Lily's House

by Cassandra Parkin

  Lily sits on the end of her bed, fully dressed but with her hair around her shoulders in a soft white cloud. Her back is straight and strong and her hands are folded in her lap. Her face is crumpled into an ugly howl. When she sees me, she holds out a hand to me.

  “What? What? Please tell me.”

  She shakes her head. I sit beside her, feeling the tension vibrate through her. Then she puts her arms around me and begins to shake. I’m aware again of that clean, soapy scent. Someone else has been comforting her in my absence. Perhaps the sofa is unruffled because they were here in the bedroom.

  “What is it?” I repeat.

  She releases me, takes a deep breath and wipes the tears from her face. She takes my hands and holds them, then lets them go. This is it. The final breaking of the storm I’ve sensed for weeks. Perhaps Daniel’s called her and told her he’s left me. Perhaps this was what was written in all those unopened letters. No, I would have known this as soon as I touched the envelopes; they were heavy with longing, not rejection. And besides, Lily wouldn’t weep for my loss of Daniel.

  “It was his heart,” she says at last. “His heart. It gave out. Just like—”

  This is how I learn that, while I was out, Daniel called Lily’s house and broke the news he’d received from my mother, that my father was found dead that afternoon.

  Chapter Seventeen – Tuesday

  Paging Daniel Webb. This is your early morning wake-up call xxxxx

  What? What time is it? Is everything all right?

  Everything’s fine. It’s early. Thought I’d make a start on things. Get things ready for the estate agent. Find out how rich we’re going to be.

  So how’s the new material coming?

  Not bad.

  That means very bad. Come on, what’s the matter?

  Nothing’s the matter.

  Course there’s something the matter, I can tell.

  How do you ALWAYS manage to do that? Even from a distance? What did you dream?

  That Daniel was shouting at a man who refused to look at him. In my dream, Daniel grew increasingly frustrated, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, then finally punched him in the face so hard that he broke his nose, but my dreams often contain an element of exaggeration.

  Repeat after me: There Is No Such Thing As Second Sight. I just know you really well that’s all :)

  Now never mind about me. Tell me what’s happening.

  Creative differences.

  This is what finished everything the last three times. The Average Gentlemen are now a cover band, renowned on the wedding and party circuit. Truth Before Fiction have dissolved into nothingness and gone back to their day jobs. The Rabid Horseflies took a plane to Los Angeles, changed their name, found a new frontman and signed a contract, after which Daniel refused to discuss them any further.

  They want to play it so safe all the time. It does my head in. Why bother if you’re not going to take a risk?

  I’m seriously wondering if we’ve really got a future to be honest

  Oh come on. You can’t decide that because of one little row

  It’s not one little row it’s one huge difference of opinion

  I mean, if they don’t love it the first time they’re not going to love it the second or the third are they?

  They might. Give them a chance, let them hear it a few times. Great art isn’t meant to be easy. Right?

  Yeah well, I expect better of them

  I don’t mind if the audience don’t get it but your bandmates are supposed to have your back, not tear you down

  All the best bands have massive rows. You’re a genius and sometimes genius takes time to sink in. Call them again today and ask if you can talk about it, see what they say

  I wish you were here Jen. You make everything all right when you’re here

  Please come home. Please. Just drop it all and come home. I need you so much. I’m lost without you

  Oh God I’m so sorry. I wish I could but I can’t

  I feel like you’ve been away for ever. I don’t think I can stand it much longer. I’m begging you. Get on the train and come back to me

  You know I can’t. It’ll be worth it when we bank the cheque

  You’re so far away. It’s like you’ve left me

  Please don’t say that, you know it’s not true. Only a few more days I swear xxxxx

  The high street is hot and full of fumes. Marianne and I dodge lost tourists and delivery vans to shelter in the air-conditioned offices of a series of estate agents, who seem harassed and disinclined to deal with us. Everyone speaks quickly and with frequent interruptions, and after a few minutes I lose my concentration and Marianne has to interpret for me. She always swears she doesn’t mind, but I very much mind having to ask her. The tension makes me snippy and irritable, and when I see the effect this has on Marianne as she diligently struggles to translate probate valuation and vacant possession, I find it even harder. Eventually we manage to arrange for three someones from three separate agencies to come round that evening to inspect and put a price tag on my inheritance.

  “What happens now?” Marianne asks. She looks tired and anxious.

  “Let’s go home.”

  “Back to Dad? We’re finished?”

  “Sorry, no, I didn’t mean home, I meant back to Lily’s.”

  “Not to the jewellers?”

  Bundled roughly together and tied up in a handkerchief, Lily’s rings make a heavy weight in the corner of my handbag.

  “It’ll keep.”

  “And the antiques person? Weren’t we going to do that too?”

  I remind myself that Marianne isn’t arguing, she’s only asking.

  “One more day. We’ve done enough for now. Let’s go home and cook something nice for lunch.” Fat tears gather in the corners of Marianne’s eyes. “What? What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t want Dad to be mad,” she says. “He wants you to hurry up and come home, he’s really missing you and I don’t want you to be in trouble for wasting time.”

  “For God’s sake! Your dad is not going to be cross. We need to go home and clean anyway so it looks nice for the estate agent people. Now stop it, all right? Give me a smile.” She forces the corners of her mouth upwards. “That’s better. Let’s roast a chicken, how about that? You love roast chicken.”

  “A whole chicken just for us? And it’s not even Sunday?”

  “The whole damn thing.”

  I can see she’s still worried, but I don’t have time to deal with Marianne’s anxieties. I think through in my head how much longer we’ll be here. Today we’ll get the estate agent’s valuation. Tomorrow I’ll go to the jewellers, the day after the antiques man. That takes us to Thursday. Travelling on a Friday will kill us on the rail fare, especially as we haven’t booked. I’ll have to find out what the saving might be for advance booking. If it’s a big enough number I could get a whole extra week out of it. Although I don’t want to hang around another week, do I? Daniel needs me. We’ll go home on Saturday whatever it costs us.

  This decision made, I can march into the tiny supermarket and select a bag of potatoes, an assortment of vegetables, a bag of flour, a loaf of bread, eggs, milk, three different kinds of sugar and an outsized chicken with a clear conscience. Of course I’ve forgotten to bring shopping bags with me, so I pay fifteen pence for three flimsy carriers and pray they’ll see us home. It’s not looking promising; even as we hurry past the brief bewitching glimpse of the harbour, the handles are already beginning to stretch, cutting deep red grooves into my palms.

  “Let me take them.” Marianne, hovering like a hawk, makes a grab when I put the bags down for a minute.

  “No, they’re too heavy.” I try to fend her off.

  “It’s okay, I’m not little any more. I can manage.”

  “No really, I’m fine – no, come on, give that back.” Marianne dives beneath my arm and snatches up the heaviest bag that contains mostly potatoes. I have no idea why I wanted so many. Ev
en if Daniel was with us, we’d never get through them all in one meal. “Marianne, put that down.”

  “Nope.” She turns away so I can’t see her face and sets off up the street at a walk so fast it’s almost a run. I swear to myself, then pick up the other two bags and follow her.

  By the time we reach the driveway, all the handles have given up and we’re cradling the bags in our arms. When I put my burden down to scrabble in my handbag for my keys, three onions leap out and bound joyfully away down the steps. When I get back, to my surprised relief, the door’s opening.

  “Might have known it’d be you.” James Moon shakes his head disapprovingly. “Suppose you left your keys.”

  “You make less sense every time I see you. Do you hang around that door all day waiting to open it? If you’re not careful they’ll put you in a home. And leave that shopping alone, it’s not for you.”

  “Give over, you stupid woman. You been eating this bag? All in shreds. Disgraceful, charging five pence for it.” He stumps off up the stairs, carrying my bag of vegetables cradled in his arms. He’s surprisingly quick for his age.

  “Can’t let you in here, you stole my key. Don’t know how you’re going to manage. Door’s like Fort Knox. Have to call a locksmith.”

  “Unlike you I’m not senile, so I have my key in my handbag, thank you. You just didn’t give me enough time to find it.”

  He blinks. “Why’d you ring the doorbell then?”

  “I rang it,” says Marianne. “I thought it would be all right.”

  “Course it’s all right.” On a less military-looking face, I’d say his expression was indulgent. “Don’t mind letting you in. Look at you. Strong wind would blow you away. Mother should be ashamed of herself, letting you carry this bag.”

  “Oh, you’re right, I ruthlessly exploit her for my own personal gain,” I say, and unlock the door. “We should have a contest, see which one they lock up first.”

  He passes the carrier over the threshold. “Suppose you’re not going to say thank you for carrying this, are you?”

  “I suppose if I ask you for a late lunch you’ll turn me down, won’t you? Do you like roast chicken?”

  “Not my favourite. Prefer a nice rare piece of beef.”

  “Well, tough, because we’re having chicken. It’s Marianne’s favourite. Come back in two hours.”

  “Might be busy, you know.”

  “Course you’re not busy. Now go away and let me cook.” I give him a little push so he steps back over the threshold, then shut the door in his face. I try to ignore the small smile that tugs at Marianne’s lips.

  When James Moon comes back, the flat is luxurious with the scent of roast chicken. Marianne has rummaged in a drawer and found Lily’s damask tablecloth, a little musty but still white and beautiful. She also found a canteen containing Lily’s heavy silver cutlery, but I put my foot down and said we were eating with the everyday stuff from the kitchen drawers. I’ve seen Lily clean silver, and I don’t want my food laced with traces of appalling chemical cleaner. As a compromise, I’ve sent her into the garden to pick a few sprigs of geranium to replace the buddleia in Lily’s silver bud vase. I’m in the kitchen when I see Marianne getting up to answer the door. I peek at the chicken, which is browning beautifully, turn the roast potatoes so they will brown evenly, poke the tender stems of broccoli with a fork, then wipe my hands and switch on the kettle. For once, I’m ready and waiting for him.

  James has changed his shirt, and I’m pretty certain he’s had a shave. He’s carrying a bottle of white wine sweating with cold, holding it by the neck as if he might need to bash me over the head with it.

  “Don’t know if you drink at lunchtime,” he says, by way of greeting.

  “Depends how badly you behave. How about you? Do you drink at lunchtime?”

  “Don’t drink at all.”

  “Too old?”

  “Learned better. Help yourself though, don’t mind me.”

  The wine is Australian Chardonnay, the choice of a true teetotaller. I would have guessed he was a whiskey-lover. I decide I need my wits about me and stash the bottle in the fridge for later. James hovers in the kitchen doorway.

  “What? I can’t talk to you and cook, if you want something just say.”

  “Thought women were born multitaskers.”

  “Let me explain. Do you notice how you’re standing over there? And how everything I’m cooking is over here? And I can’t look at you and at what I’m doing at the same time? Do you see how that works? Go and talk to Marianne, she seems to like you for some reason. You’ve only got ten minutes to fill anyway.”

  I wonder if Lily tolerated him in the kitchen while she worked, or if she banished him to the sofa. Perhaps she gave him a job to do, laying the table or chopping vegetables. I should have thought of this, and saved up the task of putting out the cutlery. As it is, Marianne will have to look after him. I risk a quick peek into the sitting room. There’s no sign of either of them. At least they’re not sitting on the sofa in awkward silence. The chicken sits perfectly crisp and delicious in its Pyrex dish, slowly reabsorbing the juices that have trickled out. In a minute I’ll pour the rest into the gravy. The roast potatoes are golden and crumbly, the broccoli tender. I’ve made a plate of little cakes to follow, miniature sponges filled with jam and cream.

  Back in the other room, James and Marianne look conspiratorial at the dining table. I carry through the dishes, blinking away the steam. The chicken’s so tender it falls off the bones. Marianne looks from James to me, and from me to James. James gives her the tiniest wink when he thinks I’m not looking. I say nothing, but pass the broccoli. After a minute, Marianne takes a tiny sliver of chicken from the edge of her plate and drops it to the floor. It seems we have an extra visitor.

  The chicken disappears at satisfying speed. Both Marianne and James are on their best behaviour; there’s no gravy spilled, no water glasses upset, no broccoli surreptitiously smuggled back into the dish. To my astonishment Marianne eats a potato, then two, then a third, and drops scraps of meat down to the stowaway guest lurking by our feet. As I reach for the gravy jug, I feel something lithe and muscly press against my ankle. Then a tiny prickly paw dabs speculatively at my calf.

  “Do you always bring your cat out to lunch with you?” I ask sweetly. James is caught off guard, but recovers quickly, taking the time to finish his mouthful before he answers.

  “Don’t take the cat anywhere. Does what it likes. Not my fault if you don’t keep your windows shut.” I see Marianne very visibly realising that she doesn’t have to say anything to contradict him. “Put it out again if you don’t like it.”

  “It’s begging for chicken.”

  “Come here, Cat.” He peels a long sliver of meat from the leg and holds it down beneath the table. “No point asking her for anything. Heart of stone.”

  “Behave yourself or you won’t get a cake.”

  “See? Heart of stone.” He holds down another chunk of meat. The cat takes it delicately from his fingers and retreats beneath the table. Marianne catches her breath.

  “Oh! Will she eat out of your hand? Will she do that with me?”

  “Eat out of Jack the Ripper’s hand if he had chicken. Most food-minded cat I’ve ever known. Just hold it out, she’ll take it.”

  “No, don’t just hold it out, get a plate. I don’t want chicken fat all over my carpet.”

  “Thought you weren’t keeping it.”

  “I’m not. We’re not. The estate agent’s coming later. I don’t want everything filthy.”

  “So you’ll want the washing-up done? Bet you only asked me so you wouldn’t have to.” I start collecting the plates but he slaps my hands away. “Give over, woman. My job, not yours. Sit down and have a rest.”

  “We haven’t had the cakes yet.”

  “Cakes aren’t going anywhere. Have them in a bit when the pots are cleared.”

  “You need someone to dry.”

  “Little one can help.”
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br />   “No, she can’t.”

  “Of course I can,” Marianne says.

  “Come on, then.” James gives her hair a friendly tug.

  Bereft of anything productive to do, I sit down on the sofa. The cat jumps up next to me and curls up with her spine against my leg. When I stroke her side I feel the vibration of her purr. I’m replete with food. My eyes begin to close. I force them open again. I never sleep during the day. I don’t have time.

  It’s the air, Lily tells me. It’s very strong. Good for you. Margaret and I were the same when we first moved here. It’s all right, have a nap if you want, you’ll feel better for it.

  The cat unrolls and stretches, then re-rolls around my hand so my fingers are buried in the warm fur of her belly. I feel as if I’m wearing a single, too-small, very warm glove. A single, too-small, very warm, vibrating glove with tickly whiskers. The most non-glove-like glove in the world. My eyes fall closed again. I force them back open.

  Shhh, Lily says. It’s all right.

  “I can’t go to sleep,” I protest. “I’ve got too much to do.”

  It will all wait. There isn’t as much to do as you think there is, you know.

  “Lily, I need to ask you something. Was Margaret my real grandmother?” Lily smiles, but doesn’t answer. “Are you my great-aunt?”

  You’re my darling girl, and you always have been.

  “But is that why I always called you Lily and not Gran? What happened to the baby Margaret was having? Was that my dad? And who was my grandfather?”

  Would it matter so much either way? Whatever happened was all over long ago. You’re thinking about the past when what matters is the present. You’ve got a hard decision to make, my darling.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  You will soon. You’re too tired to see it yet, that’s all. Sleep on it, and you’ll see it all makes sense in the end. She glances over her shoulder and grimaces. Oh dear. You’re going to be interrupted. Again. I never liked him, you know.