2009 - We Are All Made of Glue (42 page)

The Watkinses were a Music Hall family. Charlie described how Lily enrolled for dance classes at the City Lit, got pregnant, ran off to Southend, then came back to London a year later, without the baby and without the boyfriend. Her breakthrough came when she got a place in the chorus line at Daly’s. He paused, snuffling into his hankie—it wasn’t for effect, the emotion was genuine—then he leaned forward, departing from his script.

“I seen ‘er up there on the stage, kickin’ like she could kick the bollocks off a giraffe.”

In the front pew, I could see Ms Baddiel quiver like a soft jelly, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue while Nathan slipped a solicitous arm around her shoulder. There was something about that gesture that sent a pang of longing through me—not longing for Nathan—that was in the past—but for the warmth of human comfort.

Lily settled in Golders Green, married and lost a soldier.

“That’s when she took to smokin’,” said Charlie, “puffin’ away like she wanted to be up in ‘eaven.”

He blew his nose again and raised his eyes. “Ladies and gen’lemen, I ask you to pray for the soul of Lillian Brown. May she dance with the angels.”

The band music started up again, Ba-doop-a-doop-a! Ba-doop-a-doop-a! Then with a clatter of rollers, the coffin disappeared through the wooden doors. I thought of the old woman I’d known as the bonker lady, trying to keep her image in my mind’s eye as the coffin rattled away, and despite the cheerful music, tears welled up in my eyes. What cruel tricks time plays on us! Before the cigarettes and the crusty toenails, before the deep-grooved wrinkles and the crumpled mind, there’d been another Mrs Brown—a young woman who danced in one of the most beautiful chorus lines in London, who lived life to the full, who could kick the bollocks off a giraffe.

Ba-doop-a-doop-a! Ba-doop-a-doop-a! Ms Baddiel and Nathan and Nathan’s Tati were swaying in time to the music and fluttering the tissues which Ms Baddiel had handed out. The niece and Charlie Watkins were sobbing and bopping, and I found my feet, too, were pulled by the irresistible rhythm. Only Mrs Shapiro was standing stock-still—her back was to me, so I couldn’t see the look on her face. Suddenly a current of air caught the folding door behind which the coffin had disappeared, making it swing forward, and, I swear I’m not making this up, as it gusted towards us a puff of grey smoke eddied out into the chapel, circling and wreathing around us before it drifted away.

The sunlight stung our eyes as we shuffled outside into the Garden of Rest and walked in a sad tight knot between the flower beds. Mrs Shapiro lit a cigarette and sat on a bench puffing away, as if in honour of her fractious former smoking companion. I wandered along looking at the names on the memorial plaques on the walls—there were so many. Some names I recognised—Enid Blyton, Peter Sellers, Anna Pavlova, Bernard Bresslaw (Mum’s favourite actor), H.G. Wells (one of Dad’s gurus), Marc Bolan (died so young!) and alongside them all the hundreds of anonymous dead, jostling together for a bit of memory space. Soon enough we’ll all be anonymous except to the few people who knew us, I was thinking, until they in their turn become anonymous, too.

That’s the thing about funerals—even if you hardly know the person who died, the closeness of death itself makes you melancholy. I recalled the people whose mysterious lives had brushed against mine—beautiful Lily Brown, before she became the honker lady; Mustafa al-Ali the chosen one and his anonymous twin who died on the hillside; Artem Shapiro who had trekked across the Arctic; Naomi Shapiro of the blazing eyes; and the old lady I thought of as Naomi Shapiro, but who was really someone else. Were they exceptional people, or was it the time they lived through that made them seem exceptional? Had our safe post-war world stripped all the glamour and heroism out of life (sob) leaving us with the husks (sob)—consumer goods wrapped up in stylish packaging (sob, sob)? By now the tissue Ms Baddiel had given me was completely soggy. Blinded with tears, I stumbled on a step, stubbed my toe on a stone plinth and almost fell into the pond.

Charlie Watkins was clutching his daughter’s arm, his tall thin frame shaking with each breath. I wanted to ask him what had happened to the baby—had she aborted it or given it up for adoption? I wanted to know about Mr Brown—was he the one who ran away to Southend, or the one who brought her here to Golders Green? Had he loved her? Did he stay with her to the end? But he’d crumpled the bit of paper back into his pocket, and his eyes were full of tears. He pointed up at the chimney, where a faint wisp of smoke curled into a perfect circle, wavered in the wind, and was gone.

“There she flies! Our angel!”

Wheeee! A high-pitched whining sound carried on the air, like the distant whirr of angel wings. We all stopped and looked around. It was an eerie sound, as if her spirit was amongst us, trying to speak from another world.

His daughter leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Dad, you’re whistling!”

“Sorry. Sorry.”

He reached up and adjusted his hearing aid.

That gesture broke the tension. Everybody laughed, brushed their tears away, and started to move purposefully towards the car park. It’s all very well thinking about the passing of time and the presence of death, but there’s work to be done, dinners to be cooked, life to be lived. I put the soggy tissue away, and that’s when my fingers touched something hard and long at the bottom of the jacket pocket. It was a key. I fished it out. Where had that come from? When was the last time I’d worn this jacket? Then I remembered. It was when I first met Mrs Goodney over at Canaan House.

It wasn’t until we got to the car park that we realised Mrs Shapiro was missing. With a mutter of irritation, we split up to scour the gardens. Everybody was ready for home by now. A cool wind had sprung up, and all the emotion had made us hungry and tired. It was Nathan’s Tati who found her. She’d strayed right out of the crematorium and across Hoop Lane into the Jewish cemetery. He’d come across her wandering among the graves and led her back solicitously, supporting her on his arm.

“She keeps going on about some artist,” he whispered to me. “Poor old thing.”

The penthouse party

I
t was Mrs Shapiro’s idea to hold a house-warming party for the penthouse suite. We drew up the guest list together one morning over a cup of coffee in the kitchen. The sun had come out, and a mild blossom-scented breeze wafted in through the open back door. Mrs Shapiro was in an effervescent mood. Her hair was pinned up and she was wearing a crumpled not-very-white cotton blouse with her smart brown slacks and the
Lion King
slippers. She saw me looking at them, and gave a little shrug.

“They are quite ugly, isn’t it? But Wonder Boy adores them.”

“Mm,” I said.

“We can invite the charming old man from the crematorium. He is good at singing. Pity he is so old. And his petit son.”

“Good idea. Who else?”

It seemed incredible that Mr Ali and the Uselesses had managed to install a functioning shower and toilet and three Velux windows in the attic rooms, without further mishap—but it was true. They’d moved their stuff up there, and all the junk—what was left of it—was piled up in a side room whose ceiling was too low to make a useful living space.

“It will be a musical soiree. Or maybe it will be a garden party. What you think?”

“I think we should be flexible. You can never tell what the weather’s going to do.”

“You are very wise, Georgine,” she nodded, as though I’d offered some great insight into the human condition.

Upstairs we could hear thudding and hammering as Chaim and the Uselesses put the finishing touches to the floorboards. They’d hired a sander for the day without realising the amount of preparation that was needed. Mr Ali had gone off on some mysterious errand to B&Q. I noted how tidy everything was in the kitchen, a stack of washing-up still covered in soapsuds draining at the side of the sink.

“Maybe when they’ve finished the penthouse suite we can discuss some kitchen improvements with Chaim and Mr Ali.”

“What for I need improvement?”

“Remember what you said—dishwasher, microwave?”

She looked at me in astonishment. Obviously her previous plans had vanished from her head, and something else was preoccupying her.

“Now, Georgine, this party will be a good opportunity for you to find a new husband.”

“Oh, really?” You had to give her credit for persistence.

“We will invite my Nicky and the other one also, the hend-some one. Maybe more hendsome even than Nicky, isn’t it?”

“Yes, very handsome, but…”

I hadn’t yet told her that I was not looking for a new husband, I just wanted to recondition the one I’d already got.

“You must make more effort, Georgine, if you want to catch a man. You are a nice-looking woman, but you heff let yourself go. You must wear something nice. I heff a nice dress, red spotted mit white collar. Will look nice on you. And lipstick. You must wear a nice lipstick in metching colour. I heff one you can borrow. Will go good mit this dress.”

I smiled non-committally, remembering the grotty decomposing make-up in her bedroom drawer.

After a while the banging from upstairs stopped and Chaim put his head round the door. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and there were bits of sawdust in his hair and eyebrows.

“What shall we do with all the junk, Ella? The belongings from the previous inhabitants?”

“The ones that ran away?” I teased.

“This is no laughable matter. All over Europe Jews are coming and demanding their property back.”

“Like the Palestinians with their keys?” I smiled smugly. He looked cross.

“You—you are not a Jew, Miss Georgiana. You cannot understand what it means.”

“It’s a Yorkshire thing—calling a spade a spade.”

“A spade is like a spade?”

“But they were not Jews living here, Chaim,” Mrs Shapiro intervened soothingly. “Why you are always mekking problems? Leave the junk where it is. Sit down and drink a coffee mit us.”

Chaim pulled out a chair rather nervously. Wonder Boy had sidled in with his ears pricked back and was lurking under the table, his tail quivering.

“Raus, Wonder Boy! Go and make your little wish elsewhere!” Mrs Shapiro shooed him away.

Suddenly a horrible juddering whine shook the whole house. It was the sander springing into life. Wonder Boy set off a competing howl of protest. Chaim Shapiro jumped to his feet.

“You know, I better give those boys my hand. They are completely useless.” He grinned at me. “A spade is like a spade.”

When we were alone again, Mrs Shapiro leaned across and whispered to me, “He is crezzy, isn’t it? He was hit in the eye mit a piece of glass, you know. Some boys were throwing stones at the bus. I think also a piece went in his brain.”

§

After we’d drawn up the party list, we divided the duties. Mrs Shapiro said she would ring Wolfe & Diabello, and reluctantly agreed to invite Ms Baddiel, too. I was delegated to call Nathan and his Tati. I picked up the phone as soon as I got home.

“Your father’s made a conquest, Nathan.”

“Wonderful! I knew from the moment you met that you were made for each other. You’ll be a fine stepmother, Georgia.”

The thought tickled me. “Yeah, I’ll lock you up and feed you on poisoned apples. Don’t you want to know who it really is?”

“I think I can guess. It’s your old lady, Mrs Shapiro?”

“Has he said anything?”

“He says it’s a pity she’s so old.”

“That’s what
she
says about
him
. Anyway, you’re both invited to a party.”

I told him the day—it was a Saturday, about four o’clock.

“Put it in your diary. It might be a musical soiree or a garden party.”

“So hard to know what to wear,” he murmured cheesily.

“If it’s any help, I shall be wearing a red dress with white polka dots and a white collar.”

I would have rung off then, but my conversation with Chaim was still on my mind and I suddenly remembered the glue exhibition.

“Nathan, you know what you said about being called a self-hating Jew?”

“Did I say that?”

“You did. I thought it was because you were gay. Or sm…” I stopped myself. “…or something.”

“Look, Georgia, some people get excited about what sets them apart. I get excited about what bonds people together. That’s all.”

“But…isn’t it something about not believing in a Jewish homeland?”

“That place you come from—Kippers—is that your homeland?”

There was an edge of irritation in his voice.

“Kippax, not kippers. It should really be called Oven Chippax.” Even as I said it, I felt a pang of shame at my disloyalty.

“If only people
would
stick to food when they talk about homeland. At least we could argue about sensible things. They could build a wall down the middle of Kippers. Kippers with chips on one side. Kippers with toast on the other. And checkpoints if you want to cross over.” His voice had softened. “Which side would you be on, Georgia girl?”

I laughed. “I’d be on both sides, stuffing my face. It’s just that people go on about their homeland as if it was the biggest thing in their lives. It seems strange to me…” I could hear Nathan’s prickly silence on the other end of the phone. But when he spoke, his voice was sad, not prickly.

“That was Tati’s generation. Zion was their big dream. It was a good dream, too. But they found you can’t build dreams with guns. Just nightmares. Does that answer your question?”

I paused. It did and it didn’t. “I expected the Jews would be…you know, after all that suffering…more compassionate.”

“Why would suffering make anyone compassionate? It doesn’t work like that, Georgia. Abused children often grow up to become abusers themselves. It’s what they learn.”

“Mmm. But…”

“And if you’ve convinced yourself that you’re really the victim, or even just potentially the victim—well, it gives you a free rein, doesn’t it? You can kill as many people as you like.”

But we didn’t bully Carole Benthorpe because we’d been abused, I wanted to say. We did it because we believed that something—something higher than us—gave us the right. Then I remembered the article I’d edited.