by Tim Lott
That’s what you used to say, anyway. I believed you too.
Even apart from the birthmark, I was a funny kid.
I had a bit of a stutter as well for a little while.
Do you remember that?
Course you do.
Shall I tell you a secret about that stutter?
I sort of did it deliberately.
No, I did though. I did it on purpose.
I knew you wouldn’t believe me. But it’s true. Cross fingers and hope to die.
Why? That’s obvious.
So you would take notice of me.
I wanted you to notice me, Mum.
And Dad, too, but he was always so busy.
And then he wasn’t there any more.
But you were there. Most of the time. When I went to school. When I came home. You were there. With my meals and my clothes and everything else I needed.
But you couldn’t look at me. Not quite. Not right full on.
You learned to. I know you did.
But the mark on my face. You struggled with that. Didn’t you?
Don’t pretend you didn’t.
Don’t, Mum.
It’s too late now to pretend.
It’s our last chance.
You wanted a beautiful baby and you got me.
Frankie Blue.
With a scarlet map on my forehead.
Which all the other mothers pretended not to see.
But they saw it alright.
I saw their eyes.
You saw it too, didn’t you?
Mum.
Mum?
The thing is, I understand.
That’s what I want to say.
I forgive you, Mum.
It doesn’t matter anymore.
Can you hear me?
I think she’s gone, son. Frankie? I think she’s gone.
Frankie looks up at Gordon, who has a big, sombre, drooping tear balancing at the corner of his eye.
I think she’s been gone a while.
Yes, says Frankie. I expect so.
He is still holding his mother’s hand.
It was good that you could say goodbye, son. It mustn’t have been easy.
Frankie looks at Gordon, shabby, grey-haired, lines mapped like graphite on his kind, weathered face. For Frankie sees, now, that it is kind – kind and sad and lost.
He lets go of his mother’s hand. Still warm.
I’m glad. This time. That I did. Say goodbye.
Yes.
I never did with my dad.
That’s a shame.
Or Colin. Or Ralph.
Who’s they?
She saw me, didn’t she, Gordon? She heard me. She heard what I said.
I know she did, bwoy.
I looked into her eyes. It was only a few minutes ago. I could see her there. Way deep in there. Still there.
She’s not there no more, Frankie bwoy. Gone far away.
She was my mum, Gordon.
I know she was, son.
My mum.
Yes.
My mummy.
He begins to weep, silently. Gordon rests his hand lightly on Frankie’s back.
She was a good woman, Frankie.
Frankie shakes himself out, straightens up, drags a sleeve across his face.
She was about average. But you made her happy these last few years, Gordon.
Did I?
You did.
I hope so.
You know when I first met you, I thought you were a bit of a hustler. Something of a rogue.
Gordon gives a deep gravelled chuckle.
Oh yes. I know that.
Well. You probably were.
He shrugs helplessly.
Always have been, I suppose. Just the way I am. Eye for the main chance. And for the ladies. Ha.
Yes.
But we had some good times, me and Floss. Some lovely times together, we had.
Spending my fucking inheritance.
That’s right, son.
Gordon laughs again, more emphatically this time.
Spending your fucking inheritance, bwoy.
Frankie manages to laugh too.
Thank you, Gordon.
My pleasure, son.
It’s time to say goodbye, says the nurse who has appeared from her ward round. She is beginning to draw the curtain around the bed.
Yes, says Frankie.
Okay, says Gordon.
Frankie and Gordon step back, and the nurse closes the curtain, making a soft squeal like air escaping or a rush of wind.
She had a good innings, says Gordon.
She did. In the end, says Frankie, turning away.
Gordon turns away too. They make their way in silence to the door of the ward.
Drink? says Gordon. I need a stiff one.
Sorry, Gordon. I’ve got to go and tell my daughter. Flossie’s granddaughter. She’s waiting for me downstairs.
Little China. Not so little now, isn’t it?
Not so little. Eight years old.
I’ll go and have one by myself then. Raise a glass to old Flossie.
You do that, Gordon.
Only I’m a bit . . .
Gordon looks at Frankie, a faint smile on his face that Frankie recognizes all too well.
Frankie sighs, reaches in his pocket, pulls out his wallet and then a five-pound note.
Maybe buy a round, says Gordon, not taking the note.
You never stop do you, you bloody villain.
For Flossie.
For Mum then, says Frankie, smiling and handing Gordon a twenty.
* * *
Veronica is standing there with China in the café by the entrance.
It’s over, says Frankie to Veronica.
Oh, Frankie, says Veronica.
Is Grandma dead? says China, cheerfully.
Yes, China. Grandma’s passed on.
Has she gone to heaven?
Yes, says Frankie.
Yes, says Veronica.
The three of them stand in silence.
I thought I’d take her over to the park.
She’s meant to be getting back with me, Frankie. That was the arrangement.
Frankie looks at her pleadingly.
We don’t have to follow the court ruling to the letter. Do we? Not today.
Okay then. Yes, for a little while.
Thanks, Vronky. I’ll have her back with you in an hour.
See you back here then. Don’t be late. She’s got school tomorrow.
Frankie pauses.
I love you, Veronica.
Veronica looks back at him, her eyes giving nothing away.
I know you do, Frankie.
Frankie picks up takes his daughter’s hand and leads her out towards his car. It is only then that China starts crying.
* * *
Frankie drives to Kensington Gardens. He buys China a Mr Softee cone from an ice cream van with Flake bunnies’ ears, while he treats himself to a banana cream lolly, his favourite since he was a boy. Flossie would always treat him in the summer. It comforts him.
They make their way into the Princess Diana memorial playground. China has never been here before. It seems that with the ice cream and the prospect of a new play space, she has forgotten about her grandmother already. The tears will return, Frankie knows. But he is thankful for China’s blessed forgetfulness, the miraculous quick oblivion of being a child.
What is this place, Daddy?
Neverland.
There are tipis here and swings, and totem poles carved with ancient faces. There are treasure chests and a sea-serpent. China finishes the rest of her ice cream, and rushes to the wooden pirate ship that is the centerpiece of the playground. She disappears into the hull and reappears moments later, clambering up the mast.
Frankie checks his phone, always waiting for a message that will somehow change his life. He does not know what it will be, it has never come before, but he somehow still believes that it will pop up. Perhaps a j
ob, or a woman, an unknown woman who will redeem him, change him, save him. He cannot take his eyes off the phone. Waiting.
. . . and it’s like a big green brush that someone has put there, like a giant has put there . . .
He realizes that China has climbed down from the mast, left the wooden ship and has been talking to him for some time. He has not heard any of it.
What?
Daddy, why don’t you listen to me?
What did you say, darling?
That tree. Look how pretty it is.
She points to an old tree that stands outside the perimeter fence shading part of the playground.
The sun is catching all the leaves. They’re trembling like they’re scared.
Frankie puts the phone away and looks up at the tree. He sees, immediately and vividly, that it is beautiful and glowing, rooted and real, gnarled with imperfection and yet somehow at the same time perfect.
Yes, says Frankie. It is beautiful.
They stand together like this for some time, staring. Frankie feels a pinch at his heart, a tug, of something lost, or something promised and never delivered.
Now China’s gaze has shifted.
Look, there’s another daddy with his little girl. She’s wearing the same dress as I’ve got.
Frankie adjusts his gaze. A melancholy-looking man is pushing his daughter up and down on the swings, the hinges creaking on each flying ellipse. He catches Frankie’s eye and gives a weak smile, one that seems to carry a strange recognition. The solitary father’s club. The man’s daughter is indeed wearing exactly the same dress as China once had, from Petit Bateau, eighty pounds, Frankie now remembers. He argued with Veronica about it, she thought it was worth it. She won of course. China grew out of it in six weeks.
He leads China over towards the swings.
That’s a co inkydink, says China.
A what?
A co inkydink.
He concentrates. He can never quite remember all China’s idiosyncratic phrases.
Oh. Yes. It is a coincidence.
I wish Mummy was here too. Don’t you love Mummy anymore? China asks, suddenly. There is a mess of dried ice cream around her mouth. Frankie leans down and wipes it away with a tissue that he has surreptitiously licked.
Yes, I love Mummy, says Frankie.
He has been expecting a question like this. He also knows, agonizingly in the moment, that his answer is true.
Does Mummy still love you?
I think you need to ask her that question. But the thing to remember is, we both love you, very very much.
China appears to consider this carefully.
Can love stop?
Not with mummies and daddies and their children. No.
Do you want to love someone else?
Not really. Look! The swing is free now. Let’s go on the swing.
But I don’t want to . . .
Frankie, ignoring her, picks up China and places her on the swing. She protests, but Frankie pushes her anyway. Pushes her and catches her. The swing rises and falls, brings her protests far away, then closer. Like a vibration or an incantation.
Eventually her complaints are overcome by laughter. Frankie keeps pushing, pushing for all his life. She flies higher and higher, so high he almost thinks that she is going to circumnavigate the horizontal pole and go round in an entire circle
Whee! says China.
That’s right, China. Up and down. Up and down. Over and over again.
Whee! Whee! Whee!
Frankie keeps pushing, harder and harder. Then he stops, goes round to the other side, so he can push China from the front. Her cheeks are flushed, her teeth white and tiny, her feet splayed. She is laughing now, then squealing with every push, as if not altogether sure whether she is enjoying it or not. Frankie keeps pushing her, until he is almost exhausted.
Stop now, she says, sternly.
Frankie stops pushing and China slows the swing with her feet, scraping her shoes into the dust, until she rocks to a halt.
I want to go the sandpit.
Without waiting for a reply, she runs to the sandpit and starts throwing sand about. There are boulders and rocks among the sand. He reaches the play area and sits down on an adjacent bench.
See the crocodile, Daddy?
Where?
He can see nothing but an apparently random array of small, smooth boulders.
There!
Frankie leans back and squints. He sees now that the rocks are in fact arranged to mimic the shape of a crocodile.
Yes. I see it.
China puts her ear to the largest rock in the centre of the formation.
I can hear it, she says.
What can you hear?
The ticking from the clock.
What clock?
The alarm clock that he swallowed.
Frankie smiles. He looks at her, seeming to see momentarily the infant he once held in his arms.
Come here, Daddy. Listen.
Frankie gets up from the bench gets on his knees and puts his ear to the stone.
Can you hear it?
Sure enough, it seems to him, as he pretends to strain to hear, that a slight rhythm is in the rock.
I can hear it, says Frankie.
It’s scary, says China, who is now standing at the edge of an arrangement of water fountains that spout from the ground adjacent to the sandpit. Toddlers immersing themselves squeal in delight at the shock.
No, says Frankie, softly. It’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s nothing at all.
Without warning, he crawls past China, on all fours and immerses himself in the icy drizzle. Several of the young children in the fountain point at him and laugh.
Daddy! What are you doing?
He stays under the water until his hair and clothes are soaked through. He finds he is shivering and then crying under the water jets. China stares at him, puzzled. Frankie beckons China in, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she joins him, screaming delightedly as the water engulfs her too. Frankie smiles and takes China’s hands and starts to sing what he can remember of ‘Never Smile at a Crocodile’ from Peter Pan. They jig slowly together around in a ragged circle, until he forgets the rest of the words. They finally separate and fall to the ground at the same time, laughing.
We’re drowned! says China.
Not drowned, says Frankie.
What then? says China, shivering.
Baptized.
China looks puzzled, but she comes across to Frankie and sits on his lap, and hugs him to keep herself warm. Frankie feels the warmth of her body, and brings her closer. They rock back and forward, as the late afternoon light, too slowly to detect, stretches their shadows unstoppably towards the east.
Acknowledgements
Hospitality: Christina Ostrem and all at the Hotel Portixol, Palma de Mallorca, Kit and Penny Noble at Nonsuch House in Dartmouth.
Publishing: My editor Suzanne Baboneau and my agents Clare Alexander and Lesley Thorne, both of to whom I am deeply grateful for their loyalty, faith, hard work and imagination. Charlotte Knight, just for being so upstanding. And everyone at Simon & Schuster who has given their efforts, time and talent. Thank you.
Video games: David and Caroline Miller, Sean Brennan, Steven Poole, Graeme Struthers, Dan Pearson.
The London scene: Paul Gould, Michael McGrath and Peter Gordon.
Labour Party politics: Neil Nerva.
Therapy training: Cordelia Bradby.
Kyle Clark at Daniels Estate Agents, Kensal Rise, for helping me to understand the property market and proving to me once again that estate agents are much nicer than everybody thinks.
My children, Ruby, Cissy, Lydia and Esme, for living so patiently with my Johnny-head-in-the-air distractedness.
Also the several people I have inevitably forgotten. Thank you and forgive me.
About the Author
When We Were Rich is Tim Lott’s tenth book. His memoir, The Scent of Dried Roses, is a Penguin Modern Classic. He l
ives in London. He teaches writing both for Guardian Masterclasses and through personal tutoring.
By Tim Lott
Memoir
The Scent of Dried Roses
Young Adult Fiction
Fearless
How to Be Invisible
Fiction
White City Blue
Rumours of a Hurricane
The Love Secrets of Don Juan
The Seymour Tapes
Under the Same Stars
The Last Summer of the Water Strider
When We Were Rich
First published in Great Britain by Scribner, an imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2019
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Tim Lott, 2019. All rights reserved.
SCRIBNER and design are registered trademarks of The Gale Group, Inc., used under licence by Simon & Schuster Inc.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-6155-1
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-6157-5
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