1962 – aged 6 #2
He used to say this often. She’d nod, wanting to show she was listening, but never really understanding how this might be valuable advice for her.
Her mum made her bed, she had no shirt to iron, no chin to shave, and as for her shoes – she was more often than not in navy Mary Janes, and the need to polish them was, thankfully, minimal.
His cigarette dangled from his bottom lip as he worked; the smoke rose and covered his face in a grey, misty veil through which he had to squint.
His shirtsleeves were, as ever, rolled neatly and evenly above his elbows, his top button undone, white vest peeking from underneath.
Burgundy braces sat snugly over his skinny shoulders, and his hair moved as he worked, shaking free of its Brylcreem bonds and falling in a curtain over his forehead.
Her dad was a distinct combination of smells and movements that meant she could identify him by sound and scent alone, even with her eyes closed.
She didn’t like that he had bad dreams, and thumped about in the night, didn’t like that anyone did, but especially her dad.
‘Now, this big old river, right here in front of our flat—’
‘The Thames!’ She shouted her interruption; it always felt good when she knew something, and she delighted in sharing it with him.
‘That’s right, the Thames.’ He beamed. ‘People might think it’s just a body of water, but it’s so much more than that, she’s the beating heart of London.
The reason for London! The Romans established the city and called it Londinium, and they built the first wooden bridge over the river, can you imagine?
How clever was that, with so few of the tools and machines that we take for granted? ’
‘My teacher says all rivers start as a trickle, and if they are lucky, they become this huge river! Even the Nile, just a tiny trickle!’ She threw her arms wide open, entirely in awe of this fact.
Who could envisage such a thing: a trickle that after a while was able to support huge boats and had bridges over it and people living on the edge of it! It was miraculous!
‘That’s right. Just a trickle, and how lucky are we that a tiny trickle became this silver ribbon that winds its way through our city.
Old Mother Thames. And if ever you get lost, Lilly-Bob, just make your way to the river, find Grand Benjamin or any of the landmarks that you know, follow it along, and eventually you’ll find your way home.
She’ll always help you, she’ll bring you here – all the way home. ’
‘Tea’s ready!’ Her mum’s voice carried through the flat and found them by the window, interrupting the moment, but with good reason.
Tea was tea and needed to be eaten when it was hot.
That was the rule. If the tea went cold, her mum would stare flatly at them both, as if they had let her down, sometimes brandishing her fork, as if at her wits’ end, as if it mattered far more than it did.
As if she had something else on her mind, something else to worry about.
‘I don’t spend half my life peeling potatoes, cooking meat, boiling veg and whipping up sponges only for you two to pitch up late and leave it ruined. Bloody selfish is what that is!’
She’d then push her chair away from the table and go for a lie-down, abandoning the congealing plates of food and leaving Lilly-Bob and her dad at the square table, her without an ounce of appetite on her tongue and a feeling of guilt in the base of her stomach.
It wasn’t Lilly-Bob’s fault they had become engrossed in a map, or her dad hadn’t stopped reading to her, or that they’d been staring at the water through the window, convinced they’d seen the scary head of a leviathan briefly pop up in a swell, waiting to see if it might re-emerge.
But it always felt like her fault, all of it, and she nearly always cried.
Her dad would cup his hand over hers and say, ‘Mum’s tired. I’ll go take her a cup of tea.’
She wanted to understand, figuring it must be exhausting, all that peeling, cooking, boiling and whipping.
Sniffing up her tears, she would watch as he boiled the kettle, filled the teapot, wiped the cup and saucer and poured the brew that seemed to fix just about everything, winking at her as if to say, everything’s all right, before walking slowly to their bedroom and shutting the door behind him.
Shutting her out or shutting them in, she was never quite sure.
The end result was just the same.
Lilly would sit quietly then, staring at food that no matter how vibrant it might have started out always seemed a little grey when cooled.
Forcing fried eggs, minced meat, boiled spuds, soft carrots, chips, tinned peas, smoked haddock, mash, suet pudding, tinned peaches and the other meals from her mother’s limited menu down her throat.
Sometimes her parents would re-emerge quickly, both smiling as if nothing was amiss, instantly igniting a flame of happiness and relief inside her.
Sometimes they’d come out of the room and her dad’s eyes were red, like he’d been crying. But that could not be true, it wasn’t possible, because dads did not cry!
Other times they’d be silent, and she’d sit long after she’d finished eating and the flat had turned dark, before accepting they were not coming back to the table any time soon.
At those times, she’d put her empty plate in the sink, quietly push her chair in and go to bed, where she’d lie, listening, hoping for the sound of music, her dad’s violin or his familiar whistle.
Usually she heard nothing until the morning, when she’d find him in the bathroom, shaving at the sink in his vest and trousers, braces hanging down over his hips.
Her mum would be in the kitchen, humming along as eggs boiled, to the radio playing ‘Love Me Do’, her hair set, mascara thick, red, red lipstick applied in a double coat, and a smile that was wide and forgiving, confirming her dad’s wink that everything was indeed all right.
‘Your tea’s ready!’ her mum called again. Her dad put the shoe and brush down and they moved comically quickly, as if racing. Her tummy rumbled with hunger and her mouth watered at the prospect of corned beef hash with baked beans, one of her favourites.
‘How was your day, darling?’ her dad asked his wife. He always calling her darling, never Jean or Jeannie or dearest. She was his darling.
‘Good!’ Her mum giggled. ‘Very good, in fact!’
‘Oh?’ He beamed. ‘Did you lose a farthing and find a sixpence?’
‘Nope.’ Her mum picked up her cutlery but held them still as she took a deep breath. ‘I went for a lovely walk, a long one.’
‘Careful, you’ll be joining me on a ramble next!’ He pulled a face, his eyes shining with love.
‘It was definitely not a ramble, more of a stroll.’ Jeannie Cooper took a dainty forkful of beans and put them in her mouth.
‘Where did you walk, Mummy?’
Lilly-Bob was curious, hoping her mum might have interesting tales of her adventures, like her dad did of his, which were too numerous to recount.
Her favourites, however, were probably the curious cow who had once snaffled a sandwich right out of his hands, an exploding bottle of pop that scared a flock of sparrows, an unfortunate mix-up with a map on a foggy day that meant he ended up almost back where he had started, and an alarming encounter with a scarecrow at dusk that had made him scream like Great-aunt Winnifred when she found a mouse in the tea caddy.
‘Where did I walk?’ her mum repeated, staring at Lilly-Bob as if she had momentarily forgotten she was there, as if roused from a daydream. ‘Where did I walk . . .’ She took a long, slow breath. ‘I walked up and down the Tottenham Court Road.’ She smiled and took another small mouthful of beans.