She picked up the binoculars from the window ledge and fixed her sights across the Thames. Before she had come back to the familiar territory of her childhood and moved into Aunt Connie’s flat, she wondered whether it would be alarming to look almost directly at her old home on the southern bank of the river – like looking back in time. But so far, the view had provided only pleasure. This was partly joy found in the soothing ebb and flow of the tides, the open expanses of sky and the cries of water birds. It was wonderful to have the rhythms and noises of nature alongside an urban existence. She had to admit, however, that she was also enjoying peering into her own foundations; emotional archaeology.
Focusing the binoculars, she homed in on what had been her bedroom on the top floor of number 7 Barnabas Road. In those days, the curtains were made from billowing, orange saris that tinted even bright daylight into a permanent sunset glow. Of course, as a child, she had looked out on exactly the opposite view; she might have spotted a woman spying on her from this building. The reverie reverberated like a hallucination until a man opened the window – her old window. It was almost as if Ralph had stepped in. The figure backed away and she put down the binoculars. Each time she spotted people in her old house it gave her a jolt. The previous day she’d seen a couple having drinks by the river wall, where she used to sit dangling her legs over the water.
She returned to her work and cut another gleaming whirl from the waistcoat and pinned it into position. In this depiction of her childhood, she was placing several versions of a man and a girl so they would float Chagall-style in the sky, lie on grass, go boating on the river and dance along the bridge. This hanging was by far the most personal thing she had made so far and she gave all her spare hours to working on it.
Today’s job was fixing the bridge that spanned the centre of the piece and the glinting remnants of Ralph’s waistcoat were perfect for its structure. She had found Victorian lithographs of gulls and ducks, printed them on bright yellow silk and had assembled feathers and tiny bones to sew around them. As a homage to things she loved in her youth, she had laminated pieces of tarot card, astrological signs and scraps from old comics, which would dangle along the bottom.
In addition to the Moroccan waistcoat, there were other secret clues – things that only she or Ralph would recognise, like a scrap of a cotton scarf printed with wild strawberries and an Egyptian scarab he’d given her. In one corner hung a shabby racoon tail from a Davy Crockett hat she’d treasured at that time. If only she could add the smells of those years: Ellie’s musky perfume; burning cones of spicy incense; the vegetal reek of river mud; her leather satchel that stank of camel hide; the chemical tang of cheap sweets.
This was not a confession. Although her memories of being with Ralph as a girl were tender, she knew they could not be talked about openly. It had always been a secret, but not a dirty one. It was still precious to her. And Putney was going to be her private vision of this forbidden but genuine love, fuelled by the view from her window, a few old letters and notebooks and the carefully retained objects that symbolised a whole era. A distillation of the past.
Her mobile vibrated with an angry beetle’s buzz: Libby.
‘Hi, Mum. Are you coming?’
‘Oh bugger!’ She often found herself using the sort of dated expletives her father had preferred and that made Libby snort with laughter, though this time she groaned in annoyance.
‘Sorry. I completely forgot the time. I’m on my way. Ten minutes, maximum. Where are you? Did you leave Sophia’s?’
‘Yeah, I’m at the end of her road, by Putney Common. But hurry, OK?’
They drove to their new favourite café – a French place off Putney High Street, with authentic baguettes and brioches and always some Edith Piaf or Charles Trenet playing. As they sat down, Daphne put an arm around her daughter, nuzzling into her neck and hair, and taking in the familiar smell of soap and fresh-mown meadow. How did this extraordinary person emerge from me? she wondered. How could all my mayhem and mistakes be alchemised into this perfect girl, with her honey-coloured hair, her legs elongating out of childhood, and her clear-eyed view of the world?
Daphne ordered coffee, Libby got hot chocolate and they ate croissants, scattering flakes across the red-checked tablecloth. They lapsed into a familiar ease; she’d been lugging Libby round cafés since she was a baby and they regularly took homework, laptops, even bits of sewing and settled in somewhere cosy for a couple of hours.
‘I got my period again.’ It was only her second cycle, but Libby sounded confident, even proud.
‘Great. Feeling OK?’
‘Fine. It’s not such a big deal, Mum. Most of the girls in my year started a while ago.’
‘I know. But it is quite a big deal. It’s so extraordinary that we female humans should be linked to the moon and the tides. It’d sound like science fiction if you made it up – mysterious planetary forces making us bleed. And now you’re part of that.’ Libby laughed but glanced to see if anyone was listening. ‘Yeah, well, you’re making it sound very sci-fi. It’s quite ordinary.’
‘I suppose it’s ordinary and extraordinary – like childbirth. I can’t help it if you’re such a cool cat.’
‘Miaow.’
She found Libby’s development oddly moving. Like a plant forcing its way up through heavy earth, her daughter’s body was transforming. Daphne couldn’t ignore the signs that her own body was retreating from fertility. Lately, her periods had been erratic and her first hot flushes had arrived with an unfamiliar burn that began in the face like a fever and spread down through the chest and limbs, leaving her sweaty and mildly shocked by its ferocity. The ‘change of life’, didn’t they call it? Changes that were private, unadvertised to the world – even disguised. She was well aware that while her hair grew as energetically thick as ever, below the vibrant tint of Persian Copper it was now almost entirely grey. Libby and she were crossing each other’s hormonal paths, travelling in opposite directions.
‘So how did the lesson go?’
‘Really good! So much better than Saturday Greek school. Sophia’s great. We actually have fun. It’s not like a lesson. She taught me a song and played her guitar. At the end, a friend of hers from uni came round. Aris. He’s from Thessaloniki. Told some really funny jokes.’
‘That’s great. And I admit I got it wrong with Greek school. I think I was just trying to copy what my mother did; you know, unthinkingly pass on a tradition. The truth is I was always horribly bored there too.’ Those Saturday mornings getting to grips with spelling and grammar with a pack of ex-pat Greek kids had been interminable. She’d eventually learned to lie about going, regularly sneaking off to meet Ralph somewhere instead, and then making up stories for her parents about Mr Korakis, the awkward, myopic teacher.
Libby’s mobile rang. ‘Hey, hi Dad.’ Daphne felt a small lurch. Dad? When did that happen? He’d always been Sam and that suited her.
‘Yes, I’m so excited.’ Libby turned away slightly as though hiding her unmistakable elation. Daphne flicked half-heartedly through some emails on her phone while listening to Libby’s enthusiastic discussion of the forthcoming trip to Greece. In vain, she strained her ears in the hope of overhearing Sam’s side of the conversation; Piaf was growling too loudly from the café’s speakers.