Page 73 of We All Live Here
Violet is still tugging at her sleeve, but as she looks up, Gene is posing for a picture with Mrs. Tugendhat, taken by one of the mothers, and then, with a courtly kiss to her hand, letting her go. The teacher is walking back toward the school, her neck flushed purple with pleasure, the costumes apparently forgotten. Gene walks over to where Lila and Violet are waiting, nodding at a few stray mothers, who smile and blush as he passes. “You okay, sweetie?” Outside the gates, he pulls a cigarette from a packet and lights up.
“I’m fine,” says Lila. She actually wants to go and lie down.
“Nice lady! She’s going to bring me some memorabilia she has in her attic. Apparently her husband has an originalStar Squadron Zerobubble-bath bottle! You know they did them in the shape of four of us back in 1980? It was me, Vuleva, Vardoth the Destroyer, and Lieutenant McKinnon. Mine sold out in a week if I remember right.”
“That’s lovely,” says Lila.
“Say, I should take a look on one of those auction sites. I have loads of that stuff tucked away here and there. I think Jane may have another box somewhere in her house. I bet it would fetch a fortune if I sold it.”
They walk halfway to the house before anyone speaks again.
Then Gene nudges her. “Hey—you want to know what I wrote on the piece of paper for that Philippa lady?”
Lila shrugs distractedly. “Your autograph?”
“I wrote:Dear Philippa, I’ve atom-blasted radioactive space demons who were nicer than you.Signed, your old pal Gene.” He is still chuckling to himself by the time they reach theirstreet.
Chapter Twenty-four
Gene had told Bill the story of his altercation with Philippa Graham over supper twice, and although Lila knew Bill probably wanted to disapprove—he couldn’t imagine anything worse than getting involved in other people’s emotional dramas—he couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, she sounds perfectly dreadful,” he said. “Well done, you.”
“I know, right? I wish I could have seen her face when she read what I wrote.” The two old men had dissolved into giggles again.
Bill has been laughing a lot more lately. He whistles when he’s preparing breakfast, and sometimes, from her desk upstairs, she can hear his soft baritone singing along to the choral classics. He is no longer a shadow of a person. It’s as if he took a brief leave of absence from himself and has now returned. Perhaps he’s one of those men who’s just better with a woman around. Perhaps at that age most men are.
Penelope Stockbridge is there most days now, either popping in to play the piano, or staying to join them for supper. According to Violet,who tracks these things assiduously, Penelope’s wardrobe choices have included: a pair of pink satin ballroom-dancing shoes, a dark green sequined beret, a jumper with a knitted cat on the front, and a pair of earrings in the shape of tiny pink glass elephants, which have been promised to Violet when she’s finally allowed to have her ears pierced (“finally” is given extra weight). A previous version of Lila might have resented her house becoming home to yet another quirky person of pensionable age, but she doesn’t really mind. Penelope takes nothing for granted, is eager to help, and hyper-sensitive to any possibility that she has outstayed her welcome.
Sometimes she brings Lila flowers from her garden, handing them over with exaggerated casualness. “Oh, they’re nothing. I just thought they might be cheering. I always find real flowers such a tonic for the spirit, don’t you?”
She has given Violet two free piano lessons, her manner grave and serious, but full of effusive praise when Violet gets something right. “Oh, I think you have a natural talent, Violet. You let me know if you’d like to do more, won’t you? I think you’d be marvelous at it.”
Lila wonders if this is Penelope’s way of trying to create yet another reason to pop in, but in truth Bill is probably all the reason she needs. They take regular walks around the Heath together (not with Truant, whose energy is too chaotic for them), stop in coffee shops, discuss the news, admire Jensen’s work in the garden. Over a period of weeks Penelope has become a fixture in their unconventional, extended family. Lila tries not to miss the tuna-pasta bakes.
Two days ago Bill, watching Jensen planting a couple of shrubs in the garden, had turned to Lila and said: “Are you sure your mother wouldn’t mind? Me seeing so much of Penelope, I mean.” And Lila had threaded her arm through his and said, no, absolutely not. That her mother of all people understood the importance of living as well and happily as one could.
“And you, dear girl? You’re okay with it? I mean, it must be a little strange for you. But—you know—I want to make it clear that I would never have looked at another woman had she not…Francesca was everything, everything to me…” His voice had tailed off. She had been able to reassure him that, yes, she knew. And, no, Lila cannot find it in herself to mind. Because a strange harmony has settled over her ramshackle, mismatched house, and after the past few years she more than anyone knows just to accept and enjoy these moments when they come.
Lila avoids the school gates as much as possible during this time. Gabriel is on a big project, and working long hours at his practice, and between there being almost no possibility of seeing him there, and her faint residual terror of Philippa Graham, she has handed over pickup duties willingly to Gene. He seems to enjoy having a daily role, and Violet likes having a celebrity grandpa, now that the story of who he is has filtered down from parents to her classmates, and Lila suspects there may be sugar-based diversions involved on the way home. It allows her more time to sit in her study and write uninterrupted.
•••
“I stole yourkeys.” Jensen appears in the doorway of the study, knocking twice to announce his arrival. Lila, who has been deep in thought about whether hair removal is indeed a political act if you only do it before you go on holiday, turns in her seat, startled.
“What?”
“I stole your car keys. You were right about me all along.” He grins, and holds them up in his palm. “I charged your battery off my truck. Now you need to take it for a spin.”
“Oh! Um, I’m kind of in the middle of—”
“Bill says you’ve been writing all afternoon. You need breaks. C’mon, twenty minutes.”
Lila is suddenly conscious of the chaos in the little study: the still-packed cardboard boxes stacked against the wall, Gene’s crumpled bedding, the printer with two empty mugs on it, that she is probably wearing her pajama top under her sweatshirt. Jensen is not, for once, in gardening clothes but wearing a dark blue sweater with a lighter blue shirt underneath—which means he must have made the trip just to help her. “That’s…really nice of you.”
“I’m a very nice man.”
He hands her the keys as they stand on the driveway. She unlocks the Mercedes and notes that he is climbing into the passenger side. “Just to make sure it’s all working,” he says, when he sees her look at him. She settles into the seat, checks the mirror, and fires the engine, which, obligingly, starts first time. But Jensen’s voice cuts in: “What are youdoing?”
“What do you mean what am I doing? I’m starting the car.”
