"Wait! It is here! What is this? I cannot read this name. Looks like Mrs Lily and Brown, ninety-one year old, pa.s.ses peacefully in the sleep at the Nightmare House."

So she never did break free, poor thing.

"Who is this Brown Lily?"

"She's the old lady you made friends with in the hospital. And at Northmere House. You know-who was always asking for cigarettes?"

"This one who got the dead woman slippers? She is not my friend-she is a honker."

"But it's nice that you've been invited to her funeral. Her family must have remembered you."

"What is so nice about a funeral?"

"Don't you want to go?"

"Certainly we must go!"

The crematorium was in Golders Green, miles away beyond Hampstead Heath. I mentioned this to Nathan, and suggested he might like to come along with his Tati.

"He'll enjoy it," I said. "There's sure to be plenty of singing."

Somehow, the four of us fitted into Nathan's Morgan, even though it was really a glorified two-seater. Nathan and Mrs Shapiro sat in front. She was wearing a long black coat that smelled pleasantly of mothb.a.l.l.s and Chanel N5-better than the stinky astrakhan-and a chic little black beret with a veil and a feather. Nathan's Tati squeezed into the back with me. He was wearing a raincoat and a Bogart-style trilby. I was wearing my smart grey jacket and a black scarf. The car struggled under the weight of us all as we crawled up the Finchley Road. It was a Sat.u.r.day morning in April, the air warm and sparkling in the slanting sunlight. In the residential streets the front gardens were already frothy with cherry blossom.

Nathan's Tati took Mrs Shapiro's hand to guide her up the step to the crematorium, and she acknowledged the gesture with a gracious nod. There were only two other people in the chapel when we arrived, a grey wispy-looking woman who introduced herself as Mrs Brown's niece, Lucille Watkins, and her father, Mrs Brown's brother. He was tall and lean, with rosy cheeks and a twinkle in his eye-one of those wiry sprightly ninety-somethings who go on for ever.

"Charlie Watkins," he introduced himself, lingering over Mrs Shapiro's chipped-varnish fingers which she extended graciously to him. "I think we met at the 'ospital once. Did you know our Lily well?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nathan's Tati watch him, bristling with annoyance.

"Not well," Mrs Shapiro replied, fluttering her eyelids. "Only from smoking. And from slippers. She got the dead-woman slippers."

"Smokin' like a kipper!" he chuckled, nodding towards the flower-covered coffin in front of us. "That sounds like our Lily."

I wasn't particularly surprised when Ms Baddiel turned up, too, just as the service was about to start.

"It's always so-o sad when a client pa.s.ses away," she murmured, searching in her oversize bag for a packet of tissues.

There was music playing in the chapel, spooky-sounding organ music that made you feel as though you were already halfway into the next world. The coffin with its single wreath of lilies rested on an ornate catafalque to the left of the altar. A plaque on the wall solemnly reminded us Mors janua vitae Mors janua vitae. Death is the gateway to life. Where had I heard that before? Tall leaded 'windows filtered and chilled the sunshine leaking in from outside, turning it into a cool greenish fluid. It reminded me of the bivalves, clinging on under the sea. We spread out around the pews, trying to make ourselves look like more than seven. Mrs Shapiro sat in the front row, and Nathan's Tati took up his position beside her. Nathan and Ms Baddiel sat in front on the other side. The niece and her father spread out in the middle, and I sat at the back. How sad, I was thinking, to have just seven people at your funeral, two of whom had never even met you. A thin man in a black suit droned through a short liturgy and disappeared. We all looked around, wondering whether this was all. Then suddenly there was a rustling behind us; the organ music stopped mid-note and gave way to a jolly lilting big-band number. Ba-doop-a-doop-a! Ba-doop-a-doop-a!

You could hear everybody gasp. Charlie Watkins rose to his feet and did a little hip-swing in the pew, then he squeezed out past his daughter and bopped up to the lectern. As the music faded away, he cleared his throat and began.

"Ladies and gen'lemen, we're 'ere to celebrate the life of a great lady, and a great dancer, Lily Brown, my sister, who was born Lillian Ellen Watkins in 1916 in Bow. She was the youngest of three sisters and two brothers (he was reading from a sheet of paper he'd fished out of his jacket pocket, modulating his voice like an actor). Now I'm the only one what's left, and all that past life, the 'appiness and sorrow, the triumphs and disappoin'ments, is all washed away on the tides of time." He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief. There was a general shuffling in the pews. This wasn't at all what we'd expected. He blew his nose and continued. "Even when she was a young gel, our Lily danced like an angel."

The Watkinses were a Music Hall family. Charlie described how Lily enrolled for dance cla.s.ses 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 b.o.l.l.o.c.ks 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 b.o.l.l.o.c.ks 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 pa.s.sing 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."

47.

The penthouse party It 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 Lion King slippers. She saw me looking at them, and gave a little shrug. 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 pet.i.t 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 s.p.a.ce.

"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 p.r.i.c.ked 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. .h.i.t in the eye mit a piece of gla.s.s, 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 she says about says about him him. Anyway, you're both invited to a party."

I told him the day-it was a Sat.u.r.day, 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?"