The Lubetkin Legacy Read Free Page B

occurred to me that it might apply to me, so I hadn’t taken much notice. I did recall Mum and Flossie swearing at some minister on the television news recently; though, to be fair, this was not an uncommon occurrence. I sympathised with her righteous anger, of course, but I had my own problems to contend with, and you can’t just live in a permanent stew of rage, can you?
    ‘But I tell her no worry, Lily, this under-bed tax for lazies scrounging in bed all day. You hard-working decent, Mister Bertie?’ She eyed me sideways.
    ‘Oh yes. Absolutely.’
    ‘What work you working, Mister Bertie?’
    ‘Actually, I’m an actor.’
    I always dread this question. It raises such expectations.
    ‘Aha! Like George Clooney!’ Inna cooed. ‘You mekking film?’
    ‘I’m mainly a stage actor. Best known for my Shakespearean roles. And some television.’ If you can count a stint as a proud football dad in a washing-powder advert back in 1999. ‘But I’m not working at present.’
    The old woman was still impressed. ‘I never met actor before. I would like met wit George Clooney. He got nice eyes. Nice smile. Nice teeth. Everything nice.’ She pursed her lips and discharged some more green phlegm. I looked away.
    Bloody George Clooney. If he and I didn’t happen to share a common birthday, I probably wouldn’t care; in fact I probably wouldn’t even notice him. As it was, I couldn’t help comparing his success with mine (lack of). Of course someone who has dedicated his life to Art, as I have, cannot expect to wallow in the excesses of materialism. We have our spiritual consolations. But still, it would be nice to have more than an occasional latte at Luigi’s to look forward to.
    Take the case in point: it was George bloody Clooney with his affected smile and clean-cut chin that this old crone lusted after; yet it was I, Sidebottom, who sat here at her wretched bedside watching her phlegm-bowl fill to overflowing. How could that be fair?
    The beautiful nurse was still making busy sounds behind Mum’s curtain. It seemed to have been going on a very long time.
    Inna’s hands fiddled with the sheet. She gave me a sly look. ‘You got good apartment. Your mother tell me about her.’
    ‘Yes, it’s a nice flat. Top floor.’
    ‘Aha! Top floor, good flat, bad lift. She say lift always broken, nobody repair her because she got hysterity.’
    ‘Hysterity?’ It’s true the lift was getting cranky but I personally would have described it as unreliable rather than hysterical.
    ‘She say banks made creases we give money. Now banks got all our money we get hysterity.’
    ‘Ah, you mean austerity! There’s a lot of it around nowadays.’
    ‘Yes. Hysterity. You mama explain to me. Very clever lady. Almost like Soviet economist.’
    ‘Well, I wouldn’t go so far –’
    ‘She love this flat, you mama. It is so beautiful, she say, she got it from arshitek boyfriend.’
    Why was she going on about the flat? What had Mother been saying? Suddenly she crossed herself and fell silent, listening. I listened too. Behind the curtains around Mother’s bed a machine had been beeping constantly. Now in the silence I became aware that the sound was becoming intermittent. There was a flurry of scurrying and scuffling and low voices talking in urgent whispers.
    Suddenly the nurse drew back the curtains, and murmured, ‘Mr Lukashenko, your mother has taken a turn for the worse.’
    I leaned over her and peered into her dear old face, so familiar yet so mysterious, already sealed behind the glass wall of the departure lounge, checked in for the one-way journey to the undiscovered country.
    ‘Mum. Mum, it’s me, Bertie. I’m with you.’ I took her hand.
    Mum let out a long rattling sigh. A single blue butterfly fluttered on the withered garden of her face. Pulling herself up in bed with immense effort, she gripped my arm and drew me down towards her, to whisper into my ear, ‘Don’t let them get the flat, Berthold!’ Then she fell