‘I think you must be one of their best customers.’
‘Quite possibly. It’s the novelty of it! I still find it remarkable that I can clickety-click on all manner of things from nail scissors to washing powder, and poooof!’ She made an exploding sign with her fingertips, touching them together then fanning them apart. ‘A man hands it to me on my doorstep.’
‘You are funny.’ Clodagh smiled at her.
‘I always think you mean “old” when you say “funny”, as if you find my ways funny because I’m old. Amused by the things I find amusing.’
‘I am most definitely amused by the things you find amusing, but I don’t think it’s because you’re older. I bet you were just as bonkers as a child, weren’t you?’
‘Oh, none taken, darling.’ Lilly removed the teabags, sloshed in milk and handed her guest a mug, before taking the chair opposite her. ‘I don’t know if I was bonkers as a child, but I was certainly a little odd, preoccupied almost. I realised quite early on that our set-up was a little unusual, understood thatIwas quite unusual.’
‘Unusual how?’ Clodagh sat back in the chair, her head tipped to one side, curious. It was the thing Lilly liked about her most, their lovely ease of conversation.
‘I suppose the whole dynamic. I was quiet, a little anxious, maybe, when I wasn’t at home, more interested in watching, taking it all in. But my dad was full of noise, but the best kind of noise. I remember being given a lift in a car by the father of a girl in my class. A car was a novelty, and I was delighted to be driven home, felt like the Queen of Sheba!’ She noted the flicker of confusion on Clodagh’s face, clearly not an expression she was familiar with. ‘I knew if it was my dad driving, I’d have had lots of questions about the car, the speed it could travel, how you actually drove it, all kinds of things, but what fascinated me the most was that the girl – I think her name was Cathy, can’t recall exactly – anyway, she and her parents sat in silence. I mean, absolute silence! Not a word. Her mum and dad barely interacting, not how I’d imagined it to be at all. And not just quiet like me, observing, but all staring out of their respective windows in their own little worlds. As if they couldn’t chat, didn’t know where or how to start. My dad talked to me constantly, and if he wasn’t talking, he was whistling or singing along to music. It was lovely.’
‘What did you do?’ Clodagh sipped her tea and closed her eyes as if it were nectar.
‘What did I do? Nothing! I didn’t do anything. I found it excruciating, but I didn’t talk. Didn’t feel like I could, as if there was some unspoken rule that car travel meant no talking, worried that maybe any questions might distract the driver, whowore cream string-backed leather driving gloves with a little keyhole press stud on the side. The leather bit was tan in colour. I remember every detail about those gloves, the way the fingers squeaked when he gripped the steering wheel.’ She heard the sound in her mind’s ear. ‘I think in hindsight they might have been a bit wary of driving around here – this wasn’t the most salubrious of areas, dimly lit, more industrial than fancy, with the odd towering block of flats thrown in for good measure. I remember arriving here, being dropped off at the back of the flat’ – the wide concrete apron was just the same – ‘just a small road in those days.’ She harumphed to think of the four-lane A-road that it had developed into. A main thoroughfare into and out of Westminster, where buses, cabs, lorries, vans, cars and those infernal buzzing mopeds that reminded her of mosquitoes, and were about as irritating, all sat nose to tail for much of the day and a lot of the night. ‘I remember feeling quite sad. Quite unable to imagine living that kind of life, a silent one. My lovely dad was keen to hear about the trip. He didn’t own a car, never owned a car, in fact. He didn’t see the point, not when we could always jump on a bus or Tube with such ease, and that was before we considered the expense and the parking of said vehicle. Yes, Dad wanted the detail, but all I could say was that the journey had made me sad.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a good memory,’ Clodagh sympathised.
‘It wasn’t good or fun. Would you like some toast?’ It bothered her, how thin Clodagh was, her skin so pale, the veins on the underside of her wrists purple and prevalent. Sometimes Lilly felt cold just looking at her. She liked to feed her, wondering if this was one of the primal urges a mother might feel, that desire to provide sustenance.
‘Yes, please.’ Clodagh smiled at her. ‘If it’s no trouble.’
‘No trouble at all!’
1962 – aged 6
Her dad whistled as he polished his shoes. Lilly-Bob liked everything about her dad. She liked the fact he had seen fit to shorten her name, Elizabeth-Roberta Cooper, to Lilly-Bob. She liked his stupid jokes that no one else seemed to find that funny.
Lilly-Bob, I was going to tell you a joke about time travel, but you didn’t like it ...
She liked the way he then laughed heartily as if it were the first time he’d heard it too. She liked the fact he whistled all the time.All the time!A vast repertoire of hymns, tunes, ditties and songs that left his ‘oooh’-shaped lips and brought him joy! His eyes were always bright and smiling as he whistled. She knew he was home long before the telltale sound of his key in the lock or his rhythmic, bespokeone-two-oneknock on the front door, like a code, letting her and her mum know it was him. It meant that she never felt scared in the flat, even at night when the river cast moving shadows over the ceiling that made it seem as if she were underwater, as she could always hear him and was able, depending on volume, echo and pitch, to determine which room he was in. He would practise his violin by the window, a mournful sound that had the power to make her mother weep, but beautiful, nonetheless. Still a mystery to her that he could make that shallow thing made of wood produce such notes.He always played with his eyes closed, as if lost entirely to that music, as if he and that old violin were one.
Most of all, Lilly liked to sit and watch him, liked the proximity of the man who was often out; at the music shop in Bloomsbury where he worked during the day, playing concerts at night, hauling his violin in its battered case on and off the Tube. And on a Sunday, with his pale-green and leather canvas rucksack slung over his shoulder, containing a rolled windcheater, a Thermos full of tea and a wrapped cheese sandwich, he went rambling.
Where he rambled she wasn’t quite sure, but he always came home with a sunburnt face, a ravenous appetite, sweat stains under the arms of his shirt that made the fabric a little stiff and yellow, and with grass and mud clinging to the soles of his clumpy old army boots. He’d leave them upended by the front door, waiting for the little slices of compacted countryside that had hitched a lift to the big city to dry, before lifting the boots in both hands a couple of days later, and banging them together over the bin, watching as the dried clots tumbled into it. It was fascinating to her, trying to imagine a place where such stuff was abundant, green stuff and brown stuff. Very different to this little slice of grey-paved paradise in Vauxhall, Lambeth, which they called home.
The absence of him always made the flat seem a little colder, colours not quite so bright, food not as flavourful, as if everything was subdued and not nearly as exciting. No matter how she occupied her time, a small part of her was always on high alert, waiting for his safe return. He was, quite simply, a rainbow over her world, and she adored him. As he did her, his face lighting up at the sight of her; it made her feel special, made her feel loved.
Her mum was great, more than great. Lilly liked it, too, when they did things together, like making cookies ready for her dad’s return, crocheting squares that her mum would deftly sewtogether to make a blanket, or when her mum taught her how to put on lipstick.
‘It doesn’t seem that hard!’ she had laughed when her mum had brandished the shiny gold Max Factor Ruby Red capsule in her hand.
‘Ah, but there’s an art to it, Lilly-Bob, not that you will be wearing lipstick for some years yet, but you can practise if you want. Would you like me to show you?’
‘Yes!’ Excitement didn’t cut it, she was ecstatic!
She watched, fascinated, as her mum first powdered her lips with the flat sponge from her compact, then, holding her small mirror in one hand, slowly traced the outer edges with the almond-shaped end of the lipstick, before filling in the gaps. With her lips coated she then plucked a tissue from the box and kissed it firmly, transferring the shape of those full red lips on to the white surface.
‘Now, here’s the trick: another coat!’ She winked at Lilly and again stared into the small mirror as she repeated the process, and when she had finished made a dull thudding sound with her lips as she kissed the air.
‘This would last all day, unless you ate spaghetti or kissed boys!’ Her mother laughed.
‘Eeeuw!’ Lilly pulled a face, and it wasn’t at the thought of eating spaghetti.
‘You won’t always feel that way.’ She winked. ‘One day the thought of kissing boys will be quite delightful!’
