The Lubetkin Legacy by Marina Lewycka

empty. Where the fuck did Mum buy it? I seemed to recall that hemp seed is mildly hallucinogenic. Maybe I should try some. I crunched one or two between my teeth then spat them out. While Flossie pecked busily, the silence in the flat flooded over me once more. I realised how utterly alone I was: alone to the bone. No one would come and put an arm around my shoulder, and say, ‘Sorry about your mum.’ No one at all. The thought was so chilling that it seemed to freeze up my tear ducts. If I let myself cry again, who would ever tell me to stop?
    Keep a grip, Bertie. Food. That’s what you need. I peered into the fridge. Lettuce. Milk. Sliced bread. No butter. No tuna.
    A takeaway from Shazaad’s was my only hope.
    ‘Curry sauce or balti, mate? Did you see Ramsey’s goal? Incredible.’
    ‘Curry, please, Shaz. No chillies, thanks.’
    It was those few sentences of banal conversation that I was hungry for, I realised.
    Apart from Flossie, I hadn’t spoken to another soul all day.
    On my way back to my flat, I encountered Legless Len
down in the grove. He was in a jubilant mood, wearing his Arsenal cap and spinning around in his wheelchair with a bottle of beer in his hand.
    ‘Did you see Ramsey’s goal?’ he whooped. ‘I wonder who’ll kick the bucket this time?’
    ‘What d’you mean?’
    ‘Don’t you know? Every time Aaron Ramsey scores a goal, somebody famous dies. Obama bin Laden. Colonel Gaddafti. Robin Williams. That Apple Jobsy bloke. You name it. The Grim Reaper, he’s called. Heh heh.’ He chuckled grimly.
    ‘That sounds like a load of bollocks, Len, if I may say so. I mean, statistically, the chances of somebody famous dying once a week are pretty high.’
    One of the problems with Len is that he is drawn towards the irrational. That’s how he ended up with a UKIP poster in his window at the last election, much to Mum’s chagrin. ‘Len, you are supporting the forces of reaction. Stick to budgies,’ she said.
    ‘You just see, Bert, some celeb’ll die by tomorrow, for sure.’
    ‘Actually, Len, my mum just died.’ I hadn’t meant to embarrass him; it just slithered out, and ended on a sniffle.
    ‘Lily? Oh God, I’m sorry, mate. I didn’t mean nothing. About Ramsey’s curse and all that. It’s just a joke, an Arsenal superstition. I’m really sorry. She was a lovely lady, your mum, one of the greatest. Never mind her bolshie politics, she always meant well to everybody, like she radiated sunshine wherever she went.’ He was beside himself with apologies.
    ‘It’s all right, Len. You weren’t to know. Just don’t spread it about.’
    I was worried that the whiff of gossip would reach the council offices. One of the problems with the traditional East End communities that architects like Lubetkin had rebuilt
as ‘streets in the sky’ is that everyone knows everybody’s business.
    ‘Listen, Bert, she would have liked this.’ He spun around in his wheelchair once more, brandishing a crumpled brown envelope like a magician who has produced a rabbit out of a hat. ‘I just got a letter from the DSS saying I’m going to have my claim for disability allowance reassessed.’
    ‘Reassessed? That doesn’t sound good. I don’t know why you say Mum would have liked it. She was all for the welfare state.’
    ‘Lily was all for welfare, God bless her, but she couldn’t stand no scroungers.’
    ‘But you’re not a scrounger, are you, Len?’
    ‘Nah, that’s what I mean. They’re going to help me find employment, so I won’t be a drain on the economy. Anyway, I’m sick of being on the dole. They want to rescue me from the scrap heap of existence. Give me pride in myself. Why are you always so negative, Bert? They’re trying to do some good.’
    This did indeed sound very positive, but once again the cynic in me would out.
    ‘Look, I’m sorry, Len, but you’re not exactly going to grow new legs, are you?’
    ‘Legs ain’t everything they’re cracked up to be. Ramsey managed