She had seen the young man twice now. The second meeting, he had stood on the doorstep and again urged her to catch up on all previous correspondence, read the emails, the notices and the letter from her local MP, Mr Passmore. She had indeed read the letter, and had felt nothing but disappointment at the words, which were openly admiring and supportive of this‘exciting new opportunity’ for their postcode.
Lilly supposed he was right. It meant money flowing in and a boost to all the services and leisure activities that would be required to support the influx of people. It made only the briefest mention of the social housing provision, which in her view was minimal and inadequate. Neither did it reference the wants and needs of an older woman who was about to lose her home, or acknowledge the wonderful community that existed at Waide House, which would be lost for ever. Having discussed the possibility of dispersal with Mrs Veerswamy on the stairs, her neighbour had simply sighed wearily and shrugged, saying, ‘What will be will be, Lilly.’ She didn’t blame the woman’s lack of energy for retaliation, understanding that when you were tired, it made for an easier life, going with the flow ...
It was, however, the first time she had felt the soggy blanket of defeat smother her enthusiasm for the fight ahead. Having carefullycrafted an email to the MP, it was a bitter blow to find that the same MP had almost pre-empted her communiqué with a glowing endorsement that spoke of opportunity and progress. Her counterarguments in the face of such support sounded like small fry, inconsequential, petty and personal. ‘Since I was a child ... the only home I’ve known ... an homage to 1950s architecture and design ...’ Not that she was about to roll over, no siree. Mrs Veerswamy might be happy to pack up and move out, hand her life over to fate, but not Lilly. She vowed to write again immediately, to remind the member of parliament that she was his constituent, not some fancy investment company who promised much and couldn’t care less about how they achieved their aims but a woman who had lived here her whole life, paid tax here her whole life; did that count for nothing?
‘What was your dad’s name?’ Apollo picked up a stick and brandished it like a sword as he walked, thwacking at invisible thickets to clear their path, for which she was grateful. An act most chivalrous.
‘His name was Robert.’
‘Robot?’ Apollo yelled his delight; she laughed out loud, too, at the suggestion, quite sorry to have to correct him.
‘Robert.’ She smiled. ‘And I was named after him. Part of my name is Roberta.’
‘I don’t see my dad any more.’ The little boy continued to thrash at the invisible undergrowth as they walked, his movements vigorous.
‘Well, I know what that feels like. I didn’t see my mum.’
This she said to let Apollo know he was not alone in the missing-parent stakes. It wasn’t, of course, strictly true; she had seen her mum, not only on the odd occasion Lilly visited the grotty flat on the Tottenham Court Road, but also the couple of times that Jeannie had turned up at Waide House.
We were just passing . . .
The sight of her in the kitchen, sipping tea at the table, the most confusing and conflicting thing. It had taken all of her strength not to run into her mother’s arms and weep her relief that Jeannie had finally, finally, come home! It was only the sight of Derek Manners in tow that helped her understand that it was only ever a flying visit, this in turn enough to send a fresh flare of fury through her veins. That beige man in their home! How dare he! And worse still, the fact that her mum had chosen Derek Manners all those years ago and continued to choose him.
Reconciling this never got any easier.
Her mother, throughout the years, lurked like a shadow in Lilly’s peripheral vision, making the odd attempt to build a bridge of reconnection. Every time felt like starting over, and always, always, with Derek Manners in attendance. The sight of him hovering in the background in his big-buttoned cardigans and soft-soled shoes made Lilly’s flesh crawl. It bothered her that Jeannie never quite figured out that if he hadn’t stood there like one of his pot plants in the corner, talking to her mum about what really mattered might have been a tad easier. As the years passed, Lilly, taking her lead from her dad, was consciously never overtly rude to her mother or Derek Manners, but was always intentionally indifferent, cool; never quite able to forget the sight of her dad crying at the kitchen table. This was enough to strengthen the welds of the cage she’d constructed around her heart. And still she carried out her secret ritual each night, thankful for that kiss on a tissue, a thing most dear.
Aged fifteen, she had flatly refused the offer of being a bridesmaid at their eventual wedding. Her mother then made the decision to elope, and she and Derek Manners had, apparently, married at Gretna Green before honeymooning on the Isle of Mull. They had brought her back some shortbread in a tin.
Lilly had binned it, unopened, some months later.
‘What’s your favourite dinosaur?’ Apollo asked.
This was quite standard when it came to their morning commute, the verbal zigzagging from topic to topic.
‘Hmm ... I would have to say T. rex. Fierce, yet also cute, with those tiny little arms. How do you suppose they scratched their noses or brushed their teeth?’
Apollo’s loud laugh was her reward.
‘Someone would have to do it for them!’
‘I think you’re right.’ She winked.
‘My first favourite is a triceratops, and my second favourite is a diplodocus, and my third favourite—’
‘How many favourites have you got?’ she interjected.
‘Lots!’ He smiled up at her and she realised his question had been no more than a wonderful ruse to share his knowledge of the beasts. Smart kid.
‘Well, you’d better speak quickly. I can see the school gates up ahead ...’
‘Can you take my stick home and keep it safe for me?’ He handed her his trusty sword.
‘I will. I promise.’ She took it from him, again feeling such joy that she could even play the smallest part in this boy’s life, quickly followed by a gulp of sadness that it might all be about to change.
She walked briskly home, stick in hand, caring less about the odd looks she got as she made as if to thwack away the invisible thicket.
Clodagh met her in the stairwell as she returned.
