by Susan Lewis
After wolfing down some cheese on toast, while deliberately not thinking about Ben’s new girlfriend, whoever she might be – Thai stripper; Vietnamese drug dealer; Russian trafficker – she carried her mother’s boxes through to the sitting room and slumped down on one of the comfy sofas, intending to watch the news before getting started on yet more work. However, the cushions were so snug and she was so tired that it wasn’t long before the rhythmic thunder of rain on the windows and feisty gusts flurrying down the chimney lulled her into a deep and dreamless sleep.
It was the clatter of something blowing over in the courtyard that woke her half an hour later, but she was too tired to be bothered to move. There was nothing breakable out there that she could recall, and if anything was damaged she’d rather pay for the repair than venture outside on such a dreadful night.
Yawning and stretching, she looked around for the remote control, and saw to her dismay that she’d have to get up to reach it. Her mother’s boxes, however, were close enough to reach from where she was, so pulling them towards her she flipped open the lid of the top one and prepared herself for an amusing little trip down memory lane.
The first papers she pulled out were her parents’ passports and birth certificates, which was only surprising in that they were so close to the top, when as far as she was aware they hadn’t travelled out of the country for at least two years. However, they’d probably needed them when signing the house and business over to her, so setting them aside she fished in again and came up with a slim brown envelope. It was sealed closed and had a Cromstone Auctions stamp over the seal with the date handwritten across it. On the front were the words Last Will and Testament (Original with Michael Givens).
Finding such efficiency typical of her mother, she gave an affectionate roll of her eyes and laid the envelope on top of the passports. Next out of the box was a carefully dated and ordered pile of old cheque books and bank statements, followed by back copies of utility and telephone bills for the past year. Reaching in again she pulled out a large, battered envelope whose contents, once she realised what they were, made her smile with some very mixed emotions. She was looking at her old school reports and not a single term was missing, by the look of it, from the date she’d started infants, till the abrupt end to her studies during sixth form. There were even some of her old exercise books, bound by a pink elastic band, and tucked inside coloured files of their own were all the birthday and Christmas cards she’d made for her parents over the years. Then she found her junior swimmer badge in the same envelope as a gymnastics diploma, a show-jumping certificate, the pattern for a tea cosy she’d tried to knit, aged about eight, and several spectacularly untalented paintings she’d brought home at various times, some of which she could even remember being magnetised to the fridge. Whether the fridge had been in Hull or Coventry, Chichester or Norwich she had no idea now, she only knew that for two decades or more, possibly even until they’d moved here, her parents had always had the same one. This was something else they’d kept because she hadn’t been able to stand the thought of letting it go in case it felt unwanted.
Starting to enjoy herself now, she decided to have a poke around in the next box and found a small bundle of letters, all addressed to her, from a long-forgotten pen pal in Durham. There was also a scrapbook she’d filled with pressed flowers, tickets to the zoo, a couple of flattened butterflies and several photographs of children she’d never known. Remembering how she used to cut those photographs out of newspapers and magazines, pretending they were her friends, or brothers and sisters, she felt her heart reach out to the lonely little girl who’d put it all together. Thank goodness she’d had two children, and that she and Joe had always lived in the same place – until now, of course, but this was Hanna’s first disruption, and in spite of all her early resistance she seemed to be enjoying Cromstone well enough.
Going back to the box she pulled out a small blue book with Secrets embossed in gold on the front, and in a childish scrawl inside the cover was written: This book belongs to Lucy Fisher, if you read it a spell will be put on you and you will turn into a frog forever and ever (kisses won’t work). Turning over the pages she started to read some of the entries she’d made: I wish I could have a kitten; I poked my tongue out at a teacher today, but she didn’t see; I hate Ruth Medlock, she smells and is always mean to me; I wish we had a great big house, like a castle, full of servants and children and no grownups. I want to be a popstar. I’m a better singer than Jacky March. When I leave school I’m going to own an orphanage. I had a dream about the lady who shouts at me again last night, but I don’t know what she’s saying, I think she’s frightened and it frightens me. I think I’m really a princess and one day prince charming will come and find me. Thinking of Joe, and how perfectly he’d seemed to fit that bill when she was seventeen, made her sigh and laugh and wonder where on earth their relationship might be heading now.
For a while, as she continued to browse through more letters and cards, prized home-made jewellery and virtually empty address books, all belonging to her, she could almost hear her own voice, and others, echoing down the years. There were the children who used to call her fish-face because of her name, and other unpleasant jeers meant to hurt, which they had. Then the gentle sound of her mother singing her to sleep after she’d had a bad dream; and her father doing his best to make the move to another new home sound exciting. She smiled wistfully at her squeals of joy when she’d finally got a kitten; but then came the inconsolable grief when it went out one day and never came back. How long had they searched the neighbourhood for that dear little creature, going through everyone’s gardens, sheds, dustbins? Her father had put notices on lamp posts offering a reward for its return, and if her memory was serving her correctly she’d even made him report it to the police. She’d never asked for a pet again after that, she was too afraid that it would go out and never come back.
Suspecting the last box contained similar memorabilia, though hopefully a little jollier, she hauled it towards her and found, to her surprise, that it was taped shut. It was also, she realised, quite a new box, though that didn’t make it any different from the others, since they were in fairly good nick too, suggesting that her mother had probably quite recently transferred everything from its original containers because the old ones had worn thin. Making a note to seal them all when she’d finished, Lucy peeled off the tape feeling quite certain that she was about to come across her parents’ own childhood memories, and possibly some handwritten versions of the stories her mother used to make up when she was small based around her toys, or curious objects they’d picked up from parks and beaches and all kinds of market stalls along the way.
The first thing she came across was her parents’ wedding album, which she hadn’t seen in years. The pages were yellowing now, and the leaves of tissue between each one were brittle and seemed like they might disintegrate at a touch. The photographs were still in place, however, held firm by little corner pouches with a neatly printed inscription beneath giving the names of the guests. To Lucy’s amusement her mother had even written Daphne and Brian under the pictures of the bride and groom. Then there was Brian’s mother – racy Granny – who everyone said Lucy resembled, and his father, George, who used to make rocking horses but alas, he’d died before he could carve one for his only grandchild. The other guests were people Lucy had no recollection of ever meeting, but if the way they seemed to be enjoying themselves was anything to go by, they’d been good friends of her parents at one time. She wondered what had happened to them all, and if her parents were ever in touch with any of them now.
Underneath the album she found a long white envelope with two newspaper cuttings tucked inside. Expecting them to be wedding or birth announcements, it came as a surprise to see that the first one was a news story. Then, as the reality of what she was reading started to sink in, she felt her interest folding into bewilderment which soon gave way to a complete failure to understand.
The headline r
ead: Baby Dies in House Fire.
Eighteen-month-old Lucy Fisher tragically lost her life in the fire that swept through the family home in the early hours of Saturday morning. Firemen rushed to the scene, but by the time they arrived thick smoke and flames made it impossible for them to enter the house. Lucy’s parents, Brian and Daphne Fisher, managed to escape the inferno, but Mr Fisher was treated in hospital for third-degree burns to his upper body and hands after trying to get back inside to save his baby daughter.
Lucy’s throat was turning dry. That was what her father had done, she knew that, so why was this report saying she’d died when she hadn’t?
Reading on, she felt her tension increasing. Lucy was the Fishers’ only child and, according to neighbours, was ‘the centre of their world’. Felicity Norman, who lives next door and who had to evacuate her home during the fire, said, ‘Daphne and Brian had to wait a long time before Lucy came along. It would be hard to imagine a child who was more wanted, or parents who felt more blessed. It breaks my heart to think of what they must be going through now.’
Experts from British Gas are at the scene. Police have ruled out any suspicion of foul play.
Feeling as though the world was tilting out of kilter, Lucy tried to take a breath and found she couldn’t. Why was this saying she’d died in the fire, when everyone knew her father had rescued her? Then, realising the other cutting must be correcting the mistake, she tried to find it. It was in her hand a moment ago … Spotting it on the cushion beside her, she picked it up and turned it over, and as she read she started to turn cold to the core:
FISHER Lucy, a little angel who God has taken to be at his side, but you will always be in our hearts. Sleep peacefully my darling, all our love Mummy and Daddy.
FISHER Lucy, you were with us such a short time, but you lit up our world. It has gone dark again now, but we hold our memories like candles. God bless you and keep you safe till I join you, love Granny.
Feeling a blinding confusion descending over her, Lucy picked up the box, certain there must be more inside to explain the mistake, but there was nothing else there.
Chapter Nineteen
IT WAS APPROACHING midnight by now, and the rain was coming down so hard it might have been trying to break the roof. Nevertheless, Lucy had the top half of the kitchen door open, because after leaving a message for her mother she’d needed the air.
‘Mum, I’ve seen the cutting about the fire,’ she’d said into the voicemail, ‘and the … the announcements … I don’t understand. I need you to explain. Please call me.’
Though she wasn’t expecting to hear tonight, when the sound of footsteps reached her, running down the drive, she thought for one disorienting moment that her parents had come.
It turned out to be John.
‘Lucy!’ he cried breathlessly as he appeared in the doorway, dripping from every inch of his waterproofs. ‘Thank goodness you’re up. Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she replied. What else could she say? Then, registering the hour and his sense of urgency, she rose quickly to unlatch the bottom door. ‘What’s happened? Is it Pippa?’
‘No, no, she’s fine,’ he assured her, stamping his feet on the mat. ‘They’re evacuating everyone from below the pub, because of the floods. That means us, and I was hoping you’d let Pippa and Rozzie stay here for the night. They’re …’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Where are they?’
‘Outside in the car. We didn’t want to seem presumptuous. I’ll bring them in, then I must go to find out what needs to be done down on the estate. Will you be able to put anyone else up? The police are knocking on doors …’
‘Just bring whoever needs shelter,’ Lucy told him. ‘We have five bedrooms here. I’ll start making up the extra beds.’ Grabbing her mobile as it rang, she saw it was Hanna and quickly clicked on. ‘Darling, are you all right? Where are you?’
‘At the pub,’ Hanna cried. ‘It’s really scary. Everyone’s pushing in through the doors and the police are trying to make them go back. I want to come home, Mum …’
‘Of course, but don’t go out on your own. I’ll come and get you.’
‘Hanna?’ John said as Lucy rang off. ‘Where is she?’
‘At the pub.’
‘OK, I’ll fetch her. You stay here with Pippa and brace yourself for the influx.’
‘Have you contacted Sarah?’ Lucy asked quickly as he started to leave. ‘She’ll take people in …’
‘She’s already on it. Simon’s with the others down in the valley, helping to bring out the children and old folk,’ and dashing back through the rain he stopped at his car to tell Philippa to go inside, before running on down the hill to the centre of operations at the pub.
Within an hour the farmhouse kitchen was as crowded as a happy hour cocktail bar, and with much the same atmosphere, as everyone’s adrenalin raced. It was like the war, someone shouted who wasn’t old enough to have known, and though the bedrooms, sofas and even floors were ready to accommodate them all, no one was showing any signs yet of wanting to head in that direction. So Philippa and Hanna began handing out hot drinks, while Lucy and a couple of the women made sandwiches and toast.
As the chatter and laughter buzzed around her Lucy had no time to think of her own issues, and could only feel glad of it. All that mattered for the moment was that Hanna was safe, and that they did their best to make their neighbours feel that way too. She found herself noticing the prized possessions they’d brought with them, one little boy’s brand-new bike that had cost ‘a bloody fortune’, his mother announced to anyone who was listening, so no way were they leaving it behind. The local computer expert had predictably brought his laptop and a box full of software, while Annie, the hairdresser, had stuffed a large pink vanity case with the tools of her trade. She was even offering free dos if anyone wanted one, with her daughter, Marietta, saying she’d do the shampoos, though Lucy hadn’t noticed any takers yet. Most in evidence were bags, boxes, even suitcases full of photograph albums, a few of which were causing shrieks of hilarity as their owners browsed them for the first time in years. Lucy had once read somewhere that it was always the albums people rushed for first at times like this, and with a wrenching feeling inside she thought of the photographs her parents had lost to the fire.
What had really happened back then? How was she supposed to make any sense out of what she’d read?
Feeling her head starting to ache with confusion, she turned to find out who was tugging her shirt and discovered two adorable but worried brown eyes gazing up at her. ‘Hello,’ she said softly, stooping to the little boy’s level, ‘are you all right?’
‘I want my dog,’ he said brokenly, as Rozzie tried to push her nose into his hand. ‘He’s at our house. Can you get him please?’
‘Oh dear,’ Lucy murmured. ‘Where’s your mummy?’
‘Just there, feeding my sister.’
Glancing over to where a very young, rotund woman was holding a small baby to her breast as she gossiped and laughed raucously with the others, Lucy said, ‘And what about your daddy? Do you know where he is?’
The little boy shook his head.
Wanting to hug him, Lucy said, ‘OK, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll call one of my friends who’s down by your house and ask him to go in and get your dog. Is that a good idea?’
The little boy nodded solemnly, then swung round as his mother shouted, ‘Jase! Jase, look who’s here!’ His face lit up as a bedraggled but clearly ecstatic black and white mutt came bounding towards him.
‘Aha, so that’s who the little fellow belongs to,’ John laughed, as the boy flung his arms round the dog and Rozzie tried to join in. ‘You keep hold of him now, son. I’m sure Lucy won’t mind if he stays here too.’
Lucy’s eyes were dancing as she threw out her hands. Was she really going to say no when the beast, filthy and wet though he was, clearly meant so much to the boy?
It wasn’t until she offered John a hot drink that she realis
ed the room had fallen silent. Baffled, she looked around to find out what was happening, and felt even more bewildered when she realised everyone was looking at John. Then, seeing the discomfort on his face, she was about to ask what was going on when he said in a whisper, ‘I take it Pippa’s already in bed, so I’ll go back to the house,’ and before she could insist that he stay he was gone.
Moments later the party-like atmosphere was back in full swing, leaving Lucy and Hanna to look at one another in blank confusion.
‘No idea,’ Lucy murmured, before Hanna could ask. ‘We’ll try to get to the bottom of it in the morning. Right now, we ought to start encouraging them to go to bed.’
By the time the diehards finally settled down for the night dawn was already starting to break on the horizon, and Lucy was light-headed with tiredness. Since Hanna had offered her room to Annie and Marietta, she was cosily snuggled up in Lucy’s bed by the time Lucy slipped in next to her. After brushing a stray strand of hair from her flushed young cheek Lucy lay gazing at her, loving her with all her heart as she thought of the cuttings again and wondered what on earth they could mean.
The message was waiting on the answering machine when John returned from the evacuation. Given the lateness of the hour and the awful incident on the estate that Simon had witnessed, he almost ignored it, thinking that whoever it was it could wait till morning. Then, concerned in case it was Pippa, or perhaps Lucy to ask him to explain what had happened when he’d walked into her kitchen, he hit the replay button.
When the message started to play it was as though the world he was standing in started to slip slowly away.
He soon lost count of how many times he listened to it, losing himself in the smoky smoothness of her voice, and remembering, as though it were yesterday, how much they had meant to one another.