucklessness and made it my own. I didn't need anyone to tell me: I knew I was good.

She waited for me as I came out of the dressing room, and threw her arms around me. ‘You were wonderful, Berthold! I'm so glad you brought me to see that, instead of wasting an evening on some George Clooney trivia. It was so profound – a scathing indictment of local government bureaucracy. People hanging around endlessly waiting for something that never appears. Actually – what
was
it about?'

‘PhDs have been written about it.' I brushed aside her question as if I knew the answer but couldn't be bothered with it. ‘Did you really mean that about George Clooney?'

‘Oh, absolutely. Give me Berthold Sidebottom any day.'

I pulled her towards me and kissed her long and hard on her lips. She gasped with surprise, then melted like a warm marshmallow in my arms.

The actors who were Estragon and Pozzo passed us on their way out and gave us a little round of applause.

I settled like a habitué into the passenger seat of Eustachia's car and we glided swiftly through the near-empty streets of the old East End, close to where Grandad Bob had worked on the docks and Gobby Granny Gladys had ended her days. Even Poplar had become trendy enough to boast its own theatre. This creep of culture can only be a good thing, I thought, spreading enlightenment to the de-industrialised wastelands.

As we approached Madeley Court, Eustachia slowed down. ‘Would you like to come back to my place and meet Monty?'

‘Who's Monty?' I imagined some aged relative or lurking lover.

‘Monty the Mongrel. Have you forgotten?'

Indeed I had. ‘There's nothing I'd like more.'

Actually, there were several things I would like more, including another exchange of body fluids, but you can't say that to a woman, can you?

Eustachia lived in a one-bedroom flat in the basement of a four-storey house in the almost trendy area north of the Pentonville Road, not far from where my repossessed flat had been. When she had picked me up at the Priory Green Estate and driven me to Madeley Court, she had said it was on her way home; in fact I realised she must have driven well past her destination. Out of fancy, or out of pity? I might ask her one day.

The door to her flat was down a flight of stone steps. You could smell the whiff of damp as you walked in, despite the scented candles and bowls of potpourri dotted about. As soon as she opened the inner door, a scrap of brown fur hurled itself against our legs, yapping hysterically. It was a creature of exceptional ugliness, with short legs, a blunt nose, one eye bigger than the other and a coat the texture of a toilet brush. I felt an urge to kick it, but I controlled myself.

‘Say hello to Berthold, Monty,' said Eustachia.

‘Yah! Yah! Yah!' said the dog.

I continued to control myself. ‘He's adorable,' I said.

‘Oh, I'm glad you think so, Berthold. I was afraid you wouldn't like him. You can see why I couldn't bear the thought of having him put down.'

‘Mmm. You're a goddess of salvation.'

I felt a sharp pricking in my ankles. Monty's teeth? Monty's fleas? Or my imagination?

‘Would you like a cup of tea?' she asked.

My heart sank. What I had in mind was a shot of whisky, or at least a glass of wine – even Lidl sweet sherry would do. Despite the earlier promise of the George Clooney moment, I had a sudden fear that this relationship was doomed.

‘Have you got any …?'

‘I don't usually keep alcohol in the flat, because of my diet. Not having it means I'm not tempted. Not by that, anyway.'

Temptation. My heart did a little fish-flip. ‘I get it. A cup of tea would be great.'

‘I've got redbush, if you prefer?'

‘No, please! Nothing healthy!'

Despite the lack of alcohol, we somehow made it to the bedroom. I guess she had to be more proactive, to make up for the all-round sobriety. Monty, shut outside, whimpered and scratched piteously at the door. His distress brought back a sudden terrible flash of memory of my first day at school, the closing clunk of the heavy safety-glass door; Mother out of reach on the other side. Love, comfort, kindness, protection – all on the other side. I cried and banged my little fists on the door, but by the time someone came to open it, she had gone. The teacher took my hand and led me to meet my new classmates. ‘Don't be a crybaby. That's enough blubbing. You're a big boy now.' At that moment, I had been cast out from Eden.

Such a desolate flashback would be enough to put anyone off his stride, and I'm sorry to say it put me off mine. That and the baleful stare of the row of teddies lined up on the bookshelf by her bed. The beast had become a mouse. Oh dear. As George Clooney must surely know, performing onstage is not the same as performing in bed. Quick as a flash, Eustachia
ducked down under the duvet and popped him in her mouth. He cheered up a bit, but then the mousiness crept back.

‘Look, I'm sorry,' I said. ‘It's been a stressful day.'

‘Just a cuddle would be fine,' she said.

I pressed her against me, and so she fell asleep in my arms with her coppery hair, loosed from its inane ponytail, spreading like autumn across my chest; but I lay awake for a long time listening to the unfamiliar sounds of people and cars passing close to our basement window and the occasional growling of Monty outside the bedroom door, wondering where the current of life was bearing my drifting boat.

Sometime in the small hours, when I made my nocturnal visit to the bathroom, Monty was lying in wait for me, with a strategic sense worthy of his namesake, the hero of El Alamein.

‘Grrr!' I heard his snarl in the darkness, but before I could locate him he pounced at my bare ankles. His teeth, though small, were very sharp. Thus I too acquired purple stigmata, though in my case human kindness had nothing to do with it.

Worse, I'd somehow managed to leave the door slightly open and the mongrel, smelling his mistress's bouquet, leaped on to the bed and started to hump her slumbering form through the bedclothes. At this point my self-control snapped, and I'm ashamed to admit I kicked my rival out into the hall.

He yelped, and Eustachia moaned in her sleep.

‘Don't worry, Stacey,' I murmured. ‘Everything's all right. I'm here to protect you.' My sense of manhood restored, I drew her close. And in a while, groping for trouts in a peculiar river, we made the beast with two backs. My ship entered her harbour. I found out countries in her. I spent my manly marrow, pouring my treasure into her lap. At last, Cupid's fiery shaft was quenched.

I drifted off into a rounded sleep.