by Jean Levy
Margate
There’s a space in a place called Raggedy Lyme,
Full of errors and terrors and wasted time,
Where your lost things can hide until they decide
That you’ve earned their return from Raggedy Lyme.
from The Lost Stories of Raggedy Lyme by Sarah Blake
Sarah sat on the cold, cushion-less window seat, waiting. She watched her unfamiliar mother squash the last of her things into Granny Clark’s suitcase, force the zip closed and drag it onto the floor. Sarah’s childhood lay sealed inside that case. And now it was over.
‘Right!’ said Diana Dawson. ‘I think that’s all you’ll be needing. We’ll have to get somebody to help carry it between trains.’ She stepped over to investigate the bulging koala rucksack Sarah was nursing at her side. ‘What have you got in there?’ She lifted it up. ‘My God, it weighs a ton!’
‘It’s my keepsakes to take with me. Aunt Maisie helped me choose them.’
‘Yes, well, Maisie Price hasn’t got to carry them across St Pancras Station in the middle of the rush hour, has she? Let’s have a look.’
‘Mummy, I want to keep it all. Please, Mummy!’
‘We’ll see, shall we?’ She prised open the koala’s back and started to order its contents on to the seat beside Sarah’s leg: a small, greyish rag doll with stringy hair, baby-button eyes and a red dress …
‘That’s Raggedy,’ said Sarah. ‘Daddy bought her for me.’
A copy of Hans Andersen’s Fairy Tales …
‘I read the stories to Granny because her eyes are very bad these days. She ‘specially likes the Real Princess.’
An old dictionary …
‘I need it because I’m going to be a writer when I’m grown up, and Miss Grainger said my spelling is terrible.’
‘Sarah, we don’t need to take this old thing with us. We can buy a new dictionary!’
‘But I know the words in this one.’
Diana Dawson rolled her eyes and banged the book down next to Sarah. Then she extracted a small snow globe. ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s Snow White. She’s holding the apple that’s going to send her to sleep so she can be kissed by the prince and wake up. Granny and Aunt Maisie took me to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs on Ice.And Aunt Maisie bought me that to always remember it by.’
Diana Dawson sighed. ‘Right! What else have you got in here?’ She pulled out a snack-pack of Jaffa Cakes and, with effort, a large crumbly lump of grey rock, bundled inside a paisley silk headscarf. ‘Sarah! Why are you taking this boulder with you?’
‘It’s got fossils in it. Ambulites. I collected it from the beach with Daddy. When I was little. And that’s Grandma’s scarf. I want to keep it because Granny’s hair smell’s in it.’
Diana Dawson threw it down, wiped her fingers on her skirt and felt deeper into the koala’s innards. She plucked out a bundle of letters, packed tight with an elastic band. An old black and white postcard was inserted into the top of the pile.
‘Those are Daddy’s letters to me. He’s in Australia now because he wanted to see the Southern Cross and you can’t see it in Margate or in Raggedy Lyme or even in the whole of England. Mummy, will he be able to write to me if I live in London?’
‘Yes, he will.’
They both looked up as Maisie Price stepped into the room.
‘How’s it going?’ she said. ‘Diana, I was wondering whether I should take Sarah to say goodbye to Lily’s old place. While you see to the baby. We can have a last look at the garden. The mistletoe on the old tree’s white with frost. And we can check the mousetraps under the stairs. And, Sarah, we can have another look for that lost slipper of yours. It must be somewhere. Things don’t just disappear.’
Sarah glanced up at her mother then down at her collection of special things. ‘Mummy’s in a hurry.’ She picked up the snow globe and put it back in the koala.
‘I’ll do that!’ snapped Diana Dawson. ‘Why don’t you go with Mrs Price. Maisie, would you be a dear and help me downstairs with this case. I’m not supposed to lift too much after the stitches. Then you can take Sarah to say her goodbyes.’
Sarah frowned: nobody had mentioned stitches. But the time probably wasn’t right to ask, so she slithered off the window seat. Ouch! The backs of her thighs had become stuck to the painted surface. She felt sure that patches of her skin must still be sitting there. But they weren’t. She started towards the door then looked back at her things. ‘Raggedy goes in last so she’s not squashed.’
Diana Dawson listened to the suitcase bumping down the stairs, glanced over at the baby asleep on the bare mattress, then looked down at the letters she was holding. Thin, blue airmail paper. She eased out the postcard and turned it over. Nothing. Just faint legends at the top and bottom:
Sidmouth * Lyme Regis * Seaton * Beer Cove
Beer Cove, Devon.
She turned it back and frowned at the black and white beach, at the cliffs rising out of the sea, the stranded boats, the people along the shoreline, mostly grey. She threw down the letters, slipped the card between the pages of the dictionary and placed both books into the rucksack, tossed the rag doll, the Jaffa Cakes and the scarf on top of them and pulled the zip closed. Then she wandered over to the waste bin and forced the fossil-filled rock and the bundle of letters from her first abandoning husband deep into the bottom of the rubbish, so they would never be seen again. The baby started to stir, demanding attention. Another worthless daughter.
When, eventually, she heard footsteps coming back up the stairs, she scooped up the baby, hurried to hand over the repacked koala and prodded Sarah back onto the landing and downstairs.
‘What have you been doing all that time? Has Mrs Price put your case in her car?’
‘Yes. Mummy, will baby Arachne be asleep on the train?’
‘Hopefully.’
‘Will I be able to hold her?’
‘Possibly. If we hurry.’
‘Mummy, Grandma’s cottage was empty of nearly everything.’
‘Yes, there’s a new family coming to live there soon. They’ll bring their own things. All Lily’s things have gone to the charity shop. Mrs Price said she told you about it.’
‘She did tell me. But, what if Grandma comes back and there are new people there?’
‘She won’t come back. Now let’s get a move on, shall we? The woman from Social Services is coming to the house this evening and I want to be ready for her.’
‘Is that the lady who came to speak to me and Granny?’
‘Yes, one of the many. Did you find your slipper?’
‘No. Aunt Maisie says she’ll send it to me when it comes back.’
‘Comes back from where?’
Sarah beamed at her mother. ‘From Raggedy Lyme, where all your lost things hide. Until you deserve to have them back.’
Diana Dawson shook her head and sighed. Just like her father: another crazy dreamer. She closed the front door behind her.
‘Hurry up, Sarah.We’ve got a train to catch.’
Episode Thirteen
I stood in my knickers and bra and surveyed my clothes, most of which were scattered around the bedroom: on the bed, on the floor. It looked as if my wardrobes had exploded. I remember being amazed at how much space exploded clothes could occupy. I sagged onto the end of my bed and admitted to myself that, after two hours of fitting myself into all possible combinations of the items that surrounded me, I still had no idea what to wear to go to dinner in Primrose Hill. I would phone and say I couldn’t make it. No, he would ask why and I’d have no rational explanation. I stretched over and picked up a fluffy blue jumper with a round neckline. It was towards the top of my short list of possibilities. I threw it back on the bed and pressed down on my stomach to suppress the ripples of panic. I’d pretend not to be there when he arrived. No, he would look through the lounge window, walk down the side alley, smell the dustbins that belonged to the Indian restaurant, look through my bedroom window. I w
ould hide in the bathroom. My mobile interrupted my plans. I excavated it from under a pair of trousers and pressed the green phone.
‘Hi, just checking everything’s OK.’
‘I don’t know what to wear!’
‘What, for this evening?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well, you can wear what … you can wear almost anything. Not jeans though … I mean, you could wear jeans. And your leather jacket and boots.’ He paused. ‘Would you like me to come early and help you choose?’
‘No!’
‘OK, let’s think. Start with the jacket and boots. Do you have any trousers that are not jeans? Or a skirt?’
I thought my way through the things distributed over the bedroom floor. ‘I’ve got grey trousers. It says “wool mix” on the label.’
‘That sounds good.’ He paused.‘So, now you need a top to go under the jacket.’
‘I know that!’
‘Right. Tell me about your tops?’
‘There’s a fluffy blue one.’
‘That sounds great. And you’ve got a bag and jewellery, right?’
‘What jewellery?’
‘I don’t know. Something expensive, like pearls or something gold.’
‘I’ll go and look.’
‘No, not now! Sarah, why don’t you try it all on, then phone me back?’ There was silence. ‘OK, why don’t I phone you back in a couple of hours? Four o’clock? Then if you’re not happy, we’ll go to plan B.’
‘OK! Bye.’
‘Bye, Sarah.’
*
The taxi pulled up ten minutes early, right outside my flat. I had realised by now that hiding in the bathroom would be ludicrous. Something a mad person would do. So I checked myself in the mirror, unplugged the phone then waited beside the sink. After five minutes or so I heard the doorbell. I checked the plugs one last time, and the bolts. Then I rechecked the plugs and hurried through to open the door.
‘Shall we go?’ He stepped aside, so my path was clear, pulled my front door closed then hurried to help me into the cab. Walked round and got in beside me. As soon as we pulled away I felt him touch my hand. He turned to whisper, ‘You look gorgeous. And don’t be nervous. Nothing you can possibly do will surprise me, OK?’
‘I found a gold locket.’
‘So I see. It’s very nice.’
‘There’s no one in it.’
‘Good.’
*
The wine bar was full of noise and people, couples that looked a lot like Matthew and somebody else. He ordered drinks: a glass of red wine and a lemonade for me because Mrs Parkin said consuming alcohol was out of the question with my medication. He didn’t seem to mind my abstinence, but he did ask the barman to put my lemonade in a stemmed glass. I really liked that. Time passed quickly. I enjoyed listening to him shout above the jumble of laughter interspersed with people yelling at the barman. It meant that he had to lean closer to make himself heard. I liked that too.
The brief walk next door was uneventful. The manager recognised Matthew and indicated our table over by the window, a table with candles and sparkling glasses and apple blossom in a glass bowl. Matthew suggested we freshen up before we sat down.
I stood beside the marble basin and felt in my trouser pocket to confirm the tiny box with the two night-time pills. They had to be taken in less than two hours. I thought it might look weird if I came back in there so soon. But I couldn’t take them then and there in case they made me feel sleepy too early. I wasn’t sure what would happen if I became distracted and forgot to take them. So I decided to wait and see: if I felt things going wrong I’d make an excuse and come back and swallow them and try to stay awake until I got home.
We were escorted to our table. Matthew hailed the wine waiter and ordered a bottle of Laurent Perrier. He waited for the man to leave before whispering across the blossoms: ‘It’s my favourite. I beg you to try it.’
Menus arrived. Matthew helped me choose. I watched his confidence, his friendliness when he ordered, his smile as he turned his attention back to me. I really wanted him to like being with me but I was terrified about what I would have to do to achieve that. I attempted conversation.
‘Do you come … often come here?’
His eyes flickered with candlelight. ‘Sometimes. I …’ A waiter interrupted with a bucket and stand. A duplicate waiter held out a bottle, semi-cloaked, its label exposed for all to see. I watched my glass fill, watched the tiny bubbles streaming upwards, unstoppable, eager to burst into the air above. I really liked bubbles. How ready they were to be over and gone. I glanced up: Matthew was watching me.
‘Try it, Sarah.’
I looked down at my glass: I wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol with my medication. But, then, I hadn’t yet taken my medication. I lifted my glass and felt the bubbles popping below my nose, took a sip. It tasted unfamiliar, difficult, amazing.
The courses were many and mostly recognisable: mushroom cappuccino, goat’s cheese parcels, cucumber sorbet and a scallop amuse-bouche. The honeyed nut roast was delicious but I was flagging by the time the array of minute chocolate puddings arrived. I watched the waiter top up my glass then, when he was safely out of earshot, I leaned forward and whispered, ‘Would you like my chocolate?’
‘Always!’ He held out his hand. ‘Can’t you eat it?’
I shook my head and passed my plate above the blossoms and, as I did so, his hand touched mine and a fresh wave of panic and exhilaration rippled through me. It was now well over half an hour since I should have taken my pills but I didn’t seem to be suffering any ill-effects, in fact the champagne seemed to have induced a strange euphoria.
Eventually Matthew threw down his napkin. ‘Would you like coffee?’
‘Not really. Would you?’
‘No, I’ll get the bill.’ He leaned back and caught the waiter’s eye. ‘So, Cinderella, what time do you have to be home before you turn back into a pumpkin?’
I laughed. ‘It’s the coach that turns into a pumpkin. You know that! And Cinderella’s dress turns back to rags. But her crystal slippers never change. So that the charming prince can find the one she lost, sparkling in the moonlight, and search the kingdom for the slipper that matches it, and find his princess so they can live happily ever after.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘You love those old stories, don’t you?’
‘They always have happy endings.’ I took a last sip of champagne. ‘I shouldn’t be late. This is my first night out since the clinic.’
His smile faded. ‘How long were you there?’
‘Three months, I think. But I don’t remember most of it. I still have to visit my doctors on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.’
‘Do they think your memories will come back?’
‘I don’t know. I’m an odd case. I could remember how to drive but I couldn’t remember how to cook or make coffee.’
He laughed. ‘Did you ever know how to cook and make coffee?’
‘I don’t remember.’
Outside, the night air was cold and damp and not that interested in summer. Matthew wrapped his scarf around my neck, allowing his fingers to brush my cheek as he did so.
‘You’ll be cold,’ I insisted.
‘I’ve drunk most of a bottle of champagne. I can’t feel the cold. Fancy a quick stroll? Or do you want to go straight home?’
I wasn’t sure what going straight home might involve, so I opted for a quick stroll. He took my hand and we walked to the top of Primrose Hill and looked at the panorama of lights. I confessed that I didn’t recognise anywhere so Matthew put his arm around me and pointed to a few landmarks and I looked up at him and whispered, ‘I don’t want to have sex with you.’
Matthew’s hand hung in the air, pointing down river towards Canary Wharf. He frowned.
