Lily Alone: A gripping and emotional drama

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.

On the screen, a man in a top hat was sweeping a woman off her feet, whirling her around in mid-air, his tap shoes tap-tapping away on an impossibly shiny over-polished floor. William looked down at his own feet. He’d kicked his shoes off at the door. Old habits. Susan never allowed shoes on inside the house. There was a hole in one of his socks, half a big toe peeping through, and a line of crumbs on the carpet around his armchair from too many late-night digestives. His toenails needed a trim too, by the look of the one escaping from his sock.

It was no good denying it. He missed having a woman around. Even a cold-hearted bitch like Susan. At least she was someone he could have left it all to. All his worldly goods. Clichéd though it sounded, there was a sodding great hole in his life these days, not just in his sock. And they both needed mending, but he had no idea how. Or even where the mending kit was kept.

*

The whiney noise kept coming from the phone near the front door. She didn’t know what it was, and she didn’t like it. It wasn’t the buzzy noise she’d heard before, when she’d tried to talk to Mummy. This was different. Scarier. Like the nee-naw noises the fire engines made. Loud, then quiet, then loud again. It kept coming out of the phone she’d put down on the table. Maybe the long curly wire really was a snake and it was trying to get her. Chase her. Eat her. She wasn’t going to go near it. Not until it stopped. Only, it didn’t.

Lily was naked from the waist down. Her yellow pyjamas were too wet to wear. They were in the laundry basket, where she’d put them last night, where Mummy always put the dirty things. But she couldn’t find any clean ones. Her other pairs were in there too, right at the bottom. She had seen them, one pair stripey, and one with little pink teddies, through a gap in the plastic, so there was nothing to wear. Only her jeans and tops and pretty dresses, but you weren’t supposed to wear proper clothes to go to sleep in.

She’d stood on the bed and pulled at the light cord, so the Winnie the Pooh light on the ceiling had been on all night. It was what Mummy called a night light, not too bright, and it made a soft pink circle on the ceiling that was supposed to stop her being scared when she was by herself, but it hadn’t worked. Now the daylight was streaming in too, through the still-open curtains, and the traffic was getting loud outside just like every morning. But this morning was different to other mornings.

She had tried to find some pull-ups last night but there weren’t any left in the packet. Mummy said they cost a lot of money and big girls could manage to use the proper toilet in the daytime now, couldn’t they? But she couldn’t go to bed without a nappy on. She always wore a nappy to go to bed. So she’d tried to put a proper one on, one with the sticky sides, but it hadn’t stuck properly and the knickers she had worn to try to make it stay there were now even wetter than the pyjamas. So was her bed. It smelled of stale warmth and wee, and so did she.

The smell didn’t go away. It seemed to follow her as she padded through the flat, room by room. There was no Mummy. Still no Mummy. She was thirsty. She wanted to cry again, but she was a big girl now. Mummy had said so. And big girls know how to get their own drink. She walked into the kitchen, her feet sticky as they reached the place where she’d made the puddle. It was nearly all dried up now, and the floor felt warm where the sun was coming in. She was glad. She didn’t want Mummy to see the puddle when she came back. Big girls didn’t make puddles on the floor. Big girls used the potty, or sat on the big toilet on the special seat Mummy had bought at the charity shop. The day they got the yellow pyjamas, and Mummy’s new shoes.

Lily went to the sink. She pulled the plastic step over – the one Mummy called the kiddie step – and climbed up so she could reach the taps, the way she did when they’d been baking cakes and Mummy said she had to wash her hands to get the last of the mixture off, even though she’d already licked them clean. Then she picked up the plug on the end of its metal chain and pushed it firmly into the plug hole, the way Mummy had shown her, so she could make the water stay and go all soapy without it running away down the drain.

The cold tap was the one nearest to the kitchen door. She was only allowed to touch the cold tap. Not the hot. Mummy had taught her about which tap was which. Left and right, but that was too hard to remember, even when they’d practised holding up both hands or picking out which shoe to put on which foot. It was much easier to just know that the cold tap was the one nearest to the door.

Her favourite cup was upside down on the draining board. It had a row of baby ducks on it, going right round in a circle, all following their mummy. She turned it over. The tap was stiff. She needed both hands to make it turn, and then the water came out in a big gush that made her jump and splashed all over her top. Lily caught some water in the cup and took a big swig before dropping the cup back into the water in the sink and washing it with the little bar of soap they kept in a dish at the side, playing with the creamy bubbles and rubbing them right up to her elbows, soaking the ends of her sleeves, as slowly the sink began to fill.

Then, suddenly, there was a bang at the front door. Someone was there. Lily froze. What if it was the Big Bad Wolf, come to get her? Or a nasty stranger? She wasn’t allowed to open the door, especially to strangers. Or to talk to them in the street, or in the park. Strangers were dangerous, like dogs. The door was right next to the curly snake that was still making the scary noise, so she couldn’t go there, even if she wanted to.

‘Hello?’

It was a man’s voice, coming from behind the door. From the hall outside.

‘Hello? Ruby? You in there?’ He was shouting louder now.

Lily stood very still.

‘Ruby? Your neighbours from upstairs were just coming out and they let me into the hall. Don’t know if you’re at home, but I’ll leave the stuff out here, love. Should be safe enough. Be back tomorrow to collect it, along with the last lot, okay?’

Then it went quiet again.

Lily didn’t know if he had gone away. She hoped he had. But she still wanted to see. She edged towards the door, her hands over her ears to stop the whiney noise, keeping her eyes on the wiry green snake in case it tried to move and bite her. But she had to look and see who was out there. She had to be brave. She was brave. Mummy had said so when she let the dentist man look inside her mouth. She had got a sticker for that. A sticker that said she was a brave girl.

She lay down on the floor, pressed tight onto the mat. There was an old cat flap low down in the door, left by the people who had lived here before them. The big cat from downstairs had tried to come in once, prodding it with his paw, but Mummy had opened the door and shooed him away before he got right through, and he had run away scared and had never come back again. Mummy said she didn’t want it to come inside. She had never had an animal before, and she wasn’t used to them, didn’t know how to look after them properly. But they were going to get a rabbit. She knew they were. Mummy had said so.

Mummy always said she was going to find something to block the flap up with, but then she forgot again. Lily didn’t want it blocked up. She liked looking through it, flapping the square of scratchy plastic in and out so it rattled, watching what was happening, at ankle level, out in the hall. Spiders, leaves, dust. She saw a mouse once, but it had soon disappeared. Maybe the cat ate it. Sometimes she liked to pretend she was an animal in the zoo, like a lion or a tiger, and that the cat flap was her own little door and she could climb through it and escape when nobody was looking and scare all the visitors, but she had tried it once and it was much too small. She could get her arm through but that was all.

Very carefully now, she pushed it open just a little bit so she could peer out. She could only see his boots, big muddy black boots, moving away from her, making big loud thuds as he walked, and the corner of the big box he’d left in the hall. But then, as he went further away and started to go down the stairs, she could see more of him, and she knew who it was. His big blue jacket, his dirty jeans, his shiny bald head. It was the iron man. Not really a stranger. So maybe she was allowed to talk to him. She could ask him where Mummy was, see if he could help find her, but it was too late now. He disappeared from view, clunking away from her, and the big front door downstairs slammed shut and he was gone.

Lily’s tummy growled just like the lion she was pretending to be. She stood up and ran quickly away from the phone, roaring at it and holding out her claws as she passed, to see if it would make it stop. It didn’t.

She was very hungry now. She had eaten up the rest of the tomatoes last night, and a piece of cheese and a big carrot, even though she didn’t like carrots all that much. She’d unwrapped a bit of paper with two sausages in it and taken a bite off the end of one, but it was all cold and pink because Mummy hadn’t cooked it yet, and it tasted horrible, so she’d spat it out. She had struggled to get the lid off the big blue tub that had the ice cream in it, but when she had, the ice cream was all runny and she’d spilled most of it when she’d tried to drink it on a spoon. Then she’d finished off the last of the milk straight from the bottle but it had tasted horrible. All warm and smelly, and a lump of something yellow had caught in her throat and nearly made her sick.

With big tears running down her face, she had pushed the chair away and the fridge door had swung shut, but the dark had still been too dark, too scary, and she’d quickly opened it again, which didn’t matter because all the food that was in there had gone and now there was some water dripping down the inside and trickling out onto the floor.

Now it was the next day, because she had been to sleep, and she had a tummy ache, and so did Archie. She thought she might need to do a poo but it wasn’t quite ready to come out yet. Mummy sometimes gave her Cowpol when she had a tummy ache, or a cold, or when her head hurt, which it did sometimes when she was tired. A big sugary-sweet pink spoonful that tasted nice and always made her feel better. She didn’t know why it was called Cowpol. Maybe they used it at the farm when the cows were sick. They would need a huge spoon though. Cows had big mouths and great big, long, licky tongues.

She could hear the water running in the sink and remembered she’d left the tap on when she’d heard someone banging at the door. She climbed back up and tried to turn it off, but it was so stiff. It went most of the way but wouldn’t go any more. She could hear it going drip-drip-drip, splashing into the water already there in the sink, bouncing off her ducky cup, as she climbed down from the step and went to look for the medicine.

*

Agnes was in her dressing gown with the tea stain down the front she still hadn’t got around to scrubbing. Her slippers were looking tatty too, but it didn’t seem to matter all that much. Nobody was going to see them but her.

Sundays had been special once, when Donald was still alive. When she would wake early and make bacon and eggs and thinly sliced toast soldiers, and a proper pot of tea, and they’d put on their good clothes and walk together, arm in arm, to church or go for a spin in the car before coming home to a real fire and roast lamb and something nice on the telly. Not any more. Now Sundays merged into all the other days, indistinguishable, ordinary, disappointing.

She poured porridge oats from one of the many packets lined up like giant cardboard dominoes in the cupboard and stood gazing out at nothing in particular through the window as the milk warmed in the pan. It was a bit late to call it breakfast but porridge for lunch was okay, wasn’t it? Why not? She had no one else to please.

There was a boil-in-the-bag cod in butter sauce in the freezer for later and a few peas, plenty for one, with perhaps a corner of the fish left over for Smudge. No need for potatoes at her age. They just filled up space, in the already over-stuffed cupboards, and in her own stomach. You didn’t need the same amount of stodge when you went nowhere, did nothing to burn it off. The paper would be on the mat in the hall by now, so there’d be a bit of scandal to read and a crossword to work on later. She’d maybe sort out her smalls and put a wash load on, pop her dressing gown in too, to see if it would get the stain out. Flip a duster round the place. Other than that, nothing. No grand plan for the day.

The kettle wheezed its way to boiling point and she made herself some strong tea, avoiding the one good pot as usual and just plopping a teabag into the cup. Then she carried it through to her armchair, using both hands, the cup shaking between them and slopping a little tea onto her dressing gown where it slowly sank in unnoticed to join and expand the existing stain like some shapeless wishy-washy brown amoeba. Yes, she’d definitely have to tackle the washing today.

The rain had stopped and there was a watery sun trying to peep between the slow-moving clouds. Agnes arranged herself in her chair, closed her eyes and turned her face towards the light coming in through the window.

From somewhere above her head, she could hear the sound of something being scraped along the floor. It grated, put her teeth on edge, like chalk squealing across a blackboard. Reluctantly, she leaned over and switched on the telly. That was the trouble with flats. In her old cottage, every room, every floor, every inch was hers. No noisy neighbours, no crying babies. She could summon silence at will. Now it was cooking programmes or politics or the God slot, or some old Sunday film. It was the only way she knew to drown out the world.

*

Laura and Fiona were taking a break. They sat, as they often did, on the wall outside the hospital, watching the world go by, assorted pre-packed sandwiches in plastic triangles open beside them. Fiona was allowed to reduce prices as sell-by dates were reached, and then there was her usual staff discount on top, so it made sense to take advantage. Whatever flavour wasn’t selling so well … that’s what they’d eat. They weren’t too fussy. Variety is the spice of life, after all.

At least they were out in the fresh air. There were a few wilting pansies, the last of the season, in a basket by the main doors, a narrow patch of well-trodden grass at their feet, and they could just about hear the fountain above the noise from the car park, and the occasional wail of incoming ambulances. All in all, better than the canteen. And, anyway, they both agreed that it was so much easier to buy ready-made food than to be messing about with slicing cheese and cutting up salad at seven in the morning, when heating up the hair straighteners and finding a clean pair of knickers were much more important priorities. Not that either of them were likely to find a lot of salad just lying about in their fridges, if they were absolutely honest about it.

As nurses go, Laura was only too aware that she was not among the fittest and healthiest of specimens. Her changing shift patterns, early morning starts and late finishes, and day-off trips home to see her parents left little enough opportunity to have any kind of meaningful social life, let alone find the time for proper cooking or to go to the gym. Her uniform was starting to strain a bit around the hips and bum, and she already needed the fingers of a whole hand to count the number of times she’d eaten chips this week.

‘He was all right, I suppose,’ Fiona was saying. ‘If you like that sort of thing …’

‘What sort of thing?’ Laura took a bite out of the soggy white bread, now slightly pink from being saturated in over-ripe tomato. ‘I thought when you went on these dating sites, you could ask for exactly what you wanted. You know, list all his attributes, try before you buy!’

‘Well, yes, I’d seen his photo, obviously. And we’d chatted online, but it’s not the same, is it? There are things you’re never going to be able to tell until you meet in the flesh.’

Laura’s mind boggled. ‘Like?’

‘Well, like his breath for one thing. Onions, garlic, tobacco. You name it, he must have eaten it – and the big lips didn’t help. Yuk! Like rubber. I know now why he had his mouth shut so tightly in the picture.’

Laura laughed, almost choking on a chunk of cucumber. ‘Never again, then?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You have to kiss a lot of frogs before your prince comes along, as they say. So, it’s onwards and upwards. Plenty more fish in the murky waters of the sea. And tonight it’s Harry.’