‘What would you suggest?’ He folded his arms across his chest.
She couldn’t quite tell if he was genuinely asking for her assistance or being sarcastic.
‘I might go for something likecoerced– it feels a lot like coercion. And possiblyrailroaded. I might not like them, but the developers have been very fair, really. Offering me the market value of my home and giving me notice, which I ignored, but that’s not really their fault, the letters fell down the back of my cupboard. I don’t really like admin.’ She paused. ‘And Mr Vaughan, who they send to talk to me, is only doing his job, a nice enough young man, I’m sure. And I do rather rile him, made him talk to me through the letterbox, despite him having a bad back on account of his cricketing debacle.’
Jake looked at her through narrowed eyes, and she didn’t like his scrutiny. It felt unfavourable, and that was never nice, especially in her own home. ‘So, just to clarify’ – this time there was no mistaking his sarcasm – ‘you say you don’t have a gripe, are not being booted anywhere, the developers have been very fair, and you get on with the chap they send to deliver the bad news. So what are you, Mrs Cooper, slightly miffed?’ He made the suggestion with a downturn to his mouth.
‘It’s Miss.’ She held his eyeline. ‘And I’m slightly more than miffed.Miffedrather suggests mild irritation and not the level of distress I feel about the whole thing. I can, for example, tell that you, Jake, are slightlymiffedby my dislike of your original angle, which makes you seem inflexible, precious and oversensitive, but that can’t be helped. Far better we get it right, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, Miss Cooper.’ He sounded like a child who had been suitably admonished.
‘What I feel about this whole upheaval is a lot closer to grief. I think anyone who has experienced such a thing will tell you that it’s a rather grinding state of affairs, a slow drip of desolation that colours even the brightest day with sadness and taints the tasteof good food.’ She pictured her mum at the countertop, before Jeannie had taken a hammer to their family, dishing up supper with the radio playing, and her dad, sitting at the kitchen table, reading the very newspaper for which Jake worked, and felt a lump forming in her throat. ‘It wraps your whole world and fills you with a sorrow that feels permanent. A sorrow thatispermanent, no matter that it might dilute a little over time. This feels a lot like that. This is where I live, where I have always lived. The rooms in which I have celebrated every birthday, each Christmas and even a funeral. I’ve laughed here, cried here, eaten nearly all of my meals here, dreamed here, slept here, watched TV, done my homework, read books, fallen in love, and vaulted the line from child to teen to very old woman. All of it within these walls. And it happened in a blink.’ She clicked her fingers and he stared at her, his shoulders dropped a little, his arms unfolded, his stance not quite so rigid. ‘I am bereft at the thought that not only do I lose my home, my memories, my history, but this city loses this wonderful, untouched example of 1950s architecture and the community loses nine flats in which eight families, other than my own, can live at an almost affordable rate. I think it would be a great loss in so many ways. So, yes, I’m more than miffed, Jake.’
He tip-tapped a little more gently now, and she was glad of it.
‘I suppose’ – he looked up at the ceiling again – ‘that those in favour of the development would point out that the hike in property prices once the new apartments start selling is good for those who own around here. A rising tide raises all ships, and all that.’
‘I suppose they would. But it’s not those who own property I fear for, Jake.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘Indeed, I own this property, and as you say will undoubtedly gain financially, but things can’t only be about money, can they? Surely there has to be greater consideration of the wider context? It’s about those who just about manage, those without housing security, those who in a rising tidefear drowning!’ Her emotions rose at the thought of Clodagh and Apollo living away from her, upsetting this lovely little routine and the circle of support that they had formed. She wondered how many more sticks might clutter up the hallway yet, knowing she would treasure and appreciate each and every one.
‘I guess the counterargument might also be that the money the authorities get could be spent on social housing and other projects?’
Lilly gave a soft laugh. ‘Itcould, Jake, and I might win the Turner Prize.’
‘Have you a piece under consideration for the prize?’ This seemed to have caught his interest. A bigger story, no doubt.
‘No. And I guess that kind of sums up my point.’
‘Can I take some photographs of your sign in the window?’ He pointed over his shoulder. ‘I can do it from the walkway.’
‘I’m not sure.’ She was, in that minute, mistrustful of how Jake might represent her and her story and decided she’d rather not have her placard, her window, her address and her business splashed all over theGazette,or worse, the internet. With only herself to blame for getting caught up in the moment, she regretted the enthusiasm with which she’d made the call, aware she might have wasted his time and her own.
The journalist closed the lid of his laptop and reached for his rucksack, from which he’d magicked it earlier.
‘If I’m being honest, I’m not sure there’s going to be enough meat on the bones here, Miss Cooper.’
‘Maybe not.’ She exhaled with something that felt a lot like relief.
‘And if you want my advice, I’d take the money and run! These big development companies have pockets stuffed with cash. I’d take them for every penny, fill my bank account and get out of the city. It’s a filthy shithole, really, sinking fast. I’ve been here for four years, and I’ve seen the decline.’
‘Four years, eh?’ She surreptitiously mocked the young pup.
‘Yep, the Tube and buses are disgusting, crowded cesspits, the air quality is rotten, there’s people everywhere, all crammed in, and don’t start me on the cost of everything.’ He tutted, reminding her of Glenda. ‘Yep.’ He zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. ‘A nice little cottage away from the masses, a smallholding in the countryside, a dog, a real fire, a vegetable patch and a decent village pub, that’d do me!’
It made her smile, his lack of populist sentiment, very un-Che.
‘That’s very kind of you, Jake, but I don’t.’ She walked into the hallway, knowing he would follow.
‘You don’t what?’ The man seemed to have lost the thread as she opened the front door wide and stood back to allow him to pass.
‘I don’t want your advice. But if I might giveyousome in return, it would be this: be nicer about this city, this postcode, this area about which you write and from where your readers come. This area, in which I have seen so much change and upheaval, watching her go from an almost forgotten industrial heartland with the gasworks slap bang in the middle of it to a place full of life and possibilities! A place about which those of us who are born and bred here really care. Some of us love it here, absolutely love it, because it’s all we’ve ever known, and every inch of pavement, every tree, every corner, each pigeon, every crowded corner and grubby bus, even the bloody traffic, we love it, because it’s our village, our home.’
‘Actually’ – he raised his hand – ‘that might be the angle.’
‘Goodbye, Jake.’ Lilly closed the door before he had the chance to expand. ‘Tea, that’s what I need, a lovely cup of tea!’
It was as the kettle boiled that she cursed herself for having listened to Glenda, who had listened to Norman. ‘Bloody Norman!’ She laughed, surprised that her laughter quickly turned to tears that slipped down the back of her throat and tasted a lot like defeat. It had felt easyto be bold in front of the stranger, but now, alone in her home, her gut folded with the agonising thought of having to leave.
‘I don’t want to go!’ she whispered into the ether. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere!’ she managed, her mouth contorted with sadness.
