by Bryce THOMAS
So, when Mrs. Lockhart and her daughter received the invitation to spend a weekend in the countryside, she had actually expected a cool if not negative response from her daughter. But the shrug of shoulders, indicating a total indifference to the suggested plan, did not happen; the sighs of, What shall we do when we get there? did not manifest themselves; complaints about missing the local five aside football game in the local community centre were not made; and no appeals were lodged with the head of the household. But Lucy didn’t remember the head of the household or anything else if it came to that. At this particular moment in time she had no past. It would be a week or so longer before she was even going to be allowed to return to school, a week being the estimated time the doctors had hinted it would take for her to regain her memory and return to normal. But it was only an estimate without any certainty. At the present, her life was not so much an open book ready to read. The book had been closed for the last five and a half weeks or so and someone had not only lost the page, but had somehow seemingly mislaid the first chapters. Now, to a greater extent, her life was a blank notepad to which no pen had yet been placed. Although Lucy’s life up to now had played a roll in other people’s pasts, without her memory, Lucy could not include them in hers. She had to make new friends even if they had been her old friends, and she had to rediscover everything about the location where she lived, her hobbies and pastimes. She couldn’t even remember the house in which she lived, her school nor the local football club of which she was a vital member of the A team.
After watching her lying close to death for a month and a half, the spark of excitement in the whole of Lucy’s being, at the suggestion of a trip to the country, brought a tear of affection to her mother’s eyes. At the same time as crumpling her mother’s face into a soggy, puffy, red blob, her chest seemed to be relieved of the entire weight of Lucy’s football team. It’s a mother thing; loving your child and wanting them to be vibrant and alive. Lying dead or near death certainly doesn’t press the right buttons in that respect. So anything that brought Lucy near to being herself again, despite not being able to remember who her mother was, made perfect sense. The fact that she was excited about something that prior to her accident would have made Lucy manufacture any excuse to go out and play football, was irrelevant. ‘Then let’s go for it!’ she had almost sobbed when the offer was made.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On reaching her home, Lucy began to investigate her surroundings. She didn’t recognise a single person or, for that matter, a single thing, including a shaggy mongrel dog which was the first out of the front door to welcome Lucy excitedly, jumping up and wagging its tail, as dogs do with close members of their family.
‘Hello,’ Lucy said as she petted it fondly. She turned to her mother and asked, ‘What’s his name?’
‘She is called Lucky,’ Mrs Lockhart replied with pursed lips, suppressing an amused smile. ‘You’ve had her since she was a puppy!’
‘Oh, okay.’ Lucy said, returning the smile and shrugging as she shook her head. She lifted her eyes from Lucky to look at the people who were standing at the door ready to greet her. They obviously seemed to know her well. She had been told to expect to meet her grandparents, and they had watched her as she got out of the car and received Lucky’s welcome. After giving her broad smiles and a tearful welcoming hug, they stood back for her to enter their home, watching as her eyes wandered around, looking at everything from the floor to the ceiling. At first she felt a little strange, impolite even, searching for answers, looking for anything that would bring back her memory of this apparently close knit family. But instead of feeling like an established member of that family unit, she felt like she was snooping about the house and, in reality, she felt like a stranger there.
Having obviously been forewarned of Lucy’s condition, the elderly couple remained mainly silent while her mother did all the talking. Her grandmother seemed to be the frailest of the family. She was a slim old bird with thinning grey hair and a face so full of lines that it made her look much older than her husband. Whether she was or not, Lucy politely omitted to ask. She had the same hazel eyes as Lucy’s mother. In fact her face seemed the same as Mrs. Lockhart’s only with lines. She wore a plain light blue cotton dress topped by a navy blue cardigan. On her feet were black polished flat shoes instead of slippers and a pair of spectacles hung around her neck by a black chord.
Her grandfather was also silver haired, but in his case it was thick and curly. His face was tanned as would be that of someone who worked outside a lot, and his hands were clearly those of a manual worker. His dark blue eyes seemed to be accentuated by the blue of his shirt. Once Lucy had been welcomed inside, he sat contentedly in an armchair next to the gas fire, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and simply brandished a newspaper in a manner that suggested that he was threatening to read it if the conversation dried up or became boring.
Lucy spent much of the first evening just watching, looking and listening. It was the easiest way, since she couldn’t really answer any questions. It appeared that the family spent most of their time in the living room. There were a couple of armchairs and a sofa and a couple of old side chairs. Against a wall, stood a sideboard with some wooden framed photographs on top of it, but Lucy didn’t recognise any of the people in the pictures. Once she’d had time to settle in, her mother spared no effort in explaining who everybody was, and what they did and, in particular, what part they played in Lucy’s life. She fussed about her daughter making sure that she had everything she needed and got on with her task of fitting Lucy back into their lives whilst, at the same time, making absolutely sure that they slotted smoothly back into hers.
Eventually, feeling rather drained with the whole day’s events, Lucy asked if she could go to her room. She didn’t feel particularly rude withdrawing from the family. They had eaten together and spent several hours talking and discussing everything from their lives with their daily routines, to what they thought Lucy should know about herself. She had only just started walking about after lying on a bed for weeks on end, so she was bound to feel tired and weak and they were all very sympathetic and understanding.
Mrs. Lockhart closed the door on her way out and left Lucy to her room in peace. At first Lucy just stood with her back to the door and let her eyes do the searching, but eventually, after getting some feeling of spatial awareness in her quarters, nothing remained undisturbed as she investigated every nook and cranny. She even looked under the rug that lay on a stripped pine board floor, under the bed and behind the furniture. Nothing seemed familiar. Her bed was an ordinary pine bed with a spring flower patterned duvet. It stood in the centre of the room with the headboard against the right hand wall. A poster of someone called Michael Jackson was proudly displayed on the front of the fitted melamine wardrobe that stood opposite the bedroom door, and in the corner of the room a collection of CDs including Michael Jackson’s greatest hits and most of his individual albums were piled, along with a stack of albums by various other artists, in and around a rack beside a silver coloured hi-fi system. She had no idea who any of the artists were.
There was a football in the bottom of the wardrobe. It looked well used, and so did the perfectly clean football boots that stood neatly beside it. There were several more pairs of plain-looking shoes and a box containing an unused pair of new trainers. The clothes hanging above looked like ordinary girls clothes, perhaps tending a little to the casual side of things. A couple of dark skirts, several pairs of well worn jeans, six or seven sweaters and several blouses and jackets were squeezed onto the hanging rail. On the shelf above lay lots of tee-shirts of varying colours, some plain, some embossed with logos or pop stars. She closed the wardrobe doors and, with a deep sigh, continued to look around.
A small, pottery reading-lamp stood on a pine dressing table which stood against the left hand wall. She switched it on. It gave out considerably more light than the small bulb had promised. A small desk below the bedroom window supported a remarkably flat
screened personal computer monitor and a printer connected to an ultra modern PC tower beneath the desk. In front of the monitor, a keyboard lay at an angle facing an empty swivel chair.
The drawers of the desk contained pens and other writing implements and paper for the printer. The pine chest of drawers contained the usual stuff; clothes mainly. Except the top drawer. That, besides underwear, contained a purse whose contents amounted to seven pounds and thirty five pence; a penknife with a pearl handle and a packet of photographs. She scanned through the pictures, but recognised none of the places nor any of the people in them, except Mrs. Lockhart and her parents who she had already met, and herself who she had studied in the dressing table mirror. She looked again at the photograph of Lucy Lockhart and then went back to the dressing table and pulled out the chair. She sat in front of the mirror and ran her fingers over her nose and chin. Her hair was dark blonde, wavy and shoulder length. It suited her. Her eyes were a dark blue merging to grey on the outside of her irises. She smiled to display her teeth which looked straight and well maintained. Obviously she had brushed them regularly. She wondered who had looked after such needs whilst she had been unconscious.
Eventually her weariness became sheer fatigue. She put on the light cotton pyjamas which had already been laid out for her on top of the bed and, leaving the reading light on, slid beneath the cool, cotton duvet cover. Sleep overcame her before her head reached the pillow.
CHAPTER NINE
Dreams are a natural part of sleep. Without them, the mind remains tired even when the body is rested. Like most people, Lucy would not remember her dreams when she woke in the morning. She would not remember the people in them despite the fact that her recently wiped memory was ready to take on a heap of new data. She would not remember the dog that barked and gave her position away, nor would she remember herself running away from a dark shadow or how it eventually caught up with her. Whatever the brain does, when we all experience the rapid eye movement of sleep, it successfully cleared that part of Lucy’s subconscious of whatever gremlins lurked there before the deep sleep began and cleared the way for her to survive the rigours of another day.
She woke in the morning still thinking about how the bodily hygiene of someone in a coma is maintained during unconsciousness. She looked at the little gold watch her mother had brought to her in the hospital. She hadn’t taken it off before going to bed, and wondered if that was habit or if she had just been too tired to do anything but crash out. It was seven thirty. Thinking for a minute or so, she realized that her night had been one of relatively unbroken sleep.
She pulled herself up and threw her legs out of the bed. No dizziness now. Quickly, she dressed in the clothes she had worn coming from the hospital and left the bedroom, making a mental note to ask the doctor about how people in a coma are looked after whilst they sleep. As yet she knew nothing about her five and a half week pyjama fest except that her mother had been at her bedside many days and nights. Even without knowing her, she loved her for that.
Once downstairs, and after another excited greeting from Lucky, she found that Mrs. Lockhart was already up and was just finishing packing something into two carrier bags. Stuffing the last parcel into the bag, she stood up straight and immediately set herself to the task of fussing with her daughter’s apparel. This, what appeared to be a ritual, lasted for a good five minutes. She wasn’t happy about her daughter going to a posh house in a polo necked jumper and jeans, but once the decision had been made, (Lucy refused to go and change into a light cotton dress), then the least she could do was stand to attention while her mother tweaked the jumper around her waist and brushed imaginary hairs off her shoulders.
Mrs. Lockhart had been up bright and early that Saturday morning busying herself to the task of making sandwiches for their trip. Lucy suggested that, by some remote chance, they might be offered sustenance when they got there, but her mother wasn’t taking any risks. Three packets of tuna sandwiches and a box of corned beef and Branston bread rolls along with two flasks of tea was the bare minimum emergency ration. Lucy just sighed and let her get on with it. Looking on a map which she had found on a shelf in one of the rooms, to see just where Doctor Murray lived, Lucy calculated that, unless they were walking, the trip would take less than an hour. Quietly she went back up to her room until her mother had got the preparatory sequences out of her system.
At nine a.m. after a light breakfast of cereals, buttered toast and a couple of mugs of tea, she waved goodbye to her grandparents, gave Lucky a quick fondle around the ears and, together, Lucy and her mother got into the old Ford Escort, fastened their seatbelts and set off on their excursion.
Doctor Murray had given Mrs. Lockhart directions to Sawood Cottage but it wasn’t too hard to find. Off the main road into Wieldworth, through the town and on into Compton Major, taking a left fork to Upper Mullins, brought them along a country lane shaded by mature beech trees, not yet in full leaf, and high hawthorn hedges. Bluebells and dandelions were bursting out of the banks at the side of the road and the trees were lazily stretching their long arms as they woke up from their winter sleep. Lucy suppressed a bubble of excitement. The feeling of being good to be alive was reinforced by the spring’s burst of foliage as it opened up the countryside to a painted landscape of greens, blues and yellows. She wondered if the flowers and the trees got the same feeling that she was experiencing when they wake up after a dark, dark winter’s sleep.
They travelled for another fifteen minutes or so until they reached a sign at the left hand side of the road. Sawood Cottage. A tarmac driveway with a post and rail fence on both sides ran up to a large white house.
Mumbling words that sounded to Lucy like ‘Some small cottage!’ Mrs. Lockhart turned the car into the driveway, drove up the slight incline to the front of the modernised and converted farmhouse and pulled the car to a halt alongside a four wheeler touring caravan in a large square parking area.
‘I’m beginning to have doubts about this little adventure,’ her mother stated flatly with a shake of her head. It was all a bit too much like a different world to the one in which she and her daughter really existed. ‘I can see it is going to be a case of minding your P’s and Q’s young lady. Goodness knows what we are doing here.’
Lucy remained silent. She was looking at the fields and the trees and grass extending in all directions as far s her eyes could see. It seemed an isolated and lonely place far from the rows of houses they had left behind, with chimney pots and aerials that jabbed and poked at the fabric of the sky, and houses that filled the horizon brandishing widows that, like so many eyes, watched your every move. It was stark in contrast to her home. But she didn’t remember the place where she had been raised and that seemed to make it easier. She definitely preferred the vastness and the isolation of the countryside. She loved the noise of the birds as she got out of the car. She loved the silence; no cars parking outside your front door, no slamming of doors, no voices as people shouted to each other across the street, no juggernauts trashing their way along the ring road in the distance. This was not like the home to which her mother had taken her, but something about it seemed to tickle a seed of recollection somewhere in her head. There was a certain familiarity about it all.
CHAPTER TEN
The big wooden door was painted glossy black and had a shiny brass letterbox, door knocker and lock that made it look magnificent against the snow white walls of the building. They both stood there and looked straight at it, neither speaking. Had they looked at each other, Lucy would have seen a pale mask of dread on her mother’s face and Mrs. Lockhart, on the other hand, would have seen eyes filled with excitement and anticipation.
Lucy waited as her mother hesitated, hand already lifted up towards the knocker, but daring not to touch it; and then, impatient to start their new adventure, she pushed past and rapped the solid door hard with the brass knocker. The sound echoed in a large hollow vestibule as, without so much as half a second passing by, and with her fingers still in th
e process of operating the knocker, a catch turned and the door swung open.
To an onlooker it may have looked more comical than it actually was; Lucy and her mother standing up to the door, a look of surprise on both their faces and both still ith one hand raised. But the face behind the door didn’t seem at all surprised as the two visitors lowered their arms and the brief moment passed almost unnoticed.
They were both taken by what they saw. A young dark haired girl in a white blouse and blue jeans, who was about Lucy’s age, looked back at them with two eyes that were such a dark brown they were almost black. But what made those eyes so manifestly staggering was that they were set in a face so fair that it had the pallor of a corpse. Two pale lips smiled broadly without parting. The eyes smiled delightedly too.
‘Hello,’ the girl said, nervously betraying the slightest trace of a brace as she spoke. She had obviously worked hard at training herself to hide it. ‘I’m Loanne,’ she announced, smiling more broadly as her courage grew on seeing Lucy’s own glowing smile. ‘Won’t you come in? Daddy’s expecting you,’ she stated, sparkling with enthusiasm. ‘He’s been looking forward to you coming.’