The Hopes and Dreams of Lucy Baker Page 5

  While many of Brenda’s visitors were in and out before you could say, ‘thank you for the package’, Lucy enjoyed stopping by for the unusually flavoured teas that came from sweetshop-sized glass jars, with faded labels proclaiming Aphrodite’s Blend and Shaman’s Brew in a spidery hand. She loved listening to tales of Brenda’s unorthodox life; from being on the road in the Sixties with her late husband’s band, to her passion for all things natural and home-made. It was a two-way friendship that their different backgrounds and more than fifty-year age gap only enhanced.

  ‘Tea would be lovely.’

  She followed Brenda into the exotic-smelling kitchen, hooking her bag over the back of a rush-seated chair tucked under the central table. The gift she’d ordered for her dear friend had arrived that morning and the brown padded envelope containing it was poking out the top. Walking over to the large, old-fashioned gas stove, she peered into the aluminium saucepan bubbling away merrily and offered to stir the colourful contents.

  ‘Only if it’s anticlockwise and not more than three times,’ said Brenda.

  Lucy did as she was told, first glancing at the kitchen clock to work out the direction of her stir.

  Smiling to herself, Brenda arranged the colourful fine bone-china cups and saucers on a tea tray. Lucy finished stirring and returned the wooden spoon back to the spoon rest. She looked over for reassurance that she’d done everything correctly.

  ‘I was teasing, you ninny,’ Brenda said. ‘How can it possibly matter which direction you stir a pot? I worry about you sometimes. Mind you, I worry about me sometimes…’

  Lucy blushed and offered to carry the tray into the living room. Brenda shuffled in behind her with the cake tin and collapsed onto the sofa with a weary sigh, straightening a cream lace antimacassar as she did so.

  Lucy slid into her favourite chair. It had wooden arms and a straight back, which should have made it uncomfortable, but it was a chair that Lucy often found herself reluctant to leave. Brenda was choosy about who sat it in, but it was always offered to her.

  ‘You’re certain this chair hasn’t got a hidden heated panel?’ she asked for the umpteenth time. ‘I swear it heats up as soon as I sit in it.’

  Brenda smiled. ‘No, it’s just a kindly, old chair who looks after people it likes,’ and she placed the tin on the table. ‘So, tell me what has been happening.’

  Lucy slipped the locket from her bag, flipped the catch and showed Brenda the inscription.

  ‘Take a beeswax candle, carve true love’s name

  Sit through full moon ’til end of flame.’

  ‘When you handed it to me last week, I thought you were reading out the inscription. Didn’t the locket say something about finding me and binding me to my true love?’

  Brenda chuckled and picked up her cup and saucer. ‘Oh, how I love this bit. So exciting,’ she said, avoiding Lucy’s question. ‘You must follow the instructions to the letter to guarantee success.’

  ‘Did you swap the locket over when I was asleep?’ Lucy asked, clutching at wispy straws.

  ‘Do I look capable of standing on a garden bench and feeding myself through a tiny top bathroom window?’

  ‘Knowing you, I shouldn’t be surprised if you had the ability to walk through the exterior wall.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t do either, cheeky madam.’

  Brenda’s words reassured Lucy she’d completely misunderstood, but she still wasn’t happy that her elderly friend wanted her to undertake a ridiculous ritual to attract a man. It was no better than the girls at school playing around with a Ouija board. She knew Fiona Carter had deliberately manipulated the glass to get some boy’s name to come up, because she admitted as such several years later. It was all silly nonsense undertaken to amuse bored minds.

  ‘I’m really grateful you’ve entrusted the locket to me, but I want to sort my life out by myself. I’m perfectly capable of attracting a boyfriend without your dodgy jewellery, and I love my job and the people I work with. I realise I have to stand up for myself a bit more, but it’s still a challenging and fun environment, and one I want to succeed in. All the accessories and all the colours…’

  ‘Ah, colours, how they light up this grey world of ours. The grey never truly goes away, I’m afraid. We must try to mask it with our kaleidoscopic clothes and colourful smiles.’ Brenda stirred the fragrant tea she still hadn’t sipped, whilst Lucy looked down at her beige long-sleeved top and plain navy blue skirt.

  ‘Exactly. And since my mother has decided to hold this stupid party in September, with a guest list to rival a royal wedding, I’m going to make her proud of me by knuckling down and being more organised at work. I might even consider Mr Sneezy-pants as my plus-one for my mother’s do, if he starts to behave,’ joked Lucy.

  Brenda put her tea down and pushed the saucer away as though it was finished. ‘Excellent decision, if I may say so.’

  ‘But I’m going to do it without any of your hocus-pocus.’

  ‘Now you listen to me, young lady. There’s not a spell in the world that can go against the natural order of things. They can help bring out what is already there and calm muddied waters, but it makes me cross when people believe all this Harry Potter nonsense. If there were invisibility cloaks and levitating spells, trust me, I’d be using them.’

  Hmm… thought Lucy, flowers don’t naturally turn away from the sun and face the house of a mysterious old lady, but she kept the thought to herself. It had always unnerved her how the birds all seemed to congregate on Brenda’s ridge tiles and how everything in the old lady’s garden grew taller, faster and stronger than anywhere else. If George thought she was a Dr Doolittle, he’d be staggered at Brenda’s affinity with the natural world.

  Feeling in need of cake, Lucy leaned forward and prised opened the cake tin, only to find a selection of pencils and a wrinkled carrot inside. Not wanting to embarrass her friend, she slipped it down the side of the chair and changed the subject, relaying the tale of removing the unwanted cat from George’s house.

  ‘He’s a funny one. Can’t make him out,’ said Brenda.

  ‘I think he’s rude.’ Lucy thought about his monosyllabic sentences and offhand demeanour.

  ‘No, that’s not it. So many shades of yellow. Look in his eyes. There’s a tale there, to be sure.’

  ‘Yes, he’s allergic to cats.’ She knew she was being flippant, but George Aberdour didn’t bring out her charitable side.

  Brenda patted Lucy’s arm with her fragile hand, and she noticed the transparent skin and pale liver spots. Was Brenda eating properly? Or was it all part of getting older: losing weight and becoming more forgetful? It was difficult when you saw someone regularly, but she was sure her friend was beginning to look more gaunt. There were times Brenda seemed momentarily unaware of what was going on around her and it was beginning to worry Lucy. Her glorious, technicolour friend had tiny flickers of grey, almost invisible to the casual observer.

  ‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed. In fact, I’d be tempted to tie him to it. If I was twenty years younger, I’d be knocking on his door asking to borrow a cup of sugar. Probably in a silky negligee.’

  ‘Only twenty? You’d still be nearly sixty.’

  ‘I’ll have you know I hit my sexual peak in my early sixties. That’s probably what did for Jim. Oh, pop your eyes back in your head, child. I’m only joking. The athletic sex probably gave him an extra five years. I can still touch my toes, you know?’

  Lucy envied her friend’s wild tales, thinking she’d have nothing more to tell her own grandchildren other than she’d helped to knit the world’s longest scarf for charity.

  As she collected her bag from the kitchen later, Lucy remembered the parcel and handed it to Brenda.

  ‘I’ve got you a present – a book by Elliott Landy, the famous photographer. It’s a collection of his work focusing on the rock music scene in the Sixties and contains some unseen prints. Jim’s in there. I checked.’

  ‘How wonderful.’ B
renda slid the book from the envelope and clutched it as if she’d been given the moon.

  Lucy shrugged. ‘I saw it online and knew you’d appreciate it. It’s just a little something to let you know I was thinking of you.’

  ‘But, my dear,’ Brenda said, reaching for her hand, ‘sometimes a little something can mean everything.’ And a happy tear trickled down her cheek.

  ‘What a lovely sentiment,’ said Lucy, and she watched Brenda begin to scan the pages for photographs of precious memories.

  Lucy’s mum rang that evening, as she did every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, at exactly seven o’clock.

  ‘Hello, darling. How are things since we popped by? I’ve hardly seen your father since he bought that bit for the silly old car. Straight home and in the garage without so much as a by-your-leave. Mind you, he’s been generally uncommunicative since I put him on that strict diet, but I refuse to buy him a new suit for September until he’s shifted some of that weight. I don’t want people thinking he’s letting himself go. I’m so glad we booked the venue when we did. I would have hated to settle for somewhere not quite so prestigious, and Mortlake Hall is very prestigious. It was used for that BBC period drama last year. Emily told me. And talking of your sister, she rang with simply marvellous news. Has she rung you yet?’ Her mother paused for breath.

  ‘You know we don’t call each other much. Facebook and text messages generally keep us in touch.’ Once Emily became a mother, the long chatter-filled phone calls the sisters used to share were replaced with less immediate forms of communication. By the time Lucy was home from work, Emily was up to her elbows in the bedtime routine, and when Emily was free, Lucy was with Brenda, at Knit and Natter, or leafleting for some community event – always keen to help out as long as it didn’t involve drawing unnecessary attention to herself. Facebook messages were the perfect compromise.

  ‘I’m sure she won’t mind me telling you – she’s expecting again. I do hope it will be a boy this time. I know Stuart would like a son, as much as he loves the girls.’ And another generous handful of sprinkles fell from the ether onto Emily’s cupcake of life.

  ‘That’s fantastic news. I’ll give her a ring.’

  It was exciting to think another gorgeous, pink, talcum-powder-scented being would soon exist. Lucy adored her nieces to distraction, especially the tiny baby phase when they fell asleep across you in an instant, trusting and content. A doll-sized hand gripping your finger tightly as a tiny babygrow-covered chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of sleep. But she also enjoyed the challenges that came with vocabulary and attitude. She must visit them all again soon. It had been far too long.

  ‘Perhaps send her a little congratulations card, darling. I doubt she’ll have time to chat, what with the girls and the pressures of work.’ Emily had fallen straight into a retail management job from university and continued to scale the career ladder, giving birth to two children merely a small hiatus on her ever-upward climb. At thirty, she was now troubleshooting for WHSmith and their mother refused to patronise any other stationer or bookseller to demonstrate her support, convinced her eldest daughter would be running the company within five years. ‘I hear she’s working on a failing store down in London. It’s probably all due to the multicultural workforce, but she’ll soon pull it round. She’s been working such long hours recently that I suspect there’s another promotion in the offing. You’ve got to admire a woman who is that career-driven yet still finds time to be such a marvellous mother to her little girls.’

  ‘Mmm…’ Lucy’s words got caught in her throat.

  ‘The baby is due in November and I must admit I was secretly relieved it wasn’t any earlier. It would be terribly inconvenient if she’d been due around my birthday because I have great plans for Emily to give a speech. I felt it was appropriate, what with her being my eldest child and everything.’

  Lucy knew it was nothing to do with age but everything to do with Emily’s superior speech-making abilities, and was thankful her mother hadn’t asked her to perform a similar duty.

  ‘I should think that will be their family complete then, unless it’s another girl. You need to hurry up, young lady, or they won’t have any cousins of the same age. And if you do the whole baby thing with Emily, she can guide you through. She’s a natural. You only have to look at the girls to see how bright and well adjusted they are. And you can keep up your hobbies; maybe knit some little cardigans or something?’

  Lucy was not an academic child, much to the despair of her mother, but Sandra did at least acknowledge Lucy’s creative flair, actively steering her away from the messier crafts as a child and encouraging her knitting, purely on the basis that it didn’t leave sticky patches everywhere or stain the tablecloth.

  ‘Mmm…’ Lucy mumbled again and got through the remainder of the call by making encouraging noises in the appropriate places.

  Her mother updated her with every possible detail about the fiftieth party and she was reminded it would be terribly helpful if she sorted her outfit sooner rather than later so any unfortunate close family colour clashes could be avoided.

  Lucy put the phone down knowing that she was loved, but possibly not understood.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning, Lucy ambled into her living room and heaved back the faded green velvet curtains, determined to embrace a bolder version of herself. Standing in the middle of Lancaster Road, wearing not much and holding the battered, floral-patterned cake tin, was Brenda.

  Seeing the movement of swishing curtains from the corner of her eye, the old lady looked across to the window but registered no recognition. Almost looking through Lucy, she returned her gaze to the tin and shook her head as if she was trying to focus.

  It was then that Lucy noticed the rain – a drizzly mist, not proper splashy raindrops, but enough to get a scantily clad old lady wet and cold, even in May. A creeping panic swept through her body. It was the first real and frightening embodiment of her recent fears concerning her neighbour. Not pausing for thought, or to even change out of her pyjamas, Lucy dashed to the front door, but Brenda was already scuttling towards the junction with Tudor Avenue.

  Dashing past number twenty-four, Lucy paused as she noticed George’s incredulous face peering out the window. He stared at his pyjama-clad neighbour, bouncing around on the pavement in front of his house, gesturing something at him. The next moment she was banging at his door, hoping to enlist him on her search and rescue mission.

  ‘Brenda’s gone walkabout and she’s dressed completely inappropriately,’ she blurted out.

  ‘Unlike your good self.’

  ‘Seriously, she’s in a thin, cotton nightie. She’s seventy-nine. Please help.’ She swallowed back a sob. Her priority was finding her friend.

  The mocking eyebrow dropped and he nodded, noticing her genuine distress.

  ‘Of course.’ He grabbed his keys and mobile from the otherwise empty side table next to his front door.

  They eventually caught up with Brenda near the postbox at the bottom of the avenue. Lucy reached out for her friend’s shoulder and made eye contact.

  ‘Brenda? It’s me. Lucy.’ She gently took her neighbour’s hand in her own. It felt cold, and the drizzle was now turning to heavy rain.

  ‘Jim forgot his lunch again. I have to get to the school and give it to him…’ Brenda’s eyes were frantic.

  ‘It’s okay. Let’s get you in the warm and I’ll deliver it for you.’ The way the old lady’s eyes narrowed as she looked into Lucy’s face broke her heart, as she realised there was no sign of recognition. She bit back tears and forced out a gentle smile.

  Brenda started to shake with the cold, so Lucy put an arm around her and rubbed her bare shoulders to try and warm her up. George, who was only a couple of paces behind them, started to pull his smart, grey V-neck jumper over his head, but as he did so, his shirt untucked itself and rode up his body with the jumper.

  Lucy stood motionless for a fraction of a second and tried hard not t
o focus on the narrow trail of dark hairs that disappeared into the waistband of his navy blue suit trousers. And she totally failed not to gape at the muscle definition across his abdomen. There was an almost imperceptible flash of nipple as the shirt slid back down his body.

  ‘Put this over her.’

  Lucy snapped her mouth shut and wriggled the jumper over a protesting Brenda. Between them they cajoled and coerced her back up the street and through the front door. Lucy collected a towel from the downstairs cloakroom and patted her down, aware of a strong smell of wee now they were inside. The orange and purple patchwork blanket Lucy knitted two Christmases ago was draped over the back of the upholstered wing chair, so she wrapped it around the shivering lady and finally caught Brenda’s eye. A trembling hand reached out and gripped her own, squeezing it for reassurance. Lucy squeezed back.

  ‘Everything’s okay, Brenda,’ she said. ‘We’re home. We’re safe. There’s nothing for you to worry about.’

  A hovering George beckoned her into the hall, as Lucy felt more treacherous tears building. He studied her face for a second and then briefly reached out to touch her shoulder. At a moment when she felt everything was collapsing, it gave her the strength to pull herself together. His hand dropped back to his side.

  ‘I don’t want to interfere, but I think she needs to be seen by someone as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘I agree. I’ll try the surgery. Could you grab my mobile from my kitchen table? I don’t want to leave her. My front door isn’t locked.’

  George nodded and returned with her phone two minutes later, handing it over just as his own started to buzz. He turned away to answer it.

  ‘No, I hadn’t forgotten… Has he? Oh, for goodness’ sake… I’ll have to sort it then…’ George covered the phone with his hand. ‘I need to go.’

  ‘I can manage. She’s much calmer now. Honestly. It’s fine.’ Brenda looked tired, her thin fingers stroking the blanket, and her eyes closing.