Chapter 28
Lily Saunders looked at her watch for the hundredth time in three hours as she absently drummed her fingers on the table in front of her seat. Was the train running late? Trains were never early.
She was worried that if she arrived late in Penrith, the man delivering her rental car wouldn’t wait. A ticket inspector walked past and she hailed him. “Excuse me, sir, are we going to be on time in Penrith?”
The inspector smiled to himself. American tourists! You’d never get an English woman calling you ‘sir’.
“We’re due into Penrith at eight minutes past the hour, madam; we shouldn’t be more than a couple of minutes late.”
The train was on time and as it pulled out of the station near the northern end of the Lake District, it left Lily standing on the platform. She eyed her two huge suitcases and cursed her stupidity in bringing so much with her. She was unused to travelling and she didn’t know how long she would be staying. As a result, more than a few extra jackets, trousers, skirts, tops and pairs of shoes had found their way into her luggage. At least both the suitcases were on wheels. She hefted her large handbag and her portfolio case over her shoulder and, taking a suitcase handle in each hand, set off down the platform.
The twenty-year-old agent from Lakeland Car Rentals was lounging against the car in the station car park, smoking a cigarette. He saw the woman struggling through the station foyer, stubbed out his cigarette and sauntered over to her, his eyes roving over her trim figure. She was younger than he’d imagined, and probably quite a looker under those huge sunglasses.
“Ms Saunders?”
“Gee, yes, that’s me,” said Lily in relief. “Lily Saunders. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“No, luv, train were on time, weren’t it. Coupla bits a paper to sign an’ we’ll have you on yer way.”
Lily looked at the car in amazement. It was tiny! She was used to the new compacts in the States; this thing looked as if it would fit inside one.
“It is an automatic, isn’t it?” she asked the young man, wondering if it was really big enough to have a gearbox.
“Yeah, luv, these’uns are all automatic.”
“Thank God for that,” she smiled, “I couldn’t have managed with a stick shift.”
The agent tried and failed to get both suitcases into the car’s tiny boot.
“One o’these’ll have to go on back seat, luv,” he panted, wrestling with the second case. “That OK?”
“No problem, so as long as the car can handle all the weight.”
He laughed as he stowed the second case and sat in the front passenger seat to explain how to operate the SatNav. He asked her where she was going and set it to Keswick for her.
“OK, luv, just the paperwork. Can I see your licence?”
She handed him her New York Drivers License and he copied down the details. He looked up, puzzled. “Says ‘ere you was born in 1960. That a mistake?”
“No, that’s correct,” she lied.
He shook his head. Yanks! She must be all plastic; she didn’t look a day over thirty. Christ! He’d considered chatting her up but she’d turned out to be older than his mother!
For the next terrifying ten minutes, Lily attempted to guide the car along the left side of the road in the direction the disembodied male voice of Jason from the SatNav was leading her. Along the A66 to Keswick, she saw a sign for emergency parking by the roadside. She decided her situation qualified and pulled in.
She took a deep breath, opened her large map of the Lake District and located roughly where she was. She’d come all this way; she couldn’t give up now. Hell, there was hardly any traffic and she was used to driving around New York City! Then a little voice reminded her that in New York City they drove on the right side of the road.
She pulled a map and some printouts from her handbag. Among the printouts was a photograph of a painting a girlfriend had bought in England a few weeks before while on a European trip. As soon as she’d returned, she had brought it over to show Lily.
“Take a look at this, Lil,” Jenny Talberg had yelled as she burst through the door of Lily’s studio in the Upper West Side. “Don’t you think it’s just darling?”
Jenny was a large woman in every way: large frame, large hair and large personality. At six foot one she towered over the slightly built, five foot four Lily.
Lily had taken the painting and studied it, her eyes widening in disbelief. It was of a young girl of about five or six. She immediately noticed the sparkling, mischievous eyes looking straight back at her and an impish smile that was about to burst into peals of laughter. She caught her breath, the excitement of what she was holding welling up inside her. She had seen similar portraits before, portraits of herself that her father had painted. She held the painting close and studied the brushwork. The style was so familiar – she had watched her father applying that delicate brushwork on so many occasions as she grew. Later, when she was old enough, he had taught her how to paint like that. She still did, and now, finally, after many difficult years, her skills were recognised and her work sought after.
She realised her hands were shaking. “Jenny, Jenny, oh dear wonderful Jenny! Wherever did you get this?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper; she was still shocked at seeing the painting and at the realisation that perhaps her father was alive.
“It was in the cutest little English village you could imagine, Lil,” enthused Jenny, “in an area they call the Lakes. It’s a spectacular part of the country.”
“What was the name of the village?”
“Er, Grass Moor, I think, or something cutesy British like that.”
“Grass Moor,” said Lily, “I’ll have to look it up. Did you meet the artist?”
“Sure did, Lil!” Lily hated being called Lil and Jenny was the only person allowed to use the diminutive, simply because she was Jenny and always had. “He’s quite a looker; you’d like him. Wife’s a bit pushy though. He’s the sort of reserved English-gentleman type: very polite, well spoken. And boy, what an artist! He does these fabulous portraits, kids like this one, adults, older people, and then he does landscapes of the Lakes area. Jeez, Lil, you’d kill for them.”
Lily looked up at Jenny and their eyes met. Jenny gasped. “Oh my God, Lil, I forgot. The eyes. D’you see the eyes on this little girl – it’s his daughter – they’re just like yours. And his eyes. Lil, this is incredible–”
“They’re just like mine too?” said Lily.
“Yeah, kid, they are. Isn’t that amazing?”
Yes, thought Lily, really amazing.
The first time she’d had any notion that her father might still be alive had been in the nineteen fifties when she’s seen some paintings by Stefano Baldini. By then, she knew she was very different from other women. She had never been ill in her life and now, in her late sixties, she was as young-looking and beautiful as she had been at thirty, her silky jet-black hair as thick and lush as it had ever been, her figure trim and firm. And unlike any other woman of her age, the previous year she had given birth to a son.
She’d seen the Baldini paintings by chance at an exhibition in Chicago, where her husband, Brad, worked at the time – as far as Brad knew, she was twenty-five and she wasn’t about to enlighten him further. There were three: a portrait of a beautiful young woman with a look of confidence and contentment about her that reminded her of Fiona Trevelyan, and two landscapes of the Virginia hills – haunting autumnal views that made your heart ache to be there.
No one at the exhibition knew much about Stefano Baldini, but she’d later found out he’d been killed in the Blitz in London.
The news had been a desperate blow, especially when she realised they had both been in the States at the same time in the thirties, although still separated by three thousand miles.
Then, in 2001, when the Internet was growing fast, she’d been researching some British artists online and she’d come across one with an Italian name: Francesco Moretti. The site only had low resolution ima
ges of some bucolic English landscapes but they were familiar enough to set her thinking. When she discovered there were three Morettis in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York where she now lived, she went to see them immediately. By now her circumstances had changed. Brad had died of old age and her children, the son born in 1951 and a daughter born in 1960, also called Lily, had both died tragically and young. It was her daughter’s identity papers and passport that she currently used.
Seeing the Morettis in the Met convinced her that she was again looking at work by her father. But like Baldini, Moretti was also dead, drowned in the Adriatic in the early seventies. Two dead artists, both of whom were her father. She wondered. Clearly Baldini hadn’t died as reported; perhaps Moretti hadn’t either. But until Jenny burst through the door with the portrait of Phoebe Andrews in her hands, Lily had learned nothing more to indicate her father was living, or where he might be.
She had immediately set about planning a trip. It was only in recent years she’d had enough money to even consider a trip to Europe, and somehow it had always been put on the back burner. Now there was no stopping her.
She put away her printouts and leaving the map open on the passenger seat – she wasn’t totally confident in Jason – she pulled out of the lay-by and headed gingerly on her way.
The first few miles of the road were dual carriageway, which helped her confidence a little, but then the road became two-way again and she slowed to about twenty miles an hour. Ahead on both sides of the road she could see the rugged hills of the Lake District appearing before her, golden and dramatic in the late afternoon sun. She began to relax, but every time a car passed in the opposite direction, she found herself gripping the steering wheel in panic.
Arriving in Keswick, she pulled into the first car park she saw. She checked her map, located the Keswick Galleries and headed towards them.
They were housed in an old building that had once been a church hall. There was a large banner over the door: Lakeland. An Exhibition of Twenty Local Artists. Open 10-7 Daily.
She stopped and looked up at the banner, her heart pounding. Was this really happening, after all these years? She smoothed her clothes and touched her hair. What was she going to say to him? What if his wife was there? Would he recognise her? Her hair wasn’t in the same style, but facially she didn’t really look very different from the last time he had seen her. The memory of that day on the sailing junk in the South China Sea flashed across her mind. She had been perched on a railing at the bow of the boat, sketching. She’d waved at him as he turned and smiled at her before heading to their cabin. The memory of the tranquil moment of happiness was etched into her mind. It had been her last with him before the nightmare of the attack by the pirates and the silent slaughter that followed. She had never understood why she’d been spared; why she’d been whisked away, tied up, bundled into a cart under a pile of blankets and transported miles across the country. No one had ever told her anything.
“John was here,” said the girl selling brochures at a desk by the door. “I saw him about an hour ago; he’s around somewhere. His work’s over there on the right.”
Lily walked through the hall to where John Andrews’ paintings were displayed, half expecting that at any moment she would see her father appear and walk past her. She looked around the immediate area, but there was no one who seemed to be connected to the paintings.
She approached the display stand and studied the paintings. She smiled to herself; she was convinced she was right.
“I’m afraid they’ve all been sold, if you were thinking of buying one,” said a softly spoken male voice from behind her. She spun round, her heart in her mouth, only to find the owner of the voice was a balding man with horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his pointed nose.
She smiled, trying to speak as she swallowed her disappointment.
“I, er, I hadn’t really thought about buying one, I was just looking at them. They’re so beautiful.”
“Well, when you’ve finished admiring these, you might like to see some of the other work here. Mine’s over there,” he said with a tone of self-importance.
“Thanks, I’ll come along in a moment.”
She turned away, aware that his eyes were roving unashamedly over her body, and continued to look at the paintings. She moved along the display stand and then turned again, almost bumping into the man. He had followed her.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Er, do you know if John Andrews is here, I was really hoping to speak with him.”
“You’ll have to join the queue, Miss… er?”
Lily paused and smiled to herself. “Saunders,” she said, “and it’s Mrs.”
“Oh,” replied the artist looking beyond her around the hall. “Hubby around, is he?”
“No, he’s up in the hills training some Special Forces troops in advanced unarmed combat.”
The man’s face paled.
“What did you mean, that I’ll have to ‘join the queue’?” she asked.
“Oh,” gulped the man, trying now to sound casual, “there have been people buzzing around his paintings all day. And then about an hour ago, there was a monied-looking chap, you know, dressed casually but expensively. Full of praise and interest in John’s paintings. Bought the remaining four, just like that. Chatted to John for a while, and then they both left. John didn’t say where he was going or how long he’d be but they were probably going back to his gallery. He’s sold all these in the last twenty-four hours and now he’ll be selling more. Lucky bugger.”
“Is it far to his gallery?” asked Lily.
“No, not far. Have you got a car?”
“Yes,” replied Lily.
“It’s in Grasmere, about thirteen miles from here. Should take you about twenty-five minutes. Once you get there, look for the Green Man pub. It’s just beyond that. Not that you’d miss the gallery,” he added wistfully. “It’s probably thronging with buyers.”
“Thanks,” said Lily, “I think I’ll go along there now. I’d like to catch him before he goes home.”
The artist looked disappointed. “Don’t you want to look at some of the other work in the exhibition?” he asked, pointing toward his own display stands.
“I’d love to,” said Lily smiling at him and walking away, “I’m here all weekend. I’ll call in again tomorrow.”
“Good. See you then,” replied the artist. “Bring your husband,” he added rather flatly.
She saw the gallery immediately she entered the village, but the street was packed with cars so she followed the signs to a pay-and-display car park, parked her car and walked back. It had been a hot day for the Lakes and many people were relaxing on the green as the late afternoon sun cooled. The village pubs were doing a roaring trade.
She crossed the road from the green and walked up to the gallery window. She sighed happily as she saw the display – the more Andrews paintings she saw, the more she was convinced.
This time, she thought, this time he’ll be here.
She looked past the paintings in the gallery window and into the gallery itself. The only people she could see were a middle-aged couple, large and blond, moving among the displays, and a woman standing by a counter looking anxiously at her watch. There was no sign of John Andrews, but then she noticed a doorway at the rear of the gallery that led into another room. A studio? Perhaps he was in there.
She saw the middle-aged couple turn and say something to the woman at the counter, who smiled distractedly. The couple walked towards the gallery door and opened it. Lily waited for them to pass and then started to walk into the gallery. But the woman from the counter had followed the couple and was now blocking the way, still looking at her watch.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but we’re closing.”
Lily stared at her in dismay – the notice on the door said the gallery was open until seven thirty; it was now shortly after six.
“But–” she began.
“I know it’s early, but I have
to get away. Sorry,” said Lola.
“That’s very disappointing after coming all this way,” said Lily, “I was really hoping to talk with Mr John Andrews.”
“I’d like to talk to him myself,” replied Lola tersely. “I’ve got to pick up my girls and he’s supposed to be here. I don’t know where he’s gone.”
“Have you tried calling him?” suggested Lily.
“What? Yes, of course I have. But John’s hopeless with phones. He forgets to turn his on half the time, or leaves it in the car. There was no answer.”
“Well, at least that means it’s on,” said Lily helpfully.
“I suppose it does. Did you say you’ve come a long way?”
“From New York City.”
“New York? To see John? Why?”
“A friend of mine bought one of his paintings recently, a painting of a little girl. It’s wonderful. I was over here in England, so I thought I’d check out the gallery.”
“We’ve sold a couple of those lately. Is your friend English?” she asked, remembering the one John had sold the previous weekend to Sally Moreton.
“No,” laughed Lily, “Jenny’s American. Very. You’d remember her if you’d seen her. She’s very tall, lots of hair.”
“Oh, yes,” smiled Lola, “I do remember her. A few weeks ago. She was very gushy about the portrait. In fact, about everything.”
“Sounds like Jenny,” laughed Lily. “You must be John’s wife.”
“Yes, I’m Lola, Lola Andrews.”
“Lily,” replied Lily, taking Lola’s outstretched hand, “Lily Saunders.”
“Are you around for long, Ms Saunders? Only it’s all rather difficult at the moment. If you can come back tomorrow, I’m sure John will be here.”
“Please, call me Lily. Yes, I am here tomorrow,” she said as she looked wistfully past Lola at the displays in the gallery.
Lola noticed and said, “Look, you’ve come a long way. Why don’t you have a look around for a few minutes while I make some more phone calls to see if I can locate John.”
“Gee, Lola – may I call you Lola?”
Lola nodded, smiling.
“Lola, thanks, that’d be great. I love his work. I was at the exhibition just now.”
“Oh, really? Well, that answers one question. I was going to call someone there to see if he knows where John’s gone. The artist exhibiting next to him.”
“Bald guy with specs? Roving eyes?”
Lola laughed. “Yes, that’s the one. Roland McIntyre. Thinks he’s God’s gift.”
“How delusional can you get?” said Lily.
“Yeah, when he looks in the mirror, he sees a movie star,” said Lola, shaking her head.
“Well,” replied Lily, “the Hollywood wannabe told me John had left about an hour ago – that’ll be more than an hour and a half by now. Apparently, he was deep in conversation with a man who’d bought four of his paintings and then they left together. He’d assumed they’d come here.”
“Well, they didn’t,” said Lola thoughtfully. “That’s very strange. I wonder who it was. Did Roland say what he was like?”
“Said he was expensively but casually dressed, that’s all.”
“OK, let me call Roland. A description might give me a clue.” She waved a hand at the gallery. “Help yourself.”
Lily rubbed her hands together in glee and walked into the gallery. She couldn’t believe her eyes. For the first time in over a hundred years she was surrounded by her father’s work. It was like being back in the studio in Hong Kong. Even the subject matter was similar: portraits and landscapes. The only difference was the dress of the subjects in the portraits and the scenery in the landscapes – the wild rugged beauty of England’s Lake District having replaced the resting-dragon-shaped hillsides of southern China.
She was engrossed in a portrait of a young woman when Lola came back over to her. “Roland said the man was in his fifties, bit shorter than John, greying hair and, as you said, expensively dressed. Gushing and pushy, according to Roland. From what he heard of their conversation, he said the man was well-spoken, with a Yorkshire accent. Said John looked pretty pleased with himself as they left. I’ve no idea who he might be.”
“What happens now?” asked Lily.
Lola sighed in frustration. “I don’t know. John’s got the car and I’m stuck without it. I’ll have to phone the mother of the friends my girls are playing with and tell her I’ll be a bit late.”
“Does John know you’re picking up your daughters?”
“Damn right he does. What the hell does he think he’s playing at? He knew I was on a tight deadline. God, he really does live in a world of his own at times!”
“We can take my car, if you like,” said Lily.
“What? No, I couldn’t. I don’t even know you. Look, that’s very kind but–”
“Think nothing of it. I’m staying up here in a B&B and I’ve got nothing else to do. I’d be pleased to help out.”
Lola thought about it. “Well, if you really don’t mind, that would certainly get me out of a spot.”
“I’m afraid there’s one problem,” said Lily. “My luggage is a bit on the large side. Is there somewhere we can stow it for a while to make room for your daughters?”
“We can put it in here in the gallery. Where’s your car?”
“In a car park beyond the village green.”
“Why don’t you run and get the car? I’d better stay here in case John rings. Are you sure this is OK?”
“Really, it’s no problem.”
Ten minutes later, Lily pulled up outside the gallery. Lola was pacing up and down outside.
“Sorry,” said Lily, “it was a bit further than I thought.”
She dragged her two suitcases onto the pavement.
“How many months have you come for?” said Lola as she helped Lily wheel the suitcases into the gallery.
She locked up the gallery and climbed into the passenger seat.
“This is cozy,” she said. “I’ve wondered what these are like inside.”
She watched in growing frustration as Lily edged away from the kerb and headed back through the village at about ten miles an hour.
After a couple of minutes she said, “Lily, I don’t know if you’re confused with our speed limits or worried about brawny cops flagging you down, but it is acceptable to go a little bit faster.”
“Sorry, Lola, I have no problem whizzing about New York City, but I can’t seem to get used to driving on this side of the road.”
“Would you like me to drive? We might get there today.”
“Sure. But is it OK with the insurance?”
“I doubt it, but we’re not going far and I’ll try not to prang it.”
They swapped seats and Lola roared off.
“Gee, I didn’t know it went this fast,” said Lily, impressed. “It’ll teach me a lot, just watching you.”
“I think that’s the first time anyone has ever said anything complimentary about my driving,” laughed Lola. “It was complimentary, wasn’t it?”
“Sure, this is fun,” said Lily as they overtook a stream of slow-moving traffic. “It’s like being back home.”
As they sped along the main road to Ambleside, Lola asked Lily, “Where’s your B&B?”
“I’m not sure; I haven’t checked in yet. It’s called Grasmere View Cottage.”
“Madge Cooper’s place. It’s very nice; you’ll like it. It’s on the Thirlmere road, towards where we live.”
They pulled up outside a house on the outskirts of Ambleside. As Lola got out, the girls saw her and ran to the car.
“Mummy, have you buyed a new car?” said the excited Phoebe.
“It’s cool,” added Sophie.
“No, I’m afraid I haven’t,” said Lola. “It belongs to my friend, Lily. Daddy’s gone somewhere in our car. Come and say hello.”
Lily got out of the car and bent over to the girls, holding out her hand.
“Hi, you
must be Sophie,” she said, making sure she addressed the elder one first, “and you must be Phoebe. Your mummy told me all about you on the way over here.”
She looked through her sunglasses into Phoebe’s pale grey eyes and wanted to hug her.
“Why are you driving, Mummy?” asked Sophie.
“It was quicker because I know the way, sweetheart,” said Lola. “Come on girls, pile in.”
They said their goodbyes to their friends and drove off.
Phoebe was studying Lily from the back seat.
“You speak funny like that big lady who buyed a picture from Daddy,” she said.
“Phoebe!” said Lola.
Lily laughed. “I guess that big lady is my friend Jenny. Yes, Phoebe, you’re right. That’s very clever. My friend bought a picture that’s of you and she showed it to me. So when I met you just now, it was like I already knew you.”
“Did she buyed one of Sofe as well?” asked Phoebe.
“No, she didn’t. But she wants to next time, when she comes back.”
“P’raps you could buy one and take it to her.”
“Phoebe!” said Lola again. “Lily might not want to buy any paintings.”
“Oh, I do. If I could, I’d buy the lot,” laughed Lily. “I must say I’m impressed with your little sales agent here.”
“Start ‘em young,” smiled Lola.
As they headed back towards Grasmere, Lola realised they had a problem. “Lily, look, I hope you don’t mind, but I really need to get the girls back home. Would you mind very much if we dropped them off first and then got your bags? We don’t live far away. There’s a neighbour who can keep an eye on the girls while we go back to the gallery.”
“No problem. I’m having fun,” said Lily.
“Thanks, that’s brilliant,” said Lola, pulling her phone out of her bag and hitting the speed dial number for John. “I’ll just try John again and see if he’s turned up.”
There was no answer and Lola threw the phone back into her bag in annoyance. “Where the hell is he?”
They followed the main road that bypassed Grasmere in the direction of Thirlmere where John and Lola had a cottage at the far end of the lake. Lola roared up the main road like a rally driver, cresting the brow of a hill and racing down the other side.
“This thing handles well, Lily, I’m impressed. It’s nice to drive a car that was made this century for a change, instead of one of Mr Volvo’s original designs.”
They turned left off the main road and headed down a tree-lined track towards the lake, stopping by a group of cottages about a hundred yards from the shore.
“Here we are, home sweet home,” announced Lola. “Come on, girls, out you get, Lily’s got to get to her B&B.”
“Can’t she stay here, Mummy? I want to show her my rabbits,” said Phoebe.
“Lily will be far more comfortable at the B&B, Phoebe, but…” She looked at Lily. “Rabbits?”
“I’d love to see your rabbits, Phoebe,” enthused Lily. “Have you got some too, Sophie?”
“Sophie’s got two boys and I’ve got two girls,” said Phoebe. “They’re all brothers and sisters, but Mummy says we can’t put them together or there’ll be lots more.”
“That’s rabbits for you,” laughed Lily as Phoebe took her hand and guided her over to a shed next to their cottage.
She looked around at Lola who was following them. “It’s so beautiful here, Lola, divine. I can’t believe that only two days ago I was in New York.”
“Yes, it’s lovely, especially in the summer,” said Lola, “but the winters can be a bit chilly.”
“I’d forgotten all about English understatement,” smiled Lily wistfully.
After Lily had been introduced to the rabbits, they went into the cottage where both girls began to retrieve their mountain of dolls to show their new friend.
Lola saw Lily biting her lip as the little girls chattered away to her. “Are you OK, Lily?” she asked.
“Yes, fine,” said Lily, taking a tissue from her bag and blowing her nose. “They just remind me … of someone …” She smiled, but Lola could sense that she was struggling with some memories.
“OK, girls, that’s enough. Lily’s come a long way and she’s very tired. I’ve got to take her to the B&B. We’ll see her tomorrow. I’ll get Kitty to keep an eye on you.”
“Oh!” the girls moaned in unison.
Phoebe put down the doll she was carrying and came over to stand next to where Lily was sitting.
“Lily?” she asked.
“What is it, Phoebe?” she smiled.
“Can I try on your sunglasses?”
“Phoebe!” said Lola, exasperated. “She’s got this thing about sunglasses. She’s always asking people in the gallery if she can try theirs on. I think the customers reckon she’s trying to nick all their designer gear for me.”
“That’s OK,” laughed Lily. “She can try them on.”
She took off her sunglasses and held them out to Phoebe. The little girl took them and looked up at her. She froze, staring at Lily’s eyes.
Lola immediately noticed the strange look on Phoebe’s face.
“Phoebe, what is it?”
Lily dropped her head.
“Oh,” she said, “I forgot.” She turned to look at Lola.
Lola had noticed that Lily had Asian features, despite the large sunglasses, but she’d thought no more of it. Lots of Americans were of Asian origin. Now that she saw her eyes, everything suddenly became clear. She knew who Lily was. But for the moment, she had to make light of it, for the girls’ sake.
“Wow, Lily!” she said brightly. “How amazing! Your eyes are like Phoebe’s, the same pale grey colour. That’s pretty unusual. Look Phoebe, Lily’s got the same colour eyes as you and Daddy. Special friend, huh!”
Phoebe said nothing as she stood there clutching Lily’s sunglasses.
Lily smiled at her. “Aren’t you going to try them on?” she said.
Phoebe looked down at the glasses. “It’s OK,” she said, handing them back to Lily.
“Right, girls, Lily and I have to go,” said Lola.
Lily got up and walked to the door. She turned. “Bye girls.”
“Bye,” they said together.
“Will you come back tomorrow?” asked Phoebe.
“Would you like me to?”
Phoebe nodded slowly and picked up one of her dolls to give it a cuddle.
They got in the car and Lola drove away from the house, but shortly before the main road, she stopped. She turned in her seat to look at Lily.
“Lily,” she said.
“Lola, I…”
Lola smiled. “I wasn’t asking you anything, I was just saying the name. Lily. But it’s not Lily, is it?” She paused. “It’s Lei-li.”
“You know?” gasped Lily.
Lola nodded slowly. “I never really believed John when he told me. I thought he was making up some daft story for reasons I didn’t understand. But recently one or two things have happened that have made me realise it’s true. And this confirms it.”
Lily nodded, the emotion welling up in her.
“I’m his daughter, Lola. John’s daughter,” she said, unable to hold back the tears. “I’m a hundred and twenty-four years old, and I’m his daughter.”
Lola put her arms round her and let her cry.