Present day
Alfie’s betrayal had cut her deep. As disappointed as she was angry, it took all of her strength to paint on a smile and walk Apollo to school.
It was alarming, the thought that this routine might well be on a countdown, coming to an end, and the thought of the quiet mornings that would follow, wherever it was she might be waking up.
She shivered. Where the hell was she supposed to go if they took her home?
It wasn’t a case of money – she was in a most fortunate position, as Glenda liked to remind her; she had means – but what did that matter when there was absolutely nowhere else she wanted to be?
It was beginning to feel like the most likely outcome, having to move, and the thought terrified her.
Maybe she should get back in contact with Jake the journalist and let him write his aggressive copy, maybe she should stage a protest, or .
. . or write to the prime minister! Maybe all three.
Stopping on the pavement, she bent down to Apollo’s level as he handed her the stick of the day, which now required no instruction when he entrusted it to her for safekeeping.
There was a healthy pile of them, all shapes and sizes, in her hallway; Clodagh had apologised for the accumulating clutter.
Lilly had felt it important to point out that it wasn’t clutter, but treasure.
Big difference.
There was a brass-hinged wooden box in the cupboard, along with her dad’s precious things.
His violin, annotated sheet music in a battered leather case, his medals, wedding ring, birth certificate, death certificate, a couple of old photographs of him as a child and one of him and her mum on their wedding day.
Jeannie had looked lovely in a sharp-cut, pale-grey suit with a pencil skirt and a pillbox hat, and her dad looked skinny and tanned inside his uniform, fresh back from fighting in Italy.
From her mum’s hand dangled a silver horseshoe on a white ribbon, and her bouquet was a small posy of spring flowers, pretty.
Lilly hated to look at the picture, not only saddened by the reminder of how young they had been and how quickly they’d got old, but also by the look of hope and excitement on their faces as they took vows that for her mother, at least, were no more than lies.
It felt cruel almost, and uncomfortable, to see the image with the knowledge of how things had unfolded making a mockery of the whole event.
Inside the wooden box was her very own treasure, a brittle tissue folded with a smudge of red, red lipstick in the middle of it, and objects she and her dad had scavenged from the soft silt of the riverbank at low tide while mudlarking.
Each item they had found and washed gave them both the biggest thrill!
Three old clay pipes, various horse teeth, buttons, buckles, shards of pottery and their very best find – an old coin.
‘When was it proper money?’ she’d asked her dad’s friend, Malcolm Tenterdon of the local historical society, never forgetting the way his eyes had shone!
‘It’s not one of the rarer ones, but it’s old, Lilly-Bob, and this symbol’ – he pointed at the wreath – ‘in my opinion, makes it Roman.’
‘What does it mean?’ she’d asked, a little confused by the absolute delight displayed by the men, who drew breath and chuckled their delight.
‘It means everything,’ Malcolm had whispered.
‘You have the history of London, of this river, right there in the palm of your hand . . .’ Her dad had looked close to tears.
Yes, it was important to know the difference between clutter and treasure.
‘Have a great day, Apollo. Make good choices, eat all your lunch, have fun!’
‘Do you think my dad might come and pick me up from school?’ he asked with a hopeful anticipation that was galling to hear.
‘I don’t know, little one! But someone will be here, like always. Just concentrate on having a lovely time. See you later.’
Keen to change the subject, she waved until he was safely inside the building and in the hands of his teacher, who waved back.
She doubted very much that Sab would be picking him up from school any time soon.
Clodagh still hadn’t heard from him, not that she was surprised.
It was his MO apparently, overtly and publicly tearful over what he couldn’t have, like a foot-stamping toddler, but entirely unreliable when making a commitment of any kind.
A man-child. Sabre-rattling at its best, but to see how much it had unnerved the young woman, a fantastic, hard-working mum who deserved so much more, was hard.
It was a beautiful blue-sky day and Lilly, having written her letter to the prime minister and left a message for Call Me Jake the journalist, decided to set up her easel when she got home, in the mood to paint the river.
It was almost impossible to imagine that her days and nights at Waide House, too, were on a timer.
Far easier not to think of it, not to let the dagger of loss pierce her breast every minute of every day.
She would pack up, when she had to, make a final plan, when she had to, but today, she would paint!
Having waved, as was customary, to the other side, Lilly now sat on her camping stool, closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the rush of feel-good thoughts swirling in her head at the prospect of her morning by the river as she made broad brushstrokes on the canvas.
Countless were the days she had sat here in the exact same spot doing the exact same thing, and yet now she knew it was coming to an end the whole exercise took on a new poignancy.
As with anything that was diminishing, it felt important to take it all in, appreciate every fine detail, commit it to memory.
The last cup of tea with her dad, the last time she saw Wilkie, the last meal her mum cooked them when they were a family, Bertie’s last day in the gallery .
. . all of these and much more, catalogued and captured in perfect detail, giving them the importance they deserved.
She had meant it when she said to the charlatan Mr Portland that she liked to visit the past.
A breeze lifted her hair and her spirits as she let the morning sun warm her face.
It was as she turned her head, looking up towards Grand Benjamin, that she spied him on the path before he came into full view, his height and auburn hair a giveaway.
Her stomach folded in advance of the inevitable interaction.
What she wanted to do was stand up and rage at the man, throw her jar of water over him, but of course she wouldn’t because he was young, only doing a job, and she wasn’t that kind of person.
It was beyond irritating, however, how his mere presence could put a nail in the wheel of her lovely morning.
‘Miss Cooper.’ He spoke as he approached. His manner was slow, hesitant and wary, as it should be.
‘Go away, Mr Vaughan,’ she groaned, denying him the courtesy of eye contact.
‘I . . . I wanted to come and see you and explain.’
‘What is it with you people?’ She turned to face him, allowing him to gauge the full weight of her disappointment.
‘You and your snake of a boss, do you not understand that I don’t want to hear your explanations?
I want nothing to do with you, either of you, and I deeply regret allowing you to step over my threshold and making you tea.
There is no explaining to be done. The situation is quite clear to me, and I want no part of it, and I will still, even if the tide is against me, cling on until the last!
I’m not beaten yet, not quite. Now if you would be so kind, please leave me alone to enjoy my morning. ’
Much to her irritation, and knowing there was very little she could do, as it was, technically, a public thoroughfare, Joshua Vaughan sat on the small wall behind her. She sighed as loudly as she could without it being overly theatrical.
‘I don’t know what to say.’ His words were accompanied by his sigh.
‘Then do as my dad always said: If in doubt, say nothing. That would suit me just fine.’
He ignored her.
‘It’s all my fault. I told Alfie he could find you on the towpath that day. He said he wanted to talk to you face to face.’
‘Yes, to help me see sense – how lucky we women are to have men around to put us right on so many issues.’ Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on him, as a brief glance at his face that flushed red confirmed.
‘The next thing I know you’re out on a date.’
‘It was not a date.’ She felt the urgent need to clarify, to regain a little of her dignity in the face of her humiliation. ‘It was categorically not a date! It was a nasty and calculated ambush.’
‘He’s not a bad person.’
‘Just a dishonest one,’ she countered. ‘Lying through omission is the worst.’
‘He’s my mum’s brother.’
‘What?’ She screwed her face up at him.
‘I know what you mean about lying through omission, and so I thought I should say: Alfie is my uncle. My mum used to be Rita Portland, then she married my dad and became Rita Vaughan. I’m the youngest.’
‘Oh, well, that figures! A family affair, how delightful.’ There it was again, that sarcasm.
‘Everything is messed up.’ Joshua ran his fingers through his hair.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I am quite confident, even though it causes me great pain to admit it, that despite my plans to resist, you will still get your grubby mitts on my property and all that lovely profit.
I’m coming to realise that I am just an old woman with no voice.
It’s a terrible feeling to be so ignored.
Galling that people think I can be appeased with the odd letter and suggestions of how I might go forward, even the mention of money, as if I am no more than a problem to be solved, a bill to be settled, an irritation, and not a person with a whole life!
’ She hadn’t meant to rant, but there we go.
‘I didn’t mean that. I meant Clodagh, Miss Newman. We were getting on really well. And now . . .’