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, bespoke one-two-one knock 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 sew together 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!’
Lilly was glad when they changed the subject, hating the way her cheeks flamed and her skin felt a little itchy with embarrassment.
It was when her mum jumped up from the table to grab her cigarettes from her handbag that Lilly took the tissue with the kiss and carefully folded it, before tucking it into her cardigan pocket.
Yes, her mum was great.
She just wasn’t her dad.
If her dad was the star, her mum was the support act.
It made Lilly feel happy, to be close to him, to have him smile only at her, as if she were his very best thing.
Waggling her foot in time to the beat, as The Drifters’ ‘Up on the Roof’ filled the room.
It was something that bewitched her, how a little circle of plastic could so change the atmosphere, make her happy, make everyone happy!
Simply by the lowering of the stylus on to the disc, listening to the crackle in anticipation and waiting for the music to change their lives.
And change their lives it did.
As the music played, their whole flat and the people in it were transformed, no longer living under the shadow of industry in Vauxhall, where a post-war boom saw ugly residential and commercial buildings springing up all around, but instead somewhere warm and sunny, living in a world of possibilities and laughter with nothing but good times ahead!
Her dad, like everyone else, sometimes had bad dreams, and on the days after a night disturbed by his calling out, the thumps and bumps that echoed through the wall as her mum calmed him, the atmosphere in the flat was always a bit tense.
Countless were the times she had witnessed her mum, a little surly, a little lost in thought, a little grumpy, bashing pans in the sink.
Squirting too much Fairy Liquid on to a plate, which was both wasteful and alarming, an indicator all was not well, before slamming kitchen cabinet doors in an act of defiance.
Her dad, similarly alerted, would sit up straight, and with his cigarette between his fingers lower the map, newspaper or book he was reading, and listen for a second or two to the clues that her mum’s mood might need pepping up.
He’d walk over to the record player, taking his time, as if choosing which song or tune was best for the job, trying to find the right lyrical combination to unlock his wife’s happiness.
Sometimes it was Chubby Checker, and he’d rush to the sink, grab her arm, and with her mum still in her frilly-edged pinny and rubber gloves, they’d do the Twist right there on the kitchen floor.
Other times it was Ella Fitzgerald’s ‘More Than You Know’, and he’d slowly pull her close, tucking her head under his chin as he smooched her around the hallway, the best floor for smooching apparently, allowing for a slight glide underfoot.
She didn’t like it so much when they smooched.
Not only did her very presence feel like an intrusion, but when they had finished dancing her mum always had two dark, inky-black streaks of mascara down her cheeks.
Lilly-Bob couldn’t understand how a dance so beautiful and gentle could make her mum cry, but it did.
When this happened, it made her feel helpless, made her feel like squirting too much Fairy Liquid and slamming the door of a kitchen cabinet.
Her favourite by far was when he chose Bill Haley & His Comets and she’d curl up on the sofa, with the beat jumping in her chest, watching her parents shake, rattle and roll their way around the apartment, jiving, according to her dad, in the way they had when they first met.
Moving quickly over the parquet flooring, her dad pulling her mum in close before twirling her away from him, like she was a spinning top.
Seamless moves that they executed perfectly, as if they’d practised a lot or as if it came naturally, so in sync were they.
Her mum’s skirt rising to reveal the lace hem of her petticoat as she spun, feet tapping, knees bopping, faces red from exhalation and wide grins that made them look younger.
Yes, this was without doubt her favourite.
Lilly trailed her fingers over the advertisements in the newspaper with which her dad had covered the tile-topped coffee table. An advert for ‘Van Heusen – the shirts with the Savile Row touch . . .’ and another for ‘Benson and Hedges – when only the best will do . . .’ Her dad smoked Player’s.
One of his hands was deep inside a tan brogue and in the other sat a soft-bristled wooden-backed brush which he used to work the polish on to the leather in circles, dabbed on the brush from its little round container that gave off a strong and distinct smell.
The shoe-polishing kit he kept in an old toffee tin under the sink, the lid of which had rust spots.
‘Shiny shoes are important. It’s all about standards, Lilly-Bob. A well-made bed. A clean-shaven chin. An ironed shirt, and shiny shoes. Standards!’