2018
IT’S SATURDAY AND I’M IN the car. Daniel is taking me to the garden centre for tea and cake. I saw it on my calendar this morning in Daniel’s writing, then I noticed something else – written on a Saturday two weeks from now – Moving Day.
I stare out of the window at the bare, wet fields, pressing the tiny rose charm at my throat between my thumb and forefinger, feeling its familiar shape. It’s raining, and the drops slide down the glass, obscuring my vision. Not that I’d know where we are anyway. Everything changes too fast these days. It’s hard to keep a handle on things. According to my calendar I’m moving away from Ludthorpe in two weeks’ time. I sit up a little straighter. Lucy. There will be nothing in Devon to trigger any memories of Lucy. I must find her before I move, otherwise she’ll be lost forever. What am I even doing here when there is still so much to find out?
‘Are we going to look for Lucy?’ I ask.
Next to me, Daniel sighs.
‘Not today, Nan,’ the girl in the back seat says. Her voice sounds sad and I’m not sure she understands the gravity of the situation.
We’re pulling into the car park, finding a space, and I realise Amy is here too. Outside, it’s cold and drizzly and I pull the scarf I’m wearing tightly around my neck even though it isn’t mine – far too mauve. There’s an umbrella being held over my head. Daniel is locking the car and I turn to Amy and whisper, ‘I remembered something else about Lucy. Green ribbons. That’s what I remembered. Is it a clue, do you think?’
Amy coughs. ‘I don’t think so, Nan. Come on. Let’s get you inside, shall we?’
I frown. Amy is acting as though I’m confused when, in fact, things have never been clearer. Fine, I think. I don’t need any of you.
‘Where are we anyway?’ I ask, grumpily.
‘We’re at the garden centre,’ Daniel replies. ‘You always used to like it here.’
‘Ah, yes,’ I say. The Garden Centre. And perhaps I did. It seems like a place I might like. Not that any of us can be buying pretty plants at a time like this. We need to be growing vegetables. Last week we swapped several carrots for a tub of Mrs Cartwright’s broad beans.
‘Are we here for vegetable seeds?’ I ask.
Amy smiles. ‘No, Nan. Just cake. Why vegetables, anyway? You’ve never grown vegetables, have you?’
‘Well, we had to give it up, see. For the shelter. There wasn’t any space left for beans.’
Amy nods and we approach the entrance: STEEPLETREE GARDEN CENTRE. NOW OPEN SEVEN DAYS A WEEK.
‘I don’t do much gardening anymore,’ I say. ‘Why not?’
‘It was getting hard on your joints,’ Daniel explains. ‘All that kneeling and digging. But you’ll love the garden in Devon. It’s huge. You can sit out on the terrace under the umbrella all day, like the Queen.’
‘I don’t think the Queen has time to sit around,’ I mumble. ‘Not with her growing family, and her Canadian tour.’
Amy pulls her bobble hat off. ‘I used to help you do the watering, Nan. Do you remember? I had that little green watering can.’
I think of a small girl running around barefoot, following me about. ‘I do,’ I say. ‘I think you watered your feet more than anything else.’
Amy grins and we enter through a sliding door. It doesn’t look much like a garden centre. There aren’t many plants, just shelves of pricey-looking food: jars of chutney, tins of strange beans and bottles of cloudy apple juice. I can see Christmas decorations everywhere, on the tables and on the walls; wreaths, baubles, snow globes, bags of glittery pine cones and statues of twiggy reindeers. It all reminds me of when I used to help my mother with the church jumble sale. She got involved because the other wives did, and because Reg said someone might have thrown out something valuable by mistake. We had to sort through all the chipped china, baby clothes and moth-eaten suits that had been left in the backs of wardrobes by neglectful wives whilst their husbands were away during the war. They should have used mothballs, my mother would mutter. Then there were the dull silver photograph frames containing Edwardian relatives. I didn’t like having to take the photographs out of the frames and throw them away. It felt like the families of the relatives had discarded their memories, decided they were nothing but old rubbish. That’ll be me soon – put out with the jumble.
Daniel and Amy are looking at some of the pricey food, and I walk over to a display of Christmassy ornaments: mini flashing trees and candles in the shape of snowmen. I pick up a small figurine, a boy in a red duffle coat holding a lantern. It’s cheerful and bright but I almost drop it, remembering another ornament: a boy with a basket of cherries, garish red lips and cheeks. A song on the wireless. Chipped yellow paint on the bannister. A closed door. My stomach churns. I replace the ornament with a shaky hand. Lucy. I must find Lucy.
*
There’s a board on the wall: Community Noticeboard. A photograph of a cat stares down at me but it’s the wrong sort, too ginger, it doesn’t look like Smudge at all. Missing. Fifty Pound Reward. I reach into my cardigan pocket, take out my crumpled piece of paper, the one Halim printed for me in the library, then pin it next to the photograph of the missing cat.
‘Do you have a pen?’ I ask a woman with a basket full of glittery pine cones.
‘Oh, hello. Um, yes. Hang on a sec.’ She digs into her handbag and hands me a pen, one of those felt-tip types. I write on the top of the pinned piece of paper. Still missing. Appeal for . . . I can’t think how to spell the last word. How ridiculous. I’ve gone blank. Fancy an English teacher forgetting how to spell a simple word. I almost giggle but then I write carefully and slowly, sounding the word out phonetically in my head like I used to do when I was teaching a small boy the alphabet. IN-FOR-MA-TION. Who was that small boy? And where is he now? I hope I haven’t lost him. You hear about these things, don’t you – children wandering off in supermarkets.
I give the woman her pen back. ‘Have you seen a boy?’ I ask.
She gives me a worried look. ‘I don’t think so . . .’
‘Excuse me.’ There’s a loud voice in my ear and I am forced to step aside. A tall man wearing glasses is wheeling a Christmas tree in a trolley up to the till point. He looks stern and business-like. And which one of you needs assistance? You’ve been a silly girl then, haven’t you.
*
Amy appears. ‘Nan, what are you up to? We couldn’t find you.’
‘Nothing,’ I say defensively, turning away from the noticeboard. ‘What’s all this paraphernalia, anyway?’ I ask, waving my hand in the air. ‘Where are the vegetable seeds?’
Amy takes my arm. ‘It’s Christmas, Nan.’
‘It’s only just December. I checked this morning. I’ve got penguins in Antarctica.’
Daniel comes over, a small smile on his face. ‘People start early, Mum.’
‘That tree will be dead as a doornail by Christmas Day,’ I say loudly, pointing at the tree in the man’s trolley, causing him to glare at me.
‘She thinks she’s lost someone,’ the woman with the large handbag tells Daniel.
I nod, earnestly. That’s right. ‘Lucy,’ I tell them. ‘Have you seen her?’
The woman glances at Daniel then back at me. ‘I thought she said a boy . . .’
‘It’s okay,’ Daniel says. ‘She hasn’t lost anyone. Come on, Mum. Let’s get a cup of tea, shall we? The café’s through here.’
Daniel is hastily leading me away. I suppose I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea. We walk past all the glittery things and up two large steps. The café smells like tea and toast and something sweet – strawberry jam.
Once we’re seated at a table, I pick up the menu. ‘Vegan Breakfast,’ I read. ‘Soup of the Day.’
‘We’re just here for tea and cake,’ Daniel tells the waitress when she comes over.
‘Coffee and walnut,’ I say, reading from the menu.
‘Mum, you don’t like coffee.’ Daniel is peering at me over his glasses. ‘Or walnuts. She’ll have the Victoria sponge, please,’ he tells the waitress, who nods but doesn’t write anything down. Perhaps she’s like me. She doesn’t need to. She remembers what’s important.
Daniel wants a cappuccino and a chocolate brownie. If you ask me, he’s getting slightly rounded at the middle and shouldn’t bother with the brownie, but I don’t say anything. Amy offers to share a pot of tea with me, only she wants a different kind of milk. She orders a slice of cake made from something with a funny name. Polenta. It sounds like a foreign language or a small, sunny county. There are lots of things people don’t eat nowadays. Imagine if we’d been so fussy during the war. We’d have wasted away.
The waitress brings the cakes over first, which seems the wrong way around to me. I pick at a few crumbs, nibbling at them like a bird.
‘Here.’ Daniel passes me a fork but I frown because it’s the wrong sort. Too large. It isn’t the proper one for eating cake with. My mother won’t like it.
I check the colour of the tea by lifting the lid off the teapot – just about strong enough. Weak as gnat’s piss, Reg always says when Mother doesn’t use enough leaves.
I reach for the teapot and try to pour a little into my cup but the teapot is too heavy and my hand is shaking. Whoever replaced our teapot with this monstrosity anyway?
‘Here, let me help you.’
A young girl is leaning across the table, reaching for the teapot, trying to help me pour like I’m old and senile.
‘I’m fine,’ I tell her loudly. And it’s true, the tea is finding its way into my cup, despite a little of it splashing onto the table.
‘But look, it’s going everywhere. Just let me help you—’
‘I don’t need help!’ My hand is flying across the table, knocking over the mug half-full of hot, steaming liquid. It falls onto the girl’s arm and she yelps.
‘Bloody hell,’ the man says, getting up out of his chair.
‘I told you I didn’t need help,’ I shout. ‘I told all of you but you won’t listen. You’ll see. You’ll all see when I find Lucy.’
The girl is clutching her arm and the waitress is rushing over. ‘Come and run it under cold water, love. There’s a sink behind the counter.’
The girl is staring at me, her expression stung. I can see tears forming. ‘Tears won’t help anything, will they?’ I say crossly. ‘And who are you? Is it your first day? Shouldn’t they be training you?’
The café has gone very quiet. I can no longer hear the chatter, the chinking teacups. The girl’s eyes have clouded over. Her shoulders shake and she makes a small choking noise. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. Sometimes it’s just too much.’ She turns away and follows the other waitress, still clutching at her burned arm.
The man is putting his coat on. He tries to help me to my feet but I shake him off. ‘I haven’t finished my cake.’
‘I don’t care about your bloody cake, Mum. Look what you’ve done. You’ve hurt Amy.’
I look to where the man is pointing. Behind the cake counter by the coffee machine, the girl is running her arm under the tap. Everyone in the café is staring at me.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I tell the man, but my voice is beginning to wobble. I’ve got a feeling I’ve done something terrible. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, but no one is listening. ‘I’m very sorry,’ I say again, louder this time. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right, Mum. It was an accident. Let’s just get home.’ The man is slipping someone’s coat over my shoulders. He steers me in the direction of the door. It seems the girl with the burned arm is coming with us. I stare at her but she won’t look at me.
As we leave the café, I realise I’m not even sure what I’m sorry for.