‘Wow.’ It was almost too much. Perhaps I should leave, she thought. I’m not sure I can do this.
‘So, are you working?’ Jane pulled herself back into the present with the question.
‘Yup. Too many years now at a crappy little travel agency called Hellenic Heaven! Or Hell, as it’s more commonly referred to. Could be worse. Pays the bills. And it’s the first place I’ve actually managed to stay in for longer than a few months.’ She shrugged. ‘Still, I always hope it’s not for too much longer. Especially now we’ve gone up in the world and for the last six months have been proud homeowners. It’s quite a change from our rented “garden flat” dungeon in Camden and all the other shitholes we’ve passed through or been evicted from. The neighbours here are by far the quietest, most genteel, well-heeled I’ve ever had! Libby says it’s like a posh hotel.’ They both laughed.
‘The only annoyance is that my dear old Aunt Connie made a clause in her will – I’m not allowed to actually sell this place. I suppose she deduced from all the early fiascos and failures that I still need some external control. She apparently hadn’t appreciated how much I’ve changed. A bit insulting, but there. Never mind. Anyway…’ She shook her head as if it would rub out that train of thought.
‘Here, sit down. I’ll just move this.’ Daphne cleared some of the rag-and-bone clutter off the armchairs. On the opposite wall hung a large collage made from textiles.
‘So I’m very involved with making these hangings now. I haven’t made my fortune – yet – but I love doing it. Almost a compulsion. The one thing in my life these days that’s completely absorbing and all-consuming. Apart from motherhood, of course.’
‘What’s the story on this one?’ Jane already felt uneasy.
‘It’s called Putney!’ Daphne laughed. ‘It’s a riff on my life across there. Doffing my cap to my childhood, I suppose. And, Jane, you were such an important part of that time – such a good friend to me. So loyal. See this long-haired girl in the garden here? That’s you! And inside the windows, those faces are Ellie and Ed. And that’s Theo leaning out with all the wires draped around.’
A swell of nausea rose inside her as Jane examined the hanging. She understood immediately. It was unmistakable who the male figure was – repeated over and over, cavorting across the canvas with a wild-haired scamp that could only be the young Daphne.
‘So I started off with lots of cushions and throws and things,’ said Daphne. ‘You know, selling them in stalls and to shops. But I gradually got more daring. And there’s this guy Adrian, with a gallery in Shoreditch. I’ve had two shared shows there now – one with a mad yarn-bomber, who knits her way around bikes and musical instruments till they’re covered!’
Jane pointed to one of the male figures. ‘So is that Ed and you?’ She wanted to test Daphne.
‘Um, no.’ Daphne smiled. ‘It’s sort of secret, but as you knew anyway… it’s Ralph.’
It was jarring to hear his name. Horrifying to see this awful man glorified and honoured. Almost unbearable that Daphne should be celebrating something so appalling. ‘Isn’t that a bit…’ Her words hung suspended.
‘What? Subversive? Wicked?’ There was a hint of taunting in Daphne’s reply.
‘A bit inappropriate. You were a kid.’ Her voice came out small, whiny as a child’s.
‘Yes, but it didn’t damage me. I loved him. And he loved me. What happened with Ralph was one of the many complicated things in my life. Actually, probably one of the less traumatic. It was an intimate relationship with someone older. End of story. Not everything fits into the tidy boxes society lays out for us. We both know that.’
‘Have you seen him?’ She could hardly bear to ask, dreading that Ralph retained a hold over Daphne, even into her middle age.
‘No. Haven’t clapped eyes on him for years. In fact, I was thinking maybe I should contact him. Especially now I’ve seen you! I’ve bumped into him at the occasional party, but we’ve never really spoken. I’ve got fond memories, but I know very little about his life now – apart from what I read in the papers.’ She laughed as though relishing her association with someone famous; like a groupie, thought Jane, reminiscing about backstage conquests.
Jane stood up to avoid continuing the disquieting conversation and moved closer to the complex, layered landscape that filled almost an entire wall. One of the doll-like Ralph figures had red flowers wreathed in his hair. He was leading the miniature Daphne across the bridge; a romance or an abduction?
She began to identify more elements, recognising fragments of an oriental waistcoat Daphne had worn obsessively. Stitched into the riverside garden like a turquoise tortoise was an Egyptian scarab she knew was a gift from Ralph. It was kept in a box, which Daphne sometimes unlocked to show off her secrets. Then Jane approached the manky racoon tail dangling like a dead thing in a corner of this disturbing handiwork. Recollections returned too quickly, making her unsteady as the passenger on a heaving ship. ‘Could I pop to the loo?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice casual.
She gagged and almost threw up, then washed her face in cool water and looked into the mirror. It had been a mistake to come. She should have trusted her first instincts and stayed away. Thinking about Ralph made her angry. All that sniffing around a child like a horny goat, ready to do anything Daphne asked. Yet she remembered how compelling he had been, how much she wanted him to twinkle his eyes and honey his words at her too. As she got to know the Greenslays, she noticed how the atmosphere at Barnabas Road changed whenever he arrived, as though his charm carried an electrical charge that affected everyone and turned the light a rosier shade. It was seductive to man, woman and child, and she could see him using it like a tool. He showed up with unusual offerings – a box of small, aromatic mangoes from an East End market or some Beaujolais Nouveau that needed to be drunk there and then. And he made them all laugh. A slow-motion hunt so gradual that the prey didn’t even realise it was being pursued, and would eventually just lie down to be mauled. It had been so obvious to Jane and so disgusting, and yet nobody ever said anything about it.
Ralph had never shown remorse for that or what followed. Worse perhaps, Daphne, with her talk of love and emerging unscathed, was like a bloody, one-woman paedophiles’ charter. Of course, when you took the rackety elements of her life – the broken relationships, the substance abuse and who knew what else – she didn’t appear unscathed. Jane felt sick when she thought about Ralph. Sick at her part in the whole sorry business.
Returning to the sitting room, she attempted to strike up another conversation – anything to get her away from the thoughts about Ralph.
‘So what about Libby’s dad? Where’s he?’
‘Sam’s in Greece, which is where I met him. A San Franciscan mooching about with a guitar, channelling the spirit of Leonard Cohen. And such a great name: Sam Savage. He was working bars in the summer – mostly serving drinks but performing a bit with his guitar. Still, I have to admit he’s got his act together now. Anyway, when I said I was going to have the baby alone, he was completely cool. He came over to London to visit us at the hospital, but kept his distance, as I requested. I named her after my mother really – Liberty, the English version of Eleftheria.’ She paused briefly and Jane pictured Daphne’s face after Ellie died. The devastation seemed to change her very features as well as her pallor.
‘Anyway, Sam’s a good boy. And things worked out for him. He’s got this Greek girlfriend, who’s not only beautiful but a doctor, and his mad plan to renovate a ruin on Hydra actually succeeded. As far as I can tell, he’s making a fortune now, renting it out to rich Americans. There’s a fancy website. You know the sort of thing, picturesque donkeys carrying your luggage from the port up cobbled alleyways to the “hidden paradise”? And he’s even kept an outhouse for himself. So the really good part is, he’s started paying regular upkeep for Libby. Even funds her Greek lessons in London and her plane tickets to Athens. What more could I ask?’