Violet: Pictures
At the weekend, Violet sorts out the photos she has brought from home: her parents wind-blown and smiling on High Low above Hathersage; her dad with Grandma Alison in front of Edinburgh Castle; her Nyanya Njoki surrounded by all her seven grandchildren; their garden in Karen with Mfumu, her dog that she’d left behind; Kinder Scout purple with heather; her and her friend Jessie wearing stupid hats on a school trip.
As she Blu-tacks them on to the wall, she thinks about the two sides of her family, black and white, far and near, poor and comfortable. Her two cousins on her father’s side are tall, blonde, willowy girls a few years older than her who read Music and Art History at Oxford. They work in the arts, shop at Zara, laugh toothily over lunch, and are generous with invitations and free tickets. On her mother’s side, her seven cousins are thin, dark and wiry, with respectable but ill-paid office jobs and ready smiles, who shop at Jumia and never have quite enough money. She gets on with all of them; in fact she loves the feeling of sprinting like a runner along a high ridge looking down on each side into two completely different valleys. It’s exhilarating up there, but it’s scary too. There’s always the danger that she will lose her footing and slip down into the wrong valley, the poor side, the dark side.
She steps down from the chair, and stands back to admire her handiwork. At once, the place feels more like home.
From the flat next door, she can hear that weird tinny voice repeating the same incoherent phrase over and over again. She shudders; she definitely won’t be staying here long. She goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on, then takes her mug of Kenya roast coffee out on to the balcony to survey the scene down below. At the far end of the communal garden, a taxi has drawn up, and an old lady dressed in black is getting out.
As she watches, a pigeon lands beside her on the parapet and turns its head to fix her with its round beady eye. It is a tatty-looking bird, with scruffy feathers and only one leg. What has happened to the other one? She scatters some bread crusts for it on the balcony and it hops down to devour them, throwing its head back as they work their way down its blue-green throat. Then it puffs out its feathers and starts to coo in a sweet warbling voice, its whole pathetic body vibrating with the sound. Cooo-coo. Cooo-coo.
Berthold: Luxury Modern Skyscrounger
Inna Alfandari arrived in a taxi. I’d been expecting something more formal — forms to be filled in, a home inspection visit from the shapely nurse, at least a phone call — but I looked out of the window one afternoon and there she was, a diminutive figure dressed all in black, struggling across the grove with her enormous bags, as the taxi pulled away. I ran down to help her. Thank God Mrs Crazy wasn’t watching.
‘Hello, Inna. Welcome to Madeley Court.’
‘Oy! Is council house!’ She put her bags down and clasped her hands in an attitude of despair. She didn’t seem at all pleased to see me.
‘Yes. Didn’t my mother tell you?’
‘The way she was talk talk talk about this boyfriend flat, I was expect luxury modern skyscrounger.’
‘Modernist. She probably said modernist, Inna. It’s very nice inside. Wait till you see it.’
I don’t know why I was being so apologetic. I’d expected a bit of gratitude and deference from her, but obviously she was under the impression that she was the one who was doing me a favour. I pressed the button for the lift, and while I waited a thought crossed my mind. ‘How did you know the address?’
‘Nurse told me. She got all informations from you mama file. But she never told me is council flat. Never!’
She crossed herself and stepped into the lift reluctantly. At once, her nose wrinkled up.
‘Stinking piss in here.’
What was it Mum used to say? ‘Don’t be a Moaning Minnie, Inna.’
‘Aha! Always keep on sunny side! Ha ha ha!’ She brightened up instantly. ‘You good man, Mister Bertie, good like you mama.’
It was the first time she had smiled.
When you live in a place you forget how it looks to a newcomer. The communal walkway from the lift to the flats might have been built to a sleek modernist design, but now it was cluttered with dead plants in cracked pots, threadbare mats, a three-legged chair, a discarded Christmas tree four months old, and a mystery object shrouded in black plastic that had been there ever since the seven foreign students had moved out from next door. Inna walked with her head stiff, staring in front of her like a doomed man walking to his death. Wisps of white hair were sticking out from under her scarf.
‘Here we are. Home.’
‘God is dead!’ Flossie screeched, when she heard the door open, and rattled the bars of her cage.
‘Aaargh!’ Inna let out a shriek and crossed herself. ‘Is voice of devil! Mr Indunky Smeet!’
‘It’s just a parrot, Inna. Don’t be afraid. Come on in and say hello. See, she’s in a cage.’
‘Lily tell me he stealing her flat!’
Inna advanced cautiously into the room, looking around her, sniffing the air. I sniffed too. Flossie’s cage urgently needed cleaning.
‘Hello, Mister Indunky Smeet,’ Inna said. ‘Devil-bird.’
‘Shut up, Flossie!’
Inna looked nonplussed. ‘I am not Floozie.’
‘No, it’s her name. Flossie.’
‘Not Floozie!’ chimed Flossie.
‘He talk wit himself?’
‘It’s a girl. Female. Flossie.’
‘Is not girl, is bird.’
‘Forget it.’ I sighed. ‘Here, Inna — here’s your room. Make yourself at home.’
I pushed open the door of Mother’s room, taking in a poignant breath of the heavy powdery air that still carried the smell of her, maybe for the last time. Inna had a different unfamiliar smell, soapy and faintly spicy. She followed behind me, as I set down her bags in front of the ornate walnut dressing table, and sat down on the stool staring at her reflection in the mirror. She took out the pins holding her silver plaits in place, and flicked her head to let them fall. Then she worked the plaits loose with her fingers until her hair cascaded like a sheet of crinkled silver on to her shoulders.
‘Oy, I am too old.’
I shook my head but couldn’t bring myself to deny it. ‘Would you like something to eat? You must be hungry.’
She didn’t reply so I brought her a tuna and lettuce sandwich and a cup of tea. She made no move to help, but sat on the stool looking around her.
‘I’ll leave you to make yourself at home. Let me know if you need anything.’
I closed the door of her room with relief. Feeling somewhat agitated, I went and hunted in the larder, the hall wardrobe and the back of the meter-cupboard to see whether Mum had a spare bottle of sherry secretly stashed away, but I drew a blank. I did, however, find an ancient ten-pack of Players No. 6 wrapped in a tea towel.
Next morning I was woken by Flossie’s voice — not her usual repertoire of greetings, she seemed to be squawking randomly. I went into the sitting room to investigate, and there was Inna, looking more ladylike than crone-like in a pale silky blouse and pleated black skirt; her diamanté-framed glasses sat square on her nose, and her long plaits were neatly coiled up behind her ears, on which two of Mother’s clip-on earrings glistened. She was trying to teach the bird to sing a folk song — ‘povee veetre’ she wailed — rewarding her with pieces of toast.
‘Aha! Good morning, Mister Bertie! I mekkit toast. Coffee still hot. But first we drink vodka for good luck.’ There was a small bottle of vodka on the table, and two glasses. ‘Na zdorovye!’ She tipped back a glass. ‘Lack nothing! Be merry!’ I tipped back the other, and we both laughed.
‘This Mister Indunky Smeet is not too intelligent. He not understand nothing.’ She put her face up to the cage. ‘Nuh, say “Hello, Inna”.’