Looking For Lucy

by Julie Houston

  God, I didn’t think I’d ever dare mess with Beefy Brenda.

  The chattering and laughter from the gossiping gang of women camp followers seemed to suddenly quieten. I turned to where the women were now looking, peering round each other to get a glimpse of a tall, regal-looking female astride a handsome white horse. She put me in mind of a much younger Princess Anne. Maybe it was the rather strange hairdo. Or, quite possibly, the horse.

  ‘God, I don’t know how she has the nerve,’ a very pretty redhead camp follower said in a low voice, yet loud enough for me to hear.

  ‘Vanessa has plenty of nerve,’ sniffed a woman who, I deduced by the same red hair and freckles, must be the younger one’s mother.

  Vanessa? Was this Peter’s ex? I suppose if she’d been promoted to princess by marrying Prince Rupert she had every right to look regal. And ride the horse. I am so over the top allergic to horses that just one whiff of a passing horse is enough to make my throat itch and set me off sneezing. And Vanessa wasn’t just passing. She was deliberately flaunting the fact that she’d gone over to the enemy. She came right up to me until I could feel the heat from the animal’s flanks. I started to sneeze. Bugger, no pockets in this rag of a dress I was wearing. No tissues on me at all. I sniffed, my eyes watering. ‘You must be Clementine,’ she said. ‘Peter has told me all about you.’

  Had he? ‘Oh hello,’ I wheezed, stepping back from the horse. They really are huge brutes close up. ‘Sorry, I’m terribly allergic to horses. I need to move away from it.’

  Vanessa laughed or possibly sneered—whatever it was I didn’t think it was overly pleasant—pulled the horse round and galloped off back towards her own camp, scattering Roundheads as she went.

  ‘Hmph, she hasn’t improved by going over to the other side, has she?’ the younger redhead sniffed. ‘I reckon Peter is well shot of her. I don’t know how she could leave him like that. I mean he’s lovely, isn’t he? And not without a bob or two, I bet, when you look at the car he drives. I’d make a play for him myself if my Jamie wasn’t around…’ She held up her left hand where a tiny diamond solitaire was almost camouflaged by the mass of freckles on her ring finger.

  ‘Shh,’ her mother nudged the girl before they both turned in my direction while I tried to stem the continuous stream from my nose caused by the horse.

  ‘How long have you known Peter?’ A rotund little woman, no more than five feet in height, smiled across at me and pulled a pack of tissues from her leather jerkin.

  ‘Not long at all,’ I said, giving my nose a huge blow. God that was better. Nothing worse than not knowing what to do with a runny nose. ‘He comes into the pub restaurant where I work and thought I might like to experience this.’ I pulled a face. ‘Not sure it’s me though.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll get to love it. I’ve been with Sir Thomas Grenville’s regiment since I was a girl. Met my husband here.’ She waved her arm to the pack of children and dogs that seemed to be expanding by the minute. ‘And my three kids are among that lot somewhere.’

  ‘I don’t really know much about Peter,’ I said. ‘You’ll know more about him than I do.’

  ‘Well, as you probably know, he’s been terribly cut up about his wife leaving him. I think—’

  What she was thinking, I wasn’t allowed to know, because Beefy Brenda suddenly yelled, ‘Oy, you lot, stop gossiping. There’s men out there dying for us.’

  ‘There’s allus a man dying for me, Brenda, love,’ one of the older women cackled. ‘One glimpse of me petticoat—’ she lifted a corner of her brown linen dress ‘—and they might as well have been knocked on th’ ’ead wi a pikestaff.’

  Ignoring the laughing women, Brenda suddenly pushed me towards what I can only describe as a sort of yellow cart with two wheels. ‘Right, Christine, you grab that end. We’re needed.’

  The next thing I knew we were running onto the field like maniacs, pulling the water cart behind us. ‘Where are we going?’ I puffed, realising how terribly unfit I was.

  ‘Man down,’ Brenda panted importantly. ‘Needs assistance.’

  We tugged at the cart, water slopping over its sides as we steered it over uncut winter grass and molehills ancient and modern. A few hundred yards in the distance I could see several men sprawled out over each other. I did hope there wasn’t blood. Dodging a pile of dog shit, we made for the casualties: two were Roundheads, the other a Cavalier, his hat and long black wig on the muddy grass beside him.

  ‘Never mind the Royalist,’ Brenda barked as I went forward with a cup of water. ‘Help our men first.’

  I did as I was told, pouring water into cups that, unfortunately, spilled onto the faces of the men on the floor. They were actually laughing, obviously enjoying the attention. I moved over to the Royalist still lying on his back. No one seemed to be coming to his aid. I did hope he wasn’t concussed or anything. As I leaned over him, looking for signs of life, a hand snaked out grabbing mine.

  ‘Ah ha, got you now,’ he said, as I lost my balance and toppled over onto him.

  ‘Oof, didn’t recognise you with your wig off,’ I said from the depths of his rough wool jacket, realising suddenly that it was Justin from earlier.

  ‘Do get up, Justin,’ a voice said coolly from behind me. ‘I’m sure the last thing Clementine wants is a goosing from you on her first attempt as a camp follower.’

  Vanessa, hands on hips, was surveying us both from her vantage point of standing, a little smile playing on her full lips. Now that she was sans horse she didn’t look a bit like Princess Anne. The strange hairstyle was, I now realised, a wig and, like her new husband’s, obviously not very secure. She reached up and pulled it off completely, releasing as she did so a mane of long blonde hair that snaked, river-like, down her back. I bet she’d been practising that, if not for my benefit, certainly all the winter months preparing for her promotion to princess. Peter’s ex was actually very attractive in a Viking warrior sort of way—tall, blue-eyed and obviously very sure of herself.

  ‘Is everything all right here?’ Peter had come running up from further down the field and was now glaring at Justin, who still had his arms wrapped round me.

  ‘Bit of concussion, I reckon, Peter. Don’t seem to be able to quite remember where I am or even who this is.’ He gave my leg an experimental squeeze as if by feeling me up he might better recall who I was.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Justin, get up, you pillock,’ Vanessa sighed. ‘Leave the poor girl alone.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly,’ Peter said, taking my hand and prising me, not too gently, out of the arms of the man who had replaced him in the marital bed. At least I’d been warm down there.

  ‘Come on, Clementine, let’s get you something to drink and warm you up,’ Peter said. ‘You look frozen.’ He put his jacket around my shoulders and led me to a tent where people from both sides were gathering, sheltering from the cold wind that now held the promise of rain. ‘I’m really sorry about that. You know, with Justin. Typical of the man.’

  ‘It must be very hard for you,’ I said as we were served with some sort of warm ale. While beer really isn’t my thing, this drink was lovely and I drank it down in one, feeling the heat begin to spread back through my frozen hands and feet. ‘Seeing your ex like this, I mean. Having her flaunt her new husband in your face.’

  ‘It was to begin with. I even considered giving all this up, or at least changing regiments; Newcastle is a busy and lively one and I even went up to see what was going on there. But then I thought, why should I be the one to leave? Last season was not easy, I admit. I think—’ and here he turned to smile at me ‘—I hope it might all be a lot easier now.’

  *

  We spent the rest of that Sunday mainly socialising. There were a couple more skirmishes where I played my part running onto the field like some lowly actor in an amateur dramatics production—which, I suppose at the end of the day was what it was—but most of the time we were in the large hospitality tent drinking more of the lovely warm ale an
d eating a shared lunch. I felt a bit guilty that I’d not brought anything but Peter more than made up for it with fabulous Waitrose salads and quiches he dug out from the boot of the car.

  Once Beefy Brenda was out of the way in another tent, the rest of the camp followers relaxed somewhat and were very friendly, offering drink and homemade puddings until I was stuffed. There was a real feeling of bonhomie, of people being where they really wanted to be. The children, whose ages ranged from toddlers to teenagers, seemed particularly happy with their lot. There was no whining to go home, no wanting PlayStations or mobile phones: they were simply running around, fresh-faced in the chill wind.

  Allegra, I realised, would love all this.

  4

  I couldn’t see Peter when he arrived on my doorstep the following Sunday lunchtime because of the huge bunch of white and pink flowers obscuring his face from view. For one awful moment I thought someone had died—I always associate flowers with death, probably because no one had ever bought me flowers before. I seem to remember a certain Jason Butterworth, at the age of six, thrusting a bunch of wilting dandelions from his sticky paws into mine when we were at junior school but no man since—and particularly the said Jason Butterworth whose thrusting, I also recall, developed into something more overt—had ever thought me worth even a bunch from the petrol station down the road.

  I truly hadn’t intended seeing Peter again after the Sunday charade, telling him gently, on the way home, that while I’d had a really good time I didn’t think it was for me. When he’d asked if he could take me out for dinner during the following week I’d had to say—honestly—that I couldn’t leave Allegra, that there was no one to babysit. Which is why he’d suggested meeting me for lunch in between lectures. At this point I’d run out of excuses not to take up his offer and, anyway, I wasn’t averse to exchanging my ubiquitous cheese sandwich for something a little more exciting.

  I thought, as it’s such a beautiful day, we could have a bit of a picnic.

  Peter had texted so, instead of the little bistro I’d suggested five minutes from the main campus, I made my way down to the canal area beyond the university sports hall.

  Spring appeared to have sprung without my noticing it during the past week—the tabloids had been screaming from their front pages that we were in for the hottest summer on record—and I delighted in the carpet of purple and yellow crocuses that seemed to have shot up overnight. The canal, once part of the Leeds to Liverpool transport system, had been subject to a lottery-funded regeneration, and was now busy this Thursday lunchtime with students as well as office workers from the town determined to cast off their outer layers of clothing as well as the remnants of what had been a particularly cold and miserable winter.

  ‘Cast ne’er a clout and all that.’ I smiled as I found Peter, standing over a picnic rug away from the main horde of sun-seeking students, looking round for somewhere to hang his expensive-looking suit jacket.

  ‘Sorry?’ He started as I spoke and I took the jacket from him, hanging it on the branch of a willow.

  ‘You know, Cast ne’er a clout ‘til May be out? My granny used to say that every spring—didn’t think we should be without our cardigans until the sunshine was cracking the flags. And never without our vests, even in August…’

  ‘Sorry?’ Peter said again. He seemed anxious, distracted. ‘What flags?’

  ‘Flagstones? As in ‘it was so hot the sun was cracking the flagstones?’

  ‘Right.’ Peter kissed my cheek and looked at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have as much time as I thought. I need to be in a meeting in forty minutes.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ve a lecture this afternoon. It’s just so lovely to be out in the sunshine. And what a brilliant idea to come down here.’ I looked at the picnic basket that Peter had started to unload onto the upmarket tartan travel rug. ‘My goodness, Peter,’ I laughed, ‘when you said a picnic I thought you meant a sausage roll and a can of coke.’ I gazed in wonder, like Mole in Wind in the Willows, at the French bread, expensive cheeses, pâtés and olives.

  ‘… cold-tongue-cold-ham-cold-beef-pickled-onions-salad-french-bread-cress-and-widge-spotted-meat-ginger-beer-lemonade…’ I recited, laughing as I sat down. It felt so good to be outdoors, in the warmth, with the sure knowledge that, for today at least, winter was history.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Clementine. Did you want ginger beer?’ Peter began to get to his feet as if about to sprint off to the Co-op down on the ring road.

  ‘Nooo, sit down, you daft thing. I was just remembering that brilliant line when Mole is invited to Rat’s picnic on the river…’

  When Peter continued to look a little blank, I offered, ‘Mole and Rat? As in The Wind in the Willows?’

  ‘I guess reading has never been on the top of my agenda,’ he apologised, looking a little crestfallen.

  ‘Couldn’t live without it myself,’ I said cheerfully, spreading the most divine hummus onto French bread. ‘God, this is good. I’m starving.’

  Peter appeared to relax somewhat, although he did look a little out of place among the denim-and-trainer-clad students in his navy pinstriped suit and red spotted tie. We ate companionably for a while and then, curious, I asked, ‘I know you have your own business, Peter, but what is it exactly that you do? Something to do with finance?’

  ‘Sort of. I’m what’s fashionably called a hedge fund manager.’

  ‘So people consult you about their hedges?’

  Peter didn’t smile. ‘In a nutshell, I make people’s money work for them. All very boring, I’m afraid.’ He poured orange juice into a plastic cup before drinking deeply. He didn’t appear to want to talk at length on the subject of his business and I didn’t probe further. He hesitated slightly and then said, ‘Clementine, I’m afraid I’m going to have to get back to the office sooner than I thought. I’m really sorry that I’ve invited you for lunch and am going to have to go…’ He looked at his watch again, agitated once more.

  ‘Oh, that’s fine,’ I said, my mouth still full of sweet, luscious Medjool dates. ‘You get off. I’m more than happy to sit here by myself for another ten minutes.’ I reached over for my bag, pulling out the latest Kate Atkinson. ‘I’ve got to a really good bit in this. Just leave me that bag of grapes and I’ll be as happy as Larry, although who the hell Larry is I’ll never know.’ I laughed.

  Peter didn’t.

  ‘The thing is, Clementine… what I’m trying to say… could we repeat this on Sunday…?’

  Oh Jesus, not the bloody camp follower thingy again.

  ‘Erm, well you know what Sundays are like for me. It really is the one day that I keep for Allegra.’ No way was I going back for a second helping of Bossy Beefy Brenda.

  Peter frowned. ‘No, no, I know that, Clementine. That’s why I wondered if you’d like to come over to my place for the day.’

  ‘Your place?’

  ‘Yes—there’s a garden for your little girl to run around in. As you know, I’m not much of a cook, but I’m sure I can rustle up a steak and salad or something.’

  ‘What about your piking and poling? I thought you’d be off doing that again?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s not every weekend by any means.’

  ‘And your children? They wouldn’t mind us being there?’

  ‘Sophie is at school and Max will be with his mother. It’s been my turn to have him at home during the week and then he’ll be back with her from Saturday morning.’

  As I say, I seriously had not intended a second date with Peter Broadbent and yet, it appeared, I was about to sign up for a third. What was the alternative? My rented place on Emerald Street with maybe a film at the local fleapit with Allegra if finances stretched that far by the end of the week?

  ‘And you don’t mind if I bring Allegra?’

  ‘No, no. That would be wonderful. I’d love to meet her…’ Peter hesitated, ‘… especially if she’s anything like you.’

  I looked across at him. What a kind man—I wasn’t use
d to such lovely compliments. ‘OK,’ I smiled, ‘that would be lovely but with one proviso.’

  Peter looked worried for a split-second and I wondered what he was thinking.

  ‘We’d love to come, as long as you let me do the cooking. It is the one thing I know how to do, you know.’

  ‘Well, of course, of course if that’s what you’d like to do.’ He beamed, his whole face an open book of delight.

  *

  And so here we were, three days later, Peter twinkling at me through the flowers while Allegra looked on in wonder. Not normally a shy child, she wasn’t used to men bearing gifts, and hid behind my legs as Peter followed me through into the kitchen while I endeavoured to find some receptacle for the flowers. As I decanted the seemingly never-ending array of blooms—roses, lilies, beautiful creamy tulips and others I wasn’t able to name—into various jugs and bottles, Peter bent down to Allegra’s level and solemnly held out his hand.

  ‘I think I have something here for you too, Allegra,’ he smiled, producing a rather large Easter egg from behind his back.

  ‘Gosh, I don’t know how you managed to carry that as well as the flowers,’ I laughed, seeing Allegra’s eyes light up with lust. ‘Now, you have to save that, Allegra. Easter isn’t for another two weeks.’ I glanced over at Peter who was obviously thoroughly enjoying being the Easter Bunny and Interflora rolled into one. ‘Right, I seem to have done as much as I can with these flowers. Allegra, fetch your coat and we’ll be off. Oh, what about a car seat for her, Peter? Never having owned a car, I don’t have one…’

  ‘No problem. All taken care of. I found Max’s old one in the garage. We don’t want any harm to come to this lovely little lady, do we?’

  While I totally agreed with Peter’s sentiments, I cringed a little at the saccharine-sweet words but Allegra, I could see, was totally won over and trotted out after him as I closed and locked the door behind us. He’d left his car at the top of the street once more and, as we walked up towards it, Peter began to move rather more quickly so that Allegra, who was holding my hand, and I had to break into a little run to keep up.