by Jenni Keer
‘I don’t understand.’ Okay, so perhaps he did like her, but she was damned if she could work out why. After all, she’d been assured it was nothing to do with the locket. Surely he didn’t like her for her unexciting woolly self?
‘Personally, I blame Scratbag: meeting you in the first place, needing your help to feed him, which meant we kept seeing each other, drawing my attention to your plight on the night of the fire. And then, of course, he’s the reason I buggered everything up.’
She shook her head. ‘I still don’t understand.’
‘Has anyone told you before how similar you and Jess look? How a man with more allergies than Sneezy from The Seven Dwarfs, who has broken the glasses he has to wear because of his stupid itchy eyes, might walk up to the girl he’s fallen for and take her in his arms – the only truly romantic gesture he’s ever undertaken in his whole life, might I add? – only to find he’s buggered it all up and is kissing the totally wrong girl?’
He’d mistaken Jess for her. Her mouth formed the word, ‘Oh,’ but the word didn’t make it past her lips. Poor Jess.
‘Because, stupid blind fool that I am, I was kissing the mad one who, while she’s okay in very small doses, unfortunately reminds me of Karen and really wasn’t my cup of soya-milky tea.’
Lucy was experiencing the warm glow that she thought, until that point, had come from the locket. Perhaps love had that effect as well.
‘With a failed marriage behind me and the social skills of a cantankerous hermit, I didn’t want or need anyone in my life. And then you and Scratbag reminded me that it’s not healthy to be on my own. I suspect Brenda might have had something to do with it all as well, but you never can pin down what she’s done or said. All I know is, every time I go to see her, I come away with a feeling she’s been messing with me somehow.’
‘She wouldn’t do you any harm because her chair likes you too much.’
George frowned but didn’t ask her to elaborate, as Lucy gave him an encouraging smile.
‘What did Brenda say to you on the dance floor just now?’ she asked.
‘Something along the lines of, “If you don’t tell her that you’re in love with her, so help me, you’ll regret the next curiously flavoured cup of tea you have at my house.”’
‘And what did you reply?’
‘That I was on it. And then I told her, if I was twenty years older, it would have been a toss- up between the two of you.’ His fabulous, orgasm-inducing dimples came out to play.
Life is full of special moments that you wish you could bottle up and save forever like one of Brenda’s potions. For Lucy, this moment needed a huge jar and an airtight stopper. And as she closed her eyes, she imagined an enormous glass bottle on a high shelf in Brenda’s pantry, her spidery handwriting clearly labelling the bottle The Moment You Knew You’d Found The One.
As George’s lips collided with hers, and one of his shovel-like hands slid up her back and pulled her tiny body closer, Lucy Baker left this world for a brief moment and found a special place in the ether she shared only with George.
And Brenda Pethybridge, inside the hall listening to Marjorie talk about the charming Dr Hopgood, looked to her right and lost track of the conversation, because suddenly she knew her final job on this tiny planet, millions of miles into an infinity of space and time, and floating in a universe no man could ever fully comprehend, was finished.
Chapter 54
The party went on until two o’clock in the morning, the last guests leaving when Brenda finally admitted defeat and asked to be taken home. She kept Lucy and George close to her for the remainder of the night, like precious children that she couldn’t bear to part with, holding their hands firmly in her own. There were no moments of forgetfulness, no muddling of names and no distant moments.
George drove all three of them back to Lancaster Road and they saw Brenda safely inside. Lucy and George kissed again under the deep orange glow of the street light until Scratbag appeared like an uneasy parent to check the courting couple. George chivalrously offered to walk her to her front door. She joked about his long journey home and they reluctantly parted.
For Lucy knew she was many things: kleptomaniac, poisoner and pyromaniac amongst them, but her mother had not brought her up to behave like a floozy.
The dream was disturbing. Lucy was running through a series of dimly lit corridors. Sometimes she glimpsed an indistinct figure in the room at the end, but by the time she got to the door it had either closed or the room was empty. All she could hear were the echoes of her footsteps bouncing off the walls and her own panicked breaths. Someone was calling out to her in a soft sing-song voice. She stopped running and walked to the end room. A woman sat in a high-backed chair, but this time she didn’t disappear as Lucy approached. The woman had no face, but Lucy knew her. She knelt at the woman’s feet and a hand stroked her hair. In the nonsense way that only dreams work, Lucy realised she was lost but also knew she was found. And then the woman started to disappear, turning to shadow and memory. The dividing line between her dream world and reality began to blur.
‘Brenda?’ she mumbled as her eyes focused on her familiar room. Fear built to an inexplicable crescendo. The room was dark, but a peeping light from the gap in the curtains gave definition to her furniture. Her eyes struggled to focus on the table lamp and she reached out to switch it on. She waited a moment for the feeling of relief that usually floods through your body when you realise it was all a dream. But it didn’t come.
She didn’t know what was happening or why, but she did know that she had to get to Brenda immediately.
Chapter 55
Dawn was breaking as Lucy unlocked her front door and stepped into the cool morning. Low light bounced off the treetops and an unusually large crowd of birds gathered on Brenda’s roof. Scratbag appeared from behind the low wall and started his pathetic meow. He came to her feet and put his little catty paws up on her knees, before dropping to the path again. Scurrying towards Brenda’s house, he stopped and turned, as if to check she was following. Something was going on and the omniscient Scratbag knew it.
After knocking a few times and getting no answer, Lucy tried the door handle. To her surprise it wasn’t locked and the door swung inwards. A hanging chime above the doorframe tinkled as the door was pushed into the hallway. Scratbag watched her enter and then turned back down the path, as though he’d done his part and it was time for him to leave.
The first thing that hit her was the silence. Not just the absence of voices or the usual noises made by someone moving around, but a no-ticking-clocks silence. There were always at least a dozen chattering away in Brenda’s house and now there was an eerie nothing.
‘Brenda?’ she called, passing the open living-room door and noting that the wooden mantel clock had stopped at eight minutes past four.
She walked into the kitchen and the hands on the bright orange, square, battery-operated wall clock also read eight minutes past four.
A faint smell of alcohol lingered in the air and two vintage green champagne saucers sat on the kitchen table next to a dusty, dark green and gold bottle of Bollinger Special Cuvée. A bottle Brenda had perhaps been saving for a special occasion, and her eightieth birthday would certainly qualify. One glass was empty, the other full, but its bubbles had long since dissipated. And then Lucy realised the one person in the whole of her friend’s crazy and magical world she would want to be with might be there to share the moment, but wouldn’t be able to lift the glass.
‘Brenda? It’s Lucy,’ she called again, as she moved back into the hallway and stood at the foot of the stairs. The poor woman probably hadn’t gone to bed until the early hours and here she was expecting her to be up and about at silly o’clock the next morning. It was perfectly reasonable to assume Brenda was sleeping off the champagne and excitement of the night before.
Yet Lucy knew inside her troubled heart that something was wrong. She took the stairs in twos and bounded up the first flight. She went straight for Brenda’s bedr
oom, now bracing herself for a lifeless body on the bed, but the bed hadn’t been slept in and Brenda was nowhere to be seen. Since her last visit to this room, when she had collected clothes after the wandering episode, the room had changed dramatically. Most of the contents had been neatly packed into carefully labelled boxes. Brenda’s old-fashioned handwriting detailing the contents of each: shoes, evening gowns, clutch bags, jewellery. Looking about her now, it appeared the only room that had remained untouched was the living room. Brenda hadn’t wanted anyone to know what she was up to and must have been packing for weeks, but to go where?
Lucy’s heart was thumping and her breaths were forced, each exhalation threatening to release an unstoppable flow of emotions. She realised the most precious room to Brenda was on the third floor: Jim’s studio. Her stomach flipped over completely and for a moment she thought she might be sick. Not running but walking now, she climbed the last flight. She took each step one at a time. The thumping of her heart so powerful she feared it would break through her ribcage and bounce out onto the floor in front of her.
It was as she rounded the corner that Lucy finally found her dear friend sitting in the old, leather easy chair that stood next to the precious Ludwig Mod Orange drum kit. Motionless and pale, there was no movement from her chest. No gentle up and down to reassure the frightened Lucy that all was well. On the floor in front of her were the knitted drums Lucy had presented her with only the previous morning, arranged perfectly to mirror the real kit, but the tiny knitted Brenda and Jim were nestled together on her lap. One lifeless hand rested protectively across the pair of them, keeping them safe. And, more importantly, together.
Brenda was still wearing her psychedelic party dress, her purple-streaked hair wild about her shoulders and her eyes closed as though she was listening to her sweetheart serenade her with his drums one last time. Maybe, thought Lucy as she fell to her knees and let the unrestrained tears fall from her eyes, gasping for each painful breath between sobs, he had.
Chapter 56
‘When I locked up Brenda’s house yesterday, I found this poking out from her bureau.’
George had been by Lucy’s side since her heartbreaking discovery, his repeated gentle kisses seeing her through the awfulness of the day, and his strong, silent presence a comfort. She uncurled herself as he passed over a cream envelope with For Lucy Baker in the event of my death written across the front.
Trembling, she took it, traces of lavender and rosemary drifting from the stationery as she held it close. She pulled a large knitted blanket from the back of the sofa and slid into it. The tears fell again and only when she felt she could focus through the blur, did she finally open the letter, noticing the tiny forget-me-nots dotted around the edge of the pretty paper. It wasn’t dated, but Lucy had her suspicions as to when it had been written. And why.
Dear Lucy – the daughter I never had,
This is one of the hardest letters I have ever had to write. I don’t know when you will be reading this, but I know that if you are, then I have left you.
I am sitting outside at the little bistro set in the garden – the garden that we both love and loves us back. The honeysuckle is in full bloom, wrapping me in such a delicious and heady scent that I feel alive and content, but I can also smell damp soil from the summer rain we had briefly this morning. I am reminded of all the seasons in a year, and also the seasons of my life.
I think I have made a difference. I have tried to live a life to help others and spread a little sunshine in the world. Even after losing Jim, my focus has always been a positive one. But the news that I may spend the next few years slowly deteriorating and become a burden has been a bitter pill and one that will be hard to swallow. Perhaps I will pass peacefully in my sleep. One can but dream…
I hope you are shedding a tear for the peculiar old lady who was a small part of your life for the last two years, or perhaps longer by the time you read this. Is it wrong to be a little pleased that I will be missed and there is someone left behind to truly grieve? Had I not met you, lovely Lucy, I fear only a handful of locals would gather at my grave, commenting on the odd woman who they visited for help with their ailments and charms for their happiness, but never really got to know. The real tears will come from you and from George. For that, however twisted my logic may seem to you, I thank you both.
Two years ago, you came into my life – a quiet, unassuming girl but one with so much potential. I’ve watched you blossom in that short space of time and have such high hopes for your future. I know now that you’ll be fine. My last project on this earth was to ensure your future with George and I believe my work there will reach a happy conclusion. Call it magic, call it a gift, call it a curse – I am determined to stay around long enough to see you and George realise what I have known from the beginning. Treasure each other. Love is the greatest gift.
Whatever you put out into the universe, Lucy, will come back threefold. I believe you will live a good life and be a light for others. I’m not asking you to embrace my beliefs or follow them, but don’t be scared of things you do not understand. Remember that your courage and your confidence come from within, and that you can do magical things without needing magic.
I have left you a little something in my will that I know you will cherish and take excellent care of. It will help to keep me alive in your thoughts and memories. Again, a little self-indulgent of me, but I don’t believe you are ever truly dead while you remain alive in the memories of those you loved and who loved you in return.
They will say I was lucky to have lived a full life, but remember, Lucy, you make your own luck – which I think you knew all along.
Air I am, fire I am, water, earth and spirit I am. Look for me, Lucy, for I will never be far away.
Forgive me for leaving you, darling girl, but no one can live forever.
Brenda x
Moving the letter to the side to preserve it from her streaming tears, Lucy looked up into George’s concerned face and passed it over. He perched on the edge of the sofa and read Brenda’s words.
‘That’s beautiful, Lucy. I know it’s painful right now, but you can revisit these words when you’re stronger and take strength from them. You were so lucky to have found each other. I know you made a massive difference to her life these past two years.’
Lucy shook her head from side to side, still unable to accept the harsh reality of her friend’s passing. ‘I don’t know how I’ll manage without her.’
‘She’ll always be with us – floating about, probably, if I know her, and keeping her beady eye on us. That’s probably why she left you something in her will,’ he said, folding up the single sheet of paper and slipping it back into the envelope. He handed it to Lucy, who gripped it tightly with both hands. ‘A reminder of your friendship. Something you can look at and remember her by.’
‘Perhaps it will be one of the clocks,’ she said. ‘I hope so, even if they did all stop mysteriously at eight minutes past four.’
‘I noticed that. It’s odd being in her house without the symphony of ticks and tocks. It makes me think of that song “Grandfather’s Clock”.’
‘Yes,’ said Lucy. ‘I think they died with her.’
George leaned over and slipped his big arms around his precious girl and held her tight, glad that she didn’t look up to witness his own emotional struggle.
‘Skipping all the legal jargon, her will is very brief. She leaves everything in its entirety to you, Lucy: the house, the contents and some not insubstantial savings.’
George had a comforting hand on Lucy’s shoulder as she sat in the offices of Pickering, Pickering and Blythe – an old firm on the edge of Renborough that had been going since about 1420 or something equally ridiculous. Mr Rutherford looked as though he was an original member of staff, with his white Einstein hair and Dickensian suit, which made the Apple Mac on his leather-inlaid desk look somewhat incongruous.
Brenda had been buried the previous week in a beautiful wicker (and very
environmentally friendly) coffin. The service was held at the graveside by an enthusiastic and incredibly well-informed humanist celebrant. Brenda had arranged it all, and not that long ago it turned out. The funeral had been paid for and her instructions were quite specific. No flowers. Donations to Dementia UK. And absolutely and unreservedly no black.
‘No.’ Lucy was quite definite there had been some mistake. ‘She said she’d left me something – an ornament, a book, maybe even a piece of jewellery. She definitely said “a little…” Oh my goodness.’ She lifted her hand to her open mouth as realisation dawned.
The solicitor smiled. ‘As per my client’s instructions, I was asked to wait for the penny to drop, or at least give you a few moments in the hope that it would. I was then to read the following short letter to you…
‘Dear Lucy,
‘My last message from beyond the grave, I promise, unless you have another stray cat appear. That might be me. I’ll see what I can do. Maybe with lilac eyes.
‘Forgive the twisted humour of an old lady and take a moment to remember our conversation when you gave me the Elliott Landy book. You were so struck by the sentiment at the time, that I couldn’t resist…’
And then the solicitor and Lucy said together, ‘Sometimes a little something can mean everything.’
Epilogue
‘Ah, Sheila, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter Lucy. She is a high-flying rep for a national toy wholesaler. They really couldn’t manage without her. And this is her boyfriend George, who owns E.G.A. Packaging. You might have heard of them? They are hoping to expand into the European market soon.’
Sandra’s friend put out her hand to shake Lucy’s. ‘So lovely to meet you. Your mum talks about you all the time. Are you local?’
‘Lucy and George both own enormous Georgian houses on the outskirts of Renborough – the nice end of town,’ answered her mother on her behalf. ‘But, quite frankly, she could be as poor as the proverbial church mouse and I would still be immensely proud of her. She is kind, she is generous and she is a simply marvellous sister and daughter. Did I mention she knits these amazing celebrity figures and has her own successful online shop? It’s been such a success, she’s had to enlist the help of her knitting group, and they still can’t keep up with the demand. And do keep your eyes peeled in the local press as Christmas approaches. I think we may have a minor celebrity in the making.’