Sofka Zinovieff - Putney

‘Where will you get it?’

‘It’s right here, ready.’

‘Don’t believe you.’

He retrieved the wrapped packet and held it up for her to see.

‘What sort of treasure?’

‘That’s a surprise. But it’s very beautiful. Put the ladder back and I’ll give it to you.’

‘Daphne, hello darling!’ Edmund’s distinctive voice called from the terrace. Daphne waved in reply and Ralph waved too, partially obscured by foliage. He returned the gift to his pocket.

‘Hello, Edmund.’ There was a pause while Edmund peered in the direction of the voice. ‘It’s Ralph. Your daughter has been showing me this hiding place. I think I’m moving in.’

‘Ralph!’ There was the slightest pause of bewilderment, and then Edmund came down into the garden, bright blue bellbottoms flapping as he lolloped along, gangly as a crane. Noticing the ladder lying in the grass, he knitted his eyebrows at Daphne in mock annoyance and picked it up, propping it against the side of the tree house. Ralph made a swift descent and Edmund pulled him into a hug. ‘Ralphie, my boy. Hoodwinked and taken prisoner by this young warrior-princess, eh? You need to keep your wits about you.’ The three went back to the house and found the boys in the kitchen.

‘Supper?’ asked Edmund. ‘What’s the plan?’ He looked at Ralph and added, ‘Ellie’s away for a few days. She’s gone to Paris for a meeting – you know. Greeks plotting against evil tyrants. But we’re pretty good at fending for ourselves.’

‘There’s nothing to eat,’ said Daphne. ‘I’ve checked.’ The piles of crockery in the sink and pitifully empty fridge belied Edmund’s confidence.

‘Ed can cook one thing, but we don’t have the ingredients,’ opined Daphne.

Ralph found it delightful that she called her father by his name. ‘And what’s that?’ he asked.

‘Toad-in-the-hole.’

‘And very delicious it is too,’ chuckled Edmund happily, not realising this was a complaint.

‘We’re starving,’ said Theo, stoking the fire of protest started by Daphne and looking at Liam for confirmation.

‘Fish and chips?’ Edmund smiled as though he had found a unique and brilliant solution and retrieved a five-pound note from his trouser pocket.

The teenagers were dispatched to fetch the food while Edmund opened a bottle of champagne. ‘You need it to offset the grease.’ Daphne lit candles and laid the kitchen table, observing the two men as they toasted their project, downed one glass and refilled. ‘Can I have a taste? Please?’

Edmund let her sip from his glass and she gurgled with amusement when the bubbles tickled her nose. Before long, all five were unwrapping plump parcels of newspaper and, despite the eclairs, Ralph found himself ravenous. His sensations were heightened and, as he devoured the length of crispy cod and vinegar-splashed chips, the meal seemed among the most delectable he had ever eaten. Edmund had turned out the lights and they ate entirely by the golden flicker of candles. It’s beautiful, Ralph thought. She’s beautiful. He observed her, sitting opposite him at the long pine table, and wanted to pick her up and carry her anywhere she wanted to go. He would never do anything to harm her.

After dinner, Ralph seized his moment. The boys had left for their wires and transmitters and Edmund went for a pee.

‘Here’s your ancient treasure.’ He held out the gift to Daphne and she hesitated.

‘Why? I didn’t give you your freedom. I’d have left you all night. It was funny.’

‘I’d brought it for you anyway. I think you’ll like it. But it’s a secret. Just for us. OK?’ He looked into her face – fearless, black-lashed eyes and determined lips. ‘Open it later.’ She took the package and tucked it inside a scuffed, leather satchel that lay on the kitchen floor.

When her father returned, Ralph saw Daphne’s satisfaction and wondered if she was aware of this as their first act of collusion. Her pleasure must be at least that of acquiring a secret. All children liked secrets, didn’t they? He had never lost the particular delight in private things, in keeping areas of life apart, in mystery. Secrets were like places where you are not overlooked, like a series of tree houses. Spaces where you could do as you liked and in which you were not accountable. He avoided introducing one friend to another and with girlfriends he was almost obsessive about keeping them separate from his social circle and, more importantly, from each other.

‘Ralphie. Come and have another drink and let’s go up to my study.’ Edmund beckoned for him to follow, ignoring his daughter – not on purpose, Ralph thought. It’s the careless egotism of the creative spirit. You have to chase the fire and let everyone else look after themselves. Edmund was already out of the room and Ralph followed him, turning momentarily to wave to Daphne. Her smile was so exquisite and so electrifying that he shuddered.

She cut through the velvet, snipping carefully around some ornate, silver-threaded embroidery until the piece lay in her hand. The crude hole in the antique Moroccan waistcoat provoked a rush of vandal’s exhilaration – she had owned it since she was eleven. It had been shabby even then but now it hardly held together, its beads gone, the tarnished, cotton lining decayed. Touching the metallic stitching brought back the thrill of holding it for the first time.

Ralph had left a note:

You need to search. Here’s the clue, by a poet called Keats:

The gift was concealed beneath her pillow, wrapped in creased white tissue paper and tied with twine. As she pulled at the bow, the packaging fell open to reveal something shimmering and precious. Sitting on the bed, she’d traced the intricate needlework with her finger and stroked the soft pelt of red velvet. The waistcoat felt magical, instilled with mysterious powers. Of course, she’d worn it to death. Wreathed in its spell, she shed gilded threads and buttons as she went, until it hung in shreds.

She located the box of pins amongst the sewing paraphernalia that lay strewn around and attached the silvery patch to the backdrop. This latest creation was her largest ever and, inspired by the move back across London to the landscape of her early years, she named it Putney . She pictured her childhood as a golden age, a marvellous jungle of a household that her parents had created by the edge of the river. There had been no rules, no constriction, no bars. No bras either. And very often, no shoes. She travelled barefoot around London and revelled in the rebellion, masquerading in her father’s hats and her mother’s scarves and racing across the bridge, waving wildly to passengers on boats below and trains beside.

At the centre of this outlandish Eden was Ralph. He had almost disappeared from her life, but her return to the river six months earlier had brought a new intensity to his place in her memories. She even wondered whether she should get in touch after all these years, especially given the central part he was playing in Putney . He had been so significant to her when she was young and yet had scarcely entered her adult life. They had occasionally encountered each other at parties and chatted like old friends, but they hadn’t talked properly since… in truth, since she was a teenager. He often strolled through her mind, but it was like remembering a dream. Recently, however, she’d begun to imagine discussing things with him – especially now that her life was something she could take pride in. She had left behind the shame of her own Dark Ages, her abominably misjudged marriage, her twenties squandered in the mire of ‘substances’, her thirties climbing out of that swamp. Now she could present herself to Ralph quite truthfully as a healthy, happy adult with a beautiful child, a job and a home of her own. She was fine. She’d like him to see that.