Nothing.
‘I understand, and please do!’ Clodagh looked up, giving Lilly her full attention.
‘What if someone else were to take him to school, someone who isn’t giving off an air of anxiety that might make him anxious?’
‘You think I give off an air of anxiety?’ the young mum asked, giving off an air of anxiety.
‘I think it’s possible,’ Lilly responded, tactfully.
‘Who can take him in?’ Clodagh reached for the fresh mug of tea that Lilly was offering.
‘Me.’
‘You’d do that?’ she asked, eyes misting, which was all the thanks Lilly needed.
‘I’d give it a go. Because sometimes I find a different person, offering a different perspective, can help you see the world differently. Now, finish your toast.’ She nodded at the plate.
‘Thank you, Lilly.’ Clodagh sniffed. ‘Have you had any letters about a regeneration order on the flats?’ she asked as she took a bite.
‘I have, darling, only opened one, but didn’t read it all. Sent to me in error. I own the flat, so, sadly, for me, whatever plans they have for fancy new windows or painting the front doors, I will be very obviously excluded!’
‘I’ve been too scared to open them. I’d hate to have to move. Apollo loves it here. We both do; we’re settled.’ Clodagh swallowed the toast as if it were a big lump, clearly frightened by the prospect. ‘His haven, his safe space ...’ she echoed.
‘You don’t have to worry about that.’ Lilly sipped her hot tea.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’ She winked at the girl, who was yet to understand that the council were slow, inept and broke. There would be no regeneration, no matter how many letters they sent out.
1967 – aged 11
‘Hel-lo!’ Lilly called out as she let herself into the flat and, using her toe on the heel of the opposite foot, freed her tootsies of her brown lace-up school shoes. Leaving sweaty foot marks as her end-of-the-day feet padded up and down, she took a moment to savour the feel of the cold concrete on her soles – quite blissful!
‘I’m ho-ome!’ she called again, dumping her heavy bag, which was loaded with exercise books, on to the floor. Her homework was to cover them in wallpaper or similar and to write her name, subject and year on the front. She didn’t mind the thought of it; her dad would help her. He was a dab hand at anything craft- and glue-related.
‘Hel-lo!’ she tried once more, having fully expected her mum to call out her usual ‘Yoo-hoo!’, as she liked to do, while peeling something at the kitchen counter, mopping the floor or folding clothes fresh and stiff from off the airer.
She stood for a moment, listening.
No sound of her dad’s violin.
No whistling.
It was more than the quiet that now alerted her senses, rather a feeling that crept over her, the thought entering her mind, based on nothing more than intuition, that something wasn’t quite right.It was like lighting a fuse, waiting, heart in mouth, as the spark travelled painfully slowly along the cord.
Swallowing the uncomfortable boulder of concern, she walked towards the lounge and popped her head inside. It was empty. She noted the tide on the river was high and lifted her hand in a wave to the other side, as was her habit. Then the kitchen, where the sight of her dad, his back towards her, shirtsleeves rolled, elbows planted, head hanging forward slightly as if he might be reading, filled her with something very close to relief. It was sweet and instant. No need to feel worried. Her daddy was there.
The radio was on, volume lower than usual. She could just about make out The Beatles’ ‘Penny Lane’.
‘Hi!’ She smiled, humming as she walked to the fridge, pulled out the bottle of milk and fetched a glass from the draining board. ‘We lost our netball match, twenty to thirty-five.’ It had been a shock; their team, the second netball team of the Dame Margaret Nichols Academy, were very good. ‘We played a school in Chiswick. They were a bit snooty. Miss Darnell said we played well, but we were all a bit quiet, because I think we knew we could have done better. The trouble is when the other team scores quickly and they’re shoutingYes!and jumping up and congratulating each other, it’s as if they’ve already won. It makes you feel a bit rotten and it’s hard to come back from that. That’s what I think, anyway.’
She sloshed the cold white stuff into the glass before downing it in one, making no attempt to remove the wide milk moustache that felt cool on her top lip, knowing it would make her dad laugh when he eventually spotted it. Still he hadn’t looked up. This was not unusual, as often he was lost to a page, a word, a description, a picture, a thought, a memory. So much so that often her mum, who might have called his name once or twice already, would have to say it louder and louder until he responded. ‘Robert ... Robert! ...Robert!’
Once she had even banged a saucepan with a spoon to get his attention, and he had practically jumped in the chair, as if he had been miles and miles and miles away. This happened quite a lot.
Lilly wanted him to comment on her dire netball match. It was bad enough that all the girls had gone off together to the Wimpy, no doubt for some post-match analysis over their Pepsis, and she hadn’t been invited. No shock there. She was never invited. She wondered if it was because she lived in the shadow of the vast concrete monolith that was the Nine Elms Cold Store – it had a creepy reputation and she wondered if that made her seem a little creepy, not that there was a darn thing she could do about that! It wasn’t like they had the money to relocate to the other side of the river where the pretty streets of Pimlico lurked.
Her dad’s lack of response only became unusual when she put the bottle back into the fridge and walked towards him, realising he was not reading, not looking at anything other than the bare tabletop. Slowly tracing shapes with his fingertip, as it moved in a figure of eight over and over on the surface.
