Lily's House

by Cassandra Parkin

  “Well, you live with two people who are married, don’t you? What do you think?”

  Here’s how my parents’ marriage operates: my father goes to work, and my mother runs the house – which is a full-time job, thank you, Jen, a very thankless and unpaid one but if I didn’t do it, then who would? That’s what I’d like to know. I asked her once if she didn’t ever want to get a job instead. Asking once was enough.

  My father earns the money, my mother runs the house. That’s the theory. But it’s often hard to see exactly what my mother does. I come home to a house that seems no different than when I left it. The washing pile will be as tall as before and contain the same items, and we’ll generally have run out of something vital, like bread or milk or teabags. And yet if either my father or I dare to ask about any of this, we’re accused of ingratitude and thoughtlessness and thinking everything gets done by the fairies. For a long time I took it for granted that my mother was right and I was being ungrateful and thoughtless, not to say a traitor to the sisterhood by presuming it was my mother’s job to do these things. Recently I’ve begun to think the real problem is that my mother is basically inefficient at everything.

  My father solves this as well as he can by furtively finishing the undone household tasks, taking care to complete them in the moments when my mother isn’t looking. If he gets caught, he explains that it’s only fair he does his share. Sometimes this explanation’s accepted. Sometimes it ends in arguments and tears. Occasionally, when it occurs to me, I’ll join in and help him for half an hour, but more often I watch in fascinated horror. I sometimes wonder how my father copes. I’ll be out of there in a few years, but he’s stuck for life. Lily looks as if she can see exactly what I’m thinking.

  “They’re very happy really,” I say, and then, because I don’t like lying to Lily, “but they argue about housework sometimes.”

  I want Lily to tell me this is normal, but she sighs and looks at the ocean.

  “Did you and your husband argue?” I ask.

  “Not very often. We didn’t have long enough. We were married during the war, and we were only together when he came home on leave. Then of course, he was killed.”

  “And they sent you a telegram to tell you.”

  “They did.” Lily’s face is serene, as if she’s discussing something that happened to someone else. “But I knew anyway.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I dreamed about him. I dreamed we were at home together at night, and he was putting on his raincoat, ready to go out. And I said, But it’s raining, and he said, That’s right. The biggest storm I’ll ever see. Stay in and keep warm, Lily girl, and I’ll see you again soon. Then I woke up and I knew. You might find the same thing happens to you,” she adds, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. “These things often run in families.”

  “What things? You mean, like second sight or something?”

  “Oh, nothing that exciting. Just a sort of private line to each other.”

  I remember the time I fell off the bars in the gym at school and broke my arm. My mother had to be called, and then an ambulance. When I got home, my arm already itching beneath the cast, we found my father on the phone, apparently trying to reassure someone that everything was all right. “That was your grandmother,” he told me. “She thought you’d been in an accident for some reason, God knows where she gets these ideas. Where have you both been, anyway?” Then he saw my cast, and swallowed hard and looked apprehensively at my mother, who didn’t have any sort of second sight and had to be notified via a boring old phone call.

  “So did you know when Margaret was going to die?”

  This is all just ancient history to me, so I’m not prepared for the expression that scuds briefly across Lily’s face, like the shadow of a cloud crossing the ocean. It makes me catch my breath and wonder if I’ve said something terrible. Then the moment passes and Lily is herself again.

  “My poor darling little sister. She was never very strong. Yes, I knew it was coming, we both did, we’d known our whole lives. I was lucky to keep her for as long as I did.” Perhaps she sees that I’m still worried, because she reaches down and touches the soft place under my chin with her long finger. “And before she died, we bought our hotel together and had a whole lovely spring and summer by ourselves, down here by the sea.”

  “So she was happy?” This surprises me. From the elegiac photographs I’ve seen, I’ve imagined Margaret as a sad lost soul, lacking Lily’s essential power and gutsiness, pining away for her dead love. “Even though her husband was dead too?”

  “Oh.” Lily’s mouth looks as if she can taste something sour but satisfying. “Well, my darling, I promise you Margaret mourned him quite as long as he deserved. But life has to go on. So we enjoyed our last few months. Jen, I think that young man’s hoping to spend some time with you. If you go down to the water you might get talking.”

  It’s the boy who was watching me earlier at the ice-cream booth. The way he looks at me makes me tingle.

  “Can I? Don’t you mind?”

  “Why would I mind? It’s natural to take an interest.”

  You need to concentrate on your schoolwork, my mother likes to tell me. Yes, Jen, I know you get good grades, thank you, and do you know why that is? Because you’re not distracted by running around after boys. This boy is throwing stones into the sea. Each time he turns around to choose a new pebble, our eyes meet for a moment.

  “I can’t talk to him. What would I say?”

  Lily’s hand dips into her handbag.

  “Take him this. Ask him how far he can throw it.”

  You’re too young for all of this anyway. Why do you want to be going out with boys? You’re only fourteen. You might think you’re very grown up and ready to handle all that nonsense, but you’re not.

  In Lily’s pleated palm lies a smooth white pebble shot through with a pink band of quartz. It’s almost too pretty to throw away. Almost as pretty as the boy’s brief, shy smile.

  “Is it magic or something?” I’m not sure how I feel about walking down the beach with a magic pebble in my hand.

  I don’t care what all the other girls in the class are doing, Jen. Their parents might be perfectly happy with their daughters wasting their lives, but you’re not going to. Do you understand me?

  “Well, what do you think?” Lily asks. “Does it look magic to you?”

  Besides, my mother continues, you need to be more careful than most girls. Because, you know, you’re vulnerable, Jen. No, don’t close your eyes at me, thank you. You might not want to hear this but you need to listen anyway. They might try to take advantage of you being…

  The pebble fits snugly into the palm of my hand. As I fold my fingers around it, my mother falls blissfully silent.

  “It has rose quartz in it,” Lily says. “It’ll help. You’ll see.”

  I stand up and weigh the pebble in my hand. So easy after all, to get past merely looking and giggling. All I have to do is take it to the boy and ask him to throw it.

  “But what do I say to him next? What am I supposed to talk to him about?”

  Instead of answering, Lily laughs and ruffles my hair, and returns to her book.

  Chapter Eleven – Saturday

  Now then gorgeous. How was this afternoon? Did anyone turn up?

  Yes, actually. Quite a lot

  Blimey. I thought they’d all be dead by now

  Well, apparently not. The church was pretty full. Most of the food got eaten

  Ah, that’s it. They were only there for the sandwiches afterwards :)

  That’s a horrible thing to say

  Hey come on I’m only kidding

  Well it’s not funny all right? I just said goodbye to my grandmother and I don’t feel like laughing about it

  What’s the matter with you? You’re the one who keeps saying it’s only boring admin so we can have the money

  I have no idea what the matter is, or why I’m berating my husband for making
the same jokes I’ve made myself, or why there are tears pooling in my eyes.

  I’m sorry. You’re right. Forgive me?

  You know I do, I always do. I love you even when you’re horrible

  So what are you doing now?

  I’m sitting at Lily’s desk, watching the shadows gather in the corners of the sky. The wind has changed direction and a storm is blowing in. On the sofa, Marianne sits flushed and sleepy in her pyjamas, making herself small with a book in the hopes that I’ll forget she’s there and not send her off to bed. My open notebook lies discarded on the edge of the desk, its pristine pages a small reproach as I slowly turn over the heavy pages of Lily’s photograph album.

  Working out what the household contents are worth.

  Christ. Really? Can’t you make something up?

  ??? No of course I can’t.

  Course you can. Just pick a number, no one cares.

  On the roof of the gardener’s shed, two herring gulls hunker down in the slight shelter of an overhanging branch. As I watch, three more fly in to join them. I can smell the change in the air as it blows in through the half-open sash window and riffles the empty pages of my notebook. There are a million jobs I should be doing, but the funeral has drained me of all my will.

  I can’t lie to HMRC. It’s got to be right or they’ll query it and the whole thing will take twice as long. I do actually know what I’m doing you know.

  I don’t want you wasting time and driving yourself mad, that’s all.

  Yes I know, and you’re lovely, but there’s no point trying to make it easier, because there are no shortcuts. And I’m getting through it all as fast as I can, I swear

  Let’s talk about something else. Talk to me about your day. How’s the music coming?

  Slow. Not very productive. I keep thinking I can hear you and Marianne and then you’re not here after all. I love you so much and you’re not here. You seem so far away. And whenever we talk you’re cross with me.

  Don’t say that, you know that’s not true. I’m not cross with you.

  Yes you are. Whenever I ask anything you bite my head off. I knew this would happen. It’s being in that place. I think she’s trying to come between us.

  Oh come on. She’s gone, remember?

  And I’m sorry I’ve got to be here, I don’t want to be. And I’m tired and I’ve got too much to do and that’s the only reason I’m grumpy. I promise.

  I can’t stand being without you Jen. I need you back home

  Then let me get on with it and I’ll be home as soon as I can xxxxx

  I turn quickly past the pictures of my childhood. I can’t bear to be reminded of how close Lily and I once were. I go back in time instead, to the days when my father was still alive, then the days when he was small, and then before he was born. I linger over the small, dark-haired woman, framed with big green serrated leaves, like blackberry leaves but lighter and fresher. Lily’s sister Margaret, who I never met. Margaret is leaning on a seafront railing and looking pensively out towards the ocean. I wonder what she’s thinking. Beneath it, Lily has written:

  This is where your life begins

  Why does her life only begin in this picture, when she was so close to death? Did she know her remaining time was measured in months and weeks and days? One more page back is a photograph of Margaret’s husband, Stanley, caught in the act of going out through the front door of a house. He’s a shadow man, barely there, his face turned away from the camera and his left arm and leg already over the threshold, and the ominous atmosphere is enhanced by the words Lily has written underneath:

  Stanley Walker

  1907–1947

  Wishing you the peace you deserve

  I force myself to push the album away and turn to my notebook. The breeze that caresses my hair and tickles the back of my neck is like the caress of Lily’s hands. Is she reading my text messages over my shoulder, enjoying the snags in my marriage? Household Contents, I write on the first page of my notebook, liking how smooth and definite the ink looks against the paper, the past confined and catalogued. Furniture. Jewellery. Pictures. Other. One page for each category.

  I’ll begin with what I can see. Desk. It’s old, possibly valuable. Maybe I can find something out online. Chair, I write. When I was small, I believed the chair’s ball-and-claw feet came to life when I wasn’t watching. Dining table. How big does the table get when it’s fully unwound? I’ll have to try it out.

  You could leave all of this until tomorrow, Lily says to me, and take Marianne down to the beach and get some fresh air into her. She’ll sleep better for it, and besides, there’s a storm rising.

  We’ve been inside far too much today, it’s true. But we’ve been too busy for anything else, and besides, this isn’t a holiday.

  It could be if you want. Just for a little while.

  As if I can possibly complain to Daniel about how much I have to do, then walk away from it to play around on the beach.

  Daniel wouldn’t have to know. And he’s not exactly working his fingers to the bone himself, is he? I can see Lily so clearly, her smile covering the sharpness of her tongue, the bite of her teeth. You could stay another day or two. Say the paperwork took longer than you thought. What could he do about it?

  Before I can stop it, I’m picturing the beach the way it is before an evening storm, the sand grey and dusty in the twilight, and the waves shattering like glass. Maybe Daniel is right and Lily is haunting me. Marianne is holding her book but watching me over the top of it.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I’m fine. I like watching you, that’s all.”

  Her expression is so sweet that I can’t complain. Nonetheless her gaze prickles along my spine. I remember the fascination of watching adults going about tasks that had absolutely nothing to do with me. It was strange to realise they had an entire existence where I didn’t feature, filled with people who knew them intimately, but who I’d never seen. I become oddly self-conscious, monitoring my movements as if I’m on stage, trying to look purposeful and decisive.

  Rings, I write, as a subheading to the Jewellery page. Diamond hoop. Square-cut sapphire. Pearl daisy. Emerald-cut aquamarine. They would have been expensive to buy, but their resale value will be much lower. Brooches. Lily wasn’t much of one for necklaces but she had many brooches, some of which may be worth something. Gold bar with pearl and ruby. Emerald pin. Marcasite rose. This is pointless. I can’t possibly parse out all the complexities of setting, cut and stone size into a sensible estimate. I’ll have to take them to a jeweller. The seagulls are pressed close against the roof of the gardener’s shed and the sky is dark and heavy with rain. I lean on the sash window to force it closed, step back and find Marianne standing a few feet behind me.

  “Am I disturbing you?” she asks. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s all right. Come and look if you want. It’s not very interesting though.”

  She peers at my notebook. I take her arm and turn it towards my mouth so I can kiss the soft place inside her elbow. Marianne gives me a tolerant smile and takes her arm back.

  “Diamond hoop,” she reads. “Square-cut sapphire. Are these what you’re going to buy with Lily’s money?”

  “No, it’s her jewellery. I have to work out what they’re all worth and tell the tax people.”

  “Oh, yes, the probate thing.”

  “How do you know about probate?”

  “I was looking at the list you did for Dad.” She strokes the edge of the album cautiously. “Did Lily do this?”

  “Yes. She loved photography. She had a darkroom down in the cellar.”

  “That’s Margaret, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. This must have been taken just before she died.”

  “If she’d had children,” says Marianne thoughtfully, “they’d have been my aunt or uncle. And if they’d had children, they would have been my cousins. Is that right?”

  “Close enough. But the doctors told her not to. Then she di
ed anyway.” Marianne’s fingers are picking delicately at the leaf that grows out of the border and over the photograph. “Don’t do that, you’ll ruin it.”

  “Sorry.” Marianne snatches her hand back guiltily. “This is where your life begins. What does that mean?”

  “That it was a new beginning, I suppose. They’d only recently bought the hotel, her and Lily, I mean.”

  “Not their husbands?”

  “No, they were both widowed by then.”

  “So your dad was alive? Is he in the pictures too? Where is he?”

  I take the album from her and return it to its spot in the bookcase. “Come on now. It’s bedtime.”

  “Can’t I stay up a little bit longer? I can sleep in. I don’t have to get up for school in the morning.”

  Sometimes I think Marianne believes Daniel and I are the ones haunted by terrible dreams – dreams in which our daughter screams in terror at things she sees in corners, or roams the house like a ghost and tries to get outside.

  “No, it’s bedtime.”

  “But—”

  “I know, I know, it’s a tough world. Bed.”

  “But can’t I stay up and watch you a bit longer?”

  “Bed.”

  “But what if—”

  “No more questions. Clean your teeth.”

  I see her nestled into bed, her book in her hand, her face lit by the nightlight. The monitor that will tell me if she sleepwalks is in its place on Lily’s desk. I can see the rising wind in the whip and toss of the trees and the shiver of the curtains. I trudge grimly onwards through my list. Books, I add under the Other category. Are Lily’s books valuable? Surely not. She was generous with books for me but rarely bought any for herself, preferring the company of the few old friends she’d loved for years. I run a finger along the shelf and find Jane Eyre still keeps company with Lucy Snowe, Jay Gatsby and Rebecca de Winter’s poor un-named successor. My fingers, knowing what I want, skip past the books, find the photograph album and pull it out again.

  Is it wrong to read the private thoughts of the dead? I turn over the pages anyway, telling myself it can’t matter now. Here’s the photograph of Margaret again, pensive and wistful, an attitude I find irritating even though I know she was ill. The leaf Marianne was picking at earlier has begun to dissolve. Tiny papery fragments of long-preserved greenery crumble beneath my fingers.