tentative, and she realized it was some days since she’d uttered a word. ‘Listen, thanks for the letter. Oh Christ, I’ll try you at work.’
But Nick wasn’t at work.
‘He’s off… Is that Lily?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, he’s… Hang on.’ She could hear his assistant, Tim, filling up the kettle, hear the water pounding into the metal drum. ‘Yes, he’s gone to Paris to check on…’ Another phone started ringing and Tim must have splashed water up his arm. ‘Oh fuck!’
‘It’s all right,’ Lily shouted over the noise, ‘I’ve left a message on his mobile,’ and, deflated, she put down the phone.
Lily piled her change back into her purse. She picked up the pebble. It was round and worn, stripes of ivory and gold, the rings of colour grazed and faded at the edges as if it were a million years old. Lily rolled it in the palm of her hand, and without knowing why she slipped it into her pocket, leaving in its place a twopence coin.
Lily walked the long way round to the shop. She took deep strides, sucking in the air, the soft grass smells, the honey scent from a bedding of white flowers, and then on the corner of a lane, a sharp blast of currant stopped her in her tracks. It made her think of London, the incongruous smell of nature on a city street. Dust and damp and cat’s piss and the sharp sap of the stalks. Lily snapped off a dark green leaf and pressed it between her finger and her thumb. The veins were red like rhubarb, the juice bitter with the tang of fruit. There had been a plant like this on the corner of the street where she grew up. She had often stopped by it to finish up her sweets, breathing in the acrid smell that came to her in bursts as she waited for her mother to come home from work. Lily uncrumpled the leaf and, folding it carefully around her pebble, she pushed it into the pocket of her jeans.
Stoffer’s, the village shop, was stocked with everything you might ever need. As well as fruit, vegetables and cheeses, bread and tins, and packets of dried food, there were beach balls, fishing nets, buckets and spades. There was a whole shelf of biscuits and just opposite the till, at eye level to a toddler, a hoard of penny sweets. Two children were crouched over, holding plastic tongs, and as the door rattled shut behind her she recognized Em and Arrie, clutching miniature paper bags. Mrs Stoffer was leaning over the counter watching them, and when Lily caught her eye, she gave her a look full of misgiving.
Lily concentrated on the postcards. There were photographic highlights of at least five local villages and towns. Harbours, castles, sunsets, the ruins of a church. And then on a stand all of their own, a rack of ‘local artists’. Lily examined each pale and faded scene. The beach deserted, the beach with paddlers at low tide. There were watercolours of the ferry, with and without a queue, and one picture of the wooden house, up on its stilts, cornered on three sides by water as the estuary swooped round to meet the sea. Each picture was four-fifths full of sky. It made the land look insignificant, as if it were unable to keep up. If she were to paint this scene she would only paint the sky, and she smiled at a sudden image of herself, sensible clothing, sandwiches, and an easel dug into the sand. Instead of watercolours she chose a photograph of the Eastonknoll lighthouse, its lookout a lattice of white icing, its dome a blob of cream.
‘Twelve pence…’ the lady was counting the sweets out by the till, peering and poking at Arrie’s paper bag. ‘Fifteen, that’s twenty-seven pence.’
Em dug her hand deep into her pocket. Her face was a mask of worry as she picked out the coins. Mrs Stoffer held the bags as if they might have to be returned, as if she’d been in this particularly tiresome situation before.
‘Twelve, thirteen, sixteen…’ Em laboriously counted pennies while Arrie stood beside her, wistful and concerned. ‘Twenty-two?’ she offered hopefully and Lily looked
But Nick wasn’t at work.
‘He’s off… Is that Lily?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, he’s… Hang on.’ She could hear his assistant, Tim, filling up the kettle, hear the water pounding into the metal drum. ‘Yes, he’s gone to Paris to check on…’ Another phone started ringing and Tim must have splashed water up his arm. ‘Oh fuck!’
‘It’s all right,’ Lily shouted over the noise, ‘I’ve left a message on his mobile,’ and, deflated, she put down the phone.
Lily piled her change back into her purse. She picked up the pebble. It was round and worn, stripes of ivory and gold, the rings of colour grazed and faded at the edges as if it were a million years old. Lily rolled it in the palm of her hand, and without knowing why she slipped it into her pocket, leaving in its place a twopence coin.
Lily walked the long way round to the shop. She took deep strides, sucking in the air, the soft grass smells, the honey scent from a bedding of white flowers, and then on the corner of a lane, a sharp blast of currant stopped her in her tracks. It made her think of London, the incongruous smell of nature on a city street. Dust and damp and cat’s piss and the sharp sap of the stalks. Lily snapped off a dark green leaf and pressed it between her finger and her thumb. The veins were red like rhubarb, the juice bitter with the tang of fruit. There had been a plant like this on the corner of the street where she grew up. She had often stopped by it to finish up her sweets, breathing in the acrid smell that came to her in bursts as she waited for her mother to come home from work. Lily uncrumpled the leaf and, folding it carefully around her pebble, she pushed it into the pocket of her jeans.
Stoffer’s, the village shop, was stocked with everything you might ever need. As well as fruit, vegetables and cheeses, bread and tins, and packets of dried food, there were beach balls, fishing nets, buckets and spades. There was a whole shelf of biscuits and just opposite the till, at eye level to a toddler, a hoard of penny sweets. Two children were crouched over, holding plastic tongs, and as the door rattled shut behind her she recognized Em and Arrie, clutching miniature paper bags. Mrs Stoffer was leaning over the counter watching them, and when Lily caught her eye, she gave her a look full of misgiving.
Lily concentrated on the postcards. There were photographic highlights of at least five local villages and towns. Harbours, castles, sunsets, the ruins of a church. And then on a stand all of their own, a rack of ‘local artists’. Lily examined each pale and faded scene. The beach deserted, the beach with paddlers at low tide. There were watercolours of the ferry, with and without a queue, and one picture of the wooden house, up on its stilts, cornered on three sides by water as the estuary swooped round to meet the sea. Each picture was four-fifths full of sky. It made the land look insignificant, as if it were unable to keep up. If she were to paint this scene she would only paint the sky, and she smiled at a sudden image of herself, sensible clothing, sandwiches, and an easel dug into the sand. Instead of watercolours she chose a photograph of the Eastonknoll lighthouse, its lookout a lattice of white icing, its dome a blob of cream.
‘Twelve pence…’ the lady was counting the sweets out by the till, peering and poking at Arrie’s paper bag. ‘Fifteen, that’s twenty-seven pence.’
Em dug her hand deep into her pocket. Her face was a mask of worry as she picked out the coins. Mrs Stoffer held the bags as if they might have to be returned, as if she’d been in this particularly tiresome situation before.
‘Twelve, thirteen, sixteen…’ Em laboriously counted pennies while Arrie stood beside her, wistful and concerned. ‘Twenty-two?’ she offered hopefully and Lily looked
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