‘No, I’ve’ – he stared at her – ‘I’ve already spoken to Mrs Veerswamy. In fact the only people I haven’t spoken to are you and Miss Clodagh Newman.’
‘I see.’ She wasn’t about to give him any information on Clodagh, her routine or whereabouts.
‘The thing is’ – again he swallowed and pushed up those specs – ‘it’s not about painting or bin sheds.’
‘Right. What is it about, then?’ She wished he’d get to the point. She needed the loo, an unpleasant consequence of her age, the frequent need to pee.
‘Portland and Montague are undertaking an exciting new project to regenerate this land, this place, this block.’ There it was again, that word. She grimaced, still keen to hear all about it, amused by his use of the word ‘land’. They were, on this littleslice of riverside, without acreage. ‘I have plans and images that I am happy to show you.’ He lifted his folder.
‘Images?’ She was curious.
‘Yes!’ Seemingly motivated by her interest, he opened the folder and pulled out a shiny A4 sheet showing a brand-spanking-new stack of Polo mint-style apartments. There were even tiny people on the curved balconies, some sitting on those inadequate bistro sets that seemed enticing when you considered morning coffee in the sunshine but were in reality uncomfortable and usually left to rust outdoors in the damp British winter due to a lack of available storage. ‘Two hundred and twelve apartments of the highest specification,’ Mr Vaughan enthused, ‘granite countertops, marble tiling, state-of-the-art sound systems, climate control, a rooftop pool, gym, cinema room, sauna, underground parking, twenty-four-hour concierge, the works!’
‘A rooftop pool? Wow!’ It certainly sounded very impressive. ‘It looks ...’ She paused, not wanting to burst his bubble, but also a little confused as to where he was suggesting there might be space to build such a modernist monstrosity! ‘I can’t see where there’s space along this little stretch of the river?’ She narrowed her eyes at him, still wondering why the need for such close consultation. When the last tower had been built, there had been a public notice shoved up, a meeting in a hotel conference room that she had failed to attend, and an apology in advance for all the noise, dust and disruption, but this ...
‘It’s going to be here, Mrs Cooper.’ This time she didn’t correct him, because his words were of such magnitude they echoed in her ears and made her knees feel a little weak.
‘Here?’ She was having difficulty in understanding. ‘What do you mean, here?’ She actually laughed.
‘I mean that we are knocking down Waide House.’
‘Knocking it down?’ she whispered. Behind her she heard the faint echo of ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’, could hear the thump, thump of her parents’ feet on the parquet flooring of the lounge.
‘Yes, to buildThe Fortescue– that’s the name of the new block.’ He pointed to the shiny picture again.
Lilly leaned on the doorframe. ‘That’s not’ – she took a breath – ‘that’s not possible. I own this flat. It’s my home.’
‘I’m afraid it doesn’t quite work like that.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ Her confusion was genuine, because it jolly well should!
‘Not when it comes to developments of this nature. There was a multi-stakeholder benefit analysis run on the project long before it got the go-ahead.’
‘I see.’ She nodded, even though she had no idea what he was talking about; she didn’t want to appear stupid.
‘The council are going to make a lot of money from the development, money that will be ploughed into much-needed, vital services for the community. All the tenants we have spoken to have agreed to relocate. All the tenants that responded to the letters and emails, that is.’
‘But this is what I am trying to explain to you, Mr Vaughan, I am not a tenant! I will not be relocated! I can’t be shoved this way and that like a pawn on a chessboard. This is myhome.’ She wondered which of her words he was having difficulty grasping.
‘It’s not that straightforward. As the property owner, you will be subject to a compulsory purchase order. At a fair price, don’t you worry. The way it normally works is that Portland and Montague will get three valuations from trusted local estate agents, the process will be entirely transparent, and we will then come to a settlement figure that suits us both.’
‘So you’ve done this before?’
‘Once or twice.’ He smiled in a way that suggested confidence, and that it had been more than once or twice. Instantly, she liked him a little less.
‘My flat is not for sale, Mr Vaughan. It’s not for sale.’ She wanted to raise her voice, but felt a little weakened, and more than a little afraid, unaware if what he was proposing was legal or possible and what she might be able to do about it. Unsure even how she could find out.
‘I understand that there are emotions at play here, Mrs Cooper, so what I propose is that I give you a few days to have a think, let it settle in, maybe read the letters we’ve been sending you, and then I’ll pop back to answer any questions you might have.’
Joshua Vaughan zipped up the leather folder, leaving her with the shiny artist’s impression ofThe Fortescuein her shaking hand. And for the first time in as long as she could remember, Lilly-Bob wished she had a man, a partner, a husband, a Norman, to talk to as she stumbled into the kitchen and fell into a chair at the little square table.
She pictured the numerous buildings, homes, many of them, that had been bulldozed over the years to make way for the redevelopment of her beloved postcode. Home now to shiny glass blocks that reflected other shiny glass blocks. Entire structures, symbols of her childhood, gone overnight and the people who lived in them shunted out to live goodness only knew where. The most significant changes in her lifetime had been the erection of the SIS Building, home to MI6, right by Vauxhall Bridge, and the knocking down of the vast monolith that had been the Nine Elms Cold Store to make way for St George Wharf – a huge futuristic clump of fancy flats that cost an arm and a leg and were only, in her opinion, marginally nicer to look at than the concrete cold store they’d replaced.
‘Surely they can’t do that to me, can they?’ She put the question out into the ether and felt the knife of loneliness twist in her breast at the lack of response.
1970 – aged 14
It was a warm day. Lilly’s body, as if moulded out of shape by the heat, felt too soft to galvanise into action. In her denim cut-offs and halterneck vest, she lay flopped, covered in a blanket of lethargy that pinned her to the velour-covered sofa. The air, thick with heat, meant her desire to do anything other than read was absolutely zero. Even raising a hand to move her long fringe, stuck to her forehead with sweat, felt like too much effort. Despite having all the windows of the flat open wide there was barely a breeze. The river was usually a wonderful regulatory source of wind, as any waft seemed to gather on its surface and whistle through the rooms, but not today.
