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 shouting Yes!
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.
‘Are you okay, Dad?’ she asked softly, and just like that the sense of foreboding returned.
‘Huh?’ He looked up, eyes widening, as if only just noticing her, as if he had been so engrossed in whatever occupied him that the sight of her was a complete surprise.
Realising he was in no mood for laughter, she pulled the sleeve of her jersey over her thumb and used the woolly cuff to wipe away her milk moustache, which suddenly felt far from funny.
‘I said, “are you okay?”, where’s Mum?’ The two questions were strung together.
The clock was marching towards five, and that was when they ate their tea and there was no sign of any food prep in progress.
No sulphureous scent of cabbage boiling, no sound of sausages spitting under the grill, no hiss of eggs hitting the fat of a skillet, no smell of bacon that clung to her hair and clothes, no mouthwatering waft of vanilla as a soft sponge domed inside the oven.
There was only the barely audible beat echoing from the transistor on the tiled windowsill, as Jimmy Ruffin now sang ‘What Becomes of the Brokenhearted’ .
. . a beautiful ballad that would loop in her head all evening, no doubt.
What was missing was her mum as she stood with her arms in suds or brandishing a spatula or spoon.
Everything was still. Disconcertingly so.
Lilly felt the smallest flicker of concern. Tea was at five, always. Her body anticipated it, her mind looked forward to it. She hated the thought of being hungry.
‘Sit down, Lilly.’ Her dad leaned over and pulled out the chair to his right, even though she was entirely capable of doing so.
She sat.
‘Erm . . .’ He opened his mouth. There was the longest pause, which allowed her heart rate to increase and her worry to flare. His lips sounded sticky, as if he’d lost his spit.
‘Erm . . .’ That word of indecision again. This was not what she wanted, indecision, dithering, and dramatic pauses, not from her dad. He was the person with his hands gripping the reins, he was the one who steered the ship, and if he was floundering . . .
‘What is it, Dad?’ she prompted, as her leg jumped up and down under the table with a potent mixture of concern and impatience.
‘Mum has moved out.’
Lilly-Bob laughed out loud. A sharp burst of giggles that disappeared as quickly as they’d arrived.
It was funny because mums didn’t move out.
Mums made the bed, cooked the tea, sang along to Jimmy Ruffin, and danced with your dad when the mood was right.
They knew where to find things in jumbled drawers and the dark confines of cupboards, they knitted you jumpers by the electric fire of a winter’s night, they brushed your hair when it was ratty, they ran your bath and warmed a towel for you by the fire.
They told you that you looked pretty when you wore a frock, they showed you how to put on two coats of lipstick, and they gave you a leaflet about menstruation on your eleventh birthday, ‘just in case’.
They made you a birthday cake and covered the top with sprinkles and tiny pink, twisty candles bought from Woolworths that melted in drips quicker than everyone could sing or you could blow them out.
Mums made sure you had your mittens in the cold and your sun hat in the warm.
They made you soup when you were poorly, dabbed calamine lotion when you got chicken pox, read to you from The Wind in the Willows, and let you rest your head on their shoulder and fall asleep on the bus.
What they didn’t do, not ever, was move out.
‘Where has she moved to?’ she asked in a voice that sounded echoey in her ears, watery, a ridiculous question for the most ridiculous of scenarios.
‘To a flat above a shop on the . . . the Tottenham Court Road,’ he stuttered and whispered.
‘How long has she gone for?’ she asked, trying to piece together the puzzle, to figure out how and why.
‘I don’t know, but I think’ – he sat up a little taller, even managed to find a fake, brief smile – ‘I think that if we assume it’s for ever then we won’t be disappointed. And if it turns out not to be the case, then we’ll be extra happy when she comes home.’
Lilly-Bob stared at him, waiting for the punchline that never came. It was at this moment that the spark reached the dynamite and her whole world exploded, falling about her in flaming fragments that she would, for a lifetime, try to gather and put back together.
Her mum had gone.
Gone!
Her mum!
The two of them sat at the table in silence, allowing the news to settle, each looking up briefly towards the washing-up sponge resting by the sink, the Marigolds paired, folded and hung over the taps, the frying pan on the stove, the sticking-out handle of the grill pan, the pinny on the back of the door, the compact mirror by the kettle, the peg bag hanging on the door handle; all these things her mum’s domain, her toolkit, carrying traces of her presence within this room, this kitchen .
. . Traces of a life that would, from now on, be changed, because deep in her heart, Lilly knew that her dad was right. It was for ever.
‘What’s for tea?’ she asked eventually, as if understanding that the hands of the clock weren’t going to stop just because Jeannie Cooper would be residing in a flat above a shop on the Tottenham Court Road.
It would soon be five o’clock, and that was when they ate their tea. Because life went on. It had to go on.
‘I don’t . . . I don’t know,’ he replied, as tears filled his eyes.
This was when she understood that dads did cry!
Although she wished they didn’t. And a moment she knew she would never forget and never forgive.
The sight of his tears, falling quickly over his ruddy cheeks and chin, quicker than he could swipe at them, his eyes brimming and spilling as if he were filled right up with tears.
It was odd and unnerving to feel the flare of something close to hatred towards her mum, who she loved.
Knowing she would never forget the sight of him so broken and never forgive the one who had made him cry.
Her mum, who had moved out. Her mum, who would not be there to tuck her in and say goodnight.
She was glad, then, of the lipstick kiss that sat on a tissue, folded over and nestling in her bedside cabinet drawer.
A goodnight kiss captured that she could press on to her cheek, not as good as the real thing, not nearly as good, but it was something.
Despite the growing feeling of resentment towards the woman, it was conflicting, as Jeannie was still her mummy.
And she would miss her more than she was willing to admit.
Her dad laid his arm on the table and rested his head on it. His shoulders shook as he cried some more. It was as if he had already lost, no doubt making him feel a bit rotten. And Lilly understood that it was hard to come back from that.