Sofka Zinovieff - Putney

When Daphne got home, Libby was back from a dance day camp for the last week of the summer holidays.

‘How did it go?’

‘Sick!’ came the verdict. ‘The teacher was amazing.’ She made a leap across the kitchen, limbs extended and impressively coordinated. A gazelle in black Lycra. ‘But it seems stupid when I think of what’s going on in Greece. Why should I be doing dance lessons when kids there are drowning and homeless? Did I tell you Dad’s going to put two Syrian families in the house on Hydra over the winter? But there are so many more with nowhere to go.’

Daphne nodded, partly diminished by Sam’s new superhero status, but relieved that Libby had her mind on other things. She had no idea how to tell her about Ralph, and while she liked them being open with one another, she was clear that a certain amount of information needed to be lost between the generations. There were things that shouldn’t have to be understood or elucidated. No girl wants to know details of her mother’s sex life.

She deleted another message from Ralph without listening to it and lay on the sofa sketching a new piece of work called Gingerbread House . She envisaged it covered with laminated, old-fashioned biscuits (chocolate bourbons, custard creams, squashed flies), sweets (liquorice allsorts, jelly babies), and shreds of wrappers from her favourite chocolates (Cadbury’s Flake, Fry’s Chocolate Cream, Milky Way). The candy-covered doors and windows would open to reveal a terrifying man-witch lurking inside next to a cage and an oven. Odd, she thought, how the term wizard held none of the same menace as witch. In any case, this hanging would be a far more appropriate testimony to Ralph’s legacy than Putney , which now distressed her.

The door buzzer sounded, raucously intrusive on her thoughts. She went to answer and saw Ralph’s face flickering in and out of focus on the screen. ‘Daphne? Please. Can I talk to you?’

‘No, not now. I can’t. Sorry, but you need to go.’

‘But I’ve been so worried. What happened? Please just put my mind at—’

‘Goodbye,’ Daphne cut in, wiping him off the screen and silencing him. The buzzer went again and though she saw him leaning towards the camera she didn’t answer.

‘Who was that?’ Libby asked from the open doorway of the kitchen, eating an apple and lifting one leg high against the doorframe in an elegant stretch.

‘It’s Ralph. A friend of my parents. I had an argument with him and I can’t face seeing him. Don’t open the door, OK?’

‘How do you mean, an argument?’

‘Oh, you know? Old stuff. I’ll tell you another time. OK, my curious little Liberty darling?’

Libby groaned resignedly. ‘OK, my Daphne darling. Secrets, secrets.’

The buzzer sounded once more, mother and daughter caught each other’s eye, and then the flat went quiet except for the bass thump and tinny hiss of something playing on a portable speaker in Libby’s room.

Nearly an hour later, Daphne was sketching the witch – a raven-feathered, pockmarked, hunchbacked, claw-footed man – when she heard the entrance buzzer again.

‘That’s Paige,’ shouted Libby. ‘She just texted that she was arriving.’

Daphne heard the sounds of the girls greeting each other – more subdued than the normal squeals, she noticed.

‘Hi,’ said Paige, peering into the room and giving a restrained wave.

‘Uh, Mum…’ Libby was hovering too. ‘There’s a… there’s someone to see you.’

Daphne jumped up to see Ralph slinking, hangdog, through her front door. ‘Daphne, just let me sit down for five minutes. I need to tell you something.’

Libby and Paige watched, frozen, sensing the tension.

‘So you must be Liberty?’ said Ralph. He was trying every trick, thought Daphne, her anger rising.

‘Ralph, right? How’s it going?’ Libby’s eyes were narrow with curiosity and flicked over to her mother to assess the situation.

‘Oh not too bad, thanks. How are you ? You look as though you’re a dancer. I always thought your mother should have danced when she was young.’

Daphne burned with fury. Was he now going to start eyeing up her daughter? He mustn’t be allowed to continue.

‘OK, guys. Listen, Ralph and I need to discuss something. I’m going to take him out for a quick drink. Right! Ralph, let’s go.’ She mustn’t sound out of control. Don’t panic. Not in front of the children!

‘Could I just have a glass of water first?’ He steadied himself on a chair – a ham actor playing ill to gain time, she thought.

‘I’ll get some water.’ Libby twisted on one foot and skipped dancer-like in the direction of the kitchen.

The cunning old sod, thought Daphne. ‘No, Ralph.’ She tried to keep her voice firm. ‘Come on. We can get some water outside.’ She set off towards the front door, grabbing a jacket on the way, ignoring the astonishment on the girls’ faces. As she held the door open and sternly ushered Ralph out, she heard Libby’s stage whisper: ‘What the hell?’

‘Daphne, what’s going on?’ Ralph looked distraught as he dragged behind her brisk steps in the muffled calm of the carpeted corridor. She pressed the lift button without looking at him.

‘I can’t do this now, OK? You shouldn’t have come. It’s harassment.’

‘But what happened? Daff? Why did you abandon our lunch? Why aren’t you answering my calls? I can’t just leave it – it’s agony.’

A new, detached purity of anger liberated her. ‘If you can’t understand, then—’ She broke off as the door to the lift opened and a man emerged and walked in the opposite direction from them.

‘Are you trying to destroy me?’ whispered Ralph. ‘What can I do? Should I jump in the river?’

‘You can do what you like, but leave me alone.’

They entered the lift and Daphne felt like a trapped animal. It reminded her of how he would sneak into her room at Barnabas Road without anyone knowing he was in the house – the front door was rarely locked and family and friends came and went as they liked. They only once had a burglary and even that didn’t change her parents’ approach. One spring evening, when Ed and Ellie were having dinner with friends down in the kitchen, Ralph entered the house, crept upstairs and appeared in Daphne’s bedroom. She was lying on the floor in her pyjamas, listening to records, when she heard a scratching noise at the door. At the time it was thrilling. She couldn’t remember how old she’d been, just the urgency of their kisses, the excitement generated by risk, the fear when they thought they heard someone coming – he leaped up and hid behind the door. And then they laughed so hard her nose tingled like Coca-Cola and her stomach hurt.

Ralph caught up with her at the railings by the edge of the communal gardens. She was looking at a plump, black coot mooching about in the low-tide sludge.

‘Daphne, please. Just tell me. I’ll do anything. I can see you’re upset. You can’t just freeze me out.’ She didn’t reply. Three white geese were braying like donkeys, their heads raised to the heavens.

‘Let me take you for a drink, Daphne? We could go to the King’s Head. It’s still there. We’ve been through too much not to be friends.’

His pathetic pleading made her furious. He couldn’t make a straightforward apology – something even the Pope had managed to do on account of his child-molesting priests. If they were going to talk it could be on her terms. She cast about for what those terms might be and spotted some fenced-off steps leading to the riverbed. A prominent sign read NO ENTRY. ‘OK, we can talk if we go down there.’ Pretending not to see his disconcerted expression, she climbed over the railings to a flight of stone steps that was covered in slimy weed and strewn with washed-up debris. She heard him struggling behind her, and then saw him follow her cautiously down the steps, one hand on the damp wall.