The Last Lost Girl

by Maria Hoey

Jacqueline took a slice of toast and spread it with butter. “I thought I saw a child last night.”

  “That would be Jimmy,” said Dot. She pulled out a chair and sat down at the far end of the table. “So, did you find what you were looking for last night?”

  Caught by surprise, Jacqueline paused mid-bite. “No, no, I didn’t. But thanks again. I left the book back on top of the counter first thing this morning.”

  “I saw that. Well, I’m sorry it was of no help.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” said Jacqueline, “for snooping around like that. I don’t know what you must have thought.”

  “No, you don’t know, so why worry about it?” said Dot.

  There was, thought Jacqueline, no answer to that, so she carried on eating in silence. She wondered if it was the sea air of this north-eastern town that made people so bracing, or maybe it was just Dot.

  She wondered if she should remind Dot of her offer to let her look at the other guestbooks or wait to be invited.

  “So, you’ll be wanting to look at the rest of them, I suppose?” said Dot.

  It was so exactly what she had been thinking that Jacqueline just nodded.

  “What year are you after this time?” said Dot.

  “1983,” said Jacqueline without hesitation.

  “The year Martin died,” said Dot.

  There was, it appeared, no getting away from Martin, so Jacqueline put her toast down on her plate. “Martin,” she said, “was he …?”

  “My husband,” said Dot. She leaned in over the table, stuck a thumbnail in a groove of the bleached wood and made a little sawing motion with her thumbnail. “He was killed in a hit and run.”

  Jacqueline shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I was in bed with flu at the time,” said Dot, “and I was furious because the weather was glorious and I wanted to be outside in the garden. Martin decided to make me chicken soup. I said I didn’t want any soup, it was much too hot for soup, but Martin insisted. Only we’d run out of pearl barley so he said he’d spin down to the town on his bike and get some.” Dot took her thumb out of the groove and examined the nail. “Before he left he tried to kiss me goodbye, but I was so cross I turned my face away. I told him I’d give him my germs and I wouldn’t let him kiss me goodbye.”

  Jacqueline had taken another bite of toast. In the silence, she could hear herself masticating and stopped eating.

  “I fell asleep,” said Dot, “and when I woke up the police were knocking at the door. But by then Martin had been dead for two hours. Of everything, that seemed to me the most awful part, that I could sleep while he was dying. I must have been quite ill because when they told me what had happened I remember thinking it was okay, because it was only a dream and I’d wake up soon. But it wasn’t a dream and I never woke up.”

  No, thought Jacqueline, you never wake up.

  Dot got up. “I’d better get these cats fed. Want to come with me to the pigsty and make friends?”

  Confused by the mention of cats and pigs in the one sentence, Jacqueline hesitated. By the time she’d got to her feet, Dot had disappeared outside. Taking a quick mouthful of tea – the toast had stuck to the roof of her mouth – she grabbed her bag and hurried after her.

  The pigsty turned out to be the nettle-choked ruin near the end of the garden. Inside, four cats waited while Dot hunkered down and shared the contents of the pan between four of the aluminium dishes.

  “Be careful,” she said to Jacqueline, over her shoulder. “This place is about to tumble down. I keep meaning to knock it down, no point in it anymore – there hasn’t been a pig here since Martin’s uncle’s day. Now come and meet Duchess, Trotsky, Sniff and Oscar.”

  “Which is which?” said Jacqueline.

  “The stately white one is Duchess, for obvious reasons. The little white one is Trotsky, because of that little smudge of a beard. Sniff is the stuck-up marmalade piece, and the little striped tabby is Oscar. Oscar is always hungry and will come begging, so be warned. There’s another three of them around somewhere.”

  “I’ve met Sniff and Trotsky already. Are they all yours?”

  Dot picked up the pan and got to her feet. “None of them are mine. Who ever really owns a cat? Some of them are strays, or they just don’t get enough food at home, or they just feel like coming here. They’re cats.” She turned to Jacqueline. “I must get on. Would you like more tea or anything else?”

  “No, thank you,” said Jacqueline, “but there is one thing.” She opened her bag, drew out the envelope and shook out the contents into her hand. “You asked me last night if I had a reason for coming here, to this house? Well, I have these.”

  Dot put the pan down on a pile of rubble, reached out and picked up the matchbook. “Oh, my days!” she said. “I haven’t seen one of these in years. We had them done up as souvenirs for the guests. Martin did that sketch of the house himself. Where did you get it?”

  “It was among my father’s things,” said Jacqueline, “along with these.” She handed over the envelope and the postcard, watched as Dot examined the address, then the postcard, which she turned over before looking up.

  “These were among your father’s things, you say?”

  Jacqueline nodded. “Yes. He – he died ten days ago.”

  Dot looked up abruptly. “Oh, so recently,” she said. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  Something in her face and voice made Jacqueline certain of her sincerity. “I think he stayed here once,” she said, “in this house.”

  “Is that so?” Dot returned the postcard and the matchbook to the envelope and handed it back to Jacqueline. “Well, in any event, you’ll want to keep these safe.” She turned and picked up the pan again. “Like I say, I must get on.”

  She moved away quickly and Jacqueline stood and watched her go.

  Chapter 19

  1976

  Lilly is screaming again. “I’ll never, ever forgive you, never as long as I live! You made a holy show of me in front of everyone!”

  Footsteps thump, coming up the stairs, and Gayle’s bed creaks as she turns over.

  “Not again,” she mutters.

  Before Jacqueline is even out of bed, a door slams shut. She is standing on the landing when her mother comes out of her room.

  “Get back to bed this minute, Jacqueline.”

  “But what happened and why is Lilly shouting? Who made a show of her?”

  “Do what your mother says,” says Daddy, coming up the stairs. He goes into his room, his head down and his shoulders hunched, and Jacqueline’s mother goes after him and closes the door.

  Jacqueline is alone on the landing again, staring at the sign on Lilly’s door and listening to her sister crying.

  “So what did Lilly do this time?” says Gayle, when Jacqueline goes back to her own room.

  “Oh shut up, Gayle,” says Jacqueline.

  Regina Quinn knocks on the front door before Jacqueline has even had her breakfast. She doesn’t even bother to say hello, just “Well, did your da kill Lilly?”

  “What are you talking about?” says Jacqueline. “Why would my da kill Lilly?”

  Regina’s little eyes open as wide as they go. “Did you not hear what happened last night?”

  Jacqueline would like to pretend she heard but she wants to know so badly it is almost a pain. So she says, “Just tell me what happened, Regina.”

  “Don’t you know? Your da only walked into the marquee and caught Lilly wearing the face off a fella!”

  “Who said so?” says Jacqueline.

  “Goretti said so.”

  “What fella?”

  “The one from the swing boats and Goretti said your da dragged Lilly out in front of everyone. He made a show of her and he tore her sash.”

  “What sash?” Jacqueline feels lost and stupid now, and angry with herself for knowing nothing.

  “Oh my God!” says Regina. “The sash that Lilly got for being chosen as a finalist in the Festival Queen competit
ion! Did you not even know THAT? Lilly is in the final. Oh, Jacklean, imagine if she wins! Goretti said the prize is a diamond crown and a silver cup and a hundred pounds in cash.”

  “Then Goretti is stupid,” says Jacqueline. She feels more sure of herself now. “They wouldn’t give Lilly a diamond crown, not a real one. And anyway, how come Goretti knows all this? Lilly isn’t even speaking to her.”

  “Yes, she is, they made up. They went to the dance together last night. Jacklean, do you think Lilly will win? Because I do – she’s gorgeous. Even though my ma says all the Brennans think too much about their looks.”

  Regina is right – Lilly and Goretti Quinn are best friends again. Goretti comes knocking at the door and Jacqueline’s mother sends her around to the back garden where Lilly is sunning herself on the brown blanket.

  Jacqueline settles down behind the gooseberry bushes to watch them.

  “What did he say?” says Goretti. “Did he kill you?”

  “Do I look dead?” says Lilly. “He just said he’s throwing in the towel.”

  “Is that all?” Goretti sounds disappointed. “Your da is always throwing in the towel.”

  “I know. And he said what he always says about me getting a job in a factory. Because what’s the point in me getting an education if all I want to do is streetwalk?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with working in a factory,” says Goretti Quinn.

  Jacqueline is sure she is thinking about her sisters – Saints Dympna, Veronica and Catherine all work in a biscuit factory.

  “I know there isn’t,” says Lilly. “Did I say there was? But I’d rather be a hairdresser and that’s what I told my dad. That shut him up. There’s no way he’d ever let me leave school without doing my Leaving Cert. It’s like he thinks I’ll die or something if I don’t get it. Just because he had to leave school when he was fourteen, he thinks everyone should be happy to shut themselves up with their stupid books and be a swot and have no fun.”

  “He’s so mean,” says Goretti Quinn.

  “Tell me about it!” says Lilly. “And now he’s not going to let me out of the house. How am I supposed to meet Luca?”

  “Are you really going with him, Lilly?”

  “Maybe …”

  “But, Lilly, everyone is saying he’s a gypsy.”

  “He is not a gypsy, Goretti Quinn!” Lilly sits up suddenly and Jacqueline has to duck down quickly behind the gooseberry bushes.

  “I’m only telling you what everyone is saying,” says Goretti, “and he does live in a caravan.”

  “Well, everyone is wrong,” says Lilly, “and just because someone lives in a caravan doesn’t make him a gypsy. And, for your information, Luca only lives in a caravan when he’s with the carnival. I happen to know that his family in England have a house the same as you and me. And his grandfather runs a big fair, so there!”

  “Okay,” says Goretti Quinn. “Don’t blame me for what people are saying.”

  “And I’ll tell you something else,” says Lilly. “Luca said everyone thinks working in a fair is romantic, but it’s not, it’s a hard slog. He has to look after the rides, dismantle them every time they move on and then set them up again in the next place. And he does all the repairs, all the painting and cleaning and stuff and he handles the money. He works really hard and he’s really, really good with people.”

  “And he’s gorgeous,” says Goretti Quinn. She giggles. “Don’t forget that bit, Lilly.”

  Lilly laughs. “And he’s gorgeous.”

  “Would you live in a caravan with him, Lilly?”

  “If he asked me to,” says Lilly. “Luca told me he has the wanderlust and he thinks he probably always will.”

  Jacqueline wonders what the wanderlust is – she thinks it is probably a disease.

  Goretti Quinn begins to sing. “Lilly and Luca sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

  Lilly laughs and lies down again. Jacqueline waits a while but they are so quiet that she thinks they must have fallen asleep and she sneaks quietly away.

  Chapter 20

  Afterwards

  After breakfast, Jacqueline followed the path to the cliffs. As the track curved away from the road, she followed it, and rounding a sharp bend almost fell upon the chair. This time it held a sleeping man. His legs were planted wide apart and his head had fallen slightly forward. His hair was black and lightly flecked with grey, shocked on one side by a narrow band of white: a “Mallen streak”, thought Jacqueline, thinking of a Catherine Cookson novel she had read as a teenager. The chair was positioned right in the middle of the track and to get around it she would have to climb up onto a rocky bank. While she was wondering whether to bother or not, the man’s head jerked upward, his eyes opened and for a moment he looked straight into Jacqueline’s eyes.

  “You have to give way to a duck,” he said, then his head fell forward and he began to snore.

  Jacqueline turned on her heel and retreated.

  A small boy was watching Jacqueline solemnly from behind a pair of very ugly and very thick glasses.

  “My daddy has no head,” he said.

  Jacqueline studied him with no real alarm; she was in no doubt but that she was dreaming. But the boy did not disappear. Instead he spoke again.

  “I’m a lonely child,” he said, and he pushed his glasses up his nose.

  “Is that right?” said Jacqueline.

  She reluctantly decided that he was real and in truth he did not in any way resemble a dream-child. His body was too chunky and he had tufty, copper-coloured hair, and brows that tilted slightly at the inner corners, giving him a perpetually perplexed expression. She thought he looked about four or five.

  She looked about her. She was sitting in a red-and-white striped deckchair and her book lay at her feet. She remembered now that she had come out onto the terrace of Sea Holly Villa to read. She picked up her book, opened it and ostentatiously began to read, using it to screen the child from her vision. She had always made a point of ignoring children she did not know, and most of the few she did, and still remembered the last time she had broken her rule.

  A little girl had been sitting opposite her on a train and her expression as she stared fixedly at Jacqueline was so intent and serious that Jacqueline had smiled at her.

  The child hadn’t returned the smile. Instead she said loudly, “She’s pretty, isn’t she, Mummy, even though she isn’t young?”

  The woman next to her leaned in and hissed something inaudible in the child’s ear.

  Jacqueline stared out of the window and simulated being a deaf mute.

  “But she isn’t, Mummy.” The little girl’s tone was one of patient reason. “Look, she has lines around her eyes.”

  It was more than five years since the incident but Jacqueline had never forgotten it. She remembered, too, going home that evening and examining and re-examining her face in a mirror.

  When she glanced up, the little boy was still watching her.

  Jacqueline gave a little ground. “Why are you lonely?” she asked. “Haven’t you anyone to play with?”

  The boy shook his head so fiercely the heavy glasses juddered. “No,” he said, and he stamped his foot in frustration. “I’m a lonely child.”

  “He means that he’s an only child,” said Dot Candy, coming out on the terrace and ruffling the child’s hair. “Jacqueline, this is Jimmy Small. Say hello.”

  “Hello,” said Jacqueline and realised too late that Dot had been addressing the child. The error made her feel foolish. She made a show of digging her phone out of her pocket and checking the time and was genuinely astonished to find it was gone two-thirty. She got up. “I’d better get a move on and go get something to eat.”

  “You know you’re welcome to make yourself something here,” said Dot.

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll go into the town,” said Jacqueline.

  “Suit yourself.” Dot smiled down at the boy. “Shall we go walk the course, Jimmy?”

  The child squinted an
d nodded vigorously and Jacqueline watched them moving hand and hand down the steps and across the garden.

  She had her lunch in a small seafood restaurant on the promenade. She put away a plate of pasta with prawns, and on a whim ordered the ‘Tart of the Day’. It turned out to be treacle tart and, as she chased the last crumbs round the plate with her fork, Jacqueline was assailed by a memory of her father, eating apple pie and custard on the day of his haircut. And on the back of that came a wave of other memories. She saw him, grinning puckishly over the rim of his whisky glass, thought of how he always refused to be hurried but would suddenly break into the funny little shuffly run he had. She remembered how he would never wear a hat, however cold the weather got, but hunched down instead, inside the upturned collar of his overcoat. Like every memory of him, these hurt her like a physical attack, but this time the pain was alloyed with the sudden conviction that one day all these would be happy memories. All she had to do was wait.

  She left the restaurant and strolled down the slipway to the beach. The afternoon was warm and she sat on the sand and took off her shoes, wrapped her jacket around her bag and made a pillow of it, then stretched out and closed her eyes.

  When she awoke and checked her phone, she realised she had been dozing for more than two hours; she wondered if she had some kind of sleeping sickness. It was still pleasant but not as warm as it had been. She unwound her jacket from her bag and put it on, then sat looking about her.

  The tide had come in and she got up and walked to the shore. She waded into the sea. The water foamed about her calves in lace-like patterns that stretched and tore and then reformed.

  The light on the water was dazzling and she closed her eyes. Keeping them shut, she took a couple of steps. The sand heaved softly under her feet and she swayed a little, then she took another step and another. She thought: I could just keep on going …

  “Some people leave their clothes in a neat little pile beside the water.”

  Jacqueline opened her eyes and spun round. A man was standing at the water’s edge. The sun caught the streak of white in his hair and made it gleam and Jacqueline recognised the man from the chair.