‘Oh my God, Bertie, Icando that! I can call him!’ She sat bolt upright in the bed, energy flowing though her veins, just the thought enough to halt her tears, completely ignoring her friend’s preference.
‘You know where he is?’
‘Yes, yes, I do! I’ve just remembered, he told me he teaches at a school in York, St Ethelred’s!’
‘Well, there we go. Boy am I glad I mentioned it.’ He exhaled his sarcasm. ‘I guess it’s better you do something. Anything is preferable to lying here letting the world pass you by.’
‘You’re a genius!’ Lilly flung back the covers as her dad arrived with two cups of tea.
‘Oh! You’re up!’ Her dad beamed, delighted with this sudden change of events.
‘I am, Dad, up and raring to go!’
‘Women!’ Her dad shook his head and rolled his eyes at Bertie as he handed him a cup and saucer.
‘Tell me about it!’ Bertie took the tea from her dad and winked at her. Her dear, dear friend.
By the next day, with Bertie’s words ringing in her ears, Lilly knew he was right: she had to do something. Short of jumping on a train at great expense and taking time off work, lying to her dad, again, and trawling all the way up to Yorkshire, making the call seemed like the next best option. With the scrap of paper in her hand, she studied the number that she’d got from directory enquiries.
‘Oh my God!’ She breathed deeply, bent double in the phone box, riven with nerves. ‘Come on, Lilly!’ She raised her voice, straightened and put her finger in the little circle to dial the number. It was answered almost immediately and at the sound of the beeps she plied the slot with coins.
‘York two eight six four four, St Ethelred’s, how may I help you?’
Lilly had hoped that Wilkie would answer, while simultaneously praying he would not. She was unsure what she would say, at the same time having an entire monologue cued up on her tongue. And now she stood with the complex combination of relief and disappointment forming a stopper in her throat. Holding her breath, she almost forgot to speak.
‘Hello?’ the woman asked again.
‘Yes, hello,’ she managed. ‘I was wondering if it might be possible to speak to Mr Jones, Wilkie Jones.’
‘I’m afraid he is currently teaching.’ The woman sounded friendly, welcoming, sweet, exactly the kind of voice you would want answering your phone if you were a school. ‘I’m the headmaster’s secretary. Can I take a message?’
A message? What to say?
Tell him he broke my heart. Tell him I can’t sleep. Tell him I miss him day and night. Tell him my body yearns for him. Tell him it was love, at least it was for me. Tell him that if there is the slightest chance that we might grow from this, I will pack up my life on the riverbank, abandon Old Mother Thames and head north. I would do anything for one more night with him by my side ... the spring that follows his winter ...
Of course she said none of these things. Instead she found a smile and did her best to keep her tone as even and unflustered as possible.
‘Erm, no, that’s okay. When is it best to call back?’
‘Well, that’s a tricky one, I’m afraid. He’s teaching most of the time, and then there’s playground duty and clubs after school. As I’ve said, I’m more than happy to take a message, or would you like to leave a number so he can return your call?’
Lilly let her eyes rove the grubby interior of the phone box.
‘No, that’s okay.’ It seemed hopeless, and she felt the stutter of tears at the thought that her lover was so very far away.
‘Is it anything I can help you with, or another member of staff?’ the woman asked most helpfully.
‘Not really, no.’ She drew breath. ‘It’s just that he left something in London, and I was wondering how to return it to him.’ It was a ridiculous fabrication, the first thing that popped into her head. Lilly pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, as if this might help relieve the unseen pressure.
‘Oh, right. Are you calling from Mrs Horn-Havering’s boarding house? I know we haven’t spoken before, but Wilkie has spoken very fondly about his time with you in Chelsea.’
‘Yes, I am,’ Lilly lied, eyes closed, heart racing, unsure of how things were getting so muddled, even more muddled! But it wasn’t entirely untrue, he had left something in London: her. He had lefther. He had left them, abandoning the beautiful beginning to their story, left it all behind.
‘Ah, well, it’s wonderful to be in contact. I’m Georgina Jones, Wilkie’s wife.’
Wilkie’s . . .
Lilly felt her body slide against the wall of the phone box as the strength left her legs and she thought she might faint. Her preference would have been to sink to the floor, were it not covered in a nasty pile of compacted dirt, newspapers soaked in fish and chip grease, empty cans of Tennent’s Extra, cigarette butts and a mammoth stack of peanut shells.
