by Mark Daydy
the
patron of
lost causes
MARK DAYDY
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including, but not limited to printing, file sharing and email, without prior written permission from the author.
© MARK DAYDY 2020
Cover design by Mike Daydy
Contents
1. News From Sussex
2. Birthday Girl
3. Jane
4. Old Haunts
5. The Silver Chalice
6. Taylor’s Antiques
7. Going After The Bad Guys?
8. Train of Thought
9. There’s a Man Called Francis
10. The Junior Partner
11. Brighton
12. What Am I Bid…?
13. The Chichester Connection
14. Eddie’s Photos
15. Now What?
16. Lunch With Jane… and Nick
17. The Dynamic Duo
18. The H. S. Factor
19. Sunday Morning
20. A Picnic on a Hill
21. Two Mad Mornings
22. A Bit of a Shock
23. Money Talks
24. Lucy’s Next Move…?
25. Hello Again
26. Lucy’s Mistakes
27. Virginia
28. Frankie’s Way
29. And What Do You Believe?
30. Surprises
31. More Surprises
32. So…
1. News From Sussex
The phone call that would shove someone else’s crisis into Lucy Holt’s uneventful mid-life came one evening in late August.
She was at home at the time, watching a single serving fisherman’s pie and a small box of fries rotating slowly in the microwave. For some reason, it reminded her of that end-of-the-party dance she had with her boss last Christmas.
Oh, to be capable of whizzing and fizzing across a shiny dance floor like the celebs and professionals on TV. But it was several months since she last attended her keep fit class. Whizz and fizz? More like wheeze and fizzle out.
Her phone rang, bringing her back to the here and now – her fifth-floor abode in Barnet, north London. A quick glance at the screen told her it was Eleanor Ranscombe, an imperious aunt who lived in West Sussex.
“Hello?” answered Lucy, pretending she had no idea who was calling.
“It’s Aunt Eleanor,” said a refined voice that could easily have belonged to a member of the Royal Family.
“Hello, Eleanor. Is everything alright?”
“Good news. I’ll be hosting a party for Libby’s birthday.”
“Oh.” It was hard to distinguish this kind of good news from terrible news.
“She’ll be seventy,” Eleanor added.
“Seventy? Right…”
With the phone pressed to her ear, Lucy wandered into the lounge for no reason other than it provided a vague sense of fleeing.
“Lucy? You’ll come down to Sussex, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course. When is it? I mean, obviously on her birthday, but…”
“It falls on a Thursday this year.”
“A Thursday?”
“Yes. Jane’s coming.”
“Jane? Yes, okay. No problem.” She stared at her three-item collection of antiques on a shelf beside her imitation fireplace. “Are you sure you need to host it? I mean it’s good of you, but I’d be happy with a glass of wine at Libby’s.”
“It’s no trouble at all. And this way we can make sure everything runs smoothly.”
Lucy absently picked up a small silver vase.
“Right. Yes. Well… thanks for the invite.”
“I’ve got a few more people to call. Could I leave Victoria to you?”
“Yes, of course,” said Lucy, even though her twenty-year-old daughter, Victoria, was more likely to visit Mars than Eleanor’s house.
After the call, Lucy returned to her fisherman’s pie and fries. They had completed their slow twirling dance.
As she served both onto a dinner plate, she thought of the Howard sisters – her long-departed mum, Sylvia, along with dictator Eleanor and lovely Libby. According to Lucy’s cousin, Jane, daughter of the despot, the Howard girls had been raised to represent the crème de la crème of West Sussex society. Prim and proper. Upstanding. No unnecessary displays of emotion. The pay-off came as young women, when they triumphantly confused the 1960s with the 1860s.
A party in Sussex…
She thought back to Libby’s late husband, Eddie, drunkenly suggesting that teenage Lucy and Jane have some adventures before they were too old. They took the advice, but it didn’t end well.
At the kitchen table, she poked her fork into the cheese-topped mashed potato. It was nuclear hot. Not wishing to risk a scalded tongue for the second night in a row, she put the cutlery down and went to the window.
In the street below, life went on. Cars drove by. People crossed from one side to the other.
Oh no…
The Volkswagen with twelve doors was pulling up opposite. At least, that’s what it sounded like to anyone not in visual contact. The man got out, slammed the door, went to the back, opened it – fiddle-fiddle, slam – and then returned to the front. Now his partner got out. Slam. She went to the back, opened it – fiddle, slam – and then returned to the front. Now they both opened their respective front doors again, reached inside – fiddle, fiddle – and withdrew. Slam-slam.
Lucy turned back into the room and thought about West Sussex, where she had lived until her twenties.
Slam.
She and her older brother, Richard, were from Hallbridge, a village not far from the glorious South Downs. She would be going back now to the nearby market town of Camley to celebrate Libby’s milestone with a small glass of dry sherry and a cucumber sandwich.
She glanced out of the window again. The couple had disappeared into their townhouse, no doubt to open and slam various doors.
It would be good to get away, she supposed. Not that she needed a break. Being the reception manager at a theological college was a most rewarding job – one she’d held down for the last six of her ten years there. Not that she was religious. You didn’t need to be religious to be part of the admin team. She just liked being around religious people. They were always polite and never caused any trouble.
Lucy returned to her meal.
For Libby’s sake, she would go to Sussex. Her life in London wouldn’t be too disrupted by it. Okay, she had no social life. Big deal. Plenty of people survived without doing lots of things with others.
While she ate, she enjoyed a cat video shared by Abigail, a non-religious work colleague. Abigail shared almost everything she did. If you got lucky, or liked lots of her stuff, you would get an invite to join her WhatsApp group where she would share her life and thoughts in more detail. Lucy was a member but not an enthusiastic one. She never shared anything herself online these days, whether it be nostalgia, shoes, relationship gossip, or microwaveable meals.
After dinner, she watched some TV – edgy Max was due to meet sensible Felicity for an elicit get-together. They wouldn’t fall into bed, would they? Max was an insensitive oaf, but, on another level, Felicity needed to bloom as a human being.
Lucy’s attention was drifting though. Even as the would-be lovers pouted at each other in close-up, the forthcoming party in Sussex came back to her.
Poor Libby.
Then Uncle Eddie’s suggestion of t
eenage adventures interrupted her thoughts once more. That whole business with Greg.
It was thirty years ago. Watch the TV.
Lucy sighed. It was all long-buried history.
Naturally, Cousin Jane rode it out back then. A bit of a wobble, she’d called it.
Lucy had always suspected her cousin was one of those people who could appear on the front page of the newspapers, featured in a scandal, and still sleep soundly at night. It seemed that way at least. Not that Jane had ever been on the front page of a newspaper – although they did once both appear inside the Sussex Chronicle as part of a young teen choral ensemble at the county show. Those were the brilliant years. Lucy and Jane. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Almost hourly, it felt like they were growing in potential and promise.
She tried another channel. A penguin documentary.
So… she would be going to Sussex, where she would see Jane. Of course, the incident wouldn’t be quite so long-forgotten then. It would resurface and become alive in the present. And any desperate on-the-spot attempts to rebury it would be shallow and easily dug up.
So perhaps she wouldn’t go to Sussex for the party.
And yet she knew she ought to because she was forty-bloody-seven.
2. Birthday Girl
Lucy endured the Thursday morning train journey down to Sussex. She had planned to read a few chapters of a dark crime thriller set in Los Angeles, but a twenty-something couple across the aisle were revealing their intentions in the kind of giggly whispers that made it impossible to concentrate.
“No, Jonno… giggle… not here…”
Lucy was as broadminded as the next person but wondered if it was time the train companies introduced a separate carriage for randy co-workers heading to a conference. Especially those who giggly-revealed a hotel room booking even though they wouldn’t be staying overnight.
Somewhat unexpectedly though, as she tried to shift her concentration to the glory of the early September countryside, the giggly whispers stirred a memory. It took a moment for the years to fully peel away, but there it shimmered, a train journey with her cousin…
Lucy was eleven, Jane, ten, and they were Brighton bound with their parents. On the strict understanding that they behaved, they had been allowed to sit by themselves farther up the carriage. Jane broke their pledge as soon as she set eyes on a couple who were “obviously having an affair”. She went on to explain how the man would be “only interested in one thing”. Having spotted the woman’s pack of striped mint sweets, Lucy suggested that the “one thing” in the man’s mind might be getting his hands on her humbugs. Jane giggled until she almost passed out.
*
Around ten-fifteen outside the station in the sizeable market town of Camley, Lucy took a taxi. Her next stop would be the Prince Regent Inn, three miles away in the large-ish village of Hallbridge.
Her original plan to attend the lunchtime party and be back home for dinner had fallen by the wayside. Chats with her daughter, Victoria, had led Lucy to commit to exploring some of her childhood haunts. It was her own fault – built on years of regaling Victoria with endless happy stories. Lucy’s father’s funeral of a few years ago had been too fraught for any such nostalgia trip. And she’d missed Eleanor’s seventieth of two years ago with a bout of flu. But now…? It was a rare opportunity, she supposed. She could skip over any unpleasant memories in much the way she did when talking with her daughter.
As planned, Lucy arrived at the pub-hotel at half-ten. It was stylish, but clearly hadn’t had much money spent on it. Shabby chic? Wasn’t that a thing? Not that she was complaining – with the school summer holidays over, the room was half the price it had been the week before.
With two hours to spare before the party, Lucy took a welcome chance to acclimatize to Sussex with her thriller and a steaming mocha in the seating area overlooking the rear garden. Within ten minutes, she was tempted to stay all day.
*
Following an uneventful three-mile journey from Hallbridge back to Camley, the taxi deposited Lucy at Aunt Eleanor’s small, semi-detached house. Most of the guests would have already been there an hour or so. Lucy had calculated 12:45 p.m. to be the latest polite arrival time possible.
“Hello,” said Eleanor, looking resplendent in a purple floral dress. It wasn’t joy unbound, although they air-kissed.
“Hello, Eleanor,” said Lucy, hoping her yellow blouse over navy blue chinos would meet the dress code. “Lovely to see you.”
“Is Richard coming?” Eleanor enquired, seemingly more interested in Lucy’s brother.
“No, he texted to say he’s snowed under at work.”
“Oh… pity.”
Lucy smiled. Eleanor had never had a job, although she often recounted a desire to join the diplomatic service as a young woman before seeing sense and getting married instead. World War Three averted, Lucy always felt.
In the cramped, over-furnished lounge, a dozen others had gathered. Greetings were exchanged while Eleanor disappeared into the kitchen.
Lucy took in the oil painting over the fireplace. It was Sir George Howard, looking like a 1920s hipster with his full, fuzzy beard. The one thing he had valued more than anything was the family’s standing in the community, even as the progress of the 20th Century laid waste to tradition and decorum. As per his postcard from Monte Carlo in 1925, he reminded them, ‘What does the ordinary person see when they behold a Howard? It’s a question that must guide our every action.’
“Libby’s in the loo,” said a woman called Mo, who had been on the Camley scene since moving from ‘noisy’ Brighton twenty years ago.
Lucy nodded. She too would use the loo ploy at least twice over the coming hours.
“Libby and I spoke the other day,” said another guest. “She’s thinking of buying a new phone. Well, she’s had her current one five years.”
Lucy smiled. So, Libby had plans.
As suspected, Jane wasn’t there yet. She was always busy. It was an even bet she wouldn’t bother to leave her home in Littlehampton at all. And Lucy knew all about betting.
“How are things?” asked Mo, coming to join her.
“Not too bad, thanks. How about you?”
“Oh fine. Number one son is at Manchester doing his master’s degree in Technology. Number two son is at Southampton doing History. Baby daughter is revising for her GCSEs. She wants to do History at A-level. It’s a simply wonderful school, of course. The sixth form is the best in the area.”
“Great,” said Lucy, now remembering that Mo’s life was only ever described through the activities of others. “How about you and Harvey?”
“We’re fine. Harvey’s doing something with the garden. There’s a new shed and a bench area… it’s all go. How about you? Any thoughts on settling down?”
“I already have. I’ve got a nice place in Barnet and a good job at a college in Hatfield. Easy for commuting as I’m outward bound when everyone else is heading in.”
“I meant relationship-wise.”
“Ah, well, that’s…” none of your business… “all fine, Mo. I’m not looking for a relationship. Life’s too busy.”
Lucy let her gaze wander in the hope of picking up on something distracting. While others guessed at the arrangements and timings that would get them through the celebrations, she settled on the family photographs that adorned the mantelpiece below Sir George’s imperious gaze.
“Ooh photos,” she said with feigned enthusiasm.
Among the twenty or so framed portraits going back over half a century was one of Eleanor’s daughter, Jane, sitting astride an antique rocking horse.
Ned…
Ned had once belonged to Lucy’s mum who had given the horse a name that stuck – even when he was passed down to Richard and Lucy, and on to their cousins. The memories were strong. Influenced by the Wild West movies her grandad, Tommy Holt, loved to watch on TV, seven-year-old Lucy would readily spend time on Ned, chasing after the bad guys and bringing them to justic
e.
She pulled up the cloud storage space on her phone.
‘Photos’ folder. Subfolder ‘Childhood Photos’.
The contents of nine family albums had been scanned and uploaded – a seemingly unending process carried out during a college two-week Christmas shutdown.
Photo 0062: ‘Lucy, age 7, on Ned, age 100+’.
While most photos recalled past times in a passive way, this one always grabbed her by the hand and hauled her back, so that she could feel it, smell it, almost touch it. She smiled, although not as keenly as the little girl looking back at her from forty years ago.
“Attention everyone!”
Eleanor was in the middle of the room brandishing a photo album.
Had Lucy’s mother been alive, this would have been exactly the same. Just like her late sister, Eleanor took showing off the family’s superiority to a professional level.
“Here’s sixth-former Libby with Anthony Crosland, who came to the school.”
Lucy smiled. Who the heck’s Anthony Crosland?
But Eleanor wasn’t finished. “Mr Crosland was, of course, Secretary of State for Education and a very good friend of the famous American politician Henry Kissinger.”
“It’s a lovely photo,” said Mo, squinting at the small black and white snap, “but Libby’s missing all the fun.”
Eleanor ignored her.
“This one is Libby with Princess Anne at an outdoor sports event.”
Again, Lucy smiled. Hmm, speck-in-the-crowd Libby watching Princess Anne. Hardly ‘with’…
“And here’s Libby with television personality Peter Glaze at a sixth form visit to the BBC in London.”
Lucy’s smiling was beginning to cause cheek-ache. Fortunately, being a reception desk veteran, she would cope.
“I haven’t simply got these photographs out solely for Libby,” said Eleanor. “I’m actually researching the family history for a book on the Howards and our influence on West Sussex from the end of the War to the end of the 1970s.”
