Little Lydia

LILY

Mr. Nigel Brown scrutinised his trousers and shirt, then flung them back onto the chair with a huff. Hows he supposed to go out like this? The trousers looked as though a family of squirrels had been nesting in themno crease in sight, shiny patches on the back, and to top it all off, hed lost five kilos lately and the things now hung on him like a sack. The shirt was in an even sadder state, faded to a queasy grey, cuffs frayed, collar limp as a boiled lettucea disgrace! Lily wouldnt have let him nip down to the village shop wearing such a rag, never mind deliver a seminar to the university staff.

Hed never cared much about his clothes, and yet hed always looked not just decent, but like a bit of a dandy. Not anymore! Back then, new shirts, suits and jackets seemed to pop up on their own. All he had to do was put his hand in the wardrobe or mention to Lily that hed better be presentable tomorrow, and, miraculously, he would be.

Oh, Lily-Lily, what on earth did you go and pull that stunt for? He never expected her to betray him like this. She was nearly ten years his junior, never seriously ill, and even this time, shed just run a mild fever and developed a silly cough. She wouldnt have bothered dragging herself to the GP if it werent for the new school year and the need to get her medical certificate signed. So off she trotted to the surgery with the rest of the staff. It shouldve been nothinga routine job at a poky little NHS surgery. But straight from there, Lily was packed off to the hospital. Everything after that was like a bad soap, and by Christmas it was all over.

Nigel knew it wasnt the surgerys faultif anything, they were the ones who sounded the alarm. Still, like a child, he hated that place, as if it had killed Lily. It seemed to him that, because it had started there, it was responsible.

Hed met Lily when he was a second-year postgraduate, teaching seminars on integral calculus. Lily was a first-year student with pink cheeks rosy from the cold, freckles even in February, and little round fingers with bitten nails and ink stains. He always fancied girls who were bold, sophisticated, a bit of a laughand Lily was none of these. But those daft little fingersthats what did him in.

He was so charmed he didnt notice himself gradually falling for her: walking her home, popping round to her house, even making dumplings with her gran. After that, really, what choice did he have but to marry her? And though, in the forty years that followed, Lily doubled in size, lopped off her pigtails, smoked like a chimney, and became deputy head at the local maths school, Nigel only ever saw the same childish hands and chewed nails. His heart ached for her, and no one else could come close.

Mind you, it wasnt all some gentle bucolic bliss. After forty-odd years, what hadnt they been through? Nigel had done Lily wrong more than once, including two dramatic disappearances from home. Lily gave as good as she got, sneaking off on clandestine dates with the managing director from the partner firm down the road for three years. But they had two daughters, anchors that kept their little family ship afloat through every storm.

It was never fair, really: they started off skint, practically living on top of each other. Then, when the girls were little, life became a military operationdarting between music lessons, art classes, school runs, figure skating, and a never-ending circuit of childhood colds. Now, finally, with a lovely big flat and the girls all grown and living their own lives, grandchildren only trotted out on high days and holidays, it seemed as though they could finally enjoy life. And thats precisely when Lily decided to shuffle off without so much as leaving him a how-to guide.

Nigel was so completely unprepared he didnt even take in what had happened at first; at her wake he behaved more as if at a golden wedding than a funeral, which several guests noted as proof of his clear lack of feeling. How wrong they were! He simply registered it all a few months later, when spring arrived. After that he sagged, grew listless, shed even more weight, and couldnt bear to be home alone.

It was no good relying on his daughters: one was off tracking dolphins and chasing migrating birds with some environmental mob, and the other was buried in her own family, husband and child monopolising her every waking moment. The word Dad didnt feature in her daily vocabulary. So Nigel started calling round on friends.

Calling round was a bit generous, really: he’d show up far too early, eat everything in sight, doze in a chair, sip tea in silence, scatter crumbs everywhere, wait until it was clearly time to leave, then shuffle off homeonly to repeat the process the next day.

At home, he hardly ate at all, despite having been the family chef during forty years with Lily. Cooking for one held no appeal; he rapidly fell apart, turning into a shabby shadow of himself. One look at him and his mates sounded the alarm. Something had to be done. He neededwell, someone to look after him.

This evenings designated someone was a certain Annabelle Kensington. It wouldnt come to anything, Nigel knew from the off. Hed only ever stomached the theatre for Lilys sake. The whole business struck him as phoney, stuffy, and mostly amateurish. But Lily adored the stage, treasured the programmes, and would retell him plays in loving detailhe could never refuse her.

Now, thanks to the benevolent scheming of his friends, he was once again trudging through slush, clutching yet another ticket, off to another brilliant new production, squashed into tight weekend shoes and a dusty seat, gasping for breath amidst a cloud of cheap perfume, proffering juice and stale éclairs to some lady acquaintance during the interval. All the while, he would dream longingly of flinging himself face-first into the pillow at home, which definitely (or perhaps only in his mind) still carried a trace of Lilys scent. But politeness won out and he dragged himself along, aware that, deep down, he was hopeless on his own, even if he wasnt quite sure why he needed to keep going at all.

Tonights Annabelle turned out to be an attractive, spry woman of about fifteen years his junior, who wouldten years agohave caught his eye. Petite, stylish, witty, a bit of a social whiz, she seemed altogether rather appealing. Next to her, he felt twice as ragged and ancient, but she gamely suggested a string of plans for the coming weekends.

The play itself wasnt badmercifully brief and (best of all) no interval. After, by rights, he probably ought to have taken her for a coffee, as the theatre bar had been closed. But destiny intervened.

Annabelle suggested they nip round to hers, nearby. Apparently, shed just made a cracking stew and a pie, and would love his company for dinner. It was obviously premeditated, but Nigel was in such dire need of proper food and domestic cheer that he accepted at once.

Here, Annabelle was on top form. Her immaculate, sweet little flat smelled of cinnamon and vanilla. She ducked out to change, reappearing in a tracksuit that made her look ten years younger, chatting with easy charm as she rustled up a spread of home-cooked wonders. For a moment, Nigel let himself imagine staying there forever, in this perfect gingerbread house, where the past wouldnt choke him in the night or leer at him from behind the wardrobe doorwhere he could have a fresh start.

He finally dragged himself home well after midnight. He and Annabelle made plans: an exhibit at the Museum of Private Collections, then shopping for himhis wardrobe was frankly an embarrassmentand Saturday lunch at hers. Shed have liked to take him to her cottage in the countryside, but her daughter needed her to collect her granddaughter from school for the afternoon, so they settled on a family lunch, postponing the countryside trip to Sunday.

Saturday, brimming with rare optimism, Nigel got a haircut that knocked five years off, donned a snazzy checked shirt and new velvety cords, bought flowers for Annabelle and a chocolate bar for the granddaughter, and set off.

The stairwell already broadcast the tempting scent of roast duck and cake. Nigel found himself humming and grinning at his own reflection in the antique lifts mirror. Annabelle welcomed him as though hed just returned from war, then swept him into the kitchen.

Wheres your granddaughter, then? he asked.

Ill get hershes a bit shy, didnt want to come out of the bedroom at all, Annabelle answered.

Nigel tactically arranged the flowers in a vase, uncorked the wine for Annabelle, poured juice for the little one, sliced the bread and took his seat at the table.

Nigel, meet my granddaughterLily!

He saw huge clear eyes, pink cheeks, a spatter of freckles on a turned-up nose. Lily eyed him warily, nibbling a thumb nail in nerves.

Hopefully I dont drop dead right this minute, thought Nigel, and promptly excused himself with hasteFor a heartbeat, the room blurredthe light, the bright bowls of salad, Annabelles voiceall faded behind the shimmer of that name. Lily. How long had it been since hed heard it spoken with such delight, ringing in a kitchen warmed by roast duck and laughter?

He set the chocolates on the table with exaggerated ceremony, and Lily giggled, peeking from behind Annabelles sleeve. He watched her small hands, bitten nails pressed shyly to her lips. Ink stains? Perhaps, or maybe just jam from breakfast. The resemblance needled him, urgent and impossible, striking something old and almost forgotten in his chest.

Lily edged closer, emboldened by sugar and silent invitation. Annabelle talked, bustling and proud, but her chatter floated by; all Nigel could see was Lily tilting her head, uncertain but hopeful, as if waiting for him to name what they both recognized. He gave her a crooked, conspiratorial smilethe one he once reserved for stories whispered beneath sheets on stormy nights, or tricky maths puzzles slipped under the table.

Well, Lily, he said gently, his voice catching on the memory and the miracle, its very nice to meet you. Her careful smile grew wider, more real, and she scooted toward him, accepting his offering.

The sun spilled golden stripes across the table. Annabelle sliced the cake; the room filled with the hum of family, the clink of forks, laughter layered with something olderrelief, hope, the silly courage of beginning again.

Nigel let himself belong, just for this moment, to the small, miraculous world around hima world that, impossibly, had brought him another Lily. Perhaps life didnt offer how-to guides, or neat endings. But here, clumsily, beautifully, it had found its way back to him anyway.

He reached for his glass, and, as if from a great distance, could almost hear the gentle scold of his first Lily, telling him to sit up straight and be grateful.

This time, he listened.