Lily Alone

by Vivien Brown

  Geraldine had driven back to Brighton in the dark that night, much later than planned. Something didn’t feel right, but he was her son. It was her place to worry, but never her place to say. He was an adult now, in charge of his own life, and the last thing she wanted was to be seen as an interfering nag of a mother, trying to tell him what to do. Besides, it was probably all something and nothing. One of those rocky patches all marriages go through when there was a baby involved. Both of them coping with too much change, not enough time for each other, and nowhere near enough sleep. She had no idea then that Patricia had been head-hunting, looking for a suitable candidate for a new post in Portugal, or that it was Michael’s head she had set her sights on. And the rest of his body too, so it seemed, and no idea that her little family was about to fracture beyond repair.

  Patricia! There was something about the girl that made her hackles rise. The six-inch high heels, the tarty ankle chain, the hair held so immaculately, unnaturally in place. Not that there was anything wrong with making an effort, trying to look your best, but this girl was …

  Geraldine shuddered. She knew she was being unfair. Michael was his own man. Whatever had happened was as much his fault as Patricia’s. Nobody had made him fall for her, leave his life behind, abandon his family. If he had been someone else’s son she would have seen things differently, looked down her nose at him and branded him a typical bloody man, following the contents of his trousers instead of his head. But if the girl had dressed more plainly, done up a few more buttons on her bulging blouse, shown some respect for the fact that Michael was a father, then maybe, just maybe …

  Ruby may not initially have been her ideal choice of daughter-in-law. She was young. Far too young and definitely troubled, but there were reasons for that. And Michael had seemed happy enough and settled with her, and with little Lily. While it lasted, anyway. Until the banns had been read and the flowers had been ordered and the novelty had worn off.

  Geraldine sat inside the empty shop, her laptop open and a pile of receipts spread out on the counter. She hadn’t looked properly at the accounts in weeks, and today was no different. It was a job she hated, something Ken had always taken care of. Perhaps it was time to pay for some help. Someone good with figures, for just a few hours a week, to take away the burden. It was the sort of thing Ruby and Michael could have helped with, if they’d still been together. They could have made it a family business again, something to build on, for Lily’s future.

  She stared out of the cluttered window, watching a young family walk by. Mum, Dad, toddler skipping along at their side with a huge balloon in her hand, and a baby snuggled down in a padded buggy, fast asleep. That’s what weekends should be about. Family. Not the shop. Not sitting here by herself, stewing over things she couldn’t change.

  It had been so long since she had seen Lily, but her little face was imprinted on her brain. Such a pretty little thing. Blonde, bouncy, always giggling, just starting to talk in real sentences, develop a mind of her own, and a stubborn streak like her mother’s, already learning to answer back …

  Her only grandchild. Well, as far as she knew. No, she wasn’t going to follow that train of thought. She would not go there. She’d promised Ken long ago that she would never talk about that period of her life, that she would put her teenaged mistake behind her, forget about it, never try to find out …

  Considering the way Ruby had spoken to her the last time she’d called, she knew she was no longer welcome. But Ruby was angry. Hurt. She was just lashing out, not only at Michael but at anyone or anything that reminded her of his betrayal. Geraldine knew that, but it didn’t make it any easier to help her. Or to know what to do.

  She had tried so hard not to take sides but, for months now, she had been a grandmother in name only. It was all Patricia’s fault. How could Michael even think of marrying the girl? She was the reason Ruby had cut off those all-important links between them, kept her at arm’s length for so long. The reason there had been no christening, even after she’d dug out the old family robe and bought the most beautiful little silver bangle, engraved with Lily’s name. No wedding either. The hat she’d spent hours choosing was still there, at the top of the wardrobe, in a big pink box. All fancy feathers and net. She’d so looked forward to wearing it, but she’d be buggered if she’d get it out for this latest bride-to-be, that was for sure.

  Patricia was the reason her granddaughter was lost to her. Stealing her son away from his family, bringing out all the hate and blame and anger in Ruby, feelings that had erupted and spilled out towards Michael, and had somehow marked her, Geraldine, as the enemy too, tearing her dreams for the future and her innocent little granddaughter away from her in one fell swoop. And now she had let the bloody woman into her home. Put the naffest sheets she could find on the bed, hidden the coffee maker, plastered on a smile so false it was almost a match for Patricia’s fingernails, or her ridiculously pointy boobs. Small gestures, a silent rebellion that her son, in his Patricia-blindness, would never see.

  No, she didn’t like her. And if Michael insisted on going ahead with this wedding, then she wasn’t overly keen on him either. She loved him, of course, in the way mothers tend to do – no matter what – but right now she didn’t like him an awful lot. The sooner he and Patricia sorted things out with Ruby about access to Lily, and buggered off back where they’d come from the better.

  *

  Lily had found the medicine easily. It had been left out on the table in the kitchen, next to the empty tomato sauce that Mummy had turned upside down to catch the last drips, and a big pile of letters. She held the small medicine bottle in her even smaller hands and pulled at the lid but she couldn’t undo it. She tried twisting and twisting until her wrists hurt but it wouldn’t come off. She had seen Mummy open things with a knife before. Slitting into envelopes, opening packets, and forcing lids off things.

  Lily knew where the knives were kept, even though she wasn’t allowed to use them, except for eating her dinner and that was just a small kiddie knife without the really sharp bit. She stood up on her tippy-toes and pulled the drawer open, blindly dipping her hand inside. Wrapping her fingers around the wooden handle of one of the big knives, she pulled it towards her and lifted it out. It was heavy and it wobbled in her grasp, the blade part all long and flat and shiny. Like the sword you use to kill dragons with. Lily hoped there weren’t any dragons in real life. She could still hear the noise from the phone by the door. She was getting used to it now, and she still wasn’t sure what it was, but she didn’t think it was a dragon.

  Lily sat on the floor and held the medicine bottle in one hand and the big knife in the other. She pushed the tip of the knife into the side of the lid, jabbing it hard and then moving it about, like Mummy did, but nothing happened. She pushed harder and harder, but still it didn’t come off. And then the knife slipped away from her and the edge of the blade sliced into the flesh at the base of her thumb as it fell. A thin trickle of blood appeared instantly and spread in spidery patterns across her palm. She cried out, more in shock than pain, and clutched her hand closed. Lily didn’t like blood. Mummy would have got her a plaster, one with cartoon pictures on it, but Mummy wasn’t here. She put her hand down flat, leaving a sticky red handprint on the floor, and levered herself back up onto her feet, but the knife drawer was still open and her head hit the corner of it, hard, bouncing her back.

  Lily’s hand flew to her head as she fell, the warm wet blood from her thumb oozing out again and mixing with a fresh trickle that was already running from somewhere beneath her hair. She didn’t know what to do. It hurt. Everything hurt, but there was nobody to help her. All she could do was scream, cry, curl up on the floor in a tight ball, the sobs racking through her tiny body, until the throbbing, stinging feeling slowly ebbed away and the blood on her head and hands dried into a dark red crust, and she fell asleep.

  When she woke up she was hungry again, hungrier than she had ever been. Her head felt better, but she needed something
to make her tummy feel better too. And her poorly hand. She wasn’t sure if it was her left hand or her right hand. Was it the one nearest to the door? All she knew was that it felt sore again as soon as she tried to open her fingers out.

  She had already eaten the last apple from the bowl earlier, right down to the pips, and a very hard slice of half-eaten toast she’d found on a plate on the table. But now her tummy was empty and growling out loud and all she wanted was a biscuit. Mummy always let her have a treat if she’d been brave. And she had. She had real blood now to prove it.

  The cupboard with the biscuits in it was very high up. Nearly at the ceiling. Lily stood up slowly and closed the knife drawer, dropping the big bad knife back inside. She looked around for something to help her reach the cupboard, and the biscuit tin. The kiddie step was still there by the sink, standing in a little puddle of water. She dragged it carefully across the kitchen floor, leaving a slippery wet trail behind it, like a snail. Kiddie steps were made for standing on, so she stood on it, but it wasn’t tall enough. She wasn’t tall enough. She still couldn’t reach up high enough to get to the biscuit cupboard.

  She lifted one leg up high, as high as she could stretch. The right leg. Or maybe the left. She put her foot halfway up the cupboard where the plates were kept, rested it on the long white handle and hauled herself up, the way she always climbed up the frame in the park, wriggling until she was sitting on the worktop, with her bottom next to the kettle and her legs dangling over the edge. It was like being on the side of the swimming pool and looking down into the water. Mummy had taken her once but she didn’t like it. The noise, the cold, the not wanting Mummy to let go. The kitchen floor seemed a long way down, and it was wet, just like at the pool, when their bare feet had gone slip-slap on the floor and Mummy had laughed and said they sounded like fish.

  But she could get to the top cupboard now, if she just stood up next to the kettle and reached above her head. The floor looked even further away as she pulled herself up. She wobbled as she leaned backwards just enough to pull on the handle of the door where the biscuits lived. She felt the cut in her thumb sting and open up again as she squeezed her fingers tightly around the handle, and then the cupboard swung open towards her, too smoothly, too quickly, and almost knocked her flying, but she had it now, between her hands. The big tin, with the picture of a monkey on it. Cheeky monkey, Mummy always said when Lily asked for another chocolate finger.

  Lily bent down and lowered the tin very carefully onto the worktop next to her feet, before starting to shuffle herself back down to a sitting position beside it. Her hip banged against the kettle and she stumbled, one foot tangling itself into the lead, tipping the whole thing over as she bumped herself down. A little stream of cold water poured out and sent her slipping, grabbing for something to hold on to, and knocking the tin, with a very loud crash, to the floor.

  By the time Lily had clambered down, the lid was off and the contents were scattered all over the lino. But there were no chocolate fingers today. Just one broken rich tea, which she stuffed hungrily into her mouth in two big bites. And then there were just crumbs. Nothing left but crumbs, a trickle of water, and a trail of sticky red fingerprints all over the cupboard doors.

  *

  William couldn’t settle. The afternoon was slipping by, like so many others. What he needed was a job, a purpose, a life. A woman? No, probably not. He looked around at the mess that had once been their tidy, well-ordered house. His and Susan’s. How had he let this happen? The unwashed clothes, the takeaway boxes, the unopened mail …

  He should do something about it, but it was Sunday. Wasn’t Sunday meant to be a day of rest? So, he’d do something about it tomorrow. He’d start cleaning up, start trying to sort himself out. Tomorrow.

  There was no Susan any more. Well, there was, obviously. Somewhere. But not here. And that was a good thing. Despite the mess and the loneliness, he knew it was a good thing. And now it was time to be just William again. Just William! He remembered the book with that name that his mother used to read to him, about the naughty schoolboy. Wasn’t he a pretty hopeless character too? Covered in mud, with his socks hanging down? Full of half-hearted, dimwit schemes that were usually doomed to fail? The likeness wasn’t lost on him.

  He went into the kitchen looking for food. When had he last gone shopping for food? Proper shopping, with a trolley and a list? There was a tin of beans at the back of the cupboard, and the final two slices of last week’s loaf sat curling in their plastic wrapper on the bread board. They’d have to do for now. Just a little bit of green around the crust, but that didn’t matter, did it? He sliced the mouldy edges away with a knife, the blade slipping, slicing a thin slit into the tip of his little finger. It was surprisingly deep, and painful. A spot of bright red blood ran out and dripped onto the bread. He grabbed for a piece of kitchen paper to wrap around it, but the cardboard roll stood empty on its holder. He needed to buy some more. And he needed a plaster. Did he have any? Where were they kept? He had no idea.

  He sat down at the table and stuck his finger in his mouth, sucking hard at it, like a baby seeking comfort, until the bleeding eased. He was sick of being on his own, with nobody to talk to, nobody to notice, let alone care, if he were to sit here and slowly bleed to death. Tomorrow he would definitely go and see his mother, if the car battery was charged and working by then. Something told him that fixing the car would probably be a lot easier than the fixing he needed to do on himself.

  *

  Lily was playing with her bricks in the bedroom, building a house with a chimney like the one where Granny lived, when the poo came out. She didn’t get any warning. It just happened, ever so quickly. She’d forgotten she wasn’t wearing any knickers, and it slithered out onto the carpet, all runny.

  It was too late to get the potty. She’d done it now. But maybe she should try to clean it up, so Mummy wouldn’t shout at her when she came back and saw it there. There was a special lock on the cupboard under the sink. Mummy said the lock was to stop her touching the cleaning things because they were dangerous and she mustn’t swallow them. So she couldn’t get to the big bottle of stuff that Mummy used that smelled like lemons.

  Lily stood up. The last bit of runny poo streaked down her leg and onto one of the plastic bricks she was using to make the chimney. She picked the brick up – a red one –.before it made any more of the bricks dirty. The ones for making the walls, and the windows. She didn’t want to build a dirty house. Granny’s house was clean. She remembered the nice smell of flowers, and that you had to take your shoes off when you went inside before you were allowed to stand on the carpet. Mummy always laughed about that. She said lots of posh ladies did that, but they didn’t.

  Maybe she could get some paper from the roll hanging in the bathroom to clean herself up with. And a flannel, or a towel, to wash the blob off the carpet. Then she could put it in the washing basket with the pyjamas. Be a good girl.

  The smell that followed her was worse than it was before. Not like lemons or flowers. Her bottom felt all squidgy and messy, and a bit sore. Lily tried to reach round and rub it clean with the paper, forgetting she had the brick in her hand, but it just made her hand all nasty, and the brick even nastier. And the kiddie step wasn’t here to reach the bathroom sink and wash it off. The step was still in the kitchen, but it was too dark in there and she couldn’t reach the light.

  But at least her tummy ache had gone now. That was good. She didn’t need the Cowpol any more, from the bottle that wouldn’t open. Maybe that had a special lock on it too. But it wouldn’t be to stop her swallowing it, because she knew she was allowed to swallow Cowpol. It tasted nice and made everything feel better.

  Lily wished everything would feel better now, but it didn’t. She had never been on her own before, and she didn’t like it. It was getting dark outside again, and the tree outside was blowing around, and the wind was rattling the window. She was hungry again, and she wanted something nice to eat, but whatever was left was in t
he kitchen, and she wanted a plaster for her hand that kept hurting all the time but the plasters were in the cupboard she couldn’t open, in the box with a red cross on it under the sink. She wanted to get into her bed with Archie and have Mummy tuck her in, but it was all wet and nasty. And she wanted to cry but when she did it didn’t make any difference because nobody came. And she wanted to see Daddy, and Granny, who she hadn’t seen for such a long time …

  But most of all she wanted Mummy. She just wanted Mummy.

  *

  Dinner was a fraught affair. Patsy had offered to help but had been turned away from the kitchen with a look that could have curdled milk. Now they all sat together around the table in the dining room, very formally, eating some sort of indeterminate pie with waxy potatoes and thin tasteless gravy, and trying to make polite conversation.

  It was only half past six. Much too early to be eating, but it wasn’t Patsy’s house and therefore, according to Michael who was doing his best to keep the peace, not her decision. The meat was chewy, the pastry as hard and tasteless as cardboard, and the gravy was lukewarm, but Michael didn’t seem to notice or, if he did, he’d chosen to ignore it.

  ‘Lovely, Mum. Thank you,’ he said, clattering his cutlery down and wiping his mouth on a paper serviette with Christmas robins around the edge.

  Patsy moved her knife and fork to the side of her plate and left them pressed together at an angle, to signal she had finished, in case the pile of pushed-about uneaten food still on her plate should indicate otherwise.

  ‘Anything wrong, Patricia?’ Geraldine smiled at her, her teeth bared like a protective mother tiger. ‘don’t you like pastry? Can I get you anything else?’