There was a long pause.
“Uh, no, of course not!” said their mum finally. “But, you know, I am a dinner lady. Usually though I pretend I’m really heavily into method acting and playing a part in which someone is required to work as a dinner lady for thirty years.”
“That sounds like the kind of movie I’d like to see,” said Penny.
“Then she becomes embroiled in a conspiracy to defraud school funds and is the only one who can solve the crime.”
The twins nodded.
“And she has to have a torrid affair with one of the children’s fathers who turns out to be a spy. Only he’s working for the other side.” Their mother had started to go slightly pink.
“Oh, Mum,” said Lizzie, giving her another hug. “That’s fantastic! That’s brilliant! It’s so great!” The taxi honked noisily outside.
“And we really have to go,” said Penny.
“Course you do,” said their mum. “See you at my first West End opening!”
“And I thought it was only Stephen’s side of the family who were completely crazy,” said Penny, hoisting up her suitcase and leaving through the yellow-paneled front door.
Chapter Three
Neither of the girls spoke much on the way into London. Penny was too excited. Lizzie was upset at leaving home, even though she was twenty-seven and thus it was patently ridiculous to feel that way. She wished her mother had come with them. Coming into London from the east the sun bounced off Canary Wharf, and even Lizzie felt a jump in her heart.
The cabbie muttered something about the congestion charge as they came down in through the city, past the Gherkin and the large white buildings of the Stock Exchange. Of course they’d been here a million times, up in town to shop or, very occasionally for Lizzie, to go out, but now . . .
“In for a holiday, are youse?” asked the cabbie.
“No,” said Penny, in what almost sounded like a drawl. “We live here.”
Lizzie suppressed a smile, and tried to stop looking at the meter. They were arriving in style, that was all. And it was stylish. Lizzie felt her heart leap. And their mother too! RADA! What if she became one of those famous old lady actresses? They couldn’t keep casting Judi Dench forever, could they?
They whizzed around past Big Ben and along the Embankment. Chelsea Bridge was pink and looked as if it was made of spun sugar, little lights popping along its length. The cabbie turned right and they were in Chelsea proper, heading down the King’s Road. Tantalizingly, every street off it was filled with little pink and blue cottages, or large mansions, or big glass-covered apartment blocks. Neither of the twins could remember anything about the flat from the outside, except that it had seemed big to them when they were little, and dark and dusty. Both felt a definite thrill of anticipation.
“I suppose it will look really small to us now,” said Lizzie.
“What, smaller than the shoebox rooms we have now?” said Penny. “That’ll be interesting, given that I can touch all four walls at once.”
“What if there’s only one bedroom?”
“She brought Stephen up there, didn’t she?”
The cab slowed, and turned left, as the twins stared out of the window.
Redmond Street connected the King’s Road to the river. It was lined on both sides with high white-stuccoed houses, like a long wedding cake. There weren’t ordinary street-lights—covered in graffiti and dog crap and with the lights blown out—like the girls were used to; instead, elaborately carved lampposts held up little clusters of bulbs. Black polished railings lined the small front gardens, all immaculate, behind which were painted and polished huge heavy doors in dark green, black, navy, and red.
The cabbie stopped outside their gran’s flat. This door was navy blue, with a black knocker, and a large round brass doorknob inexplicably placed in the middle. The girls got out and stood, simply staring.
“OK, loves,” he said, and named the price for their journey, which made Lizzie want to be physically sick. Penny, however, handed it over blithely, adding a fat tip on top.
“Come on,” she said, at Lizzie’s aghast expression after he’d driven away. “It’s the high life now. You’ve got to fake it to make it.”
“Fake it to make it . . . all the way to debtors’ prison,” said Lizzie crossly, picking up the bag with the broken strap. “You do remember we’re both unemployed.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Penny, looking around the perfect street. It looked as if the cast of Mary Poppins might hop out and start dancing at any moment.
At last. She was where she belonged. She pulled out the heavy keys that had arrived for them, and fitted one into a large old lock. She pushed the door open tentatively.
Inside there was a large hallway with parquet flooring and a staircase with an elaborate balustrade and pale rose-covered carpet; Lizzie wondered how it was ever kept clean. To the right of the door was a shelf with neat piles of interesting-looking mail, and a huge mirror with a gold frame. A little white door indicated the first flat, but they went on up to the second floor.
On the landing, two flights up, it was a little darker, with only one window at the end of the hallway letting in light, along with a small electric candelabra set above another large gilt-edged mirror. Penny, fumbling with the keys, opened the door.
“Ready?” she said.
“Mmm,” said Lizzie.
“One . . . two . . . three . . .” Penny attempted to flamboyantly throw open the door. But she failed immediately when it scraped and jammed.
“OK,” said Penny. She put her shoulder to it and shoved again. “Three . . .”
And this time, with a grind and a twisting of paper, they were in.
The girls stood there, stunned, looking around.
“Well,” said Penny eventually, “you can’t say it’s not big.”
“No,” said Lizzie. They had stepped directly into the main sitting room. It was vast, opening out on their right to a huge bay window. On the left, over by the windows at the back, was a kitchen. Straight ahead—although it seemed miles away—was a fireplace, and beyond that, a passageway with three doors leading off it.
Every single bit of surface, every single possible spot, was completely and utterly obscured by junk. The entire room inside was gray, despite the brightness of the day outside. The windows were utterly encrusted with grime. There was a table, placed in the bay, with five or six chairs around it, all mismatched and looking mostly broken, with legs and bits of wood on the floor. Everywhere else there was rubbish of the most spectacular fashion. There were broken children’s toys; huge piles of dusty, ancient magazines; odd bits of knitting and macramé; a whole crate full of empty medicine bottles; boxes full of who-knows-what; piles of dresses and skirts; trolleys full of bric-a-brac of every description. Books, old dusty hardbacks giving off a terribly musty smell, were untidily scattered over every available surface and piles of newspapers lined the corridor leading off the back of the room.
The kitchen was full of plates, chipped and mismatched, more than one person could use in a lifetime. Hundreds of pots were chaotically stacked up, along with at least a hundred washed-out milk bottles. Lizzie breathed a huge sigh of relief when she noticed that someone had cleaned out the fridge and left the door open. She didn’t think she could have managed that.