The Hopes and Dreams of Lucy Baker

by Jenni Keer

  ‘It’s no trouble. Look, the kettle is already starting to boil.’ Steam was rising from the spout, but George was already in the hall.

  ‘I’m not sure I can face a cup of tea with a corpse in the room. Think I’ll be off. But thanks.’

  ‘Another time?’ she called.

  ‘Yeah, perhaps,’ a distant voice called back before the front door closed.

  ‘Thanks for that, Turnip,’ she said.

  Chapter 24

  After returning Turnip to the mum across the road and finding Chloe bouncing around doing an Olympic gymnastic display across the sofa, seemingly not too distressed, Lucy knitted a quick twiddlemuff to vent her frustration over George’s visit. The hospital had been so pleased when she’d dropped some off earlier in the week, she’d asked the Knit and Natter to help her make some more.

  As she pondered the bad timing that seemed to plague her attempts to create a good impression in front of George, she realised she hadn’t checked the locket since placing the hairs under his bed and that was days ago. Now wearing it every waking hour, and finding she felt quite bereft without it, she slid it over her head and opened it up.

  ‘Give myrtle, honey and feverfew

  To clear his head for dreams of you.’

  She hadn’t heard of either myrtle (apart from Hogwarts’ Moaning Myrtle) or feverfew, so immediately googled both, without even questioning why she was now happy to follow the locket’s bizarre instructions or her acceptance that engraved words on a solid object could change with no rational explanation.

  Myrtle, she read, was a flowering shrub from the Mediterranean with fragrant leaves and small, white flowers. Sacred to Aphrodite, it was symbolic of love and immortality and often used at weddings. Apparently a sprig from Queen Victoria’s bouquet had been planted at Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, and stems from the original plant had been used by the royal family ever since, with both Kate and Meghan having myrtle in their own wedding bouquets. Unlikely to find it growing locally, Lucy sourced the oil online, noting the repeated warnings that it was to be consumed in small quantities. She hoped one or two drops would be enough to invoke the magic.

  Feverfew was also a herb of love and protection but, unlike myrtle, was common in the UK. It was used to prevent migraines and once she saw an image she remembered Brenda scrunching up the delicate, frondy green leaves and smelling them to relieve headaches. She was certain her neighbour’s garden would yield this plant.

  Honey she had in the kitchen cupboards and thanks to her recent sort-out knew exactly which cupboard it was in. It never went off and had been discovered in ancient Egyptian tombs, still edible. Googling further, she realised honey in spells had a long tradition, especially if you wanted someone to be sweet to you. All the ingredients made sense to her as part of a love spell, so all she had to do was mix them up and persuade George to drink them.

  And make sure there were no dead animal carcasses lying around when she did so.

  Adding hot water to the office coffee cups Monday morning, Lucy was hit by the pleasantly pungent smell of the bitter, roasted beans. It was a shame it never tasted as nice as the aroma promised. She poured water on her teabag, fully aware she was a rebel for drinking tea in the morning. Jess nibbled on a Bourbon, her legs crossed at the ankles as she sat on the worktop in the staff kitchen, leaning back against the cupboards. Adam had drawn up a rota for the tea and coffee runs since Lucy had been brave enough to speak up, although it had taken him practically a day and several visits to the Tardis to complete it. But she was happy to take her turn, and still coordinated with Jess when she did so.

  ‘Mr Tompkins’ fancy piece was in accounts first thing,’ Jess said.

  ‘Oh?’ Lucy bent down to retrieve a carton of milk from the fridge.

  ‘Told you it was serious. He’s added her to his company car policy and she was speaking to HR about altering his summer holiday dates. She was chatting to me for ages; all loved up and over made-up. There’s a wedding on the cards, I reckon. Mark my words.’

  ‘It’s great he’s found someone. I could never understand why he was still single.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Jess huffed. ‘Talking of love, have you got the next bit of the spell yet?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s a list of ingredients I need to make the taciturn George drink, or possibly eat. It wasn’t specific about the administration.’

  ‘Oo, what are they?’

  ‘I doubt you’ve heard of them, but it’s all under control. You’d be proud of me.’

  ‘Let me see? You know I’m interested. And it was me who got you to follow all this when you dismissed it as rubbish.’

  ‘I’m still not convinced. George isn’t exactly throwing himself at me. Not that I’d know what to do with him if he did.’

  ‘I could give you some pointers.’ Jess grinned. ‘For a start, I’d go with the gruff, monosyllabic, alpha-male thing and ask him to put on a white vest. Then I’d dirty him up a bit and get him to handcuff you to the bed—’

  ‘Thank you. I get the picture.’

  Lucy took the locket off and passed it to Jess, who was all fingers, thumbs and long, pointy nails.

  ‘Myrtle, honey and feverfew.’ Jess wriggled her phone from the back pocket of her tight, denim skirt and started tapping away. ‘It says here you can make a tea from feverfew.’

  ‘I thought I might bake some cupcakes with the ingredients.’

  ‘Feverfew, myrtle and honey cupcakes are a bit experimental, even for you, love. Besides, according to Wikipedia feverfew tastes bitter.’

  ‘It will be fine. I’ll mask it with another strong flavour.’

  ‘Okay, but don’t expect me to eat one. I’m still haunted by your courgette and peanut butter cookies.’

  Adam was supportive when Lucy asked to leave early Tuesday afternoon to accompany Brenda to her GP appointment. Dr Hopgood suggested Brenda didn’t attend alone, which naturally worried them both, but it was pretty much information they already knew. He had the results from the memory clinic and confirmed that Brenda, despite refusing a CT scan, was showing the early signs of dementia. He took his time, going through diagnosis and prognosis slowly and gently, finally passing over a bundle of relevant leaflets.

  Lucy wanted to burst into tears, but Brenda, staring straight ahead and not so much as breaking eye contact with him, gave her the strength to blink them away. Of course, the signs were there, it wasn’t shock news, but she’d privately hoped for a miracle.

  ‘Now, Mrs Pethybridge, I’d like to touch on the subject of lasting power of attorney, which would enable someone you trust to act on your behalf in legal and medical matters should there come a point you were no longer capable of making such decisions for yourself.’

  ‘A discussion for another time, doctor,’ Brenda said, and he didn’t push it. ‘Let’s see what the next few weeks bring first.’

  ‘Okay, but looking to the future, I want to talk about the various medications that will help slow the progression of the illness. We have a number of options—’

  ‘We’re done for today. Thank you for your time, but I have things to do.’ Brenda stood up and thrust out a hand to shake his. ‘And it’s lemon balm tea you need, young man.’ The doctor looked blank. ‘To help with your anxiety and insomnia.’

  She walked out the door, leaving an open-mouthed Dr Hopgood staring after her.

  ‘I haven’t even confided in my wife about the insomnia,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. She’s good, isn’t she?’ said Lucy.

  Later in the week, Brenda’s missing television remote turned up in a cut-glass vase. She hadn’t been concerned by the loss as she wasn’t watching much television, but her digital radio in the kitchen was often on, playing the middle-of-the-road music of Radio Two more and the spoken word of Radio Four less. It hadn’t registered with Lucy at the time, but her friend had stopped listening to The Archers several months ago, due to what Brenda had called the ‘muddly nature of the storylines’. Lucy now recognised that it wa
s the listener who had become more muddled.

  Occasionally, Lucy was still confused with the long-dead sister-in-law when Brenda was telling an involved tale, but having done her own careful research after the diagnosis, Lucy was happy that life would be manageable for them both for a while to come. And with Brenda’s general good health, Dr Hopgood had suggested the deterioration might be slower. Lucy even noticed a couple of Alzheimer’s Society leaflets kicking about, tucked under a pile of Mills and Boons, which reassured her that her friend was taking a sensible approach to the future. A future that Lucy hoped would be long and largely happy.

  Lucy didn’t see George that week, despite hoping she would bump into him on the road, or that their paths would cross in the supermarket. He was really starting to get under her skin, in a good way: his brutal but endearing honesty, the heady scent of his expensive aftershave and his concern for her the night of the fire. But George remained elusive, although Scratbag often came out to meet her when she returned from work, rubbing a soft head against her bare legs or standing on his back feet to headbutt her outstretched hand. He gave her catty stares that seemed to suggest he knew more than he should and certainly more than you would want him to. But he was friendly and affectionate, and finally starting to put on some much-needed weight.

  She rang her sister to check how the pregnancy was progressing, but all Emily wanted to talk about was whether Lucy had gone online with the knitted figures. Their mother had reported back to Emily about the website and Lucy was forced to admit it was somewhat of an exaggeration.

  ‘You should have something up and running by now. They are so clever and I know at least a dozen parents at Rosie’s preschool who would order Little Mermaids and Elsas from you in a blink of their neatly plucked, Botox-enhanced eyes.’

  ‘They aren’t strictly celebrities,’ Lucy pointed out. ‘And I’m not sure I’d even know what to charge.’

  ‘How long does each one take to knit?’

  ‘About a week, if I do it during my lunch hour and the occasional evening.’

  ‘Then don’t you dare charge less than twenty pounds for each one.’

  ‘Twenty pounds? They aren’t worth that much.’

  ‘You need to do some serious research, honey. I think you’ll find people are prepared to pay for something unique and hand-crafted. But mind it doesn’t take over your social life.’

  ‘I’ve never had one of those so that won’t be a problem.’

  Spurred on by Emily, Lucy decided to take the plunge. She asked Jess over later that week, to help set up a shop on Etsy – a website for hand-made and vintage items. Looking on the site, she was surprised to find what some people were prepared to pay for similar-sized knitted dolls, and hers had a quirky twist (and a lot more sex appeal). She realised her sister wasn’t as far off as she thought.

  Jess jumped at the chance for another sleepover. They cleared the kitchen table and sat opposite each other with an Adele CD playing softly in the background. Lucy was on the laptop with a cup of tea by her side. Jess was on her tablet with half a bottle of wine already inside her.

  First, they registered on the site and added some basic information about Nicely Knitted Celebrities. Then Jess posed the knitted figures that Lucy had available for sale, photographed them and listed them. They placed Ed under a desk lamp on the kitchen worktop and tried to create a live concert feel; Thor they took onto the concrete patio and had him smashing up a few stones like a god; and Jess inventively hung Twilight’s Edward Cullen from a tree, so he looked swoopy and vampirey. Lucy decided to part with most of them, saving Poldark, and hoped their removal would make her living room less knitty and more grown-up. Between them, they came up with some fun descriptions for each figure and a price. Finally, Jess set her up with a PayPal account.

  ‘Make sure you check the site regularly,’ Jess said.

  ‘Of course. I don’t want to let down my hundreds of potential customers.’

  ‘I’m liking the new positive attitude, babe. You really are a butterfly emerging from your chrysalis. Everything about you has more oomph. I’m not sure where it’s come from, and there was nothing wrong with the old you, but the new you is kinda cool. So how about letting me give you Union Jack nails? I have the stuff with me.’

  ‘One baby step at a time. But I wouldn’t mind you having another go at a make-over.’

  ‘Really?’ Jess leaped up and scampered out to collect her overnight bag from the hall before Lucy could change her mind. ‘You won’t regret it, Luce. I can show you how to bring out the blue of your eyes.’

  The myrtle oil Lucy ordered arrived Friday morning, in a small brown bottle with a white cap and a pretty olive-green label. She unscrewed the lid and took a sniff. It smelt a bit like bay leaves: peppery and camphory. Placing her finger over the open neck, she tipped the bottle forward then back, and cautiously licked the tip of her finger. It had an unpleasant, bitter taste. Dark chocolate, she decided, would mask the myrtle and feverfew. Combined with cherry perhaps – a traditional combination. Now was not the time to experiment with new flavour sensations.

  Arriving at work, still mulling over the next spell, she witnessed Adam arrive five minutes after her to find his desk and chair had been wrapped in cling film. The more frustrated he became trying to remove it, the harder it got. Tugging at sections only made them stretch and shrink to tight plastic strips. He eventually sat down with a large pair of scissors and snipped through it all.

  ‘Why do you do it, Daniel?’ Lucy asked him when he rang the office for some safety information on the new range of Tramp’O’Bounce trampolines. Digging a hole in your garden and dropping in a trampoline frame was the new big thing after the flurry of personal injury claims from the trampoline craze of recent years, but customers had been slow to embrace this supposedly safer alternative. ‘Cling film? Really?’

  He didn’t even bother to deny it. ‘Because he makes it so easy and so much fun. The only downside is I don’t get to see his cross little face. Bet he was furious this morning?’

  ‘That’s an understatement. He was so angry that when he’d finally liberated his desk, he picked up a pencil and accidentally snapped it in half. He’s only got fourteen spares.’

  There was a chuckle down the line. ‘I keep waiting for a phone call from the Black Widow with some sort of official reprimand; I’ve already had my knuckles rapped over the Tardis incident – apologies again, Luce – but it hasn’t come yet. Perhaps she’s saving it for my annual review. Tally up the black marks and all that.’

  Lucy sighed. It appeared her careless comment had become Sam’s official nickname and she really regretted saying it in front of Adam.

  ‘To be honest, I think he covers for you every time, Daniel.’

  ‘I don’t know why.’

  ‘Probably because underneath all the bluster and bravado, he’s actually a really decent bloke.’

  Chapter 25

  Lucy called in after work to ask if Brenda still had feverfew growing in her cornucopia of a garden. Brenda opened the door looking flustered and Lucy realised she had company. A neighbour was standing in the hallway behind her.

  ‘Sorry. I’ll come back later. It’s not urgent,’ said Lucy.

  ‘No, please come in. Go through to the living room. I was just seeing Marjorie out.’

  Lucy made herself comfortable in her favourite chair, or rather her favourite chair saw to it that she was comfortable, although she couldn’t help but eavesdrop on the conversation taking place in the corridor.

  ‘Don’t worry, Brenda. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does matter. I can’t understand how it happened. I can only apologise.’

  ‘It didn’t smell right when I opened the bottle. Even our Ron thought so. But I appreciate the refund. I would have been equally happy with a replacement. It’s always worked so well before. And I don’t like going to Dr Hopgood, as lovely as he is, because, well you know, it’s in an embarrassing place.’

  ‘Goodness only k
nows how I missed the tea tree oil out. Lemongrass smells quite different. But like I said, I’m running the medicinal side of things down now. I’m getting too old to be fiddling about with plants and brewing potions. My eyesight isn’t what it once was.’

  Lucy knew there was absolutely nothing wrong with Brenda’s eyesight, even if other things had started to fail her friend. But she was saddened to think Brenda was stepping back from her alternative remedies. It was the thing that kept her animated and busy.

  ‘Such a shame. I know several people who rely on you for help when the medicine from the doc doesn’t do its job. Looks like I’ll have to dig out the inflatable cushion or brave showing the young doctor my nethers.’

  The ladies laughed. Lucy heard the front door close and Brenda reappeared in the doorway.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘I prefer tea, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘How do you take it again?’

  Brenda placed an old-fashioned wooden tray on the nest of tables. She was using her favourite Thirties bone-china tea set, and the matching cake plate was laden with a tempting pile of caramel squares. Where Lucy’s mother might have gone for delicate understated flowers, Brenda went for garish orange and purple daisies that jumped off the cup and practically slapped you around the face. It was why Lucy had knitted the purple and orange blanket for her friend, and she was beginning to feel that the daisies would be her choice too.

  Lucy looked down at her white blouse and wondered why she never wore clothes that reflected her love of the bold and beautiful, because she certainly embraced it in other areas of her life (the lime green feature wall in her bedroom being testament to that) but she suspected it was her general unease at being the centre of attention. No more, she thought to herself. The colours she loved shouldn’t be reserved for a bedroom wall or a knitted blanket that she gave away. The next thing she knitted would be bright pink. And she would wear it.

  ‘So, how are things?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Apart from adding an excessive quantity of lemongrass oil to Marjorie’s boil treatment instead of five drops of tea tree, you mean? Thank goodness she had the common sense not to apply it or she really would be reaching for the inflatable cushion.’ Brenda started to pour and Lucy was disappointed to find it was ordinary tea with no hints of bergamot or lemon. A dainty cup was slid towards Lucy and then Brenda poured one for herself. ‘Marjorie aside, I think we both know that things are far from okay, don’t we? You of all people. You who know me better than anyone.’