The Last Lost Girl

by Maria Hoey

  “Has she no family of her own?”

  “None that want to know – but they’re okay now, they’re here. Oh hello!” Dot sprang to her feet. “What’s up, Jimmy? Couldn’t you sleep?”

  Jacqueline twisted in her chair again. This time it was the child who was standing behind her. He was dressed in purple pyjamas decorated with green dinosaurs, his feet were bare and he was holding some kind of cuddly toy animal, so ratty it was hard to tell what exactly – a squirrel perhaps from the look of its tail. He gazed fixedly at Jacqueline, then without warning he broke into a run, his arms spread wide, swooping past the two women, the squirrel flying wildly above his head. Careering down the steps he ran about the lawn, making loud aeroplane noises. Then, as suddenly, he was back again, circling Jacqueline’s chair. She drew in her feet, tightened her hold on her glass to avoid the flying squirrel and waited for him to stop.

  Her sigh of relief when he finally swooped down to the garden again was audible and, meeting Dot’s eye, she could see the woman’s amusement.

  “He likes you,” said Dot.

  “I don’t think so,” said Jacqueline.

  “He does. Children are like that – they take best to people who don’t fawn over them.”

  “Perhaps,” said Jacqueline. She buried her nose in her glass.

  Dot picked up her glass from the table and drained it. “I’d better go put that child to bed,” she said, “but you stay and have some more wine. I shouldn’t be more than ten minutes – he’s tired out.”

  “I should go,” said Jacqueline, but she stayed where she was. Watching Dot running across the lawn after the boy, she didn’t think he looked tired out. He squealed and yelped and evaded Dot’s grasp several times before she finally caught him, swept him up in her arms and carried him into the house.

  Jacqueline thought about her dinner but after the heavy lunch she could wait, and she needed to talk to Dot Candy. And it was very peaceful now the boy had gone. So she refilled her glass and tried to relax and enjoy the pleasant evening. Two butterflies danced by in a jazzy synchronicity and she watched them for a while, mesmerised.

  She had refilled her glass a second time before Dot returned, another bottle of wine in her hand.

  “Sorry,” she said. “That took longer than I thought – three stories in fact. And when he finally got to sleep, it was all I could do to stop myself cleaning that room.”

  “Jimmy’s room?”

  “Well, Marilyn’s room – it’s a bombsite up there.”

  “You don’t clean it?”

  “No, I don’t. Marilyn is not a guest, she lives here. She’s supposed to look after herself, keep her room clean and all that. I keep promising myself I’ll ignore it, but it’s not easy. Oh well, never mind, not your business, forget I said anything.” She filled her own glass and offered Jacqueline a top-up.

  “No, thanks. I helped myself while you were gone.”

  “So what? Have some more,” said Dot.

  “I’d best not – not on an empty stomach.”

  “Look, why don’t I get you something to eat?” said Dot. “Unless you really want to go into town.”

  “No, it’s too much trouble,” said Jacqueline, “and your work is done for the day, you’re relaxing.”

  “Would you eat an omelette?” said Dot, already on her feet. “I would. I haven’t eaten yet myself. You stay here and I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Resistance, Jacqueline felt, was futile and the truth was she had no real desire to walk all the way back down the hill again. She could get a taxi, she supposed, there or back or both but it was so much more pleasant to sit here and sip her wine and she really did want to talk to Dot.

  When Dot had hurried off, Jacqueline, her glass full once more, succumbed to her own languor and settled back in her chair. And it did seem like no time before Dot was back with the omelette and with it a basket of French bread and a tossed salad.

  As they settled down and began to eat, Dot picked up the threads of their conversation almost as though there had been no break. “I shouldn’t talk about Marilyn like that – it’s not easy for her. You know, she says he comes to her at night sometimes.”

  “Who does?” said Jacqueline. “By the way, this omelette is heaven.”

  “Thanks. Calvin, Jimmy’s father – his name was Calvin Schmalz.”

  Biting into the still-warm bread Jacqueline realised she had misheard. It was Schmalz, not Small.

  “Though the state that room is in, it’s a miracle he can find her,” said Dot musingly.

  Jacqueline couldn’t help smiling. “What does she say he does?”

  “I don’t think he does anything much by the sounds of it,” said Dot. “Just stands there and smiles at her. And once, she said, he kissed the top of Jimmy’s head and told her he was happy.”

  “I suppose it’s good she can believe that,” said Jacqueline.

  Dot’s eyebrows rose. “A twenty-eight-year-old man who’s had his head sliced off his body, and he comes to her smiling?” Her tone was bitter. “What’s he got to be happy about?”

  “Does he carry it under his arm?” said Jacqueline.

  “Does he carry what under his arm?”

  “His head,” said Jacqueline, and then at the expression on Dot’s face added, “I’m sorry, it isn’t funny, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No,” said Dot, “it’s not funny.”

  Then her face contorted and suddenly they were both laughing uncontrollably.

  When they stopped, Dot said, “The truth is, I envy Marilyn. After Martin died, I looked for signs everywhere, any sort of sign that he was still here. You know, all that rubbish that people talk about – white feathers and the spirit of the dead returning in the form of a bird or a cat.” She shook her head.

  “But the dead don’t come back,” said Jacqueline. “No matter how much you want them to.” She pushed her plate away.

  “No, I don’t believe they do.” Dot’s voice was gentler than Jacqueline had heard it yet.

  “About my father …” said Jacqueline.

  “Shoot,” said Dot.

  “You said you believed he came here looking for my sister. Did he find her?”

  Dot took a sip of her wine. “No, I don’t believe he did. No, I’m certain he didn’t although I always had the feeling that he found out something …”

  “Found out what?” said Jacqueline.

  “I have no idea,” said Dot, “I honestly haven’t. It was just a feeling I had …”

  “Based on what? People don’t just have feelings for no reason – it’s always based on something, some fact, something they’ve seen or heard …”

  “Alright then,” said Dot. “Based on the way he was when he left here to return home.”

  “What do you mean? How was he?”

  “Different. Just different to the way he was when he first arrived here. If I had to put a word on it, I’d say he seemed hopeful – as though something had happened to make him more hopeful.” She shrugged her shoulders. “That’s the only way I can explain it and I was probably wrong.”

  “No, I don’t think you were wrong,” said Jacqueline. “I think something did happen while he was here. Because that’s how I remember it too. He went away and when he came back he was different. For a while he was different, better, like the spark was back for a while. And then it went out again and it never returned.”

  Dot stirred in her chair. “I’m very sorry,” she said. She leaned forward. “You know we were speaking about grief just now?”

  Jacqueline nodded.

  “Well, you probably know this already, but the Victorians set out the periods of mourning considered appropriate – two to three years for a husband, one for a parent.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that,” said Jacqueline.

  “I’ve often wondered about that,” said Dot, and she settled back in her chair again. “I know I mourned Martin for a lot longer than three years. But I imagine after the time allotted w
as up and they’d packed away all that paraphernalia they went in for, the jet beads and what-have-you, those Victorians still went on grieving inside, the same as us.”

  “I imagine so too,” said Jacqueline.

  “But the time comes,” said Dot, “when you stop willing them to come back. At first you think that could never happen and when it does it feels like a sort of betrayal. It isn’t, of course, it’s natural. Otherwise we, the people left behind, would never get on with our own lives. We’d just stay forever crippled by grief.”

  Dot’s eyes were fixed on Jacqueline’s face. She’s not talking about herself, thought Jacqueline, she means me. Is that what I am, forever crippled by grief? She looked up at the sky. While they had been talking, the bright sharp stars had cut their way through. She got to her feet.

  “Okay, well, it’s late, and I’m tired. Let me take those dishes.”

  “No, please leave them,” said Dot.

  “But you cooked it,” said Jacqueline. “The least I can do is wash up.”

  “I like to keep busy,” said Dot and the brittle nature of her smile stopped Jacqueline’s protest in its tracks.

  “Okay, if you insist,” she said. “Thank you, Dot, for the wine and the food and for … for everything. Goodnight.”

  As she walked away, Dot called after her. “Jacqueline! You should speak to Magpie.”

  Jacqueline turned. “Who’s Magpie?”

  “You’ll see him around the town,” said Dot. “Your father and he used to go about together a bit. He’s Irish, used to be a fisherman at one time – the best place to find him is at the harbour. Ask anyone there and they’ll point him out to you. He might remember something or he might not.” She shrugged her shoulders. “No guarantees with Magpie, but speak to him.”

  Chapter 23

  1976

  There is room for only two more X’s on the calendar and then it will be the day of the Festival Queen Dance.

  Daddy comes in with the newspaper in his hand. “Would you believe it, there’s a horse called Golden Gayle running in the 2.15 at Newmarket!”

  “Where?” Gayle jumps up, nearly spilling the milk.

  Daddy spreads the paper on the table and the two of them lean in over it. “There!” Daddy stabs the paper with his pencil. “Eight to one.”

  “It’s even spelled the same way as my name,” says Gayle. “Are you going to back it, Daddy?”

  Daddy winks at Jacqueline. “I suppose I’ll have to.”

  “Like you need a reason to back a horse,” says Jacqueline’s mother.

  “Ah but I have a good feeling about this one,” says Daddy. “I think I’m in for a lucky spell.”

  Jacqueline’s mother rolls her eyes. They are going to start arguing again, Jacqueline thinks, about Daddy wasting money on backing horses and going to the pub. She picks up Billy Bunter Butts In and goes outside and down to the orchard.

  She has only just settled herself with her book when Regina Quinn comes rustling across the grass. She has a towel rolled up under her arm.

  “Are you comin’ down the river, Jacklean?” she says.

  Jacqueline is about to say no, but even under the trees it is too hot to read today. She thinks about how cool the water will feel running over her hot skin. “Alright, but I’m bringing my book.”

  In her bedroom, Jacqueline takes off her clothes, puts her swimsuit on and gets dressed once more. On the landing, she gets a towel from the hot press and goes downstairs.

  Regina is waiting for her in the orchard. They cut through the gap in the hedge and walk through the meadow to where the river is waiting for them, cold and silver.

  It is even better than Jacqueline has imagined. The stones are mossy and smooth and they feel cold under her feet. She closes her eyes with happiness, lies back and lets herself float so that the sound of the flowing water blocks out Regina’s chattering. They stay in the water for a long time and afterwards they spread their towels on the grass and lie down. The sun dries their swimsuits in next to no time so that they are able to put their clothes on over them for going home.

  On the way back they meet Slinky Quinn. He has his gun in one hand and a bag across his shoulder.

  “Howya, Da,” says Regina.

  Jacqueline looks at the bag and knows there are dead things in there. She imagines them curled up together with blood on their fur, and the day sours like milk in the sun. When she looks up, Slinky Quinn is watching her and smiling. Jacqueline feels the label of her T-shirt rubbing against her sunburnt neck. She looks down quickly and stares at the rows and rows of blue elephants dancing rings around her shorts, at the hairs above her knee-bone, pale and shimmery in the sunlight.

  “How’s young Brennan today then?” says Slinky Quinn. “You’re growing into a little topper, you are, a right little topper.”

  Jacqueline thinks that she is glad Slinky Quinn is not her daddy.

  “I wish I didn’t have to go home,” says Regina, when Slinky Quinn has gone.

  “Why?” Jacqueline asks, wondering if Regina can read her mind.

  “I was supposed to mind Popeye but I snuck out, and now my da will tell my ma he saw me down the river.”

  “Will she slap you with the wooden spoon?”

  Regina nods her head.

  “How many times is that this week?” asks Jacqueline.

  Regina counts silently on her fingertips. “Four,” she says, “so far.”

  Poor Regina, Jacqueline thinks, going home to Slinky and Mrs Quinn and the wooden spoon, but at least she gets gravy.

  When she is back in her own bedroom, Jacqueline stares at herself in the mirror and thinks about what Slinky Quinn said. Is she growing into a little topper? Does she even want to be a little topper? She has never thought about the way she looks before, not really. She knows she is not like Gayle, who is very tall, with fair hair and blue eyes and broad shoulders. She supposes that she herself is more like Lilly, except that her own hair is light brown and her nose is a different shape, and she has too many freckles. Lilly never gets freckles. Jacqueline sighs and takes off her clothes and lies down on her bed in her swimsuit and tries to pretend she is still floating in the cool shining water of the river.

  Daddy is cooking a heart for his dinner. He takes the tray out of the oven and the fat spits and hops. Jacqueline watches him stab the heart with the long fork then lift it onto the big blue-and-white plate which has a picture of a river with a little humpback bridge and there is a man under the bridge, fishing from a boat. The heart rolls across the little humpback bridge and into the river.

  “That’s disgusting,” says Lilly.

  Daddy cuts into the heart and the blood flows, making the blue water red.

  “Oh look, Daddy!” says Jacqueline. “Your heart is broken.”

  “Lilly must have broken it so.” Daddy smiles at Lilly, then his head goes to one side. “Is that a flaw on your face, Lilly?”

  “It’s not a flaw, Frank,” says Jacqueline’s mother. “It’s a spot and you’d hardly notice it, Lilly.”

  Lilly says, “Tell that to the Bionic Man,” but she smiles at Daddy. “I forgot to tell you, Daddy. Eddie wants to take me to the marquee dance on Saturday night. I told him you didn’t want me to go but he says he’s going to ask you anyway.”

  Jacqueline’s mother says, “You’re seeing an awful lot of that fella all of a sudden. I hope he’s careful in that car of his.”

  “Of course he’s careful,” says Daddy. “Edmund is a sensible young fella. As long as he’s taking you and seeing you home, I don’t see why not. Tell him to come and talk to me.”

  “Okay, Daddy, I’ll tell him.” Lilly sounds as if she doesn’t care but Jacqueline sees the little smile on her face when Daddy isn’t looking.

  Gayle says, “But it’s not fair – I want to watch Eamonn Coughlan in the Olympics.”

  “He’s not even running tonight,” says Jacqueline’s mother. “It’s only the opening ceremony. You can switch over after New Faces.”


  “But the Olympics are more important than stupid old New Faces,” says Gayle.

  “In your opinion,” says Jacqueline’s mother.

  Jacqueline gets up and goes over to the window. If she ruled the world, everyone would have their own television, then there wouldn’t be so many arguments. Daddy could watch Match of the Day and The Sky at Night, Lilly could watch Charlie’s Angels, her mother could watch Crossroads and …

  A blue car comes through the gateway and up the drive.

  “Here comes Sexy Sexton again,” says Jacqueline. “Why is he always here?”

  “Jacqueline Brennan!” says her mother. “Come away from the window this minute, and go and let Edmund in. And stop calling him Sexy Sexton – how many times do you have to be told?”

  Gayle jumps up from the sofa. “I’ll go.”

  Jacqueline watches her hurrying out of the room, her fingers touching her plait. When she comes back, her face is very red and Sexy Sexton is behind her.

  He shakes hands with Daddy and Jacqueline’s mother, and Daddy says, “Sit yourself down, Eddie.”

  Sexy sits down on the sofa and Gayle sits down next to him.

  “Eddie,” she says, “what do you think is more important, Eamonn Coughlan in the Olympics or New Faces?”

  Sexy Sexton looks at Gayle as though she is talking double Dutch and Jacqueline’s mother says, “Never mind about that now, Gayle. Jacqueline, love, will you go and tell Lilly that Edmund is here, please.”

  Jacqueline gets up and goes into the hall. She stands at the bottom of the stairs and shouts as loudly as she can. “Lilly, Mam says you’re to come down now! Sexy Sexton is waiting for you!”

  In the living room, everyone starts to talk at once.

  Jacqueline’s mother says, “Isn’t it very hot for the time of night, Eddie?”

  Gayle says, “Are you still playing tennis, Eddie?”

  Daddy says, “So, Edmund, what do you give for Eamonn Coughlan’s chances of a medal?”

  Jacqueline smiles and goes upstairs.

  Lilly comes out of her room. She is wearing her navy bellbottoms and a white crinkly top with little bits of what looks like glass all over it. The pieces of glass have been sewn on with red threads and they glitter like mirrors in the sunlight that is streaming through the landing window.