I’ve just put the kettle on!
Here she is . . .
Nor was there the sound of him practising his violin as he stood in the window. Drawing the bow across the mournful strings. The instrument, like him, now for ever quiet.
The sound of her breathing was loud in her ears amid the silence.
It hit her then, the ice pick of grief that landed sharply in her breastbone. She fell to the floor, lying in the doorway, half in, half out of the flat, sprawled on the polished concrete tiles. It was hard to breathe, hard to stay upright, longing for one more minute of him, wanting to go back to when he was here, home, waiting for her ...
‘Dad!’ she called as loudly as she was able; her words, however, a whisper, as if all her fuel had been taken up in calling out at all. ‘Daddy!’ she tried again.
‘Lilly-Bob!’
Mrs Chaplin stepped into the flat through the open front door. She bent low, touching Lilly’s legs, as if trying to ascertain if the emergency was mental or physical.
‘I want ... I want my dad, I want him back!’ She wept uncontrollably.
Mrs Chaplin shook her head, her tone warm and lovely. ‘I know, my love, I know.’
‘Help me!’ Lilly called out to no one in particular as the woman manoeuvred her into a sitting position, with her back resting against the wood-panelled wall, where the smell of his cigarette smoke lingered. ‘Please ...’ she managed, her breathing laboured. ‘I don’t know how to do it,’ she whispered, this her truth andthetruth, that she was without the first clue how to navigate a life without her dad, a man most extraordinary: Robert Cooper.
The absence of him made the flat seem a little colder, colours not quite so bright, even food didn’t taste as flavourful, as if everything were subdued. No matter how she occupied her time, a small part of her was, and she knew always would be, on high alert, waiting for his safe return. He was, quite simply, a rainbow over her world, and she had adored him.
‘Do you want me to call someone?’ Mrs Chaplin’s face was etched with concern mere inches from Lilly’s.
She thought of Wilkie, who was a liar. She thought of Rex, who was, she had heard, now engaged to be married. Glenda would be at home, busy with the kids. She thought of her mum, who was no doubt in her flat with Derek Manners, and as it was a Thursday, probably eating cold meat, chips and beans. The thought of this horrible predictability was enough to make her smile a little and to halt her tears.
‘No one that would want to hear from me, Mrs Chaplin, but thank you.’
‘Well, you know where we are, love, just across the hallway.’ The woman pointed, in case she might have forgotten.
‘Yep, just across the hallway,’ Lilly parroted, knowing she would never call on the Chaplins for help, embarrassed now that the woman had seen her in this raw state of grief. She wasn’t that kind of person; she’d figure it out.
She always did.
‘Are you sure you want to be back at work?’ Glenda asked as she ferreted in the petty-cash tin for a couple of pound notes.
‘I’m positive. What else am I going to do, sit at home and fester? I need to be here, need to be busy.’
‘Do you feel up to going to the cinema? I want to see that new film.’
‘Who’s in it?’ Lilly asked, not one to be swayed by the hype of a hit movie, often preferring the indie offerings of the small cinemas in Soho and off the beaten track.
‘Erm, no one I’ve heard of. Tom Cruise?’
‘And it’s about flying planes or learning to fly planes or something?’ She’d read the blurb.
‘Yes, but it’s supposed to be good, fast, nice, romantic, good music!’
‘All right, all right! Get tickets! Jeez!’ It was nice to spend time with her friend, lovely that Glenda now worked a couple of days a week at the gallery.
They didn’t speak about the six months without contact, both figuring that with so much history and a lifetime ahead of them, that hiatus didn’t warrant close attention. Glenda had reached out in the wake of Lilly’s dad’s death, and she had welcomed her with open arms. The reason for the fallout would, she knew, live long in her mind, but her dad’s passing had taught her some valuable lessons; that life was short, it could end quickly, and you could never have too many good friends in your corner to help see you through those rough times.
Bertie had asked to see the gallery. The fact that it was for the last time was implicit and, as ever, she and his brother, Chris, had kept a jolly countenance, settled his fragile self into the wheelchair and brought him here. She had quite forgotten that she’d arranged for Glenda and the kids to pop by as Bertie ran his eye over the accounts, stopping to cough and sip from his glass of water via a straw. He’d even laughed as raucously as was possible, as they reminisced about a certain exhibition when a fight had almost broken out over a sloppily held glass of red and a spoiled mohair blazer!
‘Oh!’ Her friend’s voice had come from the doorway, drawing their attention.
‘Glen!’ she’d called out, delighted to see Bradley and Andrew, her godsons, who both looked like little Norms. ‘I’m such a dummy! I forgot I’d said we’d have lunch. Look who’s here!’ She had turned and pointed eagerly at Bertie, who had slunk down into the wheelchair, his bony physique offering little resistance against the plastic seating. Hewas like a little bird and about as frail, eyes sunken, mouth small, skin tight and with painful lesions on his forehead, devoid of his beautiful hair. A large woollen scarf was wound about his neck, as he felt the chill, even on the warmest of days.
