Present day #2
Sitting quietly before she began, Lilly closed her eyes and let the buzz of riverside life swirl around her, listening to the putt-putt of the boats, the laughter and chatter of those who walked the path, the toot of horns and the tick-tick of engines idling on Vauxhall Bridge, the wheeze of brakes, the caw of chip-seeking gulls overhead, even the toll of bells from steeples both north and south of the river.
She let it all wrap her, the sounds of her city.
The London hum. Her night song that she would miss, knowing that wherever she next laid her head, it would not be the same, not even close, how could it?
Remembering what it had felt like to wake up on that bed in Royal Avenue, a different suburb with a different background song.
In truth, she longed for peace and stability, wishing things didn’t have to change.
The affection she felt for Clodagh and Apollo was the closest thing she had to family, and the thought of it changing in any way, this lovely gift that had given her life so much meaning, was almost more than she could bear.
It felt more important than ever before to capture this time, this moment, this stretch of river, this view, because who knew where she would wake and what her view might look like in the future.
Tipping her head back, she cricked her neck and, when she was ready, dipped the paintbrush into the jar of water to wet the canvas.
The river took shape with ease, as it often did, the banks too, the brown, silty, treasure-laden beaches revealed only briefly at low tide, the broad hulls of the barge boats sitting low in the water, the white whip of a dinghy sail circling in the middle of the waters.
The light, catching the wake, as ripples reached the shore and frothed in an urban wave against the wall of the towpath.
It was as if she could see all of it, could feel all of it.
With her shoulders relaxed and her breathing even, Lilly felt awash with a sense of peace as she relaxed into the creative process, allowing the brush to move, letting the paint create the picture that took shape beneath her fingertips.
She could almost close her eyes and still see what lay in front of her, so familiar was this stretch of river, as if she were part of it, in it, of it.
Entirely lost to the process, it was only as the light faded, her fingers cramped and the air grew chilly that she realised some hours had passed.
Looking up for the first time, it was as if the painting had revealed itself without too much planning or forethought in a way that was so natural it was almost a surprise when she saw the finished article.
Not only had she captured the river, but also, crucially, having raised her eyeline slightly, there was the outline of the buildings opposite, the bridge, the London plane trees sprouting where they had got a foothold on the pavement and now reached towards the light.
The breath caught in her throat and her eyes misted, but mostly it was with a sense of pride that she realised she had done it!
Finally, she had done it! With her hand clamped over her mouth, Lilly stared at the perfectly captured view that had been her whole world for much of her life.
She gasped then, a huge intake of breath that felt a lot like relief as she bent over her easel, weeping, her body spent.
She had done it! This was the river that was her home, her view, this was the sight and feeling she wanted to capture.
The light, just the way it had been when her dad had stared out from the wide window while her mum whipped up supper in the kitchen.
The same sense of stillness as when Wilkie sat next to her on the towpath on that particular evening when love had first wrapped her in its glorious, suffocating hold.
It was the background to her childhood, when Vauxhall had been the home of industry, a less than desirable place to live, but just look at her now!
It was all of her memories, it was her whole life, right there on the canvas.
It was the words of her mother’s letter that came to her now, letters that had unlocked so much of her past, letters that had given her insight into Jeannie and letters that now offered the direction she needed when it came to her future.
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.
‘Yes, Mum,’ she whispered, knowing it was time to walk away from the flat where her mother had no longer been welcome, the flat where her dad had fought his demons and hid from his trauma, the flat in which she’d spent time, hiding with her head turned towards the past to avoid having to face a future riddled with guilt and bound by duty.
Flat number six, Waide House, Vauxhall, London, her address for the longest time, but now it was time to go. It was time to progress. To let go.
Lilly sat back on her stool and closed her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose and out through her mouth. Her bones felt lighter, her thoughts edged with a new and welcome clarity, as if she were free . . . finally free . . .
It was then that she heard a voice behind her.
‘Can I have a look at your picture? What is it?’
Sitting upright and steeling herself, she turned to face the teenage boy clad all in black, wearing unfeasibly wide jeans, a black beanie, an oversized T-shirt and with his skateboard tucked under his arm.
‘What is it?’ she repeated.
‘Yeah.’ He leaned in, his manner nothing but curious.
She did her best to swallow the next rush of tears that made speaking difficult.
‘It’s this little stretch of river where I’ve lived all my life, and here’ – she took the end of her paintbrush and, using it as a pointer, tapped it close to the figure of a woman in a pale mackintosh, hands in her pockets, the merest slick of red, red lipstick – ‘is my mum, and she’s watching me.
Watching me from the other side of the water.
I could often feel her when I sat out here at different times throughout my life.
And I can feel her now. It’s actually a picture of my mum, and it’s for my mum.
My mum who loved me. She loved me very much.
’ She smiled, with the weight of rejection lifting from her shoulders, happy to know that she had been loved and that her mum had found the love she was looking for, too, in the arms of Derek Manners.
‘Cool.’ The boy skated off, and she was glad of his approval.
Carefully she carried the piece inside and removed the abstract oil painting that hung over the fireplace, replacing it with her picture.
It felt fitting to have it hang there for however long she might have left in this flat.
This flat where all her memories, good and bad, her entire life had been lived.
It was lovely, to see her mum staring back at her, and she wondered how many times Jeannie had stood on the bank while her dad stared out through the wide old window looking right at her, the woman he never stopped loving, and Lilly, oblivious, sat caught between the two on the path, lost to her paint and easel.
‘Welcome home, Mum.’
Sinking down on to the sofa, she closed her eyes, falling into a sleep that was deep and restful.
Despite the upheaval, the uncertainty of where she might now move and a million other paper cuts of worry, Lilly was at peace, and she slept the kind of sleep that only comes with the security of knowing that your worries are few and that you are loved, so loved . . .