Lily Alone

by Vivien Brown

  Vigorously she scraped out half the contents of the cat food can into a bowl and rattled the fork against the side as a ‘come-home’ signal, her eyes scanning the fence line and the roofs of the sheds beyond. It was surprising just how quiet it was back here, compared to the bustle of the street at the front. High buildings, all close together, high fences and walls. It was how she imagined it must feel peering out from a prison cell at the boundaries built with no other purpose but to keep you in. And there was that crying again, breaking the peace and quiet, like a knife slicing through butter. And it was in bloody stereo now! Two kids bawling their heads off, from two different flats up above. And she’d been worried the other residents might object to her having a pet!

  She was about to shout something through the window, suggesting they keep the noise down, but that was when she saw a movement in the corner of the yard. Two front paws appeared like little Punch and Judy finger puppets on the top of the fence and Smudge hauled himself up and over, then scrabbled clumsily down the wooden panel in a flurry of damp fur and scraping claws. She knew what he would do now. A leap up and through the small kitchen window was a bit too tricky for the poor old cat, so he would stroll around the edge of the yard, squeeze through the gap under the side gate that led out to the pavement, climb the concrete steps and wait to be let in at the front door.

  Agnes pulled the window shut with a satisfying slam, sending little splashes of rainwater dancing all over the draining board, and lowered the blind, then went out of her flat into the shared hallway to open the front door and await the return of the warrior.

  *

  Lily woke up on the carpet, curled into a tight little ball, pressed against the side of the sofa. She had fallen asleep crying, in great noisy gulps, and now her cheeks were sore, and she was cold. The curtains were open, and the tree out on the pavement was swaying in the wind and rain, its leaves making scary shadowy patterns on the wall. Lily felt around for Archie and found him under a cushion.

  She remembered that she had been playing tea parties with her dolls, talking to them so the room didn’t feel so quiet and empty. She’d put the TV on. She knew how to do that, pressing the buttons on the mote. There were no kiddie programmes on, just grown-up things, but she’d left it on to stop the quiet, and gone over to the sofa and climbed up, but then she’d leant over too far to grab for Archie and they’d both fallen off it, and she’d banged her head a little bit and that had made her cry.

  The TV was still on now as she woke up, turned up a bit too loud. The dolls were lying down on their sides. Maybe they had needed a nap too. All the plastic cups and plates were still spread over the floor, and the little cardboard packets too, the ones she used when she pretended the flat was a shop and Mummy came and bought things with money from her purse. But none of it was real food, and she was hungry. Archie was hungry too.

  When they went into the kitchen, Lily’s bare feet slapping on the hard lino floor, there was nothing cooking. Everything was still and quiet. The big ironing board was up, a pile of clothes on top of it, the wire from the iron hanging down to the floor but not plugged in. Lily reached up and touched the iron, very carefully with one finger, in case it was still hot. It wasn’t. It was cold. Mummy must have finished the ironing but forgotten to put the iron away. Mummy always put the iron away. But Mummy still wasn’t here.

  She opened the door of the fridge, looking for food, and the light came on, showing her what was inside. She would have liked to eat a biscuit best, but the biscuits were always kept in a tin high up in a cupboard she couldn’t reach, and Mummy never let her have one before her dinner. But the fridge was where Mummy kept the things she was allowed to eat. The fruit and carrots, and things dinner was made of. She felt in the see-through drawer at the bottom and found a baby tomato. It was icy cold, and the juicy pips spurted out as she bit, dribbling in a sticky line down the front of her pyjamas. She offered one to Archie, holding it to his furry lips, but he wasn’t very hungry after all, and he whispered that Lily could eat it for him if she wanted to. When she shut the fridge, the light went out and the kitchen felt all horrible and spooky. Quickly, she reopened the door, pulling it all the way back until it stayed there and dragging a chair over to wedge against it, and the bright light shone out like a shiny white square in the corner of the cold grey gloom.

  She needed to do a wee. The nappy she was wearing was only meant to be for nap times now that she was nearly three. Not for when she was awake. She didn’t know if she should just wee in the nappy. It felt really heavy already, and Mummy might be annoyed with her if she didn’t try to hold on until she could climb up onto the toilet or use the potty.

  Maybe she should just wait. Hold on. Jiggle up and down. That sometimes helped, like when they were in the supermarket and they had to leave the trolley with all the shopping in it and run off to the Ladies, the one with the pink door. She had to jiggle then, and squash her legs together, which made running much harder to do, but they always got there just in time, and Mummy would laugh as they walked back afterwards, and wondered if they would remember which aisle they’d left the shopping in.

  Maybe Mummy had gone to the shops now. But she’d never gone by herself before. Never left Lily behind. The wee feeling was getting stronger. She didn’t know what to do. Maybe she could ring Mummy. She walked to the phone. It was on the table by the front door, its long green wire hanging down, all curly like a snake. She picked it up and listened. There was just a buzzing noise and she wasn’t sure what to do next. What buttons to press.

  ‘Mummy?’

  Nobody spoke. There was just the buzzing noise.

  ‘Mummy?’

  But the phone just kept on buzzing in her hand.

  The wee was trying really hard to come out now, and she was trying really hard to stop it. She dropped the phone, still buzzing, onto the table, and tugged at the sticky strips sticking up over the waistband of her pyjama bottoms, the strips that held the nappy on. She had never had to take her own nappy off before. She managed to tear off one of the strips and that side of the nappy slipped crookedly and soggily down inside her pyjamas towards her knees. But it was too hard to get it right off. It was taking too long. The pyjamas were in the way. Her fingers wouldn’t work.

  And then it was too late to find the potty. She couldn’t hold it in any longer, no matter how hard she jiggled, and the warm liquid flowed down her legs, leaving a long damp trail down her pyjama bottoms and making a big slippery puddle that she could hardly see on the floor around her cold bare feet.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ruby

  I’m sitting on the grass in the park. The others are all chasing a ball around, glad to be outside for a while, shouting to each other and squealing with excitement, but I’m happier here under the tree with my book.

  Every now and then I lay it down on my lap and watch the people going by. Mums pushing prams, toddlers stopping to pick daisies in the grass, the occasional man out from his office, lighting up a cigarette, tugging his collar open and loosening his tie as he sweats in his business suit.

  There’s an old lady today, with a little grey dog. She’s walking very slowly, her big coat open and flapping in the breeze, and it’s obvious the dog just wants to run on ahead, but she doesn’t let him. She grips on to his lead as if she’s holding back a great raging lion, but he’s just a little dog. A poodle, I think. Anyone can see he’s dying to chase leaves and bring back sticks and do what dogs are supposed to do, but the old lady finds a bench and lowers herself onto it, tying the end of the lead round the slats at the back and closing her eyes against the sun.

  After a while she opens a pack of sandwiches, little square ones she’s made at home and wrapped up in a greaseproof paper bundle. I watch as her jaw grinds up and down rhythmically, and she pushes a chunk of something – maybe cheese – into the dog’s mouth and throws a few crusts for the birds, and then the dog gives up trying to escape, rolls onto his side and goes to sleep on the path.

  I lik
e it when we come out like this. Get a look at the real world, a world populated by families and grannies and dogs. I don’t have any of those things. I have never had any of those things. Not properly. Not to keep.

  Someone nearly took me once. Did all the papers and took me out on trips and stuff. They seemed nice enough. Him with his shiny shoes, and her with her shiny eyes. But it didn’t happen in the end. It’s a big decision, I suppose, taking on a kid who isn’t yours. A bit like choosing a dog. You have to be in it for the long haul, prepared to get on with it, take what comes, ups and downs, good and bad, no matter what. Not just for Christmas. Maybe they just couldn’t go through with it, face the enormity of it. I like to think that maybe they found out they were having a baby of their own, or decided to get a cat instead, or realised they could be happy just in each other’s company after all. I hope they didn’t choose some other child to adopt, that it wasn’t just me they rejected.

  Mrs Castle is rounding us all up now. It’s time to go back to the children’s home, nearly time for tea. She’s herding us back to the mini-bus like wayward, weary sheep. I get up and flick stalks of dried grass from my clothes, pop the bookmark inside my book ready to pick up the story later, exactly where I left off, and climb up the steep step, heading for my favourite seat by the window, in the middle row, on the left.

  I must have gone to sleep. The rhythm of the wheels on the road, the gentle chatter of the other children’s voices all around me, the heat of the dying sun working its way into the skin of my forehead through the glass, layer by layer, making me feel all muzzy and only halfway here.

  And now someone is touching my arm, whispering so quietly I can hardly hear, as if they are a long, long way away. ‘Lily …’ a voice is saying, cool steady fingers pressing against my wrist. A female voice I don’t recognise. Not Mrs Castle. Not my mother. But then I realise I don’t quite remember what my mother’s voice sounds like. It’s so long since I’ve seen her. Or heard her say my name.

  And, through my dreams I’m thinking: Yes, Lily. I like Lily. It’s a nice name. When I’m a mother, I’m going to call my baby Lily. Or Betsy, like my doll. And love her properly, never leave her, never let her go. But the voice fades away, and I can’t conjure up a face that fits it, and the wheels keep turning, and my left leg has gone to sleep pressed against the throbbing side of the bus.

  And I’m not ready to wake up yet.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Laura checked her watch. Ten to eight. She had managed to run and catch the bus just as it was about to pull away from the stop, puffing heavily and with the beginnings of a stitch in her side – she really must lose a few pounds, she was so unfit – but glad to have made it, as the next wasn’t due for twenty minutes.

  The traffic had not been as heavy as usual and the bus had sailed through several sets of lights just as they were about to turn red, so now she was here with time to spare. That made a change. She stood in the lobby, early-morning empty, a pale imitation of the bustling hive of activity it would soon become, once the coffee shop opened and the visitors started to arrive, armed with cards and grapes and Lucozade and flowers.

  There was a pile of thick Sunday newspapers, colour supplements in plastic casing spilling out of the sides, tied up with string in the still-closed doorway of the hospital shop, and Laura waved through the glass at her friend Fiona, overall on, getting ready to open on the dot of eight, tipping coins into the till from a small plastic bag with one hand as she waved back, sleepily, with the other.

  For some reason she could not fully explain, despite one of Gina’s casseroles, an early night and not the smallest trace of alcohol, Laura had slept fitfully. Images of the girl from yesterday, the one hit by the car, had kept flashing up on her dream screen. It was never easy, seeing people hurt, unconscious, sometimes not being able to help them. As a nurse, she knew she had to switch off, try not to take it home with her, keep it all out of her head. But some times were harder than others. Some patients had more impact, tugging harder at the heart strings.

  This girl, the one from yesterday, had got to her, crept in under the radar. Perhaps it was the fact that she was unconscious and unidentified. Just Lily, if that was even her name. Poor sick deep-sleeping Lily. No bag, no address, no medical records, no family sobbing at her bedside. Or perhaps it was because she was so near to Laura’s own age, or seemed to be. No wedding ring, but somewhere there would be parents, brothers, sisters, a boyfriend maybe, all blissfully unaware … Surely someone would have reported her missing by now?

  Laura pushed the button for the sixth floor and waited for the lift to arrive. She had ten minutes – okay, only eight now – before she was due to start work. Just long enough to pop up to the intensive care unit and see if anyone had come to claim Lily, or if she had woken up yet.

  *

  William put the key in the ignition and turned. There was a splutter, an ominous sort of chug, and then nothing but a whine. He tried again and got just the whine this time. The sodding battery was flat. Just when he’d finally psyched himself up to go and see his mother too. Best shirt, shoes polished, and a handful of loose change clanking in his pocket, ready to pick up some flowers on the way. Could you buy freesias in October? He had no idea. Still, they’d be bound to have something nice at the Asian 24-hour place on the corner, or at the petrol station, something bright and cheerful that would sit in a vase on his mother’s windowsill and help him break the proverbial ice.

  Cars! More trouble than they were worth. He would have liked to get out and give the damn thing a good kicking, vent his frustrations on the already rusting bodywork, but then it would have a sodding great dent in the side as well as a dead battery, so what was the point, other than to make himself feel better? Instead, he rooted about in the glove compartment, looking for the breakdown cover documents. William knew very little about cars, beyond how much they cost to run, and that was frightening enough these days. Even if he could track down the breakdown policy, would someone come out, to his own driveway, just to give him some kind of a bump start, and on a Sunday too? He didn’t know if they – he – had the full cover or just the basic roadside deal. He’d always left that kind of stuff to Susan and, now she’d gone, he had no idea where she would have put the papers, or even if she’d bothered to renew the thing at all. Her own car, considerably newer than his, was a company one and no doubt came with all manner of guarantees that his old banger had long since outlived.

  He found it right at the back. A small plastic folder marked ‘RAC’ in Susan’s flowery handwriting, a bit bent and tucked in behind an old spare pair of glasses, an open packet of Polos and one of those things you use to check the pressure of the tyres. He hadn’t done that for a while either. But when he pulled out the papers inside, the thing had run out. Expired, just three weeks ago. Why on earth hadn’t they written to him, reminded him it was due? But then he remembered the pile of letters propped up by the clock, the bills and junk mail and suspiciously official looking brown envelopes that he hadn’t quite got around to tackling yet, and knew that they probably had.

  What would have taken ten minutes by car was a forty minute bus ride, on a good day. They’d done it once, both ways, he and Susan, noting down the right bus number to catch, and the times it departed and arrived, then stop-watching themselves from door to door, just to show Agnes how easy it would be for her to come and visit, but she never had. Getting on and off buses was a struggle, she said, with their high steps and her bad knees, although he knew she could do it if she tried. But William was starting to feel that way himself these days. It was all a bit too much of a bother, and there’d probably be a much longer wait anyway, it being a Sunday. Buses never ran as frequently on a Sunday.

  He opened up the bonnet and managed to disconnect the battery, getting great blobs of oil and muck all over his sleeves in the process, and then lugged it through into the garage. He knew he had a charger somewhere amongst all the cluttered detritus of his life. It must have been years since he’d had
a good clear-out and even longer since he’d been able to actually park a car in there.

  Eventually, he went back into the house and threw his oily jacket down on a chair already littered with discarded jumpers, crumpled sweatshirts and screwed-up socks. He’d put the kettle on and have some tea while he decided what to do. After all, it wasn’t as if his mother was expecting him, so not turning up wasn’t about to break any hearts. He flipped the TV on as he waited for the kettle to boil. There was an old film on. Something black and white, from the 1930s or 40s by the look of it. The kind of film his father used to watch on a Sunday, all dapper-looking men in evening suits and elegant women swishing their long satin skirts, cigarettes in long slim holders poised at their lips and a big band playing in the background.

  He still missed his father. Donald Munro had been a force to be reckoned with. Upright, honest, an all-round good egg. An organiser too. Even at his funeral, it had been as if he was still there, taking charge, making sure everything ran like clockwork. He’d left strict instructions. Music, coffin, memorial, even where the after-party should be held and who should be invited. Left a special account too, with just the right amount of cash in it to see himself safely out of this world and into the next.

  Now that Susan’s gone, perhaps I should make plans, William thought, pouring the hot water onto his teabag and flopping back down in front of the film. A new will. Decisions about what happens next. Who to leave it all to. But, of course, there was no one. Only his mother, who by the law of averages would go first. No brothers or sisters, the only cousin being a girl he’d not met since he was three and who now lived in Australia. He should have had children. He wished he’d had children. But it wasn’t going to happen now, was it? Maybe he should start investigating charities, leave it all to the NSPCC or a dogs’ home somewhere. Cats, even. His mother would approve of that.