Present day – aged 70 #2
The height and breadth of the window meant the view was uninterrupted.
The proximity to the riverwalk, previously a narrow towpath that she could wander towards the docks and the industrial heartland of Vauxhall, but now, following investment, upheaval and, she was sure, more dust than it was healthy to consume, a wide, smooth path.
A popular place on which to promenade, rollerblade, cycle or walk hand in hand with your intended, while marvelling at the sunsets that were nothing short of utterly spectacular!
From the window, it seemed as if the flat was perched, almost hanging over the river itself, which it was, practically.
A secret indeed.
Even the delivery guy’s face had broken into a grin at the sight of it, and she’d sucked in her cheeks and nodded, as he smiled at her knowingly.
The flat above hers saw more sky, certainly.
The flat below looked out on to the walkway.
The flat to her right had a similar view to hers, bisected by a Victorian lamppost and with one of the towering new skyscrapers plonked to the side.
A great, hulking, shiny white building that put her in mind of a stack of Polo mints, part blocking what used to be an uninterrupted view of Lambeth Bridge, then Westminster Bridge, with the Houses of Parliament in the background on the opposite bank, and of course, Grand Benjamin, which was what her dad used to call Big Ben, just to be different.
Her view was a pearl. A hidden something right there in plain sight. A breathtaking, ever-changing vista that she had marvelled at every day of her life since she had been tall enough to stand and look out over it.
Clodagh screwed up her face.
‘Your music is . . .’
‘Beautiful, isn’t it! I can almost smell the sea, can feel the motion of the waves!’ Lilly closed her eyes and waltzed to the tap with the kettle held aloft, conducting the invisible orchestra with her free hand.
‘I was going to say “very loud”.’
‘Oh!’ Lilly laughed and picked up the remote control, lowering the volume. ‘Aren’t remote controls the most magnificent of inventions!’
‘I guess.’ Clodagh took a seat at the table and removed the white corduroy scrunchie from her slender wrist, winding it into her thick blonde hair to form a pineapple on top of her head, revealing a band of dark-brown roots.
‘Back in the day, we used to have to jump up from the sofa to turn over the channel or lower or raise the volume, and the idea of controlling music that was playing in another room – this would have been seen as witchcraft or magic, depending on your view.’
‘I can think of better inventions.’ Clodagh smiled.
‘Name me three,’ Lilly suggested as she took the handmade pottery mugs from the shelf and popped teabags into them.
‘Defibrillators.’
‘Oh God, please let’s not go down the medical and worthy route. I can imagine your other two, dialysis and chemotherapy?’
‘Good shout, yes.’ The young woman pointed at her.
‘No, Clodagh, no! We all know they are the best things, along with transplants, drugs, anaesthesia, and the concept of washing hands pre- and post-surgery, of course we do! I’m talking about the frivolous things, the marvellous, everyday things like an egg slicer – all that time we save by just popping the little boiled thing into a plastic recess and pushing down the cage-like lid instead of having to chop, chop, chop with a bloody knife – wonderful!
Or . . . or . . . headtorches! The headtorch, what a thing!
I can now walk along a darkened pavement, cross a river or run from the law with my hands free! ’
‘I don’t have a headtorch.’ Clodagh yawned, something Lilly noticed she did a lot, understanding that looking after a live wire like Apollo, while working part-time and studying for her degree, all without help, must be a lot.
‘Well, let’s hope you never need to run from the law with your hands free.’
‘I’m more likely to encounter a darkened pavement when I head to the bins.’
‘Dull but true. I shall order you one from .’ Lilly poured the hot water and agitated the bags with a spoon.
‘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 that I was 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, who wore 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!’