Her Name Was Lola

70 What Searching Eyes

November 2001. Lola and Noah take a last walk on Kirsty’s Knowe and smell the moonlit sea. Lola’s thinking about what she always thinks about when she notices someone else looking down at the sea. A woman, no one she recognises from the back. Dark shawl, long skirt. ‘Hi,’ says Lola. The woman turns. Only a girl, really, glimmering in the moonlight, almost not there. What a sad face. What searching eyes. Lola says, ‘Are you …?’

The other nods or perhaps not.

‘Am I going to drown?’ says Lola.

Did the other shake her head?

‘What are you trying to tell me?’ says Lola.

Was that a cloud passing over the moon? Lola imitates what she seems to be seeing and finds herself standing with both hands over her heart. ‘Your heart was broken,’ she says. ‘My heart was broken too. I took up the sarod.’

No answer. Nobody there. Lola standing with both hands over her heart.

‘What was that?’ says Noah.

‘What was what?’ says Lola.

‘Were you talking to somebody?’ says Noah.

‘Did you see anybody?’ says Lola.

‘No,’ says Noah.

‘Just talking to myself,’ says Lola. The E-type is packed. She’s given away whatever wouldn’t fit in the boot. Polaris in its case is tucked in snugly behind the seats and the Jaguar takes the road for the night journey to London.