Present day #2
It was curious, jarring, these things in her home that she hadn’t seen before, hidden almost, for how long she wasn’t sure.
It was with apprehension and interest that she studied the stamps, which all bore the Queen’s head and were postmarked Camden.
The first letter she pulled from the envelope was only two sides in length.
It had yellowed where it had been folded and was dated September 1967.
She did the quick maths: she would have been twelve.
Her heart raced as her eyes scanned the script.
Dear Robert,
Thank you for your letter.
Lilly looked up, wondering what her dad might have written to her mum, and how often he wrote.
It was an odd concept – she couldn’t imagine her dad sitting down and writing to Jeannie at the address she shared with another man – yet it was also strangely reassuring.
She had always assumed there was zero communication between her parents, as she hadn’t witnessed any.
She could only hope that any contact made him feel less lonely, gave him some kind of closure.
I can only agree with you that to leave my family, my home, is unfathomable and yet that is what I have done.
Your mother called me selfish, criminal and some other less than savoury things, which I won’t write here, and maybe she’s right, maybe I am selfish, criminal even, but if I’d stayed I would have disappeared. I know it. I would have disappeared.
I don’t blame you, Robert, I’ve never blamed you, but I have been angry for the longest time at how you seem content not to address the demons that have lived with us in our marriage.
I tried, I tried so hard, for you, for Lilly-Bob, for us, but I can’t try any more. I am exhausted, beaten by the battle.
You’re not a bad man, Robert, but neither are you the only one to have had the most terrible war, seeing things no man should see, hearing things no man should hear and then back in Blighty, expected to put it all behind you, to buckle up and carry on, having to live a smiling, normal life as if horror does not lurk behind your eyelids as you sleep.
Lilly paused as the breath caught in her throat, winded by the words, so raw and open.
She looked out of the window, seeking the comfort of blue sky and breathing slowly as her heart lurched for all her lovely dad had quietly endured.
All her mum had quietly endured; it occurred to her then that her mother might have hinted at such things years back, at her dad’s funeral, but Lilly had been too distracted to give it proper credence, thinking her mum was speaking of her irritation, as if trying to justify her leaving, but to see the words written down in the cold light of day .
. . How she wished they had opened up to her, both of them.
She read on, one hand clamped over her mouth.
Your nightmares, insomnia and the fortress you have built around your emotions have kept me locked out. I’ve never felt such loneliness, such despair, to see the man I love suffer and yet not let me in, not let me get close to you.
I know it’s different with Lilly-Bob. I can see how at ease you are with her and it’s beautiful. But I’m withering, Robert. I’m growing smaller and quieter and sometimes I fear I may look in the mirror and find I’ve disappeared altogether.
I have taken nothing. It’s important that Lilly’s home is intact, important she has the stability of a life with you.
But I don’t know where I fit into that little life, and I want more.
No, I need more, for my sanity, for my health.
And I think I deserve more, and one day, I hope for happiness.
I am not sure true happiness is possible without seeing Lilly-Bob every day.
She is my heart, my whole heart, and the pain I feel at not seeing her is indescribable.
I can be sick just thinking about it. I love her. I love her so, so much.
But I know to take her might finish you off altogether. I understand that bond you share. She adores you and I couldn’t do it to either of you, knowing neither of you would ever forgive me. This feels simpler, although there’s nothing simple about it.
But I must insist that I have access, I must see her often – anything less would kill Me, finish me off! I must see her, Robert. She can have a room here, spend some time with me, talk to me. I need that – she is my daughter, my only child, and she will need that too.
I hope in time you will understand, nearly as much as I hope you find a way to stop whistling, to stop hiding behind a smile and a tune, because you deserve more too.
with love, Robert,
sincerely with love,
Jeannie.
Lilly felt her body slump against the wall, as if winded; the words had punched her squarely in the stomach.
‘I did need that! To spend time with you, to talk to you, I did need that, Mum!’
Instantly her mind fled to that first visit to the flat her mum had shared with Derek Manners on the Tottenham Court Road, could see her mum crying while smiling behind her tears.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘What would you like, love?’
‘Err . . . to go back to my dad?’
‘I’m sorry, Mum!’ she wailed now into the ether. ‘I am so sorry!’
She’d had no idea that her mum wanted to see her!
No idea that the thought of not seeing her was something Jeannie feared might kill her!
Lilly felt the tightly packed shame of rejection leach from her bones, felt the fractures of abandonment start to knit back together at no more than the fact that her mother had wanted her – she had wanted her!
Quickly she opened the next letter, handling the paper with less reverence than the first, devouring the words, wanting to better her understanding, desperate to know more, no matter how much it hurt.
Dear Robert . . .
. . . you are right. You are right. It wasn’t what I hoped it would be.
She didn’t want to be here. But don’t think I will give up, I won’t!
There are times in your life when you instinctively know that something has run its course and it’s time to walk away, because that is the best thing to do for a million reasons, it’s how we progress, but that will never be the case with Lilly-Bob. Never! I will keep trying . . .
‘She loved me.’ The words were whispered from a mouth that trembled. ‘She loved me!’
Her whole body folded at the most longed-for sentiment so simply expressed by her mum.
It was a lot to process, but certainly it threw light on the desperate loneliness Jeannie must have felt and the sacrifice she had made for her husband.
Lilly knew her mum’s assumption was correct, to have taken Lilly might just have finished him off.
The reasons why her dad had kept them apart, hadn’t encouraged her to see her mum or shared with her just how Jeannie felt about leaving Lilly behind, was something she would have to try and pick apart, unsure in this moment if his motivation was protection or revenge.
She would never know for sure, could never know for sure.
And did it really matter why? It hurt just the same.
PTSD, that was the trauma response her dad had done his best to hide from her, a trauma that had caused his marriage to implode. It was like solving a puzzle, as small fragments of memory dropped into place to help form a complete picture.
‘Robert . . . Robert! . . . Robert!’ Her mum banging a saucepan with a spoon to get his attention, after calling and calling and calling, and him practically jumping in the chair as if he had been miles and miles away .
. . His bad dreams that caused him to shout out in the night and the lingering tension on the days that followed .
. . His constant need to whistle or play music, as if afraid to be left alone with his thoughts, and a million other small indicators that now, in light of her realisation, made so much sense.
‘What a bloody mess!’ She rubbed her hand over her face.
Flicking through the other letters revealed much of the same. Her mum making pleas for Robert to get help, and then a line that caused her to put the paper close to her face so that she could read and re-read it.
She only told you she Thought she was being watched while she was painting, not that she actually saw me.
I promise I’m very discreet. I stand between the flats opposite, in the shadow.
There’s an alleyway. No one knows I’m there.
The last thing I want to do is alarm her, but please, please, I am begging you, do not stop me from coming to watch her.
The idea of not seeing her . . . I can’t do it! I won’t!
Lilly brought the paper to her face and rested it against her cheek.
‘I felt you there. I knew someone was watching me, Mum! I always knew it. I just wish I’d known it was you.’
Lilly stood on the pavement, staring at the uninspiring 1970s building with a wood-cladding front, once pale green, but the paint had peeled and now hung in thin strips to reveal bare dark timber.
The windows were wide, white and plastic with locks on them, and the roof was flat.
The front door, housing two large panes of safety glass, was reached via a shallow, ugly concrete ramp with two sturdy rails on either side.
The kind of thing that was built for practicality without any consideration of aesthetics.
Lilly understood why. She let out a long, slow breath, trying to calm her pulse before pressing the button on the entry system, and waited until a tinny, slightly harassed voice came over the intercom.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes, please, my name is Lilly Cooper. I called yesterday, about coming to visit . . .’
Without any further interaction, a buzzer sounded.
This was it; too late to back out. She pushed on the metal door plate that revealed a thousand smudged fingerprints, and it opened.
The place carried the potent and unappetising odour of urine and cabbage, putting her in mind of every horrid municipal facility she had ever imagined.