2018
IT’S FRIDAY EVENING, AND I’M standing in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. I notice I’ve written on my calendar in Tuesday’s square: Saw Lucy Theddle outside Post Office and drawn a little sun underneath the date. That’s good; there aren’t too many suns on my calendar these days. Suns mean a good day, and grey clouds a bad one. I draw little black storm clouds when I feel something unfortunate is brewing.
*
When I was a girl I used to write a diary, but I stopped for some reason. Diaries were then used for appointments only. Lately, diaries seem to be always getting misplaced and so Daniel insisted on fixing a calendar to the wall for me. So you always know where you are, Mum. As if I am in the habit of finding myself in mysterious places.
But how could I have seen Lucy? I wonder. Lucy vanished in 1951; I haven’t thought of her for years. And if she’s come back, she’ll be a tiny old lady with upper lip hair and creaky knees, just like me. Although I have my facial hair under control, and Lucy was always so fair, perhaps it would never have been a problem for her. She’d still look beautiful, even in old age. I’d know her anywhere.
I shake my head. I can’t have seen Lucy. I must have imagined it. Unless, after all this time, I’m finally inheriting my mother’s gift – the gift of second sight, of being able to communicate with ‘those passed’, as she liked to say. She believed I must possess the gift, that it was handed down through the female line. It’s like a muscle, Edie, you have to exercise it. And it’s no good trying to suppress it. It will catch up with you eventually.
Perhaps she was right, and the gift has finally caught up with me. But that would mean Lucy is dead. I shudder. My mother used to say the dead always want something. They’re forever pestering. We can’t help them all, Edie.
An image appears in my mind. I’m standing in an unfamiliar house outside a closed door. The carpet beneath my feet, plum-coloured squares with orange and blue flowers, makes my head hurt. From somewhere in the house I can hear the wireless playing: ‘Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree’. It’s being played over and over again and I want to put my hands over my ears and weep. From within the room comes the sound of a scream, Lucy’s scream.
‘Mum? Are you there?’
I blink. Daniel is calling me from the living room and I remember that I am here in my kitchen, that I was making tea. I shake my head, realising the kettle has boiled and that I’ve already set the mugs out. Daniel always offers to make the tea but I like to do it.
The remnants of our dinner are on the kitchen table; leftover chips and a tub of mushy peas. Greasy grey paper. I remember when fish and chips came wrapped in newspaper and you used to get little pieces of newsprint stuck to your batter.
‘Mum?’
‘Just coming,’ I call back, reaching for the milk. I don’t know why Daniel worries so much. I’m perfectly capable of making a cup of tea.
In the living room, I set the tea down. Daniel has his laptop on his knees and I notice he’s plugged a long white wire into my socket. I hope he remembers to plug my lamp back in. I shall have trouble later, if he forgets, trying to get to it behind the sofa.
‘Mum, look at this.’
Daniel is pointing the screen at me. It’s very bright. I can see a cream house. There’s a low stone wall and two apple trees.
‘Who lives there?’ I ask.
‘Well, me. Possibly. I’m thinking of putting in an offer. It’s an old dairy. What do you think?’
I fumble with the cuff of my blouse; the button has come undone.
‘I’ve been offered a job in Devon, remember? We feel ready for a move, what with the school merging. And we all know Suzanne has never been that fond of Ludthorpe. With any luck I’ll be able to retire in five or six years. We’ve always liked that part of the world.’
I try to keep my hands still in my lap. ‘Devon?’
‘Yes, Devon,’ he says patiently, smiling at me.
‘But that’s miles away. What about Amy?’ My throat has gone dry and my voice sounds high-pitched. I can’t imagine being so far from Amy; I’ve always been close to my granddaughter.
‘We’ve discussed it,’ Daniel says gently. ‘She feels sad about leaving her friends, but she’ll be going off to university next year anyway. There are lots of good schools nearby, and we’ll make sure she can keep her subject choices.’ He turns back to the screen. ‘Here, I’ll show you a few pictures.’
There is a photograph of something green and blurry, a duck pond perhaps, but I can’t make sense of it. Is he really going all the way to Devon? My stomach clenches. ‘What about me?’ I ask. He can’t be serious. ‘What will I do if you move to Devon?’
‘We’ll take you with us, of course,’ Daniel says cheerfully, as if I’m a cat or a piece of furniture. ‘We’d never leave you behind, Mum. I did tell you,’ he adds.
‘Well, I don’t remember,’ I huff. ‘I think I’d remember something like this.’
Daniel sighs. He’s been doing a lot of that lately. He reaches for his tea. ‘Anyway, we’ll find a nice place for you to live. Somewhere more manageable. Or, if we buy this place, you’ll be able to live with us. It’s got a granny annex, see?’
Daniel is pointing to the screen, to a sort of extension bit on the side of the house. I put my hand to my neck and touch my necklace, a thin silver chain with a tiny rose pendant I found in my jewellery box last week; it had slipped underneath the lining. ‘But I’d be under your feet all day. Suzanne wouldn’t like it.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. You’d have your own little kitchen, and a wet room.’
‘A wet room.’
‘A shower, Mum. Instead of a bath.’
‘I like a bath.’
Daniel gulps down a mouthful of tea and replaces his mug on the coaster. Someone’s got him well trained. My mother was obsessed with protecting furniture. She made her own crocheted doilies. They were all over the house, little circles of lace supporting teapots, vases, clocks and jewellery dishes.
‘You haven’t had a bath for years,’ Daniel is saying. ‘You’ve got the shower seat. And Suzanne doesn’t mind. We’d be able to buy somewhere bigger, see, like the old dairy.’ He points at the screen again. ‘Once we’ve sold your house and ours.’
‘Sell my house? I don’t know about that.’ I thread a cushion tassel through my fingers. It feels silky and familiar.
‘If you lived with us, Mum, we’d be able to see you more, look out for you. Be there for you when you get in a muddle.’
I open my mouth to protest but the words aren’t there. Am I in a muddle? Life has become a little fuzzier around the edges in recent months and I am, perhaps, a little less sharp than I once was, but that must be perfectly normal at my age.
‘We’d like to be there for you for when you forget things,’ Daniel says kindly.
‘I manage just fine,’ I say, my voice louder than I’d intended. ‘I may well forget some things, but everyone forgets things, don’t they? You forgot my birthday once.’
Daniel grins. ‘And I’ve never heard the end of it.’
‘I always remember in the end,’ I say firmly. ‘And besides, I’ve lived in Ludthorpe all my life.’
‘Not all your life,’ Daniel corrects me. ‘You went to college, remember? In London. Then you came back.’
I mull this over, remembering red buses, noise, traffic, the metallic taste of the smog, dorm rooms for young women, toasted crumpets, shared dresses, dances. The pictures aren’t clear in my head, just a series of blurred snapshots like someone flicking through a slide show. It all feels like a lifetime ago, a life that belonged to someone else, or perhaps should have belonged to someone else.
‘Well, I’ve lived in Ludthorpe most of my life then,’ I say.
‘Exactly,’ Daniel replies cheerfully. ‘It’s never too late for a change, is it? And it’s getting a bit tricky, isn’t it? This house. It’s a lot for you to cope with on your own.’
What’s he talking about? I’ve always been independent. Before I have a chance to say anything, he stands, picking up our mugs.
‘I’ll wash these up for you, Mum.’
‘No, I’ll do it,’ I say, pushing myself up out of my chair slowly and taking the mugs from him.
Daniel smiles. ‘You’ve got to let us help out more.’
‘I don’t need help,’ I tell him firmly.
In the kitchen, I put the mugs in the sink. I don’t like to think of myself as being in a muddle, although I suppose I must be, otherwise how could I have forgotten, for all those years, about Lucy going missing? Wasn’t I her friend? It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve also got a feeling I knew something about Lucy, something important. What was it?
When I think of Lucy it’s like I’m pressing down on a stuck typewriter key; I press and press but there’s nothing there. Just a big fat blank.
Perhaps it’s not too late. Perhaps if I get the key unstuck, if I can find Lucy, I won’t be in a muddle anymore. If I can remember what happened nearly seventy years ago, what I knew about Lucy, no one will be able to tell me I need help, will they? I won’t be accused of being forgetful then. They’ll soon realise I’m capable of managing in my own house and put an end to all this moving business. If I find Lucy, the dark thoughts, the twisting in my gut, the unsettling snippets of long-forgotten memories, are bound to disappear. Why didn’t I think of it before? I realise, now, exactly what I have to do.
Taking my pen from the pot, I write on my calendar in today’s square: Find Lucy.