Looking For Lucy

by Julie Houston

  ‘But there was no one at the funeral who made themselves known, was there?’ I said. ‘No one came up to us, to Sophie or Max, I mean, and said, “Your mum and dad appointed us guardians in the event of their death. Come home and live with us now”.’

  ‘Isn’t it usually godparents?’ Izzy asked, frowning. ‘You know, when you’re christened, don’t godparents agree to take you on if necessary…?’

  I looked doubtful. ‘I’ve no idea. Don’t godparents just agree to send you to church every Sunday and buy you an especially big Christmas and birthday present…?’

  Izzy frowned again. ‘Haven’t got a clue. We never even christened our three, and my own godmother apparently sloped off to live in Slough with some ex-nun she actually met at my christening. It’s a legendary tale that is brought out and aired at dinner parties every now and again. Anyway, you’re still not yourself at all, Clem, and you won’t be able to take it all in. Oh, there’s a man just walked past the window. Are you expecting someone?’

  I looked up, startled by the brief knock on the door. David Henderson walked into the kitchen, taking off his raincoat and shaking it through the still-open door before closing it against the rain.

  ‘God, it’s foul out there. Needed some fresh air, so thought I’d walk over and see how you’re doing, Clem. Are you OK?’

  I’d not seen him since the funeral two weeks earlier when everything had seemed a blur; when the whole day had gone so unexpectedly quickly. And yet, in retrospect, there were enough persistent single clips that kept replaying themselves in my head during the long days and the sleepless nights since, to make an endlessly long film of the whole bloody awful occasion.

  At the crematorium Max had held my hand throughout, desperately trying but unable to stop the tears from rolling down his pale, freckled face. ‘It’s really OK to cry,’ I’d whispered. ‘It really is.’ To Max’s left, sitting rigidly on the painfully hard chair (provided surely, I surmised, to get one grieving set of mourners out the front door as quickly as possible before the next set were allowed in at the back) Sophie had said little, refusing to meet my eyes, unable or unwilling to give comfort to her younger brother. I’d debated long and hard as to the wisdom of allowing a five-year-old to go to a funeral, but Izzy had assured me that while we might live in a culture of wanting to protect children from everything, from losing at games, from being bullied at school, from boredom even, she found no reason—and this, she assured me, came from both a maternal as well as a medical stance—to protect them from the very fundamentals of life and death. Allegra, then, had been allowed to attend her stepfather’s funeral and had held onto my other hand throughout, quietly taking in all that was happening around her. I had assumed I would cry myself but, apart from the shock of the coffins themselves that made me catch my breath as they were carried to the front, I had remained—according to Izzy—passively poker-faced throughout.

  ‘Is she OK?’ David now asked Izzy when I couldn’t reply, when it seemed I didn’t appear able actually to speak.

  ‘I’m all right, David. Really.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’m sure you must have realised that I didn’t love Peter, that I married him because… because he asked me. But I’m so sad for him. He was a good man, a very kind man and he shouldn’t have died like that.’ I really didn’t know what else to say and I clammed up once again.

  ‘We’ve an appointment at the solicitor’s in an hour,’ Izzy said, handing David a mug of coffee and looking at her watch. ‘I think Clem will feel better when she’s been able to sort out a few things.’

  ‘And the children?’ David moved over to the table and sat down with me. ‘It must be so hard for them.’

  ‘Sophie insisted on going back to school as soon as she was able. My mother came over to be on hand to pick Max and Allegra up from their respective schools when I drove Sophie back up to North Yorkshire last week.’

  It had been a nightmare journey. I’d found I was able only to elicit grunts and shrugs from Sophie all the hour and a quarter it had taken us to get there. The new term had started the previous week and, as we drove up the long drive that led to the school, girls were already entrenched on the playing fields, wielding lacrosse sticks—a parody of Malory Towers.

  ‘You really don’t have to come in with me, Clementine,’ Sophie had finally said, her heavily mascaraed blue eyes large in her pretty, pale face.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Sophie. Of course I’m coming in. I need to speak to your headteacher—we arranged it on the phone a couple of days ago.’

  ‘I really don’t think it appropriate that someone born in prison, someone whose twin is a prostitute, should be accompanying me into school.’ Two pinpricks of red appeared in Sophie’s cheeks as she turned to glare at me. ‘You might have conned Daddy into marrying you,’ she hissed, ‘but don’t think you’re going to end up with all his money, with his house. It belongs to Max and me now, not you and your snotty little kid.’

  I actually felt as though I’d been physically hit—winded and mentally staggering from the blow of Sophie’s attack. Before I could gather my senses to say anything, Sophie launched once more.

  ‘Mum told me. She said I had to be nice to you as you’d had such a terrible real mother and that you were living in the red-light district of town because you were probably a prostitute like your sister. Well, I don’t want my friends at school to know that, thank you very much. So, if you don’t mind, just drop me off here. I’m more than capable of carrying my cases up to the main entrance.’

  Sophie had jumped out of the car, dragged her luggage from the boot of the Mini and walked slowly up the drive without a backward glance. Through a veil of tears I’d turned the car, crashing the gears and mounting the kerb before driving back home to Midhope. By the time I arrived at the house, the pounding headache I’d acquired on route had been joined by a familiar low-down gnawing pain in my abdomen and I knew instinctively any hope I’d been harbouring, despite Peter’s death, that I might be pregnant, were in the throes of being dashed.

  ‘It’s all such a mess at the moment, David,’ I now said, trying, but unable, to smile. ‘I’m hoping that by the end of this afternoon it’ll all be a lot clearer and we can move on a little. The main thing is to know who has guardianship of Peter’s children and all the legal ramifications that go with that. Poor Max just keeps asking what’s going to happen to him. I can’t make any decisions or try to reassure him until I’ve seen Peter’s solicitor. I’d like to have gone sooner, but every time I’ve rung he’s put me off, telling me there is more and more paperwork to sort.’ I looked at David who was gazing at me so intently I could feel myself start to blush. What was it about this man that he had such an effect on me?

  ‘Look, Clem, I know Izzy is going with you, but if you think another pair of eyes and ears might help you to grasp what is happening, I’m more than happy to come with you as well.’

  ‘That’s so kind, David, but I’m sure it will all be OK. If there are some areas I don’t understand then, yes, please, I’d love you to tell me what you think.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I need to get on with things, so if you have any cooking for me to do over at the barn…?’

  David smiled. ‘I was hoping you’d say that—it was one of the reasons I came over, but I didn’t like to ask you. Didn’t know if you’d be up to it…?’

  ‘Life goes on. I mean… it has to, doesn’t it?’

  *

  ‘Jesus, Clem, we need a drink.’

  ‘There’s a Costa over there,’ I said, walking automaton-like down the stairs from the rather plush offices of L. W. Montford (Solicitors) before turning into Midhope’s main high street and the rain. ‘Should have brought our brollies,’ I added numbly, ‘or at least one of those plastic rain-mate things like your granny used to fish out of her bag as soon as it started raining. Did your granny have one?’

  ‘Gin, we need gin,’ Izzy said, taking my arm in a tight grip and steering me across the road and into the nearest bar. ‘You’ve had a shock
, Clem. You can’t go home like this just yet.’

  ‘So basically,’ I said, grimacing as the gin hit the back of my throat, ‘Peter didn’t have a penny? Is that what the man’s just told us?’

  ‘Well, not just that he didn’t have a penny to his name, unfortunately he also owed thousands and thousands and thousands of pounds.’ Izzy took a good mouthful of her own drink, blew out a long breath and looked at me.

  ‘Would you ever have guessed that he was a prolific gambler, Izzy?’ I asked, and I know I sounded icily calm. How was I calm after what the solicitor had just imparted? ‘I mean, when did he do his gambling? Where did he do it? He never once said he was off to… off to the bingo or the… the dogs?’

  ‘Rather more serious than two fat ladies and clickety click, Clem, I reckon,’ Izzy said grimly. ‘Where the hell does all this leave you, sweetie? That’s the question?’

  I smiled, still weirdly calm. ‘Back where I started, I suppose. The man said the house will have to be sold to pay off what Peter owes. But can you believe he was taking money out of his company to gamble? Having said that, surely if it’s your own company you can do what you want with the money in it…?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Clem, no, of course you can’t do that. People give financial companies like Peter’s money to invest, to work for them, not to gamble it away. Every little old lady who has trusted Peter with her pension pot is entitled to just that: trust. You can’t fiddle the books and play about with money that you are looking after, like Peter’s done. It’s against the law. Those solicitors were right—there will be a huge investigation started into financial malpractice. You’ll have the law, the taxman, creditors, every man in the street on your back wanting their slice of the cake. It’s not just as simple as selling the house and paying people back, Clem. He’s been fiddling the books for years, it seems. Those solicitors seemed to think even if he hadn’t died it was all about to blow up in his face…’

  ‘The house is only bricks and mortar.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be daft, Clem,’ Izzy said crossly. ‘It’s your home. It’s Sophie, Max and Allegra’s home too.

  ‘Not anymore, it’s not. Oh, Izzy, what a mess.’

  ‘Yes but, Clem, the big decision you have to make is the children. Nothing had been put in place about what should happen to them if Peter and Vanessa died. And they have; they’ve bloody well gone and died and been so fucking irresponsible as to not say what should happen to their own kids in the event of their death.’

  ‘Well, that’s not a problem,’ I said, vaguely. ‘I’ll have them. I’ll look after them, of course…’

  ‘And where are you going to live? And what on? It was bad enough you trying to house, feed and clothe one little girl all by yourself when you had no job. Now you’re going to have a stroppy teenager who hates you and will expect a fortune spending on her, plus one small boy who will grow up into another stroppy teenager eating you out of house and home… Think about it, Clem. For God’s sake, think about it.’

  ‘But Sophie and Max are my stepchildren,’ I said. ‘Don’t I have a legal obligation if not a moral one to look after them?’

  ‘Oh shit, Clem, I really don’t know. And if you do have a legal obligation surely that’s only six weeks down the line and might not count? I can’t remember what that second solicitor said, can you?’

  ‘He said something about I had enough on my plate to think about with regards to the shock everyone’s had about Peter and what he’s been up to and that that will need some sorting before a decision is made about the children. Didn’t he say he’s coming out to the house tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, he gave me a card because you just sat there in a trance.’ Izzy delved into her bag and brought out an appointment card. ‘Oh God, I haven’t got my glasses.’ She squinted at the card. ‘Eleven in the morning; I can’t be with you, Clem, it’s one of my full days at the surgery. Maybe your dad could come over?’

  ‘Yes, maybe. Right, I need to get back to pick up Max and Allegra.’ I paused, frowning. ‘Izzy, Max isn’t going to be able to go away to school now in the next few years, is he?’

  ‘Nope. And I think you’ll find you have Sophie back with you by Christmas—if not before. Depends if her school fees have been paid.’

  ‘They haven’t. When I spoke to Sophie’s headmistress last week and told her about Peter and Vanessa she said it probably wasn’t wholly appropriate to be mentioning it at such a terribly sad time, but Sophie’s fees hadn’t been paid for last term or for the coming one. I never thought anything about it at the time—assumed last term’s was just an oversight on Peter’s part and this term’s hadn’t been paid because Peter was dead.’

  Dead. Such a final word. I’d had a husband for all of six weeks, and now he was dead. I shook my head, trying to erase the word from my brain.

  ‘Well, try not to worry about that at the moment: it’s possible the school will have contingency plans for times like this. I don’t think they’ll just throw a bereaved child out in the middle of a term. Wait until they get in touch with you again.’

  ‘It’s all a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’ I said again, blankly.

  ‘You could say that,’ Izzy sighed, resolutely gathering bags and coats. ‘In fact, Clem, I’d say you’ve hit the nail right on the proverbial bloody head.’

  21

  SARAH

  Possibly because she was so young, and one of only a few females at Orgreave that hot June day back in 1984, or possibly because she’d actually been assaulted by one of the many thousands of police officers on duty, the police didn’t go ahead and charge Sarah with anything, but once they’d arrested her, hauled her into a van and taken her to one of the local police stations—dazed, she never really knew quite where—she was patched up and given a police caution.

  Concussed as a result either of the earlier stone throw to her head or, more likely from her fall to the road, Sarah was unable to prevent the woman officer at the police station searching in her—now rather battered—bag for her name and address and, by late afternoon, Gerald Sykes accompanied by Desmond Whittaker, the family lawyer, had arrived to sort out the mess his younger daughter had apparently got herself into.

  ‘Unbelievable, Sarah, truly unbelievable,’ Gerald Sykes ranted once he’d convinced the custody sergeant that Sarah was of impeccable character; that his daughter was actually the Honourable Sarah Sykes and that she’d obviously been influenced by lefties at that damned art college to make her behave in such a way.

  The custody sergeant, on his feet for the last fourteen hours and with not even a sniff of a coffee and a Wagon Wheel, let alone an end to this bloody awful day, was more than happy to be relieved of at least one of those arrested. He still had his share of the ninety-five pickets arrested and brought to his station to see to, and he packed Sarah off with Gerald and his solicitor, but not before giving her a formal caution that in effect, he advised her father, now gave her a police record.

  ‘Unbelievable, Sarah,’ Gerald repeated furiously as they drove north back to Harrogate. ‘Who were you with? Who persuaded you to go there? How dare you besmirch our family’s good name? Your mother is beside herself. And your sister is furious—afraid that if the Hamley-Smiths get to know about this they’ll want Jeremy to cancel the wedding.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Gerald.’ Desmond Whittaker turned to smile at Sarah who sat sobbing, head throbbing in the back seat of the Mercedes. ‘It’s the sort of thing all students do. I seem to remember myself being on the edge of the Grosvenor Square riots when I was up at UCL in ’68. We’ve all been there and done something daft when we were teenagers. No harm done, hey, Sarah?’

  ‘No harm done?’ Gerald glared across at Desmond, narrowly missing a lone cyclist who had the temerity to hog Gerald’s side of the road. ‘My daughter has been mixing with damned Commies, lefties and… and… Bolsheviks and now has a police record, and you say there’s no harm done? Good God, man, if Margaret gets to hear about this she’ll have me in her office and over the
coals.’

  Desmond hid a smile. ‘Bad choice of words there, Gerald.’

  ‘Well, I tell you now, Missy,’ Gerald barked over his shoulder, ignoring Desmond’s attempt at levity, ‘there’ll be no Paris for you in September. Damned if I’m forking out for you to mix with Frog revolutionaries and lefties in France.’

  *

  Anne Sykes said Sarah had burned her boats, taken one step too far, and the unfinished pieces of artwork would have to stay just that—unfinished. There was no way she could trust her younger daughter’s going to Paris if, for heaven’s sake, she couldn’t even behave herself going to Rotherham, so there was no need for Sarah to be going into Leeds to finish her course work.

  After two days of being given the cold shoulder at home, Sarah showered, dressed in a way she knew her mother would approve rather than ‘the endless denim you always have on your backside’ and went downstairs.

  ‘Mummy, I know you’re cross with me for what I did, and I agree, it was silly to go, but I just tagged along with the photography group from college who were hoping to get some incredible pictures that they could perhaps even sell to the newspapers…’

  Anne Sykes snorted disparagingly over her coffee and Bath Oliver but left off reading her article in The Lady.

  ‘None of us had any idea that it would turn out to be such a frightful day,’ Sarah went on. ‘Do you really think we’d have gone along if we’d known those dreadful miners were going to do such horrid things to those poor policemen and those lovely horses? I’d had enough of being there, wished I hadn’t gone and was just on my way home. I was leaving to walk to the station when I just had to go and help one of the horses…’ Sarah looked at her mother in desperation. ‘You couldn’t bear to see a horse hurt, Mummy, could you…?’

  Anne still didn’t say anything, but Sarah knew she was relenting and pushed her advantage. ‘Mummy, I’m nineteen. I’m a grownup. You really can’t keep me locked up here for ever.’