Lilly was glad when they changed the subject, hating the way her cheeks flamed and her skin felt a little itchy with embarrassment.
It was when her mum jumped up from the table to grab her cigarettes from her handbag that Lilly took the tissue with the kiss and carefully folded it, before tucking it into her cardigan pocket.
Yes, her mum was great.
She just wasn’t her dad.
If her dad was the star, her mum was the support act.
It made Lilly feel happy, to be close to him, to have him smile only at her, as if she were his very best thing. Waggling her foot in time to the beat, as The Drifters’ ‘Up on the Roof’filled the room. It was something that bewitched her, how a little circle of plastic could so change the atmosphere, make her happy, make everyone happy! Simply by the lowering of the stylus on to the disc, listening to the crackle in anticipation and waiting for the music to change their lives.
And change their lives it did.
As the music played, their whole flat and the people in it were transformed, no longer living under the shadow of industry in Vauxhall, where a post-war boom saw ugly residential and commercial buildings springing up all around, but instead somewhere warm and sunny, living in a world of possibilities and laughter with nothing but good times ahead!
Her dad, like everyone else, sometimes had bad dreams, and on the days after a night disturbed by his calling out, the thumps and bumps that echoed through the wall as her mum calmed him, the atmosphere in the flat was always a bit tense. Countless were the times she had witnessed her mum, a little surly, a little lost in thought, a little grumpy, bashing pans in the sink. Squirting too much Fairy Liquid on to a plate, which was both wasteful and alarming, an indicator all was not well, before slamming kitchen cabinet doors in an act of defiance. Her dad, similarly alerted, would sit up straight, and with his cigarette between his fingers lower the map, newspaper or book he was reading, and listen for a second or two to the clues that her mum’s mood might need pepping up.
He’d walk over to the record player, taking his time, as if choosing which song or tune was best for the job, trying to find the right lyrical combination to unlock his wife’s happiness.Sometimes it was Chubby Checker, and he’d rush to the sink, grab her arm, and with her mum still in her frilly-edged pinny and rubber gloves, they’d do the Twist right there on the kitchen floor. Other times it was Ella Fitzgerald’s ‘More Than You Know’, and he’d slowly pull her close, tucking her head under his chin as he smooched her around the hallway, the best floor for smooching apparently, allowing for a slight glide underfoot. She didn’t like it so much when they smooched. Not only did her very presence feel like an intrusion, but when they had finished dancing her mum always had two dark, inky-black streaks of mascara down her cheeks. Lilly-Bob couldn’t understand how a dance so beautiful and gentle could make her mum cry, but it did. When this happened, it madeherfeel helpless, made her feel like squirting too much Fairy Liquid and slamming the door of a kitchen cabinet.
Her favourite by far was when he chose Bill Haley & His Comets and she’d curl up on the sofa, with the beat jumping in her chest, watching her parents shake, rattle and roll their way around the apartment, jiving, according to her dad, in the way they had when they first met. Moving quickly over the parquet flooring, her dad pulling her mum in close before twirling her away from him, like she was a spinning top. Seamless moves that they executed perfectly, as if they’d practised a lot or as if it came naturally, so in sync were they. Her mum’s skirt rising to reveal the lace hem of her petticoat as she spun, feet tapping, knees bopping, faces red from exhalation and wide grins that made them look younger. Yes, this was without doubt her favourite.
Lilly trailed her fingers over the advertisements in the newspaper with which her dad had covered the tile-topped coffee table. An advert for‘Van Heusen – the shirts with the Savile Row touch ...’and another for‘Benson and Hedges – when only the best will do ...’Her dad smokedPlayer’s.
One of his hands was deep inside a tan brogue and in the other sat a soft-bristled wooden-backed brush which he used to work the polish on to the leather in circles, dabbed on the brush from its little round container that gave off a strong and distinct smell. The shoe-polishing kit he kept in an old toffee tin under the sink, the lid of which had rust spots.
‘Shiny shoes are important. It’s all about standards, Lilly-Bob. A well-made bed. A clean-shaven chin. An ironed shirt, and shiny shoes. Standards!’
He used to say this often. She’d nod, wanting to show she was listening, but never really understanding how this might be valuable advice for her. Her mum made her bed, she had no shirt to iron, no chin to shave, and as for her shoes – she was more often than not in navy Mary Janes, and the need to polish them was, thankfully, minimal.
His cigarette dangled from his bottom lip as he worked; the smoke rose and covered his face in a grey, misty veil through which he had to squint. His shirtsleeves were, as ever, rolled neatly and evenly above his elbows, his top button undone, white vest peeking from underneath. Burgundy braces sat snugly over his skinny shoulders, and his hair moved as he worked, shaking free of its Brylcreem bonds and falling in a curtain over his forehead. Her dad was a distinct combination of smells and movements that meant she could identify him by sound and scent alone, even with her eyes closed. She didn’t like that he had bad dreams, and thumped about in the night, didn’t like thatanyonedid, but especially her dad.
‘Now, this big old river, right here in front of our flat—’
‘The Thames!’ She shouted her interruption; it always felt good when she knew something, and she delighted in sharing it with him.
‘That’s right, the Thames.’ He beamed. ‘People might think it’s just a body of water, but it’s so much more than that, she’s the beating heart of London. Thereasonfor London! The Romans established the city and called it Londinium, and they built the first wooden bridge over the river, can you imagine? How clever was that, with so few of the tools and machines that we take for granted?’
‘My teacher says all rivers start as a trickle, and if they are lucky, they become this huge river! Even the Nile, just a tiny trickle!’ She threw her arms wide open, entirely in awe of this fact. Who could envisage such a thing: a trickle that after a while was able to support huge boats and had bridges over it and people living on the edge of it! It was miraculous!
‘That’s right. Just a trickle, and how lucky are we that a tiny trickle became this silver ribbon that winds its way through our city.Old Mother Thames.And if ever you get lost, Lilly-Bob, just make your way to the river, findGrand Benjaminor any of the landmarks that you know, follow it along, and eventually you’ll find your way home. She’ll always help you, she’ll bring you here – all the way home.’
‘Tea’s ready!’ Her mum’s voice carried through the flat and found them by the window, interrupting the moment, but with good reason. Tea was tea and needed to be eaten when it was hot. That was the rule. If the tea went cold, her mum would stare flatly at them both, as if they had let her down, sometimes brandishing her fork, as if at her wits’ end, as if it mattered far more than it did. As if she had something else on her mind, something else to worry about.
‘I don’t spend half my life peeling potatoes, cooking meat, boiling veg and whipping up sponges only for you two to pitch up late and leave it ruined. Bloody selfish is what that is!’
She’d then push her chair away from the table and go for a lie-down, abandoning the congealing plates of food and leaving Lilly-Bob and her dad at the square table, her without an ounce of appetite on her tongue and a feeling of guilt in the base of her stomach. It wasn’t Lilly-Bob’s fault they had become engrossed in a map, or her dad hadn’t stopped reading to her, or that they’d been staring at the water through the window, convinced they’d seen the scary head of a leviathan briefly pop up in a swell, waiting to see if it might re-emerge. But it always felt like her fault, all of it, and she nearly always cried. Her dad would cup his hand over hers and say, ‘Mum’s tired. I’ll go take her a cup of tea.’
She wanted to understand, figuring it must be exhausting, all that peeling, cooking, boiling and whipping. Sniffing up her tears, she would watch as he boiled the kettle, filled the teapot, wiped the cup and saucer and poured the brew that seemed to fix just about everything, winking at her as if to say,everything’s all right,before walking slowly to their bedroom and shutting the door behind him. Shutting her out or shutting them in, she was never quite sure.
The end result was just the same.
Lilly would sit quietly then, staring at food that no matter how vibrant it might have started out always seemed a little grey when cooled. Forcing fried eggs, minced meat, boiled spuds, soft carrots, chips, tinned peas, smoked haddock, mash, suet pudding, tinned peaches and the other meals from her mother’s limited menu down her throat. Sometimes her parents would re-emerge quickly, both smiling as if nothing was amiss, instantly igniting a flame of happiness and relief inside her.
Sometimes they’d come out of the room and her dad’s eyes were red, likehe’dbeen crying. But that could not be true, it wasn’t possible, because dads did not cry!
Other times they’d be silent, and she’d sit long after she’d finished eating and the flat had turned dark, before accepting they were notcoming back to the table any time soon. At those times, she’d put her empty plate in the sink, quietly push her chair in and go to bed, where she’d lie, listening, hoping for the sound of music, her dad’s violin or his familiar whistle. Usually she heard nothing until the morning, when she’d find him in the bathroom, shaving at the sink in his vest and trousers, braces hanging down over his hips. Her mum would be in the kitchen, humming along as eggs boiled, to the radio playing ‘Love Me Do’,her hair set, mascara thick, red, red lipstick applied in a double coat, and a smile that was wide and forgiving, confirming her dad’s wink that everything was indeed all right.
‘Your tea’s ready!’ her mum called again. Her dad put the shoe and brush down and they moved comically quickly, as if racing. Her tummy rumbled with hunger and her mouth watered at the prospect of corned beef hash with baked beans, one of her favourites.
