1973 – aged 18 #3
‘Come on, my lovely mate, let’s get you inside.
’ Glenda spoke with obvious emotion. It was as Lilly pulled away and caught the look between Glenda and her Norm that she felt a different kind of pull in her gut.
It was a twinge of envy, recognising the kind of love that would endure, the kind of connection that meant Norman was not going to hotfoot it up the motorway to York or lie to the woman he truly loved.
She was happy for them, no doubt, yet also felled by the sight of it.
She heard the car leave and, even though it was scary and unnerving to be alone in the stairwell without an arm to reach for, a hand to hold, a voice of gentle encouragement in her ear, it was also strangely galvanising. She had to do this, to present as normally as she could to her dad.
With her key in her hand, she hesitated, taking deep breaths and finding a smile.
‘Hel-loo!’ she called, doing her best to stem the tremor to her voice and smother the emotion that threatened.
She was home, finally home, and she had been through a lot.
The sound of Bread’s ‘It Don’t Matter to Me’ floated on the air.
It was easier to close her ears, block it out, knowing she had to dig deep, act fine, pretend, and could not let her emotions rise in time with the tempo and the mournful, beautiful, haunting lyrics.
‘Here she is!’ Her dad’s delighted response was enough to put a shard of glass through her lying heart, and to focus her.
‘Hello, my love!’ Clearly over the moon to see her, his enthusiasm dripped from every syllable.
‘Did you have a good time?’ He came at her quickly, in comparison to her movements and thoughts, both of which were slower than normal.
She lifted her arms, as was customary, and he wrapped her in a brief, agonising hug that seemed to make her whole body twist in a way that was painful.
Thankfully, post hug, he turned away and made his way to the kitchen.
‘Let’s get the kettle on and you can tell me all about it.
The weather’s been a bit ropey for you, I know, but I said to Mrs Devlin at rehearsal the other night, all the better for moody landscapes and rolling waves!
I wouldn’t mind having a go myself, trying to capture a dark, brooding sky over the big sea – fantastic!
What was your boarding house like? Glenda said on the phone you were having a nice time.
I bet it’s done you good, all that fresh air and big breakfasts!
It’s the secret to a good ramble, you know, a hearty breakfast – just the right fuel to keep you going! ’
He spoke cheerfully and without pause, glad no doubt to have someone to talk to, not a man who always liked the quiet of his own company.
‘Talking of breakfast, can I get you something to eat? I’ve got new bread and some fresh eggs in; I could rustle you up egg on toast?’ He turned to face her and stopped talking. ‘Are you okay? You look proper pale.’
She leaned on the wood-panelled wall and took a moment. ‘Do you know, Dad, I think I’m just exhausted. It’s been a long journey.’
‘Ah, ’course it has, and no doubt you’ve been burning the candle at both ends! Do you want to forfeit tea and have a nap? We can catch up when you’re ready.’
‘Do you mind?’ Her body sang with relief at the prospect of lying on her mattress.
‘’Course I don’t mind! You go make yourself comfy. If you need anything, just holler! I’ll be right here.’
‘I will, Dad.’ It was hard to meet his gaze; his words, concern and kindness only made her feel worse. She walked as normally as she was able across the square hallway.
‘You all right, Lilly? I’m a bit worried about you. You don’t seem yourself.’ His worry was etched at the top of his nose.
‘Women’s trouble, Dad.’
‘Ah, I see.’ He looked away.
It tasted foul on her tongue, the lies, all of it.
It was odd to find her room just as she had left it when everything about her was so changed.
Gingerly she lowered herself down on to the bed and bunched the pillow under her cheek, waiting for sleep.
She lay in her warm bed, knowing there was nowhere else she would rather be right now, with her daddy right there across the hallway, in case she needed anything.
The sound of the album Bread floated under her door.
She pictured Glenda and Norman, no doubt chit-chatting as they made their way to Enfield in his Cortina, and wondered what their future held: marriage, no doubt; kids, probably.
And here she was, listening to her dad whistling in the kitchen, lying on her childhood bed, knowing there would be no kids for her, not now, not ever.
Her tears came then, snaking their way over her nose and running across her lips as her hand sought out the padded gauze that covered the incision on her stomach, beginning to understand that this cut, this blood-crusted, roughly stapled line, would in part define her, setting her on a path that she had never thought she would walk.
No more babies, not for you . . .