The Hopes and Dreams of Lucy Baker

by Jenni Keer

  ‘Give me a contact number. I’ll ring later to see how she is, but there’s an emergency at work.’

  She gave him her mobile number. ‘Thanks for your help. I wouldn’t want you getting into trouble with the boss.’

  ‘Yeah, bit of an ogre.’ He put the phone back to his face. ‘With you in ten,’ he said, then slid it back into his trouser pocket. ‘Bye then, Grandma,’ he said to Lucy.

  Lucy followed his eyes and remembered she was wearing her Keep Calm and Carry on Knitting pyjamas.

  ‘Russell Crowe knits,’ she said, indignantly.

  ‘Oh, you mean you actually do knit? I thought the pyjamas were ironic, or a gift, or something.’

  ‘It’s a very therapeutic pastime.’

  ‘Yeah, if you’re about ninety.’ He ran his hand through his thick brown hair, ruffling it up without realising. Brenda watched him from the living room and smiled. She looked at Lucy, who was sporting a cross face, and smiled even more. Then she clasped her hands together and let out a happy sigh.

  ‘The cat?’ Brenda called out to George. Lucy couldn’t work out if it was a question or a reminder. Or even if she knew who George was.

  ‘Oh yes. Did the rescue centre find it? They said—’ Lucy began.

  ‘It’s all in hand.’ He nodded at Brenda to signal his departure and the front door clicked shut. There was a pause and the old lady noticed the battered tin by her feet. Bending forward, she prised open the lid enough to see the contents. Lucy waited for her to comment but she didn’t.

  ‘A cup of tea will warm us both up,’ Lucy finally said. ‘I’ll nip upstairs and get you some more suitable clothes, if that’s okay?’

  Brenda nodded slowly, although Lucy wasn’t convinced she understood what she was agreeing to.

  ‘You stay there under that snuggly blanket and keep warm.’ She tucked the sides around her friend to keep it from falling. ‘I won’t be long. Just need to make a quick call.’

  ‘Use the phone in the hall, dear. Mind the flex though. It’s dreadfully frayed. Jim will keep playing with it and putting his fingers through the fabric, but he says we can’t afford a replacement, and it still does the job.’ Her eyes looked glazed but she suddenly became aware of the blanket on her knees again and started to pick at the threads.

  Lucy’s heart heaved, but she pulled herself together and went into the hall. Brenda’s phone was quite a modern walkabout one and the base unit was in the kitchen, not the hall, but the number to the surgery was on her mobile contact list so she used that.

  Lucy explained the situation to the receptionist, trying to keep her voice low so she didn’t alarm Brenda, who was now singing ‘The House of the Rising Sun’ quietly to herself. Establishing Brenda was calm and safe and that Lucy could stay with her for as long as necessary, the helpful lady asked her to hold and said she would see if she could catch Dr Hopgood before he started surgery. Lucy popped her head around the living-room door whilst she waited. Brenda looked drowsy and her singing had slowed to a mumble. The surgery hold music stopped and the phone line clicked.

  ‘Given everything you said, including the possibility your neighbour is currently incontinent, Dr Hopgood suspects some sort of urine infection. They can lead to spells of delirium in the elderly and are quite common. He’s put her down as a priority house call and she’ll be first on the list. If you are happy to stay with her, he’ll be out to you just after twelve.’

  ‘That’s not a problem, thank you.’ Although Lucy was starting to suspect there was more to this than a simple UTI.

  ‘He also suggested getting some fluids into her, as UTIs tend to go hand in hand with dehydration. See if you can get her to drink some water, or even some tea.’

  After hanging up, Lucy tried the office, but the out-of-hours answerphone was still on. Because recording messages made her feel self-conscious, she decided to wait until the phones were manned and explain the situation properly.

  When she returned to the living room, Brenda was asleep, so Lucy took the opportunity to run up the first flight of stairs and find her friend some clean clothes. Even though she’d been up to the third floor on numerous occasions, she hadn’t been in the master bedroom before. Like the rest of the house it was cluttered but in a welcoming, lived-in way. The imposing mahogany wardrobe stood with one door open, and a rainbow of clothes hung on old-fashioned padded hangers. There was a thick brown and orange geometric rug on the floor next to the bed and the room had a strong lavender smell. Like all the other rooms in the house, this one also held a noisy clock, its steady ticking adding to her feeling of unease. She grabbed a pair of wide-legged cotton trousers and a red loose-fitting top, remembering to pick up some clean underwear at the last moment.

  In the bathroom she found a small plastic bowl, a flannel and a bar of home-made rose petal soap. Last year, whilst she sat in Brenda’s kitchen knitting clothes for premature babies, her friend melted tallow, added rose-hip-infused lye and a handful of petals (informing Lucy how good rose hip was for ageing skin) and finally poured the silky mixture into small lined bread tins to set. It had been left for a few weeks to age and then Lucy had been given a bar, tied in raffia with a dried rose tucked in the bow. It was some of the nicest soap Lucy had ever used and she understood Brenda’s passion for the natural and the home-made.

  Whilst the old lady continued to sleep, Lucy dashed home for some clothes of her own, not wanting to deal with the doctor in her pyjamas. After locking her front door, she nipped into Brenda’s kitchen and made herself a much-needed cup of tea. It was a room that resembled an old-fashioned apothecary, with racks of jars and tins on every wall, but then Brenda was running an apothecary in all but name.

  Finally, with the hot tea by her side, she sat down near her softly sleeping friend and tried to make sense of events. Something was wrong – very wrong. Brenda had never before displayed such unsettling behaviour. Putting the pieces together, she realised this wasn’t a simple and inevitable case of ageing – physical deterioration and a slowing of thought – but escalating issues with memory and confusion, highlighted by this episode. And there had been no husband or children to pick up on the signs or seek the necessary assistance. This dear old lady, who’d spent a lifetime helping others with her herbs and potions, now needed help herself. But, although she had no family, Brenda had one very special friend, one close at hand who would step up and step in, and that was Lucy.

  As she wondered how much and how soon the care would be needed, and if she could work it around her job, she remembered the office. With all the running about, it had completely slipped her mind. Adam was unimpressed.

  ‘Where the hell are you, Lucy? We’re up to our earlobes here. Two members of sales are off for half-term and Sam has mentioned your unauthorised absence several times. Hope you’re going to come up with something better than the dog ate my homework?’

  ‘I tried earlier but the phones weren’t manned,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Then the reason for your no-show had better be good, Lucy-Lou, like decapitation or death. Are you actually dead?’

  Lucy told him about her traumatic morning. ‘I don’t like letting everyone down, but I think I need to stay with her until she’s been seen by a doctor.’ She was aware her voice was wobbling but there were bigger things at stake here than her job. Her friend had disappeared into a world Lucy couldn’t follow her into, and it was heartbreaking. Getting her back was paramount. ‘I’m sorry, but Brenda is my priority. You can dock my pay, or make me work late all week, or take it from my holiday, or—’

  ‘Okay. Okay. I get the picture. Leave it with me,’ he huffed, and ended the call.

  Chapter 9

  Dr Hopgood was a young man who had more stubble around his face than hair on his shaven head. It was very Vin Diesel, and obviously done to combat the prematurely receding hairline, but it suited him. He was wearing a loud pink shirt and a dazzling black and white spotty tie – one where the spots jumped about if you looked at them for too long. Answering the
door and escorting him down the hall, Lucy quickly filled him in on the situation, mentioning she’d now washed and changed Brenda, and how drowsy her friend had been since the episode.

  As they entered the room, Brenda stirred. The doctor walked over to the wing chair, knelt down next to the fragile old lady and put out a hand to her knee, gently teasing her for being somewhat of a stranger at the surgery.

  ‘And what’s all this I hear about you practically putting me out of a job with all your alternative treatments? Don’t get me wrong, my own grandmother is a fan of home remedies and she is one of the healthiest people I know. She still starts every day with two tablespoons of apple cider vinegar in hot water…’

  For someone who didn’t like doctors, Brenda managed a surprisingly flirtatious smile.

  Dr Hopgood then established that although Lucy wasn’t family, his patient was happy for her to stay, and began to assess Brenda in earnest. Lucy stood at the back of the room, uncomfortable intruding on a personal consultation but aware Brenda needed the support.

  ‘Give me your hand and I can do a little test to see if you’ve been drinking properly, young lady.’ He gently pinched the skin on the back of her hand and then jotted something down in his notes. ‘Okay, I’m going to need a sample. Do you think you could manage that?’ At ease with this softly spoken man, Brenda nodded and, with Lucy’s help, managed to produce the necessary sample. A urinary tract infection was diagnosed with a simple dipstick test.

  The young doctor then asked Brenda a series of questions: what was the day? The month? The year? Who was the Prime Minister? Could she count backwards in twos? Her answers were vague and she was distracted and sleepy, worn out by the whole sample palaver.

  After the consultation, and with Brenda’s eyelids drooping again, Lucy offered to see the doctor out.

  ‘When she’s on the mend, and with her permission, we can arrange for you to be listed as next of kin. She’s clearly fond of you.’

  Lucy felt a lump rise up her chest and lodge in her throat.

  ‘I’m going to put a community admissions avoidance team in place,’ he continued. ‘She’s made it perfectly clear that she doesn’t wish to go to hospital and I respect that. They should be in touch within twenty-four hours and will help with her hygiene and so forth. They’ll make some general observations, check her blood pressure and pulse, and we can keep an eye on her condition. In the meantime, could you pick up this prescription for the antibiotics and keep up the fluids? You might like to try her with Dioralyte sachets. They are available from the pharmacy, and she should start to improve over the next day or so.’

  ‘And then she will be back to her old self?’ Lucy was hopeful but realistic.

  ‘The episode this morning was triggered by the infection, but the questions I was asking earlier were to help me assess her long- and short-term memory. I will refer her to a memory clinic when the infection has cleared up, but, taken alongside the things you mentioned earlier, I can’t rule out the early signs of dementia. We’ll see what happens a bit further down the line, but it may be a case of reviewing her long-term care. It’s a big, old house for her to manage, with lots of stairs, and no one immediately on hand if there is a problem. I know you are happy to help, but it’s those times when she’s home alone I’m worried about.’

  Even though he was only voicing the thoughts that had been gathering in her head, Lucy momentarily closed her eyes. Dementia was a scary word, and one that never came with a happy ending.

  ‘But she doesn’t want to end her days anywhere other than this house. She’s talked about it many times and insists the only way we’ll get her out of here is in a wicker casket.’

  ‘I understand how fiercely independent she is, but, in all likelihood, there will come a point where she won’t be able to live alone any more, irrespective or not of a dementia diagnosis.’

  Although Lucy understood it was Mother Nature’s way – people got old and simply wore out – this wasn’t how it was supposed to be for Brenda. After all, Mother Nature was her close personal friend; surely she could have pulled a few strings and let Brenda live to a hundred and three, still proudly clutching all her marbles, then have her slip away quietly one night in her sleep.

  ‘She’ll hate that. People in her house and being told what she can and can’t do. I will look after her for as long as I can before we have to involve outside agencies. I appreciate it won’t be easy, but she’s one of my dearest friends and I’ll find a way.’

  ‘She is very lucky to have a friend like you, Miss Baker,’ said Dr Hopgood. ‘Some people don’t even have family who care enough to do that.’

  Both Adam and George contacted Lucy that afternoon: Adam to tell her she was to take as much time off as she needed and he would write it off as compassionate leave, and George to check on Brenda. Adam’s call took her by surprise. She had expected some sort of reprimand, and possibly an inappropriate joke, so was relieved when he offered neither. George’s call was brief and he was still calling her Lisa, but it was thoughtful of him to ring.

  She popped home for her knitting and her current Regency romance and, fitting in a bit of housework for Brenda, spent a quiet afternoon watching over her friend. A neighbour called not long after the doctor had left, expecting to collect some lotion or other, but when Lucy explained Brenda was unwell, she offered to pick up both the prescription and a bit of shopping. Lucy had been troubled to discover Brenda’s fridge contained very little except for a lump of cheese and three pairs of soft-top socks.

  By the evening, and after sleeping much of the day, Brenda made herself a pot of herbal tea, having refused the Dioralyte, insisting on warm water and honey with a pinch of salt instead. She asked for Jim several times and held some strange horse-related conversations with Lucy, clearly confusing her with the dead sister-in-law again. But after two doses of her antibiotics and lots of fluids, she seemed generally less muddled and agitated.

  A strong waft of rosemary caught Lucy’s nostrils as Brenda swirled the loose tea in her bone-china cup. She’d picked up enough in the last two years to know that it was a memory enhancer. She knows, Lucy thought to herself, unable to approach such a delicate subject with her friend.

  The sun had all but gone, gracefully retiring to the other side of the world, and the tassel-edged, gold standard lamp in the far corner was on, giving the room a soft glow. Brenda was quietly snoring in the armchair as Lucy drew the dated gold floral curtains and sat down. She felt at home here because it reminded her of her own untidy living room. Everywhere you looked something new caught your eye. It seemed much friendlier and more welcoming than the impersonal spaces of her childhood home, where the general clutter of life was kept to a respectable minimum. This was a room filled with scatter cushions, dried flower arrangements and animal statues, where strange symbols graced the spines of books, the pictures on the walls and the mystical ornaments. In contrast to her own mother, Lucy found the proliferation of objects calming, not stressful. What did it matter if there was a sprinkling of dust? Or no clear surface to put your cup of tea? She was surrounded by a sense of belonging, even if she didn’t quite understand what it was she belonged to. Tucking her legs underneath her, she settled into her favourite chair and let her book fall open where the embroidered bookmark nestled between the pages.

  The Duke of Darkness eventually reached a satisfactory if predictable conclusion, although she wouldn’t have forgiven his scandalous affairs, regardless of his damaged childhood. Lucy looked at the cover one last time, those shadowed eyes and that resolute jaw, and tucked the book into her knitting bag. It briefly crossed her mind that George would make a passable Duke of Darkness. He certainly had the looks, but the Duke remained well mannered and courteous throughout, however annoyed he was by the behaviour of the heroine. So perhaps not.

  After helping Brenda upstairs, Lucy made a temporary bed on the long, upholstered sofa, switched off the standard lamp and wondered if she’d ever be able to fall asleep with the myriad of
clocks chatting to her from every corner of the house.

  Five minutes later she was floating in a world of passionate dukes, black cats and grumpy neighbours.

  Chapter 10

  The community admissions team arrived the next morning, but as Lucy was on hand, there wasn’t much they needed to do. Two bustling ladies with mumsy figures and cheerful smiles checked Brenda over and seemed generally happy she was back on track, even though she was still sleepy and having muddled moments. Not long after they’d left, Dr Hopgood telephoned to check for signs of improvement in Brenda’s condition. Lucy discussed with him her intention to become more of a carer for Brenda by calling in on her more regularly but in an unobtrusive way, and Dr Hopgood was supportive of her plans.

  At eleven o’clock, there was a knock on the door and a young Interflora delivery girl handed over an enormous, and very expensive-looking, bunch of flowers.

  ‘Oriental lilies and yellow roses. How lovely, but who on earth would be sending me flowers? It’s not my birthday,’ said Brenda. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Not yet. Soon. July,’ Lucy reassured her.

  Lucy put the arrangement on a raffia mat in the centre of the occasional table near the fireplace. She handed Brenda the card, who read aloud ‘George’. Brenda turned the card over but that appeared to be it. So his written messages were as brief as his conversations, thought Lucy.

  ‘Do I know a George?’ Brenda asked.

  ‘From next door. He helped us yesterday. Remember?’ Lucy prompted.

  ‘Not really, dear. But I don’t want to talk about yesterday. Oh look, they’re in a pretty crackle glass vase.’

  ‘It’s a very generous gesture,’ said Lucy, never having seen such an impressive bouquet before.

  ‘Hmm… Some might say it’s worth more to have half an hour of someone’s time than a lavish present,’ Brenda said, as she reached out for Lucy’s hand. ‘I remember George now. The sexy one with the strong arms? I think the boy means well; he has a few lessons to learn, that’s all.’