‘Gran’s not great, to be honest. She’s still in hospital, but I’m hoping she’ll be out in time for Christmas, and then she’ll be staying with me and Rod – she’s really not going to be up to managing on her own in that massive house.’
‘So she’s not at home?’ Lucy could practically hear her ears pricking up. ‘I could stay for a week or two at her house then, if it’s standing empty. Give me a base to visit her.’
Like that could ever be anything but a massive hindrance with the million and one things that needed doing there. She could imagine it now, her mother drifting around in a dressing gown, painting her nails at the kitchen table, reconnecting with local friends, adding to the mess, while Lucy tried desperately to cut it down.
‘That’s really not doable,’ she said. ‘We’re in the middle of having a sort-out, clearing the place.’
‘A sort-out? What kind of a sort-out?’
Lucy blinked a little as it suddenly occurred to her that her mother might actually be able to help for once.
‘Actually, since I’ve got you, I found some things in the attic,’ she blurted, before she could properly think through whether or not that was a prudent move.
‘What kind of things? Anything of value?’
Oh, for goodness’ sake!
‘Gran was in the Land Army during the war, did you know that?’
A pause at the other end of the line. Flamenco music could be heard faintly in the background.
‘I think she might have mentioned it once or twice, some kind of farm thing I think. She milked cows, can you imagine how vile? Is there any of my stuff up there? Vintage clothes, that kind of thing? Seventies stuff can go for a mint on eBay, you know.’
What was the point in even asking?
‘I really haven’t been looking for anything specific, it’s more of a house clearance than a sort-out.’
Big mistake.
‘You mean you’re selling the house?’
Lucy could tell just from the sharpened tone of voice that in whatever bar her mother happened to be right now, in whatever country, she had sat, suddenly, meerkat-upright. She closed her eyes briefly. Her mother would have found out about Gran’s care plans at some point, of course. It was just bloody typical that it had to be now, when Lucy’s path was already strewn with obstacles.
‘We’re getting it valued. It’s just too much for Gran now, there’s no way she can carry on living there safely. If we do sell it, then the money will be held in trust to pay for her care. The plan is that she stays with me, but what with work and everything I’m going to need help, and I want her to have the best.’
There was such a long pause this time that if it hadn’t been for the guitar and maracas Lucy would have wondered if the connection had been lost, but nope, her mother eventually piped back up with a level of reasonableness that made alarm bells clang.
‘Whatever you think is best, darling, the last thing I want is to cause any upheaval. More harm than good, you know. I know she’ll be in safe hands with you and Rod, you always were a bit of an earth mother. And such a brilliant organiser, that man. Cuts through red tape. Just what you need in a domestic crisis. Perhaps I’ll come down and stay with her in the new year, that might be less of a disturbance, don’t you think?’
Too easy.
‘I’ll give her your love then,’ Lucy said, doubtfully. Was this really going to be it? No further interest in what was happening with the sale of the house? She’d expected questions at the very least, about what would happen with the sale proceeds. About how inheritances might be affected. Then again, the house belonged outright to Gran, her mother knew that, had no real clout. How realistic was it really that she’d underestimated her mother for the first time ever?
Feeling virtuous at this newly determined refocus on her Christmas duties, Lucy leaned on the counter of the neat kitchen she shared with Rod, stirred the simmering vat of boeuf bourgignon on the hob, and checked the page of the open recipe book to compare its appearance with the yardstick, as cooked by Mary Berry. On balance she had to admit, not bad.
This was absolutely the way to go. She should be resolutely focused on her own bloody present-day life instead of hankering after the past and disrupting everything in sight. She felt as if she’d woken up and smelled the gingerbread latte. A brief chat with her mother could do that to a person. The woman had the ability to sweep in to any given situation and remove all order, and the up-and-down uncertainty that had dogged Lucy throughout her childhood had kicked right back in with a sickening lurch since the OTT effusive backing her mother had given to Gran’s care plans. Mistrust niggled at her like an itch she couldn’t quite scratch.
She tugged her task list from her pocket, fished, not without some exasperation, by Jack out of the skip at the end of the previous day. She picked up a pen and put an enormous flourishing tick next to cook ahead for Christmas. For an extra boost of smug she added write cards for Rod’s work to the list, and crossed it immediately out. It didn’t matter that she’d done that one in bed last night, she would take credit wherever she could find it. Turned out writing Happy Christmas from Rod and Lucy over and over again could pass as the new counting sheep.
Her mobile phone buzzed its way across the counter, and she gave the bourgignon another loving stir as she reached to pick it up.
‘Lucy? It’s Samantha Truss, we spoke yesterday? About the women’s Land Army in Hertfordshire?’
She dropped the wooden spoon in the pan and turned her back on the food.
‘We did! Did you manage to come up with anything?’
There was the sound of papers being shifted about.
‘Your grandmother, Olive Jackson … I’ve got her listed as living at Horston Green House. A lot of the women stayed there as a base, and travelled out to farms in the area to work. Olive was there from March 1944 until the beginning of 1945. And I’ve got her working on Marsh Farm, it was a dairy farm at the time.’
Lucy tried to feel positive, although it really wasn’t much more information than she’d already found herself. But still, the farm name was a new lead. It was a shame they hadn’t known that yesterday, while they were in the area: they could have visited. Perhaps she could do some kind of shout-out on social media. In the run-up to Christmas week though, it was questionable how much interest it would get. Still, there was no denying this was a step forward, five minutes ago she’d had absolutely nothing to go on. Now she did.
‘That’s amazing. Thanks so much for getting back to me.’
‘That’s not all. I did a quick search on local residents, cross-referenced some of the names, and I think I’ve found someone who was posted there at the same time as Olive. Obviously, people came from right across the country when they joined up, but eventually most of them drifted back towards their home towns. Unless they found a reason to stay on, of course. This lady met someone local and married him when the war ended, so she stayed put. I can’t guarantee she’ll even remember your gran, but she might be able to give some insights into the time that could be helpful. She’s in a nursing home now, would you like the address?’
Bet your ass she’d like the address. She wedged the phone awkwardly between her chin and shoulder and wrote it down on the back of her to-do list.
Elizabeth Warrender, The Briars, Scotts Lane, Tring, Hertfordshire.
She thanked Samantha and hung up, her mind already thinking about the best route to Hertfordshire. She only became vaguely aware as she fooled around with Google maps on her phone of a dry sizzling sound from the pan on the stove and swung around in alarm. Oh great. Now the bourgignon was acting up. It had reduced far too much while she was distracted and she grabbed the wooden spoon and stirred hard, unfortunately not quickly enough to stop the bloody thing catching on the bottom of the pan. The domestic goddess she’d been channelling five minutes earlier now completely scuppered, the best she could do was pour half the kettle into it and hope for the best. She experienced a faint stab of dismay as she prodded the
stew with the spoon. This was the level of quality workmanship she was now delivering, and it was clear that she really couldn’t continue down this path and also pull off Christmas to Mary Berry standard. Not unless something gave.
The front door banged and Rod strode into the kitchen and put his briefcase down on the table.
‘Bit of a smell of burning,’ he remarked, giving her a kiss on the cheek. ‘You sure that isn’t catching?’ He peered into the pan.
‘A bit, but I think I’ve turned it around,’ she said rashly.
He prodded it doubtfully with the wooden spoon while she sat down at the table and pushed the chair opposite out with her foot.
‘There’s something I need to do,’ she said, not sure how best to approach him, because she had a list right next to her of things she needed to do, and there was no way Rod was going to prioritise a trip to visit a random pensioner at a nursing home miles away above any of them.
The box of tree decorations was in a bag at the end of the table, and she pulled it towards her and took it out while Rod fussed with the bourgignon. She picked one out at random and unwrapped it, unfolded the note. It was the four entwined feathers, four calling birds, perfect in every detail. She looked down at the note.
Follow your instincts. Look beyond trivial. Impossible dreams are the best kind.
The slipping standards on a bit of cookery really didn’t matter, did they? She’d rather serve up burnt bourgignon and have made Gran’s year than pull off an empty Christmas with all the trimmings. Christmas was an enormous deal to Rod, she’d come to realise this in the few years they had been together. A childhood filled with family get-togethers and perfectly thrown dinner parties could create quite the high standards in someone. Her own attempt to live up to the Carmichael benchmark was a work in progress that was clearly falling short so far this year. But then she and Rod had year upon year of Decembers ahead of them, and she could make every single one of them perfect. Who knew, by the time they reached retirement, she might even be making some of those dessert spoons with just the taster of classic recipes on them that his mother had pulled off last year. She closed her eyes at the thought that this could be the last Christmas Gran would see – what could possibly be more important than that?
Rod discarded the spoon in the pan with a can’t-be-saved clatter, and turned to look at her. His face showed poorly hidden exasperation, which intensified when he caught sight of the box of decorations open in front of her. Too late, she realised it might not be the best time to ask his views on a drop-everything jaunt to Hertfordshire.
‘Not those bloody things again. I thought we’d been over this.’
‘We had. I’ve got a new lead.’
‘You make it sound like something off CSI. It’s decades old tat from someone’s loft, and I really don’t get what the mad rush is. What exactly is going on with you right now?’
He ignored the chair she’d pushed out and instead headed for the door, so she got up and followed him out into the sitting room.
‘Look, just hear me out. I’ve found someone who knew Gran when she was in the Land Army. They served together on a farm out in Hertfordshire. She met a local lad while she was there and ended up marrying him and settling in the area.’
Rod flapped a hand at her in a cut-to-the-chase gesture. He had never been one for extraneous details. She took a deep breath.
‘I’d really like to drive down and meet her. It’s not that far, I can do there and back within a day. Ask her everything I need to know.’
He stared at her.
‘And when were you thinking of doing this?’
‘Well, tomorrow.’ Obviously. ‘The sooner I get it out of the way the sooner I can come back and just concentrate on throwing myself into Christmas.’
‘Lucy,’ he said patiently, as if he were talking to a toddler, ‘it’s the Christmas ball tomorrow for Jefferson Wallace.’
They were his biggest client, and a large part of the reason why partnership was on the cards earlier than either of them could ever have hoped for. He spoke with an air of astonishment that she could possibly have room in her brain right now for anything other than mingling and pulling off ‘perfect couple’ at some Christmas do.
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ she said in a rush. ‘I picked up your dinner jacket. The taxis are booked. It’s all in hand. I’ll be back in plenty of time for that, and then the day after I’ll get the Christmas tree up and get all the final gift shopping done. I do know I’m behind on all of this. I’ve done my best to throw myself into all the organising, but I just can’t focus properly until I’ve found out as much as I can about this. I feel like I have a chance to do something really special for Gran.’
‘I get all of this, I understand how important she is to you, but aren’t we important too? Yes, your gran’s accident is awful timing, but with the early partnership suddenly on the table, there’s more at stake here than a few Christmas drinks. You know what it’s like, there’s a reason the firm puts across a family line, clients like it. It gives an air of trust. How’s it going to look if I start turning up like nobby-no-mates with no date?’
‘You wouldn’t be. It would all be done and dusted in a day. I’d be back in time, I absolutely promise you. It’s just that I can’t concentrate on all the things I need to do for Christmas when this is on my mind all the time. I know how much Christmas means to you and your family, and I really want to do it justice.’
Although to be fair, Rod’s seasonal family competitiveness could at times be a step too far. But it had been such an important time of year when he was growing up, how could she blame him for having such a high benchmark for it now?
‘You can’t possibly realise how much it means,’ he said. ‘My father worked abroad most of the year. We were shoved away in boarding school. Christmas was this one period of uninterrupted family downtime when we all got to be together. I think you need to get with the programme, and I just don’t understand why all this can’t be put off until the new year.’
There really was just no getting through to him how important this felt to her.
‘Because I don’t even know if Gran will make the new year,’ she blurted suddenly.
Rod stared at her, and she looked back at him in shock. She hadn’t allowed herself to entertain that possibility, but clearly her subconscious had been mulling it over without her realising. Her throat felt suddenly too dry and tight, and she sat down hard on the sofa. Was that what this was about? This sense of urgency that was obstructing her focus.
She looked up at him.
‘She’s just so tired, Rod,’ she said. And that was the thing that troubled her the most. To see Gran, for whom fighting spirit wasn’t just something that surfaced when things got difficult but was an actual part of her psyche, with barely the energy or inclination to turn her head on the pillow, was almost impossible for Lucy to process. ‘The only spark of interest I’ve managed to get out of her was when I showed her the tree decorations and mentioned the Land Army. Her whole face lit up. Imagine how much she would love it if I could maybe track down someone she knew from back then, or even just find out a few stories that might bring some memories back for her. I just … if something happens to her, Rod, what am I going to do? I don’t want to lose her and think later that this was the one thing I had left that I could have done for her that would have meant something – and I didn’t do it because I was baking bloody mince pies.’
She covered her eyes, because looking at her fingers was somehow preferable right now to looking at Rod, so convinced was she that there was no way of getting through to him. There was a heavy squeak, and the sofa shifted as he sat down next to her.
‘If it’s that important to you, go,’ he said.
She could hardly believe it. She looked sideways at him from between her fingers.
‘Really?’
He put his arm around her.
‘There and back same day, right? Just get it sorted, and then we can all get back on track
.’
Chapter 6
She was there again. Jack checked his watch. The lights were on downstairs at Olive Jackson’s house, and it was only a few minutes past eight in the morning. Turning up at the house early was getting to be a habit.
As he parked the van up and put the handbrake on, Lucy appeared from the side door of the house. She had an overflowing cardboard box in her hand, but instead of trekking to the skip and throwing it in, she crossed the drive and slid it into the back seat of her ancient Mini. He got out, locked the van, and headed towards her. The cold air bit sharply into his face. There was an imminent downturn in the weather on the way, and the already wintry temperature had plummeted overnight. A thick frost clung to the driveway, and the bare trees that lined it were icy white.
‘Going somewhere?’ he said.
She pulled her head out of the car boot and smiled at him. A smile like that could knock you on your arse. But only if you let it. He was under no illusions about why he was here. She was so far from his cup of tea, with her obsessive need for order in her life, and the planning ahead thing was just scary. His helping her out was for no other reason except that he felt sympathy for her situation.
‘I’m really glad I saw you. I’ve got a new lead on the decorations.’
Her happiness was obvious, and he felt unexpectedly pleased.
‘That’s great. What is it? Did the research help?’
‘It really did. Thanks so much for pushing me to do it; if it hadn’t been for you I’d still be mucking about in the loft, no further forward. I’ve got the name and address of one of Gran’s friends from back when she was working on the land. She’s in a nursing home now in Hertfordshire, and I’m going to visit her to see what I can find out.’
The Present Page 8