by Elisa Lodato
‘It’s not really my birthday any more. But thank you,’ I said, accepting the small package he’d picked up from the table.
‘It’s only a little thing. Ellie chose it.’
‘Can I open it?’ I asked her.
She nodded, grinning excitedly at the wrapping paper. Inside the wrapping paper was more tissue paper, and within that was a gold sequinned evening top. The kind that is either sexy or desperate.
‘I’ve got one. It looks really nice with jeans.’
‘Thank you. I love it,’ I said, knowing I would never wear it.
‘I’ve still got the receipt if you don’t like it.’
‘No, I really like it. Thanks Ellie,’ I said, giving her a kiss. My father walked over to take one too. I lifted my hand to Jenny, as though she’d just allowed me to cross in front of her car, and said, ‘Thanks, Jenny.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Do you think it would suit me?’ my father asked us, holding the top up against his chest. Ellie rolled her eyes.
‘It’s a bit understated for you, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘I could pair it with some jeans and go out on the town with you two.’
‘Nobody goes out on the town, Dad!’ Ellie turned to me in mock horror.
‘He’s never going to get less embarrassing. You know that, don’t you? This situation,’ I said, pointing to my father, standing there eager like a little dog, ‘is never going to get any better. Next time just buy him a top too. You’ll save yourself a lot of hassle.’
‘Come on, Laura. Have a drink with me. What would you like? I’ve got some Pinot Grigio in the fridge, or you can have a beer. Jen?’ He looked over at her cautiously. I could tell from his deliberate change in tone that they’d had some sort of argument before my arrival. She turned from the stove to face us. ‘Glass of wine with Laura?’
‘No thanks. But you go ahead, Laura,’ she said, attempting to smile.
‘Actually I won’t, thanks. I’m driving, so I’ll stick to the soft stuff. Can I have a cup of tea?’
‘Why did you drive?’ my father asked, outraged. ‘Did you manage to park?’
‘Yes, down on Dennon Road.’
‘You want to get yourself a bike. Like your old dad. Best thing I ever did, getting rid of the car. Cycle to work every day.’
‘That’s great. Good for you.’
‘We got rid of the car because we couldn’t afford one,’ Jenny corrected him, ‘not because you couldn’t find a place to park it.’
He smiled uncomfortably. ‘Let’s go and sit down in the living room, shall we?’ And he herded me and Ellie out of the kitchen while he made the drinks. Even at the height of summer their living room was dark. Ellie turned the light on and we sat down together.
‘My mum wants to move,’ Ellie said by way of explanation.
‘Why’s that?’
‘She thinks that now your mum has gone they should sell the house in Surbiton.’
‘I see. And what do you want?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I like it round here, but I can understand why my mum wants something nicer.’
‘How’s school?’
‘School’s finished. I had my final exam last Thursday.’
‘Oh, wow. Sorry – I should have known that. How did they go?’
‘OK, I think. I messed up on a couple of questions for the Media Studies paper, but I’m hoping my coursework will carry me through.’
‘What do you need?’
‘Kingston want three Cs.’
‘Kingston University?’
‘Yeah. You sound surprised.’
‘I am. Don’t you want to get further away than that?’
‘If I go to Kingston I can live at home. And save money.’
‘Ellie, it’s not only about the money. Don’t you want to just’ – I thought about the weed and shagging of my first year at Cambridge – ‘go somewhere completely new and find out a bit more about yourself?’
‘I can still socialise with people. And if I change my mind about living at home, I can apply for accommodation in my second or third year.’
I felt sad for my little half-sister, so unambitious and practical. She stood up as my father came in. ‘I’m just going to go and get ready.’
‘Get ready? You look gorgeous!’ I exclaimed.
‘I need to straighten my hair. I’m going out out.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I said, taking my cup of tea from my father, ‘I feel so tame in comparison.’
My father smiled at her and then down at me on the sofa. I could see that having both daughters under one roof made him happy. He sat down in an armchair and visibly relaxed as he sipped at his pint of lager.
‘So what’s going on, Laura? You say you’re working at the Olympics?’
‘Not at the Olympics, no. I’m working on a series of articles on the Olympics.’
‘Right, right,’ he said, nodding his head and taking another sip. ‘What are you saying about them?’
‘Just examining the overall effect on places like Stratford and Docklands. Are they going to benefit in the long term? That kind of thing.’
‘If you bought a flat in Stratford five years ago, you’re going to benefit. I can tell you that for nothing.’
‘It’s not just about house prices, Dad. I’m interested in those who have no hope of buying property. The ones that haven’t been invited to the Olympic party.’
He was smiling at me, no longer listening to what I was saying. Just pleased I was there and talking to him.
‘But I’ve been thinking a lot about Mum too.’
He put his pint down on the floor beside him and shifted forward to the edge of the armchair. Like he wanted to be ready to take my hand at any moment.
‘Me too.’
‘I’ve been thinking about both of you, actually. Perhaps this isn’t the best place to talk about this stuff,’ I said, looking at the hallway and the open kitchen door on the other side of it.
‘No, it’s OK. Go on.’
‘I’ve been replaying things in my head. When you and Mum—’
‘When we separated?’
‘Before that, actually.’ I squirmed. ‘I have no memories of you and Mum ever being, well, happy.’
He reached down to collect his pint from the floor. ‘We were happy, Laura. But things got in the way.’
‘What things?’
It was my father’s turn to glance up at the doorway. ‘Just things – or events, I should say. You were one of them,’ he said, smiling at me.
‘Is that why you got married? Because she was pregnant with me?’
‘Well, yes and no. We didn’t have to. But Granny, Mum’s mum, wanted us to do the right thing. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea – I wanted to get married too.’
‘So what happened?’
‘What do you mean, what happened? We got married.’
‘Why did it go wrong?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I just wasn’t right for her.’
‘In what way were you not right?’ My shyness had gone. I just wanted answers.
‘Do you know how we met?’
‘In a library. Mum worked there, and you kept borrowing books as an excuse to see her.’
‘Well, sort of, yes. Mum worked there, but I wasn’t reading or studying or doing anything particularly productive. I had no direction, no job, nothing going for me, really. And she sort of … took pity on me.’
‘Took pity on you how?’
‘She let me take her out a few times.’
‘And you had sex?’
‘Christ, Laura!’
‘Sorry. I’m just trying to work it out. I was born in April 1981, so you must have conceived me in the summer of 1980. Is that when you started sleeping together?’
‘Yes. But it wasn’t … we weren’t … you know.’
‘You weren’t what?’
‘Doing it all the time. We just weren’t very careful when we did. That’s all.’
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‘Did she blame you for getting her pregnant?’
‘Something like that.’
‘But presumably it took two to tango?’
‘It was a long time ago, Laura.’
We continued talking quietly until Jenny called us into the kitchen where she’d served up a meal of pasta and tomato sauce. Ellie ate just enough to fill her stomach and then disappeared out with her friends. My father and I kept up a companionable conversation in which we took it in turns to invite Jenny to say something. It was hard work. She stood to clear the dishes as soon as I put my fork down, even though my father was still eating. Their argument hung unfinished in the air. I decided to pretend to have something to do. I grabbed my things and said goodbye. Jenny waved from across the table.
My father walked me to my car. ‘I’m sorry about that, Laura. It’s just hard for Jenny sometimes. You know, with Ellie growing up and me out at work all day. She gets pretty lonely.’
‘It’s OK. Don’t worry. I’ll see you soon, Dad,’ I said, putting my arms out for a hug.
He pulled me close to him and hugged me hard and then, his breath wet with the tang of beer, spoke into my ear. ‘I love you, Laura. I really do.’ I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. ‘And I’m your only parent now,’ he said, pulling away so I could see his face. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t always done the right things. But I have always loved you. You know that, don’t you?’
I nodded.
‘OK, drive safely. Do you want me to help you back out? That’s a very tight space.’
‘No, it’s OK. I’ve got parking sensors.’
He shook his head at the unstoppable march of automotive technology and kissed my cheek. I got in and drove away, watching him walk, sad and slow, back to the house from my rear-view mirror.
The heart weighed 670g. The cardiac valves were healthy.
My mother taught me to read. Not the mechanics of reading – no memorising of tricky words or how to sound out letters – she left all that to my teachers. The lesson she taught me was a more enduring one. She showed me that it was possible to withdraw into literature: to find your place in a dream-rapt landscape. Her shelves at home were heavy with Victorian and twentieth-century novels, and Hardy was the weightiest of all; Tess of the d’Urbervilles was almost always splayed open by her bedside, where she nightly dipped in and out of Tess’s story. The tragedy of a young girl wronged by parent and man became a sort of talisman for her own life.
She loved the second-hand book tables under Waterloo Bridge. The journey to the kaleidoscope of spines laid out amid the grey concrete of the South Bank was a pilgrimage worth making, as far as she was concerned. Whenever we arranged to meet up in London, my mother was always quick to suggest the South Bank.
I remember one Saturday afternoon in May 2005. It must have been a warm day because neither of us wore a coat. She was there early, her brown wavy hair falling forward as she pored over the titles, each one presenting an opportunity to recognise or scrutinise. She was voracious in her handling of books, greedy for title and edition, reluctant to release. I went up to her and tapped her shoulder. She looked up, momentarily annoyed at the intrusion, but smiled when she saw it was me.
‘Laura,’ she said, pulling my face towards hers for a kiss. ‘How are you?’ But before I could answer, she held up a paperback, exultant. ‘Look at this!’
‘What is it?’ I asked, bending my head to read the title.
‘The Sea, the Sea by Iris Murdoch. I read it when I was just eighteen. Before I had you,’ she added, already busy reading the back.
‘Is it any good?’
She looked up, almost annoyed again. ‘Oh yes. It’s wonderful. It’s about a theatre director who just gives up on his London life and goes to live by the sea. And he eats all sorts of crazy things. I loved it.’ She had begun leafing through the first few pages.
‘Why don’t you buy it?’
‘Yes. I think I will. Do you mind?’
‘No. Go for it.’
We walked to the Festival Hall, where we sat down and had a coffee on the terrace overlooking the river and the people. She watched me tear open a sugar sachet and pour the granules onto the soft foam of my cappuccino. I waited for them to sink through the milk before I began stirring. She knew I wanted to talk but didn’t know how to begin.
‘What’s the matter, Laura?’
‘I’m just a bit stuck, I think. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.’
‘Does anyone?’
‘Well, I’d like to know a bit more. I’m twenty-four years old and I hate my job.’
‘And what is it you want to do?’
‘I don’t know. Not be someone’s PA would be a start.’ I was still stirring. Still scowling.
‘But I bet you’re very good at it.’
‘I’m really not.’
‘OK, so if not a personal assistant, then what?’
‘Write. I want to be a writer.’
‘So write. What’s stopping you?’
‘This job. I’m so bloody knackered at the end of every day that I can’t think what to write about.’
She smiled and looked straight ahead at the river. ‘Sometimes life happens to us. And there’s not much you can do about it. But if you want something, you have to make room in your life. For whatever it is you want.’
I didn’t say anything. I was resisting the urge to rail against the generic clichés. Life happens to us. Make room for what you want. I drank my coffee and watched the people wandering comfortably along the South Bank, their faith in the Thames and the London Eye strong enough to justify the afternoon.
‘Have you ever thought about writing?’
‘Me? God, no.’ She seemed surprised by the question.
‘Why not? You love literature, stories – why not write something?’
‘I like retreating into a book, you know – into what’s already there. I remember the first time I read Tess, I felt like I was sitting on a warm, green hillside looking down at Angel paying attention to Tess more than the others. I can’t explain it, but it made me feel as though I could take my eyes off the characters for a little while and look around. But that’s Hardy for you. I wouldn’t have a clue how to create that world myself.’
I followed the buildings east to St Paul’s Cathedral and thought about what she’d said. ‘Look at that.’
‘What?’ she said, following my gaze.
‘The dome of St Paul’s. I can see that from my bedroom window in Angel.’
‘Can you? That’s quite a view.’
‘Well, when I say see, I have to lean out the window and crane my neck.’
She laughed and sipped her coffee. And as she put her cup back down to meet her saucer, said, ‘So why don’t you write about that? Think of the life it’s seen.’
‘You want me to write about St Paul’s?’
‘I just want you to do the thing that will make you happy. And I worry sometimes that you’re too like me. Scared to make a change.’
‘And what changes are you scared to make?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Have you ever thought about moving? You could come and live closer to me.’
‘I’m too old for London.’
‘I hate to think of you in that big house on your own.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said, looking down into her lap. ‘I’ll find my own way.’
‘But are you happy?’
‘Yes, I’m happy,’ she said, grabbing my hand and pressing my fingers together too tightly. ‘I’m happy because I’m with my lovely daughter.’ I remember feeling embarrassed when she said this. As though it was too much. And now the only thing that is too much is the memory of it. I marvel at how wealthy I was that day – surrounded by my mother, her honesty, her touch – and I didn’t appreciate it. I wish I’d returned the compliment and told her how precious she was to me. But the terrible truth is that I didn’t know I felt that way until she was gone.
We wal
ked around the Tate Modern for an hour or so, and then I accompanied her to Waterloo and said goodbye on the platform. I felt her take a deep breath, smelling my skin, as she hugged me to her. She boarded the train, found a seat beside the window and immediately presented Hokusai’s great wave – the front cover of The Sea, the Sea – to the glass. She didn’t look up again to wave goodbye.
I decided to walk back to Angel that afternoon and, in doing so, passed the statue of Sir Hugh Myddelton on Islington Green. I’d lived in Angel for a year and a half, had walked past it many times, and yet I’d never looked closely at the inscription. I thought of what my mother had said about St Paul’s, and made myself cross the road and have a closer look. I went back to my room and began researching the New River Company of 1613. I printed a map of the forty-mile route, designed to bring drinking water to Londoners from natural springs in Hertford. I highlighted the sections that ran under my house on St John Street, and began thinking about how I might approach my first piece of writing. I wrote of how simultaneously elusive and plentiful water was to the occupant of a shared house – that despite Sir Hugh Myddelton’s best efforts, I found it very difficult to get into my bathroom in the morning because of the rampant overcrowding of dwellings in ECI. I described how the stuff flowed freely in the kitchen, hydrating the house’s hungover occupants, but was rarely used to clean the furry scum generated by several disconnected human beings living together. I concluded my piece by noting how much of my small salary was spent on this essential utility, and yet the waiting staff in neighbouring restaurants still looked askance at my decision to decline still or sparkling and opt instead for tap, the perfectly adequate stuff I had already paid for. It was the first post of Lost Angel. And I had my mother to thank for nudging me towards it.
Five years later, on 13 March 2009, with a lot of saving, a large mortgage and some money from the sale of my grandparents’ house, I moved into my flat in Balham. I remember walking from room to room, smiling at the unopened boxes and thinking of how much space there was for even more of me and mine. I kept looking at my front door and wondering at the luxury of being able to open and close it to whomever I wanted. It was a uniquely enjoyable feeling, and one I wanted to share with my mother. I phoned her as soon as I’d worked out how to turn the oven on and put a pizza in. She answered quickly, as though she’d been waiting for me to ring.