The Lubetkin Legacy Read Online Free PDF

pretty, her features delicate and doll-like, despite her age. ‘Oh, where does she go for her shopping?’
    ‘Er … just around the corner.’
    ‘I live locally myself. The area has improved so much, hasn’t it? There’s even a Waitrose not far away.’
    ‘Mm.’ I made a mental note to avoid Waitrose from now on. ‘She goes out quite a lot.’
    ‘Important to keep active at her age. How old is she, by the way?’
    ‘Eighty-two.’
    Mrs Penny made another note.
    ‘Well, the easiest thing would be for her just to sign a little form to put the tenancy jointly in your names, in the event of her death or mental disability. But no rush. Just keep us informed of any change of circumstances, won’t you, Mr Looka-skansko?’
    ‘Of course.’
    She stowed her notebook in her handbag.
    I watched through the window as she crossed the grove and squeezed herself into a small red car parked on the far side. Then I flopped down on the sofa. The whole encounter had been far more stressful than I had imagined. Fortunately the sherry bottle was not quite empty.
    ‘God is dead!’ Flossie called.
    ‘Shut up, Flossie.’
    ‘Shut up, Flossie,’ Flossie retorted. The Dom‒sub relationship only applied with Mum. She and I would have to fight it out now.
    ‘Shut up, Flossie. I need to think!’
    What I was thinking, as with a trembling hand I poured the last drops of sweet sherry into a chipped crystal glass, is that frankly, when you think about it, one dotty old lady is pretty much like another, isn’t she? If a substitute were to appear in Mum’s place, who would know the difference?

Berthold: Daffodils
    One thing you can say about the English weather – it keeps you on your toes; it toughens you up to face the general spitefulness of life. Although it was almost mid-April, black clouds were bunched above the church spire as I cycled back to the hospital later that day, and a sudden cannonade of hailstones forced me to seek shelter under a greengrocer’s awning. Bunches of bright daffodils winking from a bucket caught my eye. Good idea. She’d appreciate them.
    In the bed where Mother had died yesterday, a new occupant was already installed, a slight grey shape on the freshly laundered palimpsest. But where was the old woman Inna?
    ‘Sss! Mister Bertie! Come here!’
    She’d been moved to a bed by the window. The cardboard bowl had less than a centimetre of mucus. I realised she must be on the mend. Her hair was pulled back into two neat silver plaits coiled around her head and she was wearing elaborate cat’s-eye spectacles whose frames sparkled at the corners with diamanté. Behind them her eyes were bright and alert. Even her skin had plumped out so the wrinkles appeared less deep. I guessed that at one time she must have been an attractive woman, with bold dark eyebrows and high cheekbones. Even now, as she turned away from the light, traces of beauty lingered in the curves and hollows of her face.
    ‘Hello, Inna. I came to see you.’
    She accepted the daffodils with a gracious nod, and patted my hand. ‘Aha, you already missing you mama, poor Mister
Bertie. She was great lady. Almost like saint.’ Her eyes rolled heavenward.
    Although I loved my mother, I couldn’t help feeling that Inna was exaggerating a bit. She can’t have known her for much more than a day.
    ‘I’ve been thinking about our conversation yesterday, Inna. How you don’t like living alone.’
    Inna cocked her head to one side expectantly but said nothing.
    ‘I’ve been thinking … I have a problem … I have a nice flat but … I need …’
    ‘Aha?’
    Did a small smile steal across her face, before she composed it into a look of concern? Some words from our previous conversation popped into my head: gobalki kosabki solatki. I had no idea what they were, but they sounded rather tasty – a step up from a lukewarm takeaway curry from Shazaad’s. In stage drama, this is the point at which the gent falls to one knee and kisses the hand