The Hopes and Dreams of Lucy Baker

by Jenni Keer

  The fire alarm decided now was the time to draw everyone’s attention to the escalating crisis.

  ‘That damn alarm should have gone off before now,’ George grunted. Scrambling to his feet, he headed for the kitchen. ‘But the fire brigade are on their way.’

  She could hear the cold tap on full blast. George shouldered past her carrying a plastic bowl of water to douse the flames. There was a loud sizzle. She stepped to one side as he pushed back out into the hallway and through to the kitchen for more water.

  The second bowlful extinguished the flames completely and they stood together in silence as the bitter, black air swirled around them. They looked at the ash-strewn, waterlogged table as a single scorched page fluttered to the floor. She saw George glance around. Now that she looked at it from someone else’s perspective, and despite the tidy-up, she realised there was an awful lot of wool-based items in her living room: crocheted blankets, knitted ribbed cushion covers and the oversized log basket to the right of the mantelpiece overflowing with oddments of wool. Wolverine and Thor stared straight ahead, both paralysed with the fear of what might have been. Poldark was face down on the carpet. In the distance a siren approached.

  ‘Are you okay?’ George asked.

  She coughed to clear her lungs. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Let’s get outside. The air in here isn’t going to do either of us any good.’

  As they stepped out on to the pavement, the flashing blue lights and whining siren appeared. Two men in bright yellow helmets leaped from the cab before it had even pulled to a halt. They rushed passed as George flung a resigned arm towards Lucy’s flat, and the pair of them slumped onto the low wall in the front garden. The young lad who lived directly above her stumbled out into the night in his pyjamas and with splendid bed hair to watch the proceedings. Luckily, the couple who owned the top flat were in Barcelona. A babble of concerned neighbours established the quiet, helpful girl from the flat at number twenty was okay and then drifted back to their beds.

  Lucy glanced across at George, who looked unusually morose and ashen-faced, but then he had just dealt single-handedly with a potentially catastrophic event. He chose to sit at the far end of the wall, distancing himself from the midnight arsonist. Neither spoke and there was a period of frenetic hustle and bustle, the beep of radios and the stomp of heavy boots running in and out of the flat as the firemen assessed the situation.

  An ambulance arrived not long after the fire engine, and a stern-faced paramedic, who was more beard than face, examined Lucy and fitted her with an oxygen mask. Her vital signs were checked and after a few minutes it was decided she didn’t need to be admitted to the hospital. The oxygen had done its job and her airways were clear.

  An older fireman, and clearly the one in charge, finally appeared after his inspection of her flat.

  ‘It was the candle. Looks like it caught some papers on the table.’

  ‘Books,’ Lucy volunteered. ‘And a couple of magazines.’

  ‘That’ll be your black smoke then, love. Glossy mags are pretty toxic. We’ve ruled out any further hotspots with the TIC.’ He waved a black hand-held piece of equipment at her that looked a bit like a tiny television on a stick but was clearly some sort of thermal imaging device. ‘Smoke alarms all in good working order. Shame the living-room door was closed or that might have gone off a bit sooner. You were fortunate that a neighbour realised what was happening, young lady. And you were also extremely lucky there was nothing else combustible near the flames or the whole house could have gone up. If a spark had flicked to the curtains or the basket of wool you’d be in real trouble right now.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’ George stood up and walked over to her. His big frame obscured the glow from the street lamp. ‘You were playing with candles at five o’clock in the morning? Do you realise how totally irresponsible your behaviour was? You could have been killed.’

  So much for the spell bringing them closer. He clearly thought she was a total idiot.

  ‘I… I was…’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it. I’ve seen the damage a fire can do and it’s not something I take lightly. You have NO IDEA how angry I am, right now.’ And he stormed off towards his house, his striding figure disappearing in the shadows of the night.

  Having collapsed into bed within minutes of the fire brigade departing, and fallen asleep within seconds of her smoky hair touching the pillow, it wasn’t until later that morning Lucy could assess the damage from her antics the night before.

  There was no real harm done, apart from the badly scorched coffee table and the acrid smell. She’d been lucky. If George hadn’t woken her, the fire could have spread, with horrific consequences. She had some serious apologising to do.

  ‘These are for you.’ She thrust a bunch of black tulips at a confused George, hoping they were a suitably masculine floral choice, but was unable to meet his eye. ‘I wanted to say a proper thank you for what you did this morning.’

  ‘I don’t want flowers.’ He frowned.

  ‘Oh, sorry. Are you allergic to them?’

  ‘Not particularly. Just everything else on the damn planet. Look, I’m hardly ever here to appreciate them. It’s a waste.’

  ‘Please take them. And these.’ She handed him the gift bag containing a couple of bottles of wine.

  He looked inside. ‘I don’t want anything. You’re just lucky Scratbag was on the ball.’

  ‘Scratbag?’

  ‘Yeah, it was almost as if he knew. He did that rubbish meow and wrapped himself around my legs. Then he trotted to your door, pausing to see if I was following. I picked up on the smell of smoke, and as I got level with your front window I saw a flicker of flame. You should be buying him the catty equivalent of these gifts. Perhaps a bunch of mice and a couple of bottles of distilled catnip?’

  Lucy looked at his face as he made the joke, but again there was no trace of anything resembling a smile – no crinkling of the eyes or upturn of the mouth.

  ‘Please? I’ve written you a card,’ she persevered.

  ‘Okay,’ he sighed, as he reluctantly took her offerings. ‘But don’t ever do anything so stupid again.’

  Feeling severely chastised, Lucy returned to the flat and rang Jess for some sympathy and understanding.

  ‘Yes?’ Jess snapped.

  ‘It’s only me.’

  ‘Oh, Luce… Sorry. Your call woke me up and I’m in a foul mood so give me a wide berth, but don’t ask because I really don’t want to talk about it.’ There was a rustle of bedding and a scraping noise. ‘Bloody hell, is that the time? I’ve slept for longer than I thought.’

  ‘I wasn’t exactly up with the birds myself this morning.’

  ‘Yes, the candle thingy. How did it go?’ She heard Jess stifle a yawn and fidget in the bed.

  Lucy relayed the disaster from the previous night and Jess, picking up on her friend’s feelings of despondency, decided they should meet in town for a lazy Sunday afternoon drink and some girlfriend time. After she’d put some clothes on, of course.

  Sitting in the crowded pub garden of The King’s Arms, overlooking the meandering River Douse, Lucy nursed a gin and tonic as Jess worked her way through three large glasses of house white. If Lucy was worried she looked rough after her candle all-nighter, Jess looked a hundred times worse. There were telltale red rims to her eyes, a glow to her nose suggesting repeated blowing and dark circles under each eye that probably matched her own. But Jess had nailed a smile across her face and was dealing with whatever had caused the tears in her usual way – by slapping on plenty of make-up and getting on with it.

  The busyness of the pub gave them an anonymity that suited them both. Inside was so packed, there was barely a place to stand, never mind sit. Outside, the Heineken-parasoled hexagonal picnic benches had been taken over by families out for a late Sunday lunch and older couples returning from day trips to National Trust properties and open gardens. The sun was out and the air was a hunger-inducing combination of yeasty beers a
nd fatty chips.

  Jess and Lucy found a space on the wall near the riverbank, the bricks uncomfortably cold on the backs of their bare legs. Dangling their feet over the slow-moving river and watching the fast-food debris and serene waterfowl float past, they soaked up the sun and chatty atmosphere. Jess was wearing a strappy lemon-yellow sundress and her designer shades, and looked like a blonde Victoria Beckham. Lucy was in T-shirt, shorts and a floppy cotton hat, and looked more like a female Worzel Gummidge.

  ‘I can’t see how the whole candle episode can have any positives. All it’s done is reinforce his perception of me as inept and ditzy. And because I fell asleep, I technically didn’t even sit through the full moon until the flame went out, or whatever it said. I tried, but perhaps now I can get back to living my uncomplicated, knitted life. I told you it wouldn’t work and, quite honestly, I’m relieved that it didn’t.’

  Jess tried to smother a yawn but the infectious nature of yawns, plus her own ridiculous lack of sleep, meant Lucy quickly followed.

  ‘But Brenda said spells – plural. You’ve only done one, even if it was a total failure. Didn’t she say the locket would reveal them to you? Have you even checked it since setting fire to your Regency book collection?’

  Lucy rolled her eyes. What was Jess expecting? It was a silly old locket, made by a bunch of superstitious Victorians, to amuse and entertain. Did she think the words were going to change? Honestly, Jess was so gullible.

  Lucy rummaged around in her bag, having taken it off that morning, but now feeling bereft when she didn’t at least have it with her. She flipped it open.

  ‘Blimey, girl. You must have done something right,’ said Jess, leaning over her shoulder. ‘You’ll have to accept the locket is magic now. The words have changed again.’

  Chapter 18

  ‘Pluck three strong hairs from your head

  And place beneath your true love’s bed.’

  ‘Oh, you’re kidding me?’ Lucy sighed.

  ‘You can’t give up now. My arms have gone all goose bumpy. This is real. The magic is real.’ Jess was wriggling around like a three-year-old who needed the toilet. ‘I didn’t know whether to believe Brenda before, but even you can’t still think it’s just an ordinary locket?’

  Lucy’s insides were churning faster than a washing machine on repeat spin. It was like being told you’d won millions on the lottery – that creeping sense of disbelief at the unfolding events – especially when you knew you hadn’t bought a lottery ticket in the first place. How could this be happening?

  ‘You can’t back out now. You’ve absolutely got to see this thing through,’ her friend persisted.

  Lucy folded her arms across her chest, deliberately turning away from the bouncy Jess and focusing on the trailing branches of a weeping willow that were being tugged downstream by the river. I’m being pulled too, thought Lucy. Can I fight it any more than the willow can?

  ‘C’mon, Luce. Brenda would be pleased to think you’d taken her seriously. And you can keep her updated and involve her in it all. Give the old girl something to think about other than her bowel movements.’ Jess knew exactly which heartstrings to tug.

  ‘Freaky word changes aside, it’s not that I mind doing something to keep Brenda happy, more that it involves potential humiliation on my part.’

  ‘But there’s no real harm in it if you don’t believe magic can make someone fall in love with you. All it means is you are going to have a lot more contact with George, and he’s hardly a chore. Some people would consider him fit.’

  ‘It’s not positive, “she’s an intriguing girl I want to get to know her better” contact. It’s “get that bloody bonkers knitting obsessed pyromaniac out of my sight” contact.’

  ‘Nonsense. I bet he’s warming to you and your quirky nature. You’ve got nothing to lose.’

  ‘Apart from my dignity – which I’m pretty sure went up in smoke this morning anyway.’ But Jess didn’t break her gaze. Lucy dropped her eyes to the ground, defeated. ‘Okay, then tell me how I’m supposed to get three of my hairs under his bed? I’ve already managed to inadvertently enlist the help of the Bedfordshire Fire Brigade. Next it will be the police force arresting me for breaking and entering.’

  ‘Sometimes you are so naive, Luce. How can it possibly be breaking and entering when he’s given you a key?’

  Sam spent Monday morning in the warehouse. She turned up at eight o’clock in some sort of boiler-suit with ironed creases down both legs and bright white trainers with deep purple flashes along the sides. Given the level of dust and dirt on the concrete floor, they wouldn’t be bright white by the end of the day.

  Lucy was hearing all about it over lunch. As she was on a different lunch hour to Jess, she increasingly found herself sitting with the warehouse workers in their staffroom. In many ways, she felt more comfortable among these men, who reminded her of her down-to-earth dad, than she did with those from her own office. The two younger girls talked relentlessly about clothes, and Pat said nothing at all.

  Lucy’s dad was her ally and the person who had made her teenage years bearable. Her mother and Emily were the strong ones, the clever ones, the driven ones. Lucy and her dad sort of muddled through life. Paul Baker had turned Sandra Wallington’s head not because he was a blue-eyed, gentle man with a good heart, but because he drove a bright red MG convertible and worked in a bank. Sandra had wrongly believed he was as career-driven as she was on his behalf and that he would be headhunted by Goldman Sachs before he was thirty.

  But after years of nagging him to take promotion, she had to accept that Paul Baker would never rise above the position of operations manager at their local Barclays. He was happy looking after his small team of ‘essential managers’, or what he still stubbornly referred to as cashiers when the branch manager wasn’t in earshot. He didn’t want the stress and could live quite happily without the pay rise. He was a simple man, with simple pleasures but an extremely complicated wife. And while Sandra and her eldest daughter reached for the stars, Lucy and her dad had always been content to watch them twinkle from the ground and appreciate the things around them. Although Lucy had recently noticed her hand was starting to twitch.

  Her dreams had always been tiny, manageable; she wanted to be better organised, be able to stand up to her mother a bit more, find a pretty dress for the office Christmas party… But now, with the locket dangling a wealth of possibilities in front of her, she realised she had inner ambitions lurking deep in her unfulfilled soul. These aspirations were unexplored: to have a career, to find love, to be able to walk up to men like Daniel and give as well as she damn well got.

  Listening to the warehouse workers’ grumbles and moans, she nibbled on her cheese and grilled aubergine sandwiches. She didn’t always agree with their opinions but liked their banter. In turn, the motley collection of mainly older men enjoyed having the attractive, youthful Lucy sitting with them. It made them feel young again. Roy had even taken to slipping a comb in his overalls pocket since she had been joining them.

  ‘That bloody woman has already been in here and rolled her eyes at the calendar,’ one of the forklift drivers mumbled. The bikini-clad, curvaceous girl who graced the wall above the fridge didn’t bother Lucy. The screen saver on her laptop at home was the semi-naked scythe-swinging Ross Poldark, so who was she to judge?

  ‘Yeah, well at least you weren’t shut in a six-foot cab with her for the day,’ said Derek, who was back early from his run but was scheduled for another shortly. ‘She smelt of bloody eau-de-pretentious-female and I swear she looked down her snobby nose at me all day. Telling me how to reverse the lorry and questioning my decision to take the A134. I’ve been doing the damn job for eleven years. I think I’ve got the route cracked by now.’

  ‘Careful, she’ll hear you,’ warned Lucy, anxiously turning to the door.

  ‘Nah, she’s collared Roy. Poor sod has been stuck with her all morning in that back corner where all the damaged stock gets dumped.’


  At that moment Roy swung the door open and collapsed into one of the plastic chairs at the end of the table.

  ‘Bugger me. She’s doin’ my head in.’

  ‘Stressful morning, Roy?’ one of the younger lads teased.

  ‘Managers should be upstairs managing, not watching over perfectly competent staff. But enough about me, what’s this I hear about you and Daniel fooling about in the Tardis?’

  Five pairs of eyes swivelled in Lucy’s direction and her cheeks flushed.

  ‘I wasn’t… I didn’t…’

  ‘Lucy! He’s a ladies’ man, albeit a charming one,’ said Derek. ‘You can do much better than him.’

  Before Lucy could protest any more, the door swung open a second time and Sam walked in.

  ‘Ah, Lucy. I’ve been looking for you. What on earth are you doing in here?’

  ‘Oh, erm, I’m having my lunch.’

  ‘When do you finish?’

  ‘One, but I can come now. It’s no trouble. I’ve finished my sandwiches.’ Lucy bundled her half-eaten packet of crisps and gooseberry yoghurt back into her lunch bag, scraped the chair back and moved to get up.

  ‘No, no, you’re fine. But come and find me later. I’m down the back of the warehouse assessing our returns and over-ordered stock. There are six pallets of Teletubby-themed stock that have been in the racks for years, and I’d like to see if we can do something with them, especially since the revival of the television series. I feel certain we could use that storage area more efficiently.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sam glanced around the tiny kitchenette, her eyes lingering pointedly at the calendar. ‘Ah yes, must print out the updated sexual harassment policy and, after some of the things I’ve witnessed this morning, review the health and safety policy as well. Right, see you in an hour, Roy,’ she said as she left.