The Patron of Lost Causes

by Mark Daydy

  She walked around most of Hallbridge, even along a trail that crossed the river and wound all the way back.

  She called Jane while she walked, just to say goodbye. Jane wanted to know how things were with Nick, but Lucy explained that she would be returning home to Barnet and going back to work in Hertfordshire. The Nick situation wasn’t a situation at all. She finished by updating her cousin on the Billy Brown dead end.

  Re-entering the village from the far side, she arrived at the house where Greg had lived in the upstairs half all those years ago. She paused by the gate. Greg’s front room faced west. She knew that because she’d watched the sun go down from the window. She despised it, possibly because it could only offer memories of Greg. Or was that wrong? Was it memories of a lost future? She could see him at the window… young and carefree, smoking a cigarette. The emotions came back to her. Desire. Passion. Hope. Fear. Regret. Hate.

  Thirty years.

  Greg’s explanation to the police came back to her. Funny how that scene faded from her mind during her marriage to James. He called her his princess. Sometimes though, if she didn’t give him money for gambling and booze, he would swear at her.

  But he never meant it.

  Leo came to mind. He told her she was the queen of his heart and that her breasts were lovelier than any he’d ever set eyes on. One night, when she sat in front of her laptop screen, ready to express her love for him, she found his account had been deactivated. Her brain screamed that night. He’d gone because her money had run out. But she knew in her heart it couldn’t be so. He needed that money to help his parents fight a wicked landlord in Cairo. He needed it to kickstart his tour guide business in the Valley of the Kings. She was going to be his first customer. Free of charge, of course. She sat there that night, half her blouse buttons undone, and she cried big fat tears. And she hated herself and her stupid brain and her stupid body. And she hated the internet and the world. And then she went to work the next day to set up a refreshment package for a small group of Irish pastors who needed a break from the chaos of life.

  *

  Around half-eleven, Lucy paid off the taxi driver and stood outside Taylor’s Antiques. She would buy something and then leave Sussex.

  Inside, Nick was with a young male customer. Another customer, a young woman, was browsing. There was no sign of Fay.

  Lucy busied herself studying the pieces on display.

  The elegant Victorian mahogany writing table was still there, priced at £750. Wasn’t that a twenty-five-pound reduction? She ran her hand over the dark wood and inlaid green leather. As before, she could smell the years. How had Nick described it? Bags of character and charm? She thought of letters to lovers scratched by quill onto parchment. What stories this desk could tell.

  The young woman’s browsing brought her alongside.

  “1860 or thereabouts,” said Lucy. “You might find one at auction for five hundred, but not in this condition.”

  Lucy slid open one of the two drawers. It wasn’t mahogany or leather she could smell. It was Givenchy. As in perfume.

  “I’m here with my husband,” said the woman.

  “Oh, might he be interested in a writing desk?”

  “No, he collects medals.”

  “Ah.”

  Lucy smiled and let the woman continue her browsing, while her own attention switched to the Queen Elizabeth the Second coronation cup and saucer way over the back. She could almost hear the echo of Nick’s voice. “Do I hear one pound? One pound anyone?” She had struggled to break through her wall of reserve.

  But hadn’t progress been made?

  The couple were suddenly leaving. Nick was smiling at her.

  “Hello again.”

  “Hello.” Lucy waited for the door to close on the departing couple before continuing. “You said you had some nice pieces in your flat. What kind of pieces?”

  “Oh, all kinds. Small objects, big furniture…”

  “What kind of bed do you have?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well… Jane and I were wondering if you had an old four-poster.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m thinking probably not. Old beds are usually saggy and having a firm mattress is important.”

  “Important for what?”

  Lucy was losing her way. Why did she have to channel Jane?

  “You know what I mean. I just wondered if you had an old bed, that’s all.”

  He laughed. “Well, Queen Victoria once slept in it.”

  “No way.”

  “It was after a fancy-dress party. Her real name’s Rebecca.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “Yes, she looked so peaceful I didn’t want to move her. She was seven at the time.”

  Lucy smiled. “Does she try to choose suitable partners for you?”

  Nick laughed. “Yes, sometimes. Although I think I’ve worn her down.”

  “Same with my daughter. There was a period of a couple of years where she thought she had a role in sorting out my life.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “So… busy morning?”

  “No, Sunday never is. I just like to open nine till twelve. You never know. But what about you? Aren’t you heading home?”

  “Yes, I just thought I might buy a little memento.”

  “Oh right. Well, if it’s going in a travel bag, maybe something unbreakable?”

  “Yes… not over fifty pounds though, if that’s okay?”

  “Okay, I wonder what I can tempt you with…?”

  Their eyes met.

  She wanted love. There, she’d admitted it. She wanted to walk on secluded beaches with him, and maybe they would have a dog who would run on ahead while they held hands. And not just beaches, but romantic country walks, city walks through parks, by rivers…

  She leaned a little closer.

  They almost kissed.

  But Lucy pulled back. “Oh, I wasn’t…”

  “It’s okay.”

  Lucy desired him. She wanted intimacy. But she had been there before, and it had ended badly every time.

  Change the subject!

  “Have you always wanted to be in antiques?”

  “No, I originally wanted to run a pub.”

  “Oh, you mentioned your parents’ pub.”

  “Yes, in Bournemouth. That’s where I grew up.”

  “What made you switch to antiques?”

  “My parents went bust and I became homeless.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m over-dramatizing. I was sofa-surfing for a couple of weeks. Then a friend got me a part-time job in Worthing. It’s a long story but I sold my watch and gold ring and used the money to buy an art deco glass and enamel etched vase. I paid two hundred for it at a market and doubled my money selling it through an auction. Then I started trading.”

  Lucy decided to be brave.

  “We never did have that coffee and cake.”

  “And now you’re going home.”

  “Yes… I am.”

  Nick seemed to weigh it up.

  “We could have an early lunch. Fancy a picnic?”

  “A picnic?”

  “We’ll grab some supplies and go.”

  “Oh, but you’re open till twelve.”

  “Says who?”

  Nick turned the door sign around and Lucy supposed that was that.

  20. A Picnic on a Hill

  Nick drove them a few miles through magnificent countryside to a Forestry Commission car park at Eartham Wood.

  Getting out of the car, he took in an exaggerated lungful of fresh air.

  “This is a great place for a picnic,” he announced.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Lucy. It really was beautiful.

  “If you’re up for a walk, though, there’s a much better spot.”

  “Okay.”

  Nick grabbed the shoulder bag full of lunch and set off. Lucy was quickly alongside him, striding purposefully, and wondering
how long she could keep up the pretence of being an accomplished country hiker. This was her second walk of the day and she didn’t want him to see an unfit reception manager collapsed in a sweating heap.

  “Is it far?” she asked as casually as possible.

  “No, we’re just following the Stane Street Roman road up to Halnaker Windmill.”

  “Great,” she said, unsure of where that left her.

  “You’ll love it,” said Nick, and he was right.

  It was a stunning walk along a trail that ran through a fluttering green tunnel formed by the tree canopy. It was a good few minutes of wonder before they spoke again.

  “Do you have plans?” Nick asked.

  “Always,” said Lucy.

  “Plans for the future, I mean.”

  “Which one? The scary one or the easy one?”

  “The scary one.”

  “No.”

  The trail eventually reached open fields and, at the top of the hill, a wonderful old windmill.

  “It’s lovely,” puffed Lucy taking in the vista of grassland, wildflowers, birds and butterflies, and views far across West Sussex.

  Nick set out their picnic and poured them each a glass of merlot from a half bottle.

  “Cheers,” he said, clinking his plastic against hers.

  “Thanks for bringing me,” she said. “It really is beautiful.”

  “There’s been a windmill here for five hundred years or so. Possibly even longer. There’s a document dated 1540 that says the mill belonged to the manor of ‘Halfnaked’. I’m not quite sure where that comes from.”

  It jarred with Lucy. Half-naked took her straight back to a laptop and a Zoom connection to Leo.

  “Maybe half the manor was covered in trees and half was bare,” she suggested.

  “That’s as good as any explanation,” said Nick.

  Lucy looked up at the windmill.

  “I wonder who built it?” she mused.

  “The original was built for the Duke of Richmond as a mill for the Goodwood Estate,” said Nick. “This one dates back to the 1740s, although it’s been restored a few times.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “There’s a poem about it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not a very cheery one.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s by Hilaire Belloc and goes on about the collapse of the mill representing the fall in moral standards. I don’t know the words as such, but it’s about a girl called Sally being gone and the briar growing over the collapsing mill. And then England collapses too because everyone’s in desolation.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “There’s so much history around here. Any windmills in your family?”

  “No, but we had a genuine knight.”

  “Sir Lancelot?”

  “Sir George.”

  “The one with the dragon?”

  “I’m serious.”

  Nick eyed her. “You are. Tell me more.”

  “Mum’s grandfather was Sir George Howard. He was a bit of a leading light in West Sussex either side of the War. It was him who bought my old rocking horse – we think from a wealthy family in the area.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “No.”

  “Still… having a Sir George in the family. I feel I should bow or something.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to mention it.”

  Nick stood up and bowed graciously. “Madame…”

  “Sir George set the standards we’re all expected to follow. Apart from growing a huge beard, of course.”

  “Well, I’m impressed,” said Nick, sitting down again. “My ancestors hardly registered on the Sussex scene unless you count my gran being a waitress at the golf club.”

  “But you did well.”

  “That wasn’t family. More some guy called Jack who used to drink in our pub. He was always cheerful, so I asked him what made him happy. He said don’t be a lazy dreamer. Back up your vision of a bright, happy future with genuine hard work. He said don’t work for other people helping them achieve their dreams – put the work into creating your own life. You’ll never regret it. Even if you end up poor.”

  “So that’s what you did?”

  “When I sold my first antique, I got such a feeling of connection with the business. I knew I wanted to know more, learn more, trade more. And I knew my wealth would be knowledge. Well, knowledge and a few superb pieces I keep hidden away for my retirement.”

  “Sensible.”

  “Assuming I can bring myself to sell them to pay for my retirement. You see, Jack was right. My happiness isn’t based on money. I’m too busy doing what I love. A by-product of that is I make money.”

  Lucy took a sip of wine while Nick had more to say.

  “I told my daughter about Jack when she was ten. Rebecca believes in fate, serendipity, fortune, destiny. Call it what you will. She says the right people come along at the right time for all of us. I think she was talking about her arrival as a baby.”

  Lucy laughed. “You must be proud of her.”

  “Yes, she appears in a million photos, but she changes every day. Growing up. We keep the photos though, don’t we. Just so we can revisit and feel the love of that moment.”

  “True, although not everyone keeps photos for that reason. My Aunt Eleanor is researching our family history. She’s got photos of our lot with Prime Ministers and what have you. That’s where she places her pride.”

  “Family research can become an addiction,” said Nick.

  Lucy flinched at the dreaded ‘A’ word while James screamed through her brain demanding money and calling her names.

  “Yes… I suppose it can,” she said.

  “I’ve got an entire family tree full of workers in agriculture, railways, factories… I’m proud of what they did in hard times.”

  Lucy nodded. Nick wasn’t a Greg, a James or a Leo. She wondered if it might be possible to be really good, long-term friends with him. That way, there would be less damage done if he stopped returning her calls.

  Stop thinking like that!

  “Nick, you’ve passed on good genes. Rebecca is lovely.”

  “Thanks, but half the credit goes to her mum. We just didn’t see eye to eye on where we wanted to live. Saskia lives in London. The art scene.”

  “Oh well,” said Lucy. “Go on, cheer yourself up with a sandwich.”

  “Will do, your ladyship.”

  Lucy laughed. She was enjoying herself.

  *

  Two hours later, Nick was dropping Lucy and her bag at nearby Arundel station. The train ride home was upon her. She was about to say farewell to Nick and to Sussex.

  “Back to work in the morning then,” she said cheerfully. “It should be a busy time. We’ve got lots coming up at the college over the winter.”

  “Same here,” said Nick.

  “Well, thanks for the picnic… and everything. It’s been fun.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  He smiled and got back into his car. She watched him drive off.

  She wanted to be with him, in his arms, in his bed. But she hadn’t seen a way forward. She almost laughed. At least she’d maintained standards.

  Ah well, it would be back to the reassuring, ordinary normal world tomorrow.

  Thankfully.

  She wondered why she was still staring down the station approach road five minutes after he’d gone. Maybe she would have stood watching longer, but her phone rang.

  It was Jane.

  “I know you don’t like to share, but if you want something to happen between you and Nick, you need to open up a little. It’s about trust.”

  “I’m happy as I am.”

  “Are you sure? You look like someone who would get so much out of a relationship.”

  “I’ve had relationships.”

  “I mean a good relationship. A great relationship. Nick might be the one.”

  “Possibly. Anyway, I’m heading home as we speak. My train’s in ten minutes.�
��

  “So, what are you doing next Sunday morning?”

  “Er… nothing. Why? Did you want to meet up or something?”

  “No, I wanted to see how your next Sunday morning would be. It sounds like a solo cup of tea in front of the politics show before a stroll to the supermarket to get lunch.”

  “Sunday is a day of rest for me. I work all week and I like to recharge my batteries over the weekend. It’s not a crime.”

  “Imagine a different Sunday morning. There’s Nick with you. You only get to eat half the toast before he kisses you and lures you back to bed where, for the second time that weekend…”

  “Could we change the subject?”

  “Sure. Just for Libby, is it worth us making any more enquiries about Billy Brown?”

  “We have no idea of his whereabouts and I’ll be at work in the morning.”

  “Yes, but we—”

  “For the record, I tried all the online angles, not just Facebook.”

  She heard her cousin sigh down the line.

  “Yeah, he does sound like an opt-out kind of guy.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Right, so that’s it. You’re not coming back.”

  “No.”

  “Well… it’s been fun.”

  “Yes, it has. But it’s time to get back to the real world now.”

  “Who’s to say what’s real and fake?”

  “I have to go.”

  “Okay, bye Lucy. Love you.”

  “Thanks Jane. You’ve been brilliant.”

  Lucy ended the call and entered the station. Ten minutes later, she was on the train, sitting comfortably, eyes closed. In her mind’s eye there was a lazy bee on the wind… wildflowers… a small bird twittering… a windmill… views far into the distance… and peace.

  21. Two Mad Mornings

  In the welcome quiet of the college library, Lucy returned a biography of Randall Davidson, Archbishop of Canterbury, 1903 to 1928, to its slot on a shelf.

  She paused to take in the moment, which was something they encouraged on refreshment breaks. Get a sense of your ‘now-ness’ and ‘where-ness’. Give thanks for what you have. It was the start of her third day back at work and she had never been more settled. Life was simple once more.

  Why chase after hidden truth in Sussex? Anyone in need of a little mystery in their life could find unanswered questions anywhere. Even here at St Katherine’s. It didn’t mean you were obligated to seek answers. There was that first edition a mystery benefactor recently left on the college doorstep with a garbled note. Nobody pursued it. The assistant director simply added it to the library’s collection.