‘Povee! Povee!’ Flossie wailed from her perch.
In a moment of quiet, Eustachia pitched in with a warbling soprano: ‘Keep on the sunny side! Always on the sunny side!’
‘Bravo!’ Lookerchunky clapped his hands. ‘Great philosophia! You must come in Ukraina! We heff too much of pessimism at present time.’
‘It’s what my speech therapist used to say,’ she giggled.
By now, of course, I had put two and two together, but I did not voice my suspicion that her speech therapist had been none other than my mother. There would be plenty of time for that in the future.
‘You are my sunny side, Eustachia.’
Berthold: Stacey
The night was sweet with human warmth, ample with dimpling flesh, moist with body fluids, and punctuated by trips to the bathroom. I woke late, with a jumble of songs running through my head. Occupying most of the bed, and hogging all of the duvet, Eustachia was snoring lightly. I kissed her on the nose and went in search of coffee.
In the kitchen, Lookerchunky, stark naked, was doing the same. I took a discreet look at his beast, which dangled raw-red and uncircumcised beside the cutlery drawer. It did not seem any bigger than mine.
‘Berthold, old chep, we heff to talk.’
‘Yes, but not now.’ I was desperate for coffee. There were barely two spoonfuls left in the Lidl own-brand jar. I commandeered them both into two cups, one for Eustachia and one for me. He could go hang himself, for all I cared.
‘You mother, Lilya, she very pessionette lady.’
‘Mhm.’ I poured in hot water.
‘We heff make loff all night.’
‘Mhm. I heard you.’
I opened the fridge door. As I bent down, the dull ache in my head became a sharp pain. There wasn’t much milk left, either. Really, it was too bad. Inna was supposed to take care of these things.
‘She want we liff together.’
‘Mhm.’ I stirred the beige liquid. ‘Where? Where do you propose to do that?’
‘She propose me liff wit her in flet. This flet.’
‘Oh no. No no no. You don’t get it, Lookerchunky.’
‘I understend how you feelink, Bertie old chep. But you grown-up men now. You too old for livink wit Mamma.’
‘Look, there’s something you need to know.’ A pulse in my head was beating like a hammer on a dustbin lid. ‘She’s not really my mother.’
‘Not mother? How is possible?’
‘My mother Lily is dead.’
‘God is dead! Ding dong! God is dead!’ No one had remembered to cover Flossie’s cage for the night. She was lounging on her perch with a morbid look in her eye.
Startled by the noise, Eustachia called from the bedroom, ‘Can I do anything?’
‘It’s all right, Stacey. I’m just coming. Do you take sugar?’
Stacey! What a ghastly name! I supposed I would get used to it.
‘I’m sweet enough as I am!’
We sipped our coffee-flavoured water sitting up side by side in bed, the duvet pulled up over our nakedness, her hair loosed from its ponytail and snaking in coppery coils over her splendid breasts. Through the wall, we heard the sounds of a shrill soprano and a mellow baritone yelling at each other. Fortunately, Lubetkin’s walls were thick enough that we couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Berthold: Cherry Cutter
Eustachia left early in a whirl of polyester, perfume and hastily applied lipstick. I took my time, knowing there was no coffee to look forward to and not even any money to go out and get some, until Inna surfaced.
I checked my emails, nothing much there — who the hell falls for these ridiculous Ukrainian bride ads anyway? — then I put on my paisley pyjamas to pad to the bathroom, turning the radio on to blot out the sound of Inna and Lookerchunky, who were still arguing. Sticking my razor-ready chin out in front of the bathroom mirror, I brooded over a new complexion imperfection — does Clooney have these red spider veins yet? — and the ghastliness of growing old. Then I heard the front door slam. I put my head out to see what was going on.
Inna was standing in her nightdress in the hall, gazing at the back of the closed door with a look of utter desolation on her face. ‘Why you do this to me, Bertie?’
‘Do what, Inna? The man is a scoundrel. A rogue. An impostor. We don’t know who he is. I’ve probably saved you from a fate worse than death.’
Though judging from what I had heard last night, she had already experienced a fate worse than death, and rather enjoyed it.
‘I say everything you tell me — mother, sister, friend, crazy — all I pretend it like you tell me. But you — why you not pretend some little thing for me, Bertie?’
‘Look, Inna, we need to get one thing clear. That man is not moving in here. No way.’
She said nothing, her mouth set in a sullen pout.
‘And another thing — why are we out of coffee? You know I need coffee in the morning if I am to function at all. It’s not too much to ask, is it? Look, I’m sorry …’
Her eyes were filling up with tears. Was I being too harsh?
‘… but I thought we had an agreement, Inna.’
‘I make agreement wit Lily, you mother. I make promise to Lily. I leave my lovely flat in Hempstead for livink in stinking council flat wit you! Oy!’
‘Mother wanted you to move in here?’ I had half suspected this.
‘She say to me, Inna, look after my son. He good man but useless. Witout me he will be starving of hunger. When I die he will be put out on street from under-bed tax.’
‘Mother said that to you?’ It’s nice to know that one’s parents have such confidence in one.
‘Lily good Soviet woman, like saint in heaven.’ Tears were coursing down the runnel-grooves in her cheeks. ‘She tell me you homosexy. I understand. You no marry. You need woman in house.’
‘Mother told you I was homosexual?’ Could this be true? I edged back to the kitchen, where the kettle was hissing and screaming for attention.
She followed, shuffling in her slippers, berating me in a mournful shriek that echoed the cadences of the kettle.
‘But I see you like lady. You chase first after black one, then after fatty one. What I can do? I think soon you will marry and I will be out.’
‘Ssh, Inna! There’s no need to shriek. Can’t we have a rational discussion?’
But she was having none of it.
‘I like nice man, nice flat, nice life. I write letters in Ukraina newspaper.’ She began to wail again. ‘Oy, I understand! You think I too old, you think Lev too young for me!’
‘The thought had crossed my mind.’
‘Young, old — love got no barricade for age! Look George Clooney! He forty-year-old man marry beautiful young wife.’
‘Actually, Inna, George Clooney is fifty-three.’
My correction was lost on her. ‘I more younger than Lily,’ she moaned.
Something dawned on me.
I said, ‘But Inna, this man, this Lookerchunky, he’s not the man my mother married. He wasn’t her husband. For all we know, he might be married to someone else.’
‘Not husband? Oy!’ Inna crossed herself fervently, as if I’d accused her of adultery. ‘So who he is?’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe a relation or an acquaintance. Maybe just someone who read a story about a nice flat in London and a woman on her own, and decided to take a chance. The world is full of chancers like that. You can’t be too careful, Inna.’