passed the plinth of the long-dead statesman adorning the middle point, a blank-eyed fellow whose frock coat was messed by pigeons. In the past, I would have found out who he was – but five years in London had purged my interest in old Victorian men. The statue’s infinite gaze made me feel even more exhausted.
I glanced up towards the Skelton. A young man was standing by the doors, tall and slim, wearing a slightly battered leather jacket. He had a narrow face and very dark brown hair. As I approached, I knew that it was him. I could feel my throat tighten, a little hop in the gut, a thudding swipe to the breast. I approached the steps, fetching the Skelton door key out of my handbag. Lawrie was wearing glasses this time, and their lenses glinted in the subterranean light. He was carrying a parcel under his arm, wrapped in that brown paper butchers used to wrap their slabs of meat.
He grinned at me. ‘Hello,’ he said.
What was it like to see Lawrie smile? I can try: it was as if a healer had placed their hands upon my chest. My kneecaps porridge, jaw tingling, no hope to swallow. I wanted to throw my arms around him and say, ‘It’s you, you came.’
‘Hello,’ I said instead. ‘Can I help?’
His smile faltered. ‘You don’t remember? We met, at the wedding. I came along with Barbara’s gang. You read a poem, and you wouldn’t go dancing with me.’
I frowned. ‘Oh, yes. How do you do?’
‘How do I do? Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?’
‘It’s seven o’clock in the morning, Mr . . . ?’
‘Scott,’ he said, the joy draining from his face. ‘Lawrie Scott.’
I walked past him and put the key in the lock, fumbling as I did so. What was wrong with me? Despite all my fantasies about how this was going to play out, faced with the reality, I was being just as obstructive as I had been before. I pushed inside and he followed me. ‘Are you here to see somebody?’ I said.
He gave me a hard look. ‘Odelle. I have visited every art gallery, every museum in this bloody city, trying to find you.’
‘To find me?’
‘Yes.’
‘You couldn’t find me in five weeks? You could have just asked Patrick Minamore.’
He laughed. ‘So you were counting.’ I blushed and looked away, busying myself with the post. He held up the brown-paper package, and said, ‘I’ve brought the lion girls.’
I couldn’t conceal the suspicion in my voice. ‘Who are they?’
He grinned. ‘My mother’s painting. I’ve taken your advice. Do you think someone will have a look at them for me?’
‘I’m sure they will.’
‘I looked up those initials you pointed out, I.R. Didn’t find a single name. So it’s probably not worth anything.’
‘Are you planning on selling it?’ I asked, head still fizzing, heart thumping uncomfortably as I moved around the other side of the wooden counter. I’d never been so direct with a boy before in my life.
‘Maybe. See what happens.’
‘But I thought it was your mother’s favourite?’
‘I was my mother’s favourite,’ he said, laying the parcel on the counter with a grim smile. ‘Only joking. I don’t want to sell it, but if it’s worth something, it will get me started, you see. Any minute, Gerry the Bastard – excuse my French – could kick me out.’
‘Don’t you work?’
‘Work?’
‘Don’t you have a job?’
‘I’ve had jobs in the past.’
‘The dim and distant?’
He pulled a face. ‘You don’t approve.’
The truth was, I didn’t approve of people who did no work. Everyone I knew since coming to London – Cynth, the girls in the shoe shop, Sam, Patrick, Pamela – we all had jobs. The point of being here was to have a job. Where I was from, doing your own work was the only wake-up from the long sleep which followed the generations in the fields. It was your way out. It’s hard to change the messages that circulate all your life, especially when they’ve been there since before your life was started.
Lawrie stared into the brown wrapping paper. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said, sensing my disapproval. ‘I dropped out of university. That was a few years ago. My mother wasn’t – oh, never mind. But I’d like to start something new.’
‘I see.’
He looked embarrassed, jamming his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘Look, Odelle. I’m not . . . a layabout. I do want to do things. I want you to know that. I—’