1983 – aged 28 #2
‘Can we please drop the subject!’ With her emotions buried in the shallowest of emotional graves, she knew it wouldn’t take much for her to sob, which would only invite more questions from her dad that she knew she couldn’t answer.
Not without coming clean about aspects of her life she had kept secret for the longest time.
It was some small consolation that contact with her mother was only sporadic, meaning there weren’t two of them bombarding her with words of disappointment when it came to her new singledom. Jeannie had been delighted when they finally got a telephone installed.
‘It’s nice to be able to call whenever I want to hear your voice.
’ Nice for you, maybe . . . Lilly had kept this to herself.
‘And are you keen on this Rex? The last time I thought you might have met the one was when you met that boy, the one you called me about? It felt like a big deal.’ Her mother raised the topic out of the blue and it took Lilly right back to the desolation she had felt in the wake of Wilkie .
. . She wondered if the pain would ever cease entirely.
The comedown, the disappointment, the hurt and the raised bump of red vertical scar tissue that bisected her bikini line were constant reminders of what he had cost her.
‘It wasn’t a big deal,’ was her succinct response, rather than explaining that Wilkie’s truth and the actual truth were two very different things. ‘Actually, I’m just rushing out,’ she’d lied. ‘Did you want to speak to Dad or . . .’ Her tone of dismissal said far more than her words ever could.
‘No, no, that’s all right, I just . . .’
Her mother had floundered, and Lilly had done nothing to ease her agitation, letting the awkward moments of silence tick on. Listening to the irregular breathing, which smacked of discomfort, coming from the woman who had abandoned them. Thankfully, she called less and less now.
Lilly kissed her dad on the forehead and made her way down the stairs.
It was a topic that made her uncomfortable, knowing she wasn’t marriage material, something she had come to realise in the last decade, unable to trust fully, expecting everyone to run away eventually, just like her mother, just like Wilkie.
This, coupled with the fact that she could not give Rex the babies he and no doubt his parents expected, was why she’d had to set him free.
Her Raleigh Caprice step-through bicycle with front basket she kept chained just inside the front door of Waide House.
With her Walkman in her pocket, she slipped the headphones over her head and let the sound of Scritti Politti fill her ears.
Her commute was a pleasant one, especially on cold, wintry days like this when the sun shone on the river and Vauxhall Bridge was quiet.
Even the large, looming concrete structure of the Nine Elms Cold Store seemed to shine.
A lovely start to what she was certain was going to be a lovely day.
She was already looking forward to getting home and setting up her easel, knowing she’d find peace on the towpath.
The large khaki-coloured van was parked half on the pavement as she rounded the corner.
‘Sorry!’ she called as she came to a stop in front of the gallery and beamed her most apologetic smile at the driver, who looked only mildly irritated. ‘I got held up.’
‘It happens!’
She was grateful he was one of those drivers, a glass-half-full kinda guy who wasn’t going to get ruffled by having to wait for a few minutes. It was a surprise to find the gallery door already unlocked.
‘Hel-loo?’ she called into the dimly lit space; all the main lights were off.
Flicking on the switch, she was instantly aware of Bertie sitting at the desk.
It was usually a delight to hear his greeting of ‘Darling!’, to see his bright eyes, his tanned face, wide grin and his general air of mischievousness, but not today.
He’d lost a lot of weight and, with his head in his hands, hair uncharacteristically flat without its usual bouffant style, and eyes closed, he cried noiselessly into his cupped palms. ‘God, Bertie! What’s the matter?
Bertie?’ Lilly flung her bag on to the floor and bent forward, wrapping her arms around him and holding him tight.
Twisting his body in the chair, he leaned against her as he sobbed.
‘Where do you want these, love?’ the driver called from the doorway.
She had quite forgotten about him. He stood with a cardboard-wrapped canvas in his widespread arms. Straightening, she looked at him, smiling broadly, trying to divert him with her faux jolliness, wanting to spare Bertie the scrutiny of a stranger.
‘Just pop them in the corner and I’ll sort it all out in a bit. Thanks so much.’ She gave a brief nod and returned her attention to her friend. ‘Bertie,’ she said, ‘what can I do right now? What do you need?’ She rubbed circles on his back, feeling the knobbles of his spine beneath her fingers.
‘Nothing,’ he croaked, in a voice she had never heard before. ‘Nothing.’ Gone was his exuberance, his excitement, his joy! And in their place this growl of distress that made her heart race.
‘Sorry, love, but can I get you to sign for them?’ the man called, his eyes roving the walls, then looking back to his clipboard, which had a pen tied to the top with a piece of tatty string – anywhere other than at the man who sat sobbing behind the desk.
‘Yes, of course!’ She raced over, gripped the pen and signed.
The moment he left she pulled her bike in, laid it on the ground and bolted the door.