Lily's House

by Cassandra Parkin

  “You should go out,” Lily says, over dinner. “It’s a beautiful night. Don’t waste it.”

  The scent of evening is its own invitation, whispering through the open window and drawing me outside. I’ve slept all afternoon and now I’m filled with a restless disoriented energy. I shake my head, feeling guilty, but Lily’s smile is as beguiling as ever, tempting me into the kind of mild wickedness she loves. I’m in my new green dress and halfway down the street before I can stop myself.

  The whole world seems happily tipsy on sea air and cider. I normally dislike drinking alone with strangers, but tonight I plunge gladly into the warm press of bodies at the bar, waving my ten pound note to catch the barman’s eye and finally receiving my reward of a brimming pint of pale bubbling gold. I carry it to the mantelpiece over the open fire, lit even though the pub’s already unbearably hot. Around me, people cup their hands around their ears and mouth, Sorry? What? Come again? Didn’t get that? at each other, which makes me feel I’m among friends.

  At the other side of the fireplace, there’s someone watching me. He catches my eye because he looks so entirely unlike Daniel. When I put my hand in the pocket of my dress, I find a polished rosy pebble.

  “We’re moving on. Want to come?” He has a nice face, a Cornish face, tanned and freckled, his whole self all tangled and unkempt as if he climbed out of the sea two hours ago. He’s bought me a pint, laughing and pushing my arm away when I tried to return the favour. He’s told me his name, which I forgot instantly, and now I’m hoping I can pick it up from someone else, or that that I’ll make it through the evening without needing to know it at all. He likes me, in that easy holiday way I remember from before Daniel. We touch each other a lot as we talk, gentle friendly touches on the arms, the hands, the shoulders. The night’s still young.

  ‘On’ is a minibus crammed with, apparently, half the pub, shuddering with music that vibrates against my skull. The driver has sunglasses on even though it’s dark, and steers us into the unknown with cool professionalism. I turn over the pebble in my pocket and think of ferrymen, of skeletons with dark robes and scythes, of that inevitable one-way journey we’ll all make some day. Of what Daniel might do if I tell him I’m leaving. I think of the phrase, you’re a long time dead. I have no idea where we’re going.

  The bus rocks and rolls around the tight country lanes and I wonder if we’ll finish in a wall or a ditch, but suddenly we’re in a field of mud where a large tent pulses with light. The ground throbs and my hand is in his. He offers me a pill. (‘Nothing heavy, I promise. Good gear. We can split it, if you like.’) I shake my head. He swallows the pill himself, and doesn’t press me.

  Inside the tent, reality dissolves into flashing lights and writhing bodies. The air presses against me in waves of sound. There’s a bar, though most of its trade is in bottled water, and a thin man with giant earphones who has us all on a string. I hadn’t known nights like this still existed and I’m charmed. We dance, laugh, point wildly in lieu of conversation. When we kiss, it feels like the logical outcome of everything that’s gone before. He offers me a second pill, which I also refuse, and which he swallows with a single gulp of water. How will we get home? Or will we simply dance all night, then sleep where we drop?

  As I’m wondering this, he takes my hand and leads me outside. It’s normally me who calls time on the fun, dragging Daniel reluctantly away with the reminder that I, at least, have to be up for work in the morning, pushing his head off my shoulder as I drive us home, coaxing him up to our flat and our bathroom and our bed. It’s strange to be with someone who’s happy to take charge.

  Outside it’s very cold. In the dried mud beneath the floodlights, he wraps me in his jacket and, perhaps forgetting that I passed on both the pills, insists on my drinking deeply from a bottle of water.

  “I can’t hear a thing,” he says, laughing and pointing to his ears. “Deaf as a post now. Probably done some permanent damage.”

  An improvised taxi service is scooping up tired revellers. Young men who, in different circumstances, might have been at the rave with the rest of us, yawn and rub their eyes behind the wheels of battered but cherished first cars. We climb into the back seat of a Vauxhall Corsa and my companion passes a fistful of money to the boy in the baseball cap. He spins the wheels getting out of the mud, but once we’re on the tarmac he seems competent enough. I close my eyes and accept the gentle kisses brushing across my face and neck. His skin feels cool and damp. When I lick my lips I taste sweat.

  The car halts by the sea; we stumble down the beach. The tide’s well down and the moon’s painted a wide yellow path across the water. It’s light enough to see each other, but dark enough to pretend we have privacy.

  “Sorry I can’t take you back to my place,” he says, as his hands slide beneath my dress. “I’m staying with my granddad.”

  “And I’m at my grandmother’s. Sorry.”

  “And I’m moving abroad soon.”

  “I—” I manage to swallow the potentially complicated truth that I’m living with my boyfriend but I think I might have left him. “Where are you going?”

  “New Zealand.”

  “Good choice.” I tug at his belt buckle and find the skin beneath his clothes, astounded by my own brazenness, without even the excuse of alcohol. “When do you leave?”

  “Two days.”

  “So I’m your last hurrah?” I find I’m relieved. Whatever happens now, none of it will be quite real. “I’ll make the most of you, then.”

  He looks at me seriously. “You’re sure that’s all right?”

  “I’m sure.”

  It’s more than all right. It’s delicious and perfect and raw. I think it must be the shock of freedom that makes me so eager, as if someone’s peeled off the thin film of reluctance that’s smothered me for years. Or maybe it’s the late hour, or the sea air. Maybe I’ve been fantastically lucky and the man I chose at random in the pub is a secret Casanova. I don’t care. I think briefly of Daniel, but I don’t feel even faintly guilty. The sand isn’t as soft or as comfortable as it looks, but we’re too far gone to mind.

  His jacket and T-shirt are beneath my head and his jeans are around his ankles. My knickers have disappeared into the shingle. He gently resists my attempts to draw him closer to me. He’s saying something to me but I can’t make it out.

  “I can’t hear you,” I tell him.

  He turns me gently around so we can see each other in the moonlight.

  “I said, is this all right to do?” he asks me.

  “Is what all right?”

  “I don’t, you know, have anything with me.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I lie. “I’m on the pill.”

  “That’s fine then,” he says with a smile, and these are the last words we say to each other as we lose ourselves and all our inhibitions, and the little speck that will one day become Marianne begins its slow journey to creation.

  Afterwards, I doze briefly against his chest, then wake up feeling damp and chilly. While he sleeps I can study him as much as I want to. I wriggle back into my dress, steal his discarded jacket and wrap it around myself, then sit for a few minutes and consider him. He’s shorter than Daniel, narrower across the shoulders, his skin browner, his eyelashes longer, his body hair denser. Do I like him more or less than Daniel? Irrelevant, since he’s going to New Zealand.

  He looks like a local boy. The kind of boy Lily has always secretly hoped I’ll marry one day. Perhaps she conjured him for me, out of a tangle of hair, a drop of seawater and a mandrake root. A boy for one night of wild joy and measureless freedom, who will dissolve into nothingness when the tide turns.

  I could wait for him to wake, but I think it would spoil the moment to kiss a slow goodbye and then watch him leave me, stolen away by the land of the long white cloud. I’ll leave him instead, and he’ll be left wondering if he dreamed me. I’d like to keep his jacket, but I leave it beside him, with Lily’s pebble tucked in one pocket.

  Non
e of this counts for anything, or has any connection to our lives together or our lives apart. It’s simply something that happened. Whatever happens to us next, Daniel doesn’t need to know about it.

  I run back home barefoot, shoes in hand, too elated to feel the chill against my feet. When I get back to Lily’s house, the storm will finally break and show me, not the end of me and Daniel, but the end of my father. But for now, in my last few moments of ignorance, I’m wildly happy.

  Afterwards this all seems like something I made up, or perhaps dreamed many years ago. When Daniel looks at his arm next to Marianne’s in the bath and exclaims over how dark she is compared to him, I laugh along with him, carefree and conscienceless, and marvel out loud at the mysteries that hide in our DNA, waiting for the right combination to spring the lock. When I look at Marianne, her spirally hair, her olive skin, her lean shape, the darkness of her eyes, I refuse to understand or to remember. Even on the day when, dreamy with oxytocin, I take a picture of Marianne and slide it into an envelope, add Lily’s address, and drop it in the postbox, I refuse to let myself see what I’m really looking at.

  For someone so dependent on her sense of sight, I’m remarkably good at not seeing.

  Chapter Twenty-One – Wednesday

  Being awake, alone, indoors, rapidly becomes unbearable. I pace from one room to another, checking the clock every thirty seconds. When Marianne finally appears, yawning, in her doorway, I chivvy her out of her pyjamas, into her clothes, then hover over her as she eats breakfast. She looks confused, but accepts my explanation that we have errands to run. Closing the front door behind us is a deep relief.

  “So where are we going?” Marianne asks, trying to keep up with me.

  “Estate agent.”

  “Not the house clearer?”

  “I… no.” Will I be able to rent Lily’s house with what’s in it now? Of course I can’t; some of it at least will have to go. But what can I leave, and what must I throw away? My new plan is still half-formed and ill-considered. “Not today, anyway.”

  “Not today? But I thought we were going home on Saturday? Will we have time if we don’t do it today?”

  Maybe the rent will be enough to pay for our new house. Maybe I can mortgage Lily’s house and use the rent to pay that mortgage, then spend what we borrow on our own home. That’s an absurd and inefficient way to do it, but revenge is expensive. “We’ll have time. Or we’ll have to stay a few days extra after all.”

  “Or we could ask Mr Moon if he’d mind—”

  “No.”

  “Just to let them in, not to be in charge or anything—”

  “No.” I’m sharper than I meant to be. She looks at me in bewilderment, trying to work out what she’s done wrong. “Look, forget it. You don’t have to worry about it, I’ll sort it.”

  “Mum, we’re going past the estate agent. Or was it the other one you wanted?”

  I don’t know which one. I’ll have to start the whole process again, work out who will be the best choice for renting rather than selling. There’ll be alterations to pay for, decorators to find, furniture to buy. And we don’t have the money – only what Lily had in the bank, but we need that to pay the inheritance tax. This is all impossible, or at least it’s impossible to sort out in the ninety-six hours I’ve allowed myself before I have to be on the train. Daniel won’t tolerate me staying any longer, he’s made that clear. Damn Lily and damn James and damn everything about this week. Why couldn’t Lily leave her money to the local cat sanctuary?

  Because I promised I’d always love you best, of course. What else would I do but leave it to you?

  “Mum? Are we going in this one?”

  “No, not this one.”

  I need more time to think. We had a plan, a plan to sell Lily’s home and use the money to secure our future, but now I have a different plan. Except my plan is ridiculous, driven by nothing more rational than a desire for revenge on an old man who beat his wife, a woman I never met.

  I could go to the police. But what would I say? The old man who lives downstairs from my dead grandmother used to hit his wife, who is now apparently dead. My evidence is a list of dates and incidents from God knows when, with no names on, written by a woman who’s also dead. I want you to do something about it even though you couldn’t do anything then. They’d laugh in my face. I need more time to work out what to do. Daniel. What am I going to tell Daniel?

  “Are you all right, Mum?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You look worried. Can I help? I can translate if you’re tired.”

  “No, it’s fine, I’ll manage. But thank you.”

  “So which estate agent are we going to?”

  “We… oh, hang on.” My phone’s vibrating. “It’s your dad. Let me see what he wants.”

  How’s it going lovely wife? Nearly ready to come home?

  I’m doing my best, I can’t promise but I’m doing my best

  So what have you been doing all morning?

  Uncovering old secrets. Rattling the bones of the family skeletons. Wishing I’d never set eyes on James Moon.

  Never mind me, tell me about you. What’s new for you Mr Music Man?

  Well since you ask, I have got some really cool news

  Go on then

  WE GOT A GIG AT THIS NEW FESTIVAL NEXT SPRING

  Hey that’s fantastic! Well done! Tell me about it!

  Dorset, Easter weekend. Not costing us a bean, we get free tickets for the day and our lunch and dinner thrown in

  Except there’ll be the van hire and the insurance and the petrol down there and the petrol back and the beer and the tickets for the days they’re not playing but that they’ll want to be at anyway and he’ll want Marianne and me to go with him.

  That’s really awesome! So proud!

  Marianne’s watching a dog down on the quay. The dog is losing its mind because it can see a seagull eating scraps from a discarded chip wrapper. With every morsel the seagull gulps down, the dog becomes more and more agitated, straining against its lead until it’s barely anchored to the ground. Its owner, oblivious, is talking to her friend. She turns to look at me.

  “Is Dad all right?”

  “Of course he is, why wouldn’t he be?”

  “Is he angry?”

  “No, he isn’t angry, why would he be angry?”

  Maybe now is a good time to tell him my new idea, while he’s happy and excited about the festival. My phone vibrates again.

  They sent me some details and it’s going to be amazing. They’re planning three stages, one for electronic, one for Indie and one for more mainstream stuff. We’ll be on the Indie stage.

  It’s a chance to make some good contacts, get our names known.

  AND Six Music might be there for some of it. I know I’m going on but really excited about this one, could be The Breakthrough!

  Yep, it really could! Sounds like a really brilliant gig. Well done for getting asked

  And I know it’s not paid exactly, but it won’t cost anything and it really is great exposure

  Yes I know, it’s brilliant! So proud

  The only thing is you and Marianne won’t be going for free

  Of course we won’t be. We never are. Marianne, lured by the dog and the seagull, has wandered onto the quayside and is now studying the blackboards.

  “What have you found?” I ask.

  “Boat trips. I don’t want to go on one or anything, I’m only looking.”

  It’s okay, we’ll find the money somehow

  ??? We’re rich now aren’t we? Or we will be by next summer anyway :)

  Yes but that’s to build our house remember?

  Oh come on, it won’t cost that much. Festivals are dead cheap, everyone knows that

  Not the way Daniel does festivals.

  Well look we’ll find the money whatever happens, okay?

  Got to go. Estate agent visit looming xxxxx

  xxxxxxx

  I put my phone away, but I don’t go
back to the high street. Instead I stare at the board, still thinking about Daniel and the booking for the new festival. What must it be like to be him? Where does he find the dedication to keep on and on and on, relentlessly focused on his passion, never doubting the worth of what he does, no matter how many times his almost-breakthroughs come to nothing? How does he withstand the knowledge that he’s barely made a penny from his music? Sometimes I forget that I’m proud of him.

  The blackboard is filled with timetables. The regular ferry across the harbour. A pleasure cruise that takes you inland up the river. Fishing trips. Each one the promise of escape. I want so much to escape. If I could, I’d board a boat to South America right now, me and Marianne, and run away from everything, the paperwork and the secrets and the unmet obligations. We could start new lives in another land where nobody knows us.

  “Let’s do it,” I say to Marianne.

  “Let’s do what? A boat trip? Really? But we have to—”

  “No, we don’t. Come on. One more day of fun.”

  “But Dad—”

  “Dad won’t mind.” She’s tempted, I can tell. “When will we be here again? It’s now or never. Which trip do you fancy?”

  She looks wildly around.

  “Which one can we go on right now?”

  “There’s a ferry in ten minutes.”

  “But how long does it take? When do we have to be back?”

  I’m giddy with the illusion of freedom. “Doesn’t matter. We don’t have to be anywhere. We can do whatever we want and stay out as late as we like.”

  “What about the house-clearing people? And the antiques man?”

  “It’ll keep.” It won’t keep. If we do this now there’s no way we can go back on Saturday. But I don’t care.

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  Marianne thinks for a minute. I wonder what’s going on in her head, what mysterious calculation she’s undertaking to decide if she can allow herself to give in. Then she puts her hand into mine and kisses my cheek. The baby softness is all gone now from her fingers. They’re muscly and capable, the palm almost as big as mine. It can’t be long now until the last time she’ll take my hand for comfort. This could even be the last time.