The Hopes and Dreams of Lucy Baker

by Jenni Keer

  Lucy blushed. ‘I’m worried about you.’

  Brenda added a touch of milk from the tiny matching jug and stirred her tea.

  ‘I’m worried about me. I’ve been making up Marjorie’s lotion for years, as she’s unfortunately prone to infections in that area, and suddenly I’ve put some random ingredient in that could have given her a nasty burn if she’d applied it as I directed.’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up. Everyone has forgetful moments, even me.’

  Brenda gave her a Paddington Bear hard stare.

  ‘Perhaps more so the older you get,’ Lucy added, trying to be diplomatic.

  ‘I have some pretty powerful herbs and oils in my pantry, Lucy. Some of them are not meant to be ingested. I could kill someone.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Caramel square?’ Brenda offered up the tea plate. ‘Shop-bought,’ she clarified and they both giggled as Lucy took one.

  ‘I’m visiting my parents this weekend.’ Lucy paused to find the correct phrasing. ‘George said he’d pop over while I’m gone to see if you need anything doing or any shopping picking up.’

  ‘Ah, George. That’s our sexy neighbour, right?’ Lucy nodded. ‘He’s such a dear. It’s kind of you both, but I can manage, you know.’ Lucy looked her straight in the eye. ‘Okay, okay,’ and Brenda put her hands in the air in capitulation. ‘The company would be good. I’m sticking to traditional tea though. Don’t want to poison your future paramour. Or accidentally administer a remedy for piles.’

  ‘Try not to overwhelm the poor man.’

  ‘I shall be on my best behaviour.’ There was a pause. ‘Probably.’

  After they’d drunk their tea, Brenda took Lucy into her garden. Not a sunny day but a warm one; thin white clouds slowly drifted across the sun but didn’t look substantial enough to deposit rain. Lucy wished they’d thought to have the tea outside on the little bistro set. It was a lovely space and made you forget that you were on the edge of a large town. The boughs of the trees overhead were as thick as a man’s leg; drooping foliage created tunnels and hidey-holes; and large, leafy plants tickled at your feet as though they wanted to play. Like the mysterious armchair, the garden also welcomed Lucy and invisible arms embraced her every time she visited.

  Brenda found a small pot of feverfew, telling Lucy to keep it as it was a useful plant for headaches, which Lucy already knew from her own research. Suddenly looking weary, Brenda flicked some dead cherry blossom from one of the cast-iron seats and sank into it. She took a couple of deep breaths and placed her fingers on the table like a piano player. Absent-mindedly, she ran her fingers back and forth along the edge, almost as if she was trying to read a hidden Braille message. Her face shut down for a moment, and Lucy suspected her friend had temporarily forgotten she was there.

  ‘I always feel so at home in your garden, and as though I am somewhere else rather than here. Does that make sense?’ Lucy pulled her friend back to the present.

  Brenda took a moment to adjust to her surroundings. She stroked the table one last time and stood up. Looping her arm through Lucy’s, she gave a her a wrinkly grin, her bright blue eyes seeming all the more blue because they matched her cobalt-coloured smock. Taller than Brenda, Lucy noticed a good inch of hair growth where the purple needed recolouring. Again, uncharacteristic behaviour. Brenda had always been on top of the monthly beetroot and blackberry home-made hair dye.

  ‘Yes, and it’s important that you know this garden loves you very much, Lucy Baker.’ There was a swelling of tears in Brenda’s eyes that didn’t quite spill over the bottom lid, before they were hastily blinked away. ‘Because it will still be here, long after I’m gone.’

  Chapter 26

  ‘You’re late, Lucy. You know I always serve promptly at one.’ Her mother was holding a pale pink embroidered hand towel and air-kissed her daughter before drying her hands, to make the point Lucy’s arrival had interrupted something.

  ‘My darling baby girl,’ said Dad, throwing his arms around his daughter as though she was a lifebuoy, which in a way she was. ‘You must come and see the headlight unit now that I’ve fitted it. It looks fantastic.’

  ‘Lunch first, Paul.’

  ‘After lunch, obviously. Your mother has been cooking and baking all morning. We can sneak out to the garage later. I’ve also fitted the replacement BMW badges you got me for Christmas. Lovely thought, they really finish it off. I’m on the home straight now. Not long until she’s fully restored.’

  ‘Shoes,’ chastised her mum, as Lucy stepped over the threshold.

  ‘So, I said how much I sympathised,’ Sandra continued, oblivious to the glances being exchanged across the white, pressed linen tablecloth. ‘As if her son will ever amount to much. He’s still temping at Pickard’s and he’s thirty. I said our Emily was a regional manager for WHSmith now, troubleshooting for the company nationally. We all know she’ll make director by the time she retires, so she had a narrow escape with that boy, I can tell you.’

  ‘They were only about fourteen, Mum. I don’t think it was serious.’

  ‘Well, I doubt Jayne will see grandchildren any time soon. I did show her the most up-to-date photograph of the girls on my phone. She didn’t say much. I think she’s jealous. Emily said—’

  ‘So how are you, love?’ interrupted her dad.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Stressful.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like my Lucy. I thought you liked it there.’

  ‘I do, but changes are afoot. The new general manager is very efficient. She’ll spot a weak link at twenty paces.’

  ‘Perhaps now is the ideal opportunity to look into another more lucrative career?’ offered her mother. ‘Something with good long-term prospects and a decent pension scheme. It’s never too late to think about returning to education. If only you’d considered clearing, you could have had BA after your name, like Emily. Looks so much better on the CV. The better your qualifications, the better the pay.’

  ‘Actually, Mum,’ Lucy said, suddenly aware of the locket almost glowing against her chest, ‘I’m determined to succeed at Tompkins – I’ve just got a lot on my plate at the moment.’ Although not overly concerned about Brenda in the immediate future, there was something making her feel uneasy, poking her in her dreams and trying to wriggle into her thoughts during the day. She felt she was missing something and it bothered her. ‘They are a decent bunch of people and the work is interesting and varied. It’s a job I can leave at the office and allows me to have a life outside work; a challenge without being all-consuming.’

  ‘And financial reward isn’t the only reason for choosing a career, Sandra,’ her dad added.

  ‘Don’t I know it? I have cursed Mother Nature on more than one occasion for making women the child bearers. I was working my way up at the library and had hopes for promotion, but, no, I went and fell in love at an early age with a man who had less ambition than a dishcloth – no, disrespect, love.’ She reached out for her husband’s arm, as if saying that would make her comment acceptable. Having Emily at twenty had certainly put a stop to Sandra’s plans for world domination, but it was easy to blame others. There was certainly nothing preventing her from re-entering the workplace now if she chose to, but she’d found other roles to fulfil that need, and sometimes Lucy felt her mother enjoyed speculating about the career she could have had more than trying to redress it.

  ‘But you wouldn’t change anything?’ Lucy said to her mother, noting the crestfallen look her dad often wore around his wife.

  ‘Of course not! I love you, Paul. And I love my daughters. But I look at Emily and wonder how I would have fared if I’d had those opportunities. Modern women can have it all: a career and a family. It wasn’t possible thirty years ago because the necessary childcare facilities weren’t in place. Wanting the best for you all isn’t a crime, surely?’

  ‘Depends whose definition of best we are talking about,’ mumbled her dad.

&nbs
p; Perched on an old chrome bar stool that her dad had picked up from a boot fair, Lucy finally felt at ease. Her legs were dangling in mid-air and reminding her of childhood when her tiny feet never reached the floor. There was a smell of engine oil and sawdust. Rows of spanners hung from hooks along the wall, and a solid pine workbench ran the length of the garage, dotted with oily rags and random screws. An open tin of Swarfega sat on the bench, revealing its dark green, gelatinous contents. Lucy adored the smell and associated it with happy weekends spent alongside her father when she was young. She loved being his Chief Spanner Handerer – a job title she had coined at an early age and one that had stuck into adulthood.

  It was cool in the garage, and despite the long strip light above them flickering and buzzing, it felt gloomy because it was so bright and sunny outside. They had brought cups of tea out with them in her mother’s garden mugs. (Sandra had transferred the tea from the best china when she realised where they were heading.) Her dad took a swig and then replaced the mug on the bench, looking every inch the mechanic in the navy blue overalls that his wife insisted he wore when he was, as she referred to it, ‘tinkering’.

  ‘So now the headlight unit is in, I’m almost there. I’m still keeping me eyes peeled for an original gearstick as the leather always get worn. But, with the badges on, there isn’t that much left to do.’ He stood back to admire his beloved metallic green BMW M535i. ‘I promised my twenty-year-old self that I’d own one of these one day, and now look – nought to sixty in over seven seconds, fourteen-inch alloy wheels and an impressive two-hundred-and-eighteen-brake horsepower. She was a real Q-car of her time; a family saloon with a sports-car heart.’ He stroked the bonnet like you might ruffle the hair of a favourite child.

  ‘It’s wonderful, Dad. You have a real talent for mechanics. Perhaps you’d have been happier with a job that gave you dirty hands and a sense of achievement, instead of banking, which we both know you hate.’

  ‘Ah, but you weren’t around in the Eighties.’ He let out a sigh. ‘They were a time of prosperity and growth. The increased use of computers created a demand for an educated workforce and people aspired to the yuppie stereotype: sharp suit, mobile phone, plenty of disposable cash. Careers advice at school consisted of filling in information about yourself on some form and the careers teacher allocating you a suitable career. I’m sure she only had a list of about ten jobs: banking, retail, teaching, the emergency services, the military… And my dad was old-school. You got an education and then got a job – one that paid the bills and they could tell the neighbours about with a sense of pride.’

  ‘It’s never too late, you know.’

  ‘Can’t see that going down well with your mother though. Can you?’

  ‘Perhaps not. Thank goodness she has Emily.’

  ‘She loves us all, sweetheart. Emily is in her mould, that’s all. But the saddest part of that is, out of the three of us, I’m not convinced Emily isn’t the most unhappy.’

  This statement sat uneasily with Lucy, who wriggled about trying to find the stool stretcher with her toes and frowned. She’d had her own doubts about Emily but had assured herself they were groundless. Perhaps not. That was the problem with living so far apart. When they were children, they’d always been able to spot each other’s unhappiness. It was a sister thing. But you couldn’t see the truth in someone’s eyes down the phone or over the internet.

  ‘But Emily is living the dream,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Oh, Luce. Take off your Sandra glasses and look at your sister again. Call her, speak to her properly, perhaps even pay her a visit. I’ve got a feeling she’s going to need her friends soon. And her family.’

  Chapter 27

  Lucy devoted Sunday morning to the Big Birthday, not wanting to be accused of favouring her father, since the pair of them had been out in the garage until quite late the night before. She sat with her mother and listened to the party update. Invites were now with the printer and Sandra had been consulting with a local florist about centrepieces. She had a plan of the tables and was running through possible seating arrangements three months in advance, with the assumption that no one would dream of refusing. Thankfully, talk of napkin swans was avoided.

  With the help of the locket, Lucy wasn’t dreading the event as much as before. Hopefully the successful local businessman and homeowner George would be on her arm, and her mother could wave him in front of anyone she felt the desperate need to impress. And despite a couple of minor hiccups at work, she still had the time and determination to make a success of that area of her life as well. Her mother commented several times on her smarter appearance (despite her initial reluctance, a bit of make-up did make her feel bolder and more attractive) and she was resolved not to be found lurking behind the aspidistra with her dad but flitting about and embracing her inner social butterfly.

  They hugged goodbye on the pavement outside the family red-brick detached suburban home, later that evening. Sandra felt she’d fulfilled her motherly duties to perfection; Lucy was full of delicious home-cooked food and reminded of her daughterly obligations. As they embraced, Lucy noticed her mother’s reluctance to let go.

  When Lucy eventually returned to Renborough, having to park further away from the flat than she would have liked, she was exhausted. The traffic had been unusually busy for a Sunday and sleep the previous night had been restless. Those Regency lords kept morphing into George and taking liberties with her maidenhood. What was it with her brain? It seemed obsessed with that man at the moment.

  Trudging along the pavement towards her flat, with her wheelie suitcase and her knitting bag, she decided to stop at George’s to see how Brenda had been in her absence. Although frankly, after a long car journey, the last thing she felt like doing was biting her lip in front of Mr Call-a-spade-a-spade.

  ‘Ah, Lucy. Erm…would you like to come in?’ he asked, seeing her standing at his door with all her luggage and a weary face. She recognised he was trying to be more sociable so accepted his offer.

  They stood together in his spacious kitchen, one of the few rooms she’d not been in before as the layout meant the utility and kitchen were both accessed from the hall. (In fact, in her flat, the back utility was her bedroom, and in Brenda’s it was still the original pantry.) A red tea caddy with a circular glass window, a super-shiny chrome kettle and a small bottle of virgin olive oil were the only three items on his worktop – it beggared belief. It was as if he was living in an IKEA showroom. All it needed was a wicker basket of fake fruit and a plastic loaf of bread across a huge wooden board and she would have believed it.

  ‘There is something different about your eyes,’ George said, squinting as he handed her a glass of mineral water. ‘Are you wearing make-up?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, flattered that he’d noticed.

  ‘Hmm… Prefer the natural look myself.’

  ‘Good job your opinion of my cosmetic overload wasn’t the reason I called then.’ She was used to the lack of any emotions showing in his face but was ever hopeful of finding some indication he regretted the bluntness of his comments. It was not to be. She consoled herself with the knowledge should he ever say something flattering, it would at least be genuine. ‘I was calling to see how you got on with Brenda while I was away.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Brenda,’ and his eyes crinkled slightly around the edges. So he did have some softer emotions lurking, but it took a flirty seventy-nine-year-old to unleash them. Or a stray cat. ‘I popped in on her like you asked. Yesterday was a bit of a disaster. She wouldn’t open the door and didn’t seem to recognise me. I’ve not known her long, but she has spoken to me several times. On reflection, I think she’d been asleep. She seemed disorientated. I told her you’d asked me to call and she kept repeating, “I don’t know any Lucys.” It was awkward.’

  George shrugged his wide shoulders, and Lucy felt an awkward lump rise in her throat. To hear Brenda had forgotten her, albeit temporarily, was hard.

  ‘So I tried again a bit later and was mo
re successful. She invited me in and made me a cup of some dodgy-tasting tea. She didn’t mention my earlier visit, so I didn’t bring it up. I called back that evening with two portions of fish and chips from town, and she was on better form. At one point I swear she was flirting with me.’

  ‘That’s because she’s got a massive crush on you.’ Lucy coughed as she realised she’d said it out loud and George went a becoming shade of pink. ‘No accounting for taste.’

  ‘Anyway,’ George said, getting the conversation back on track, ‘she ate well, because I stayed and had my meal with her.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m not totally heartless, you know. Today she was up and about by the time I called; dressed and singing to herself as she answered the door. She seemed glad of the company and we sat in the garden for a long time, talking about the Yellow Crows. Did you know her husband was the drummer? Interesting lady, and although I didn’t contribute much to the conversation, I enjoyed spending time with another human being – my own mother aside. We got through an entire dairy-free carrot cake.’

  This was a side of George Lucy hadn’t anticipated and it was quite appealing. He may not be a talker, but apparently he was a listener, and one who was not averse to spending time with old ladies.

  ‘I know I’m unusual in that I like my own company but being widowed all those years must be hard. Does she have family?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s no one. And, apart from me, I’m not sure she has any other close friends left alive. That’s what happens when you hurtle towards eighty. Someone has to be last. And people around here have always been slightly wary of her, imagining she has all sorts of mystical powers and can see into their souls. Or maybe even turn them into toads.’