Present day
‘What are you painting?’ The man was a Londoner like her, his interruption an irritation. She did her best to find a positive tone, aware that he was only being curious, friendly, and had not deliberately set out to spoil her day. At least she hoped not.
‘The water, the . . . the river.’ Using her paintbrush, she pointed in the general direction.
‘It’s a nice spot.’
‘Yes, that’s why I’m here again!’ She clicked her tongue against her teeth.
‘Again?’
‘Yes. I paint here often, more than often, and have painted this scene more times than I care to admit.’
‘Really, how extraordinary! How many times have you—’
‘Hundreds and hundreds. And hundreds.’ She cut him short.
‘The same picture, same stretch of the river, every time?’ he asked with a rise of disbelief.
‘Every time.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ she asked with her face screwed up, nose wrinkled, an expression that said more than her words ever could, as if he were an idiot for asking, not her the idiot for repeating her composition over and over.
‘Yes, why? I mean, there’s so much to see along here.’ He pointed to the right, where the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben and Westminster Bridge sat beyond Lambeth Bridge.
‘You’re right, there is lots to see. Maybe I’ll switch it up when I’ve captured this correctly.’ Again using her slender brush as a pointer, she tapped the canvas, hoping her comment might be enough to satisfy him, to send him on his way.
‘What is it you’re trying to capture, exactly, that means you need to keep repeating the process? If you don’t mind me asking. I find it fascinating!’ It seemed the man had a lot of questions that rather forced her engagement.
She looked at him now. He was older, tall, stocky, with an air of confidence that she suspected came with the wearing of his sharp-cut suit that reeked of Savile Row.
His brogues were shiny, his hair expensively trimmed, his shave thorough and his watch a weighty bauble beyond the edge of his pale-pink double cuff, as if it were important to let it be seen.
The barrow-boy-made-good-in-the-City look.
How to explain, where to begin? Phrases and words she knew she’d never share formed in her mind. She tucked her lips inward to stop any of them from escaping.
I started painting to try and please my dad, I guess.
Then I wanted to capture my life here with my mum, because even if she was gone, the river was just the same, then it was life with my dad.
Then it was him . . . him, Wilkie. The day he sat on the wall, the way the light fell on the water, casting sea diamonds over the surface that were so beautiful I thought about diving in and scooping them into my hands and keeping them in my pocket for ever.
The way the sun held him in shadow yet sent tiny flickers of gold to rest on his curls, the colours of his T-shirt, the buckle of his satchel.
The one or two boats that ambled, part of our story, as if they, too, were caught up in the slow and heady delight of happiness and possibility that filled the air with its sweet summer scent.
The misty smudge of joy all around us as if we were the only things distinct – as if the day, the scene, the moment, was ours and ours alone and we were oblivious to everything and everyone and they to us.
Trying to capture the magic. The magic of having him close to me and looking at me and knowing that it was our beginning and that we were going to matter to each other.
Those seconds as he sat and I stared at him under the guise of taking in the background, preparing my sketch, aware our lives would change, that I would be changed, the very shape of me, the very fabric of me and all that I believed was possible . . .
‘Just trying to get it right.’ She shrugged. This felt safer, easier.
‘Each to their own, I guess.’ He sniffed.
‘Urgh! I hate that phrase so much!’ Her tone was reflective of the rise in her heartbeat at the thought of that day, of him . . .
‘So it would seem. Sorry if I’ve offended you!’ He laughed then, suggesting he wasn’t sorry at all.
‘I can’t help it! But – each to their own .
. . It’s purporting to be supportive, liberal, open-minded, accepting, but it’s anything but!
It’s actually saying, I don’t get why! I’m judging you, even though I make out I’m not!
It’s not for me, but you go ahead, even if, in my humble opinion, you’re wrong! ’
‘Goodness, you got all of that from each to their own?’ He laughed again, a nice laugh, his blue eyes crinkling as he did so.
‘Yes. Yes, I did. It’s not so much what they say but how they say it!’
He stared at her now, seeming to take her in. She didn’t look away, holding her own, as irritated by the man as she was attracted to him. Drawn by his handsome face, confident air and his obvious interest in her.
‘Are there any other phrases that make you similarly angry?’ He was toying with her, no doubt, and she let him. It was playful, flattering, nice.
‘There are, actually.’
‘Well, let’s hear them!’
Lilly drew breath. ‘Cheer up, it might never happen! That pisses me off more than I can say. How dare someone, usually a man, often in a hard hat, demand a different reaction from me that might suit him better! And how does he or anyone else know what I’m going through, or what might warrant such a sober face or sad expression.
As if I have to be pretty or pleasing for him! ’
‘Yep, I get that.’ He nodded.
‘Oh, and . . . and I knew that was going to happen! When something goes wrong, gets broken, or worse. When what you really need in that moment is support, kindness, help. That self-gratifying reflection drives me crackers! And it’s a lie, because they didn’t!
They categorically did not know it was going to happen – they might have suspected it, predicted it, wished for it even, but they did not know it was going to happen! They should just shut up!’
‘I see.’ He swallowed.
‘And—’
‘There’s more?’ he asked with a wide-mouthed look of horror.
‘Yes, a couple. You did ask.’ It felt good, letting the frustration of all she was going through over Waide House flow from her mouth.
‘True, I did. Carry on!’ He folded his arms across his wide chest as if settling in.
‘It’ll all turn out okay in the end! Just grrrr!
’ She actually growled. ‘Isn’t that the biggest pile of rubbish ever?
It might not turn out okay in the end! It might turn out horribly, painfully, disappointingly, people might die, in fact people will die, everyone does!
It will not all turn out okay in the end!
And why does anyone think I might need to hear that? What am I, six?’
‘I can see I’ve touched a nerve.’
‘Again, you did ask.’ She took deep breaths to regulate her heart, which was racing.
‘To be honest, I’m kind of wishing I hadn’t.’ He, too, took a deep breath. ‘Would you like to go for a drink?’
‘What?’ She had heard but, as a seventy-year-old woman who had shown him her less-than-smiley side, was sure she must have heard incorrectly.
‘I said would you like to go for a drink?’
‘What, as in . . .’
‘A drink, with me. Hot or cold, coffee or wine, I’m open to both.’ He unfolded his arms and put his hands in his pockets, suggesting the vaguest hint of nerves, which was endearing.
No one remembers the meek, Bob! Be bold! Be open!
This was certainly a novelty, and a lovely distraction from her battle over the flat, worrying about Clodagh, and the other tiny pigeon pecks of irritation and concern that had left their mark.
‘Are you married?’ She was direct. At seventy she’d figured out the value in it and could not cope with anything that wasn’t entirely straightforward.
‘Not any more. Divorced for a while now. Two daughters, both married. Five grandchildren. Oh, about to be six, actually! My youngest is pregnant and due in a few months – all girls so far! They will be the death of me.’ He tried to pull a face of disdain, but his eyes beamed with something that looked a lot like love.
‘A Londoner, born and raised in East Ham, made my fortune, moved out to Essex, where I have a farm. Virgo, pescatarian, likes sea air, country walks, swimming, reading the papers on a Sunday, and music – can’t imagine my life without music.
Hate food waste, airs and graces, rudeness, inconsiderate drivers and the tiny little strips of plastic with a tiny arrow thing on the end they put under the lid of milk bottles and orange juice, which I can’t grip because of my inept fingers and cause me no end of frustration.
I have an unfounded fear of quicksand, which I thought was going to feature far more in my adult life than it actually has, and littering. Drives me crackers.’
‘What music do you like?’ This was the thing that had caught her attention.
He exhaled and looked into the middle distance.
‘Everything from The Rolling Stones to Beethoven. When you’ve lived a good, long life, you collect music, don’t you think?
I love songs that remind me of certain days, particular people, life-changing moments both good and bad.
You reach a certain age and understand that you’ve curated your own soundtrack. ’
She smiled then, so powerfully reminded of her dad and the soundtrack of his life that played regularly in her head.
‘Cold.’ She nodded.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You said hot or cold. I’d prefer cold, the drink.’
‘Well, that’s great!’ He clapped his palms together, his face smiling.
‘I’m Lilly, by the way.’
‘And I’m Alfred. Alfie.’
‘When would you like to go for our cold drink, Alfie?’ She tested his name out loud. It sounded nice. He seemed nice.
‘I say no time like the present, unless that’s a phrase that bothers you?’ he asked with mock caution.
‘No, I rather like that one. It’s go-getting and purposeful, both things I greatly admire.’
‘In that case, I think we are going to get on splendidly.’
She began to pack away her easel and painting paraphernalia, wondering what Glenda would make of her rather rash decision to go and have a drink with a complete stranger!
. . . women can’t afford to be so forward, not without being seen in the wrong light . . .
This memory she scrubbed from her thoughts, and she smiled at Alfie, a pescatarian who had made a fortune and lived on a farm.
Apparently.