Looking For Lucy

by Julie Houston

  ‘Sorry, Clementine,’ he puffed, red-cheeked, ‘just a bit concerned about leaving the car in this neighbourhood. There were a couple of unsavoury-looking characters lurking around it as I locked up. Chavvy, hoodie types, you know?’

  This neighbourhood? Hoodie types?

  I was on the point of saying, ‘Hey, this is where I live, Peter, don’t knock it,’ when he suddenly broke into a sprint.

  ‘Oy, get your hands off that car,’ he shouted, as two young men in their late teens appeared from the other side of the car.

  ‘Hey, man, chill, we was just admiring your wheels. Hey, Clem, how’re ya doing? Didn’t realise you was with this motor?’

  I smiled when I saw who was speaking. ‘Hey yourself, Yusuf. Yes, this is Peter, my friend, and it’s his car. He’s taking Allegra and me over to his place for the day.’ I turned to Peter who had come to a standstill near the car, getting back his breath. He obviously hadn’t been doing enough piking and poling over the winter months and his forehead was glistening with sweat. ‘It’s fine, Peter, they’re only looking. Yusuf and Musa here are more likely to guard your car than run off with it.’

  Yusuf held out a hand. ‘Yous OK, man? Nice motor. I wouldn’t leave it round here though—you’ll come back one time and the wheels will be gone.’

  ‘Yes,’ Peter said, wiping his brow with a neatly folded handkerchief, ‘that was what I was worried about.’ He ignored Yusuf’s outstretched hand. ‘OK, are we ready, Allegra? Clementine?’

  *

  ‘Ooh, Mummy, this is lovely,’ Allegra said from her child seat behind me as we left the empty grey streets of Midhope town centre behind us and followed the main road out towards the gently rolling countryside of the Pennine foothills. The spring sky was an artist’s dream: duck egg blue with just a hint of cirrus cloud high above us.

  ‘We are lucky, darling, aren’t we?’ I said cheerily, glancing over to where Peter was sitting rather stiffly beside me. He’d said very little, in the five minutes since Yusuf and Musa had saluted us goodbye, apart from a polite, ‘Can you manage the seatbelt?’ and, ‘Are you warm enough?’

  ‘You’re very quiet, Peter,’ I said gently.

  ‘You must think I’m ridiculous making such a fuss over the car,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s just… it’s just I hate to think of you living down there. I mean it’s not the most salubrious of areas, is it? And those two—how do you know those two? Are they friends of yours?’

  ‘Yusuf and Musa? Yusuf’s dad is my landlord and his sister, Amirah, has babysat for me on a couple of occasions when I’ve been unable to take Allegra to my parents or to Izzy’s.’

  ‘But I don’t understand, Clementine,’ Peter said, echoing Izzy a couple of weeks earlier, ‘surely your parents would prefer you living closer to them, away from the town centre?’

  I laughed. ‘Peter, you have no idea where my parents live. For all you know, they could live in… in Wigton.’ Wigton was even more downmarket than where Allegra and I lived.

  Peter looked startled for a moment. ‘Wigton? Your parents live in Wigton?’

  ‘No, they don’t.’ I laughed again. ‘But they could do. That is really awful of you, Peter, judging people on where they live rather than who they are.’

  Peter flushed slightly. ‘I do apologise, Clementine. You’re right, of course…’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘But the thing is…’ Peter turned to look at Allegra who, fascinated by the landscape from the window, altered now from the grey slate roofs of terraced houses to glorious green fields where cows and sheep were herding their newborn offspring away from danger, was paying no attention to what Peter’s thing might be. ‘The thing is, Clementine,’ he repeated, ‘I know you’ll think me presumptuous—forward even—and I know we hardly know each other, but I would very much like to know you better…’

  I glanced across at him. What did he mean by ‘know you’? As in the biblical sense? I wasn’t sure that I could ever fancy him enough to go down that route.

  ‘…and, what I’m trying to say is, you’ve become very important to me in fact.’ Peter’s already pink face reddened and I felt a sudden affection for him. Here was a lovely, solid, dependable man who, for some reason, had decided to take me on board. I smiled across at him and we continued the journey in a companionable silence.

  *

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, there’s a fishpond and a white house on a pole with some white birds in it… and a swing… and the grass goes all the way down to a wall and over the wall there are some horses and…’ Allegra grabbed my hand and pulled me excitedly from the kitchen through the French windows and into the garden.

  The most beautiful garden I’d ever seen.

  I was immediately taken back to one of my favourite childhood books—The Secret Garden. Maybe it was the time of year: early spring with all its promise of the warmth to come, or maybe it was the fact that there was an actual gate in the tall, ivy-clad stone wall that ran down one side of the garden to the fields beyond. Allegra and I left Peter, head in the fridge as he searched for ice cubes, and walked, hand in hand, down to the wooden gate. I turned the heavy metal handle and cautiously went through.

  ‘Mummy, look, it’s like at the park.’ Allegra’s eyes widened at the mass of ‘daffydowndillies’—I was still in Secret Garden mode—dancing in front of us on the grass, and her mouth became a round ‘O’ as we gazed over the carpet of yellow to the large cream-painted wooden summer house and on to the beautifully laid out tennis court beyond. I found myself having to heave up my own dropped jaw. Blimey, when Peter had said I might like to see where he lived, I had never for one moment imagined anything as beautiful as this.

  ‘What do you think?’ Peter had come up behind us with a glass of juice for Allegra in one hand, and some lovely-looking concoction, sporting fruit and leaves of fresh mint, in the other for me.

  ‘What do I think? Peter, it’s the most beautiful garden I’ve ever been in.’ A thrush, its white speckled breast stark against the leafless black of the huge, ancient oak branch on which it sat, began a rendition, seemingly oblivious to the human voices below it.

  ‘I so wanted you to see it, Clementine. What do you think, Allegra? Shall you and I see if we can hit some tennis balls over the net later?’ When Allegra carried on just staring, her hand tight in my own, Peter continued, almost anxiously, ‘Let me show you the house. I think you’ll like the kitchen.’

  We walked back up to the house that, with its beautiful mellow-stoned frontage now ahead of us, I could see was even more amazing than the secret garden we’d just left.

  ‘George, get down,’ Peter suddenly yelled, as a huge bundle of black raced from the open front door and flung itself at Allegra who immediately reacted by flinging herself onto me with an accompanying scream.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Clementine,’ Peter said, as he took hold of the dog’s collar and dragged it away from Allegra. ‘He is so completely harmless; just a very daft, overfriendly puppy.’

  Puppy? The beast was huge.

  ‘We’re all so used to dogs here that I forget others might not like them,’ Peter went on as the puppy sat at his feet with a split-melon grin on its hairy face.

  ‘The thing is,’ I said, as I tried to uncurl Allegra’s fingers from my own, ‘the only dogs that Allegra comes across are the canine mafia that roam, full of themselves, down on Emerald Street. Plus the fact that we have Dog Corleone himself patrolling his patch at the other side of our fence.’ While I didn’t want to give Peter any more reason to think I was living in an unsuitable area, I needed to explain Allegra’s reaction to George, who was now gazing up adoringly at Peter.

  ‘Gosh, no, I totally understand. Unforgiveable of me to forget about George. I should have warned you.’

  ‘Look, Allegra,’ I said, going over to George and stroking his silky ears, ‘he’s just like Hairy McClary. You know, from Donaldson’s Dairy? You love Hairy McClary.’

  And George really was Hairy’s double. A b
ig, black, curly Labradoodle, he rolled over on to his back, his great pink tongue flopping out of the side of his mouth and his eyes closed in ecstasy as I tickled his tummy.

  Peter took Allegra’s hand gently. ‘You don’t have to say hello to him, Allegra, but I know he’d love it if you did.’ I watched as Allegra inched towards George’s head and, still holding Peter’s hand, gingerly patted his dappled tummy.

  Allegra had left my side by the time we were back up to the house, and a few minutes later, she and George were running round each other on the lawn. I was amazed; dogs had never featured on her birthday or Christmas wish lists and yet, after her initial shock at being almost knocked over by him, here she was, seemingly unafraid and more than happy to throw his ball over and over again for him.

  ‘I love George, Mummy,’ she whispered solemnly into my ear as we followed Peter back into the kitchen.

  ‘He is very lovely, isn’t he?’ I smiled at her rapt expression, realising with a jolt that, apart from when she was with Izzy’s lot, it wasn’t an expression I saw too often on my little girl’s face.

  The same rapt, silly look must have been on my face too once Peter suggested that, if I was still happy to cook lunch for us, I might like to make myself at home in his kitchen. While Allegra went back out into the garden with Peter and the dog, I had a nosey around cupboards and drawers to find the necessary equipment for what I needed to utilise the ingredients that Peter informed me were in his fridge. I felt a bit like I was on MasterChef—kept expecting Monica Galetti and Greg Wallace to be peering over my shoulder asking me what I was going to prepare for lunch. I’d already planned what I wanted to make for pudding—meringue discs with passionfruit cream and pistachio praline—and, assuming Peter would not have any of the ingredients needed, had gone overboard at Sainsbury’s the day before, wincing when I saw the final amount needed at checkout and praying my card would be able to shoulder the weight. It had—just—and I’d hurried out of there, after my stint at The Black Swan, before both the supermarket and the bank realised I was almost in the red. Sod it, I’d thought, I won’t have to pay back my student loan until I’m actually earning enough to be able to pay it back.

  I found the stuff Peter had bought for the main course—some fillet steak and rather limp looking salad. Not overly exciting. What the hell was I going to do with that? I rooted around and found some cheese—Gruyere, a bag of Parmesan and a large lump of cheddar with the beginnings of a beard—and decided I could make a three-cheese soufflé for a starter. A couple of wizened apples in a fruit bowl on the dresser gave me the idea for a Waldorf salad: I just needed walnuts and we’d be in business.

  While the contents of Peter’s fridge might not have been the most riveting on this planet, what I discovered in his kitchen drawers and cupboards almost blew me away—and all top-quality and virtually unused. I pulled out drawer after drawer, each effortlessly advancing towards me on expensive invisible rollers, and opened cupboard after cupboard, gazing in wonder at the Kai and Wusthof knives; the Heston Blumenthal ‘Boss’ blender; the top of the range Rosie melon baller and apple corer together with a pair of Rosie fish tweezers still firmly ensconced in their Harvey Nicks packaging and bearing a thirty-pound price tag. Thirty pounds for a pair of tweezers? Blimey, since when did a halibut need its eyebrows plucking? There was a pasta-maker, an extremely expensive ice cream maker and, best of all, a Kenwood Titanium Major food processor. I stroked its cool metallic sides and knew myself guilty of breaking at least one of the Good Lord’s commandments. Never mind coveting thy neighbour’s wife—it was his Kenny I was after.

  I was still stroking his sides somewhat lasciviously when a voice behind me interrupted my dreams of the whisked meringues, soufflés and other such goodies Kenny and I would produce together if he only were mine.

  ‘Hi,’ said the voice, ‘you look to be far away. Sorry to interrupt you. I’m looking for Peter.’

  5

  ‘Oh, hello.’ I hastily extended my hand to the stranger who stood now in front of me. ‘I’m Clementine. Peter is down in the garden throwing balls to the dog—and my daughter.’

  The man, tall, dark-haired and with a lovely smiley face shook my hand. ‘Hi, Clementine, we’re neighbours of Peter’s—just live across the fields. I wanted a word with him about the fields actually.’

  ‘Well, I was just about to start cooking, but I’ll come down the garden with you. Peter must be fed up of playing with my daughter by now.’

  The man walked towards the open French windows that led directly on to the lawn. ‘It’s OK, don’t let me disturb you.’ He glanced at the ingredients I’d amassed on the granite worktops. ‘You look as if you’re going to have fun with this lot. And Peter’s here now.’

  Peter bustled in, obviously delighted to see the newcomer. ‘David, how are you? Don’t seem to have seen you for ages. May I introduce Clementine Douglas, a very good friend of mine? Clementine, this is David Henderson. He and Mandy live just two minutes across the fields.’

  David Henderson? Was this the David Henderson? The one they called The Richard Branson of the north? The way Peter was acting, hopping up and down, offering coffee, wine, beer, his soul, I guessed this was the great man himself.

  ‘No, really. Thank you but no, Peter. I just walked across to ask if you had any idea what was happening about the fields. They’re in an awful mess. Not been looked after at all over the winter months. The dry-stone walling onto my garden has fallen down and I had a whole load of sheep on the lawn the other day.’

  ‘Who do the fields belong to?’ I asked, once I’d recovered from being in such hallowed company as David Henderson.

  ‘Chap named Rafe Ahern,’ David said, smiling at Allegra, who had followed the dog into the kitchen. Her usually pale cheeks were pink, her eyes shining. ‘His family has owned most of the land round here for years but, bit by bit, he’s had to sell it off. Both Peter’s and my gardens were once part of his estate. His mother lives over at the old manor house still, but trying to get hold of Rafe himself is a bit of a nightmare. He spends a lot of his time in London and Ireland and abroad. And if you go over to the house to find him he’s invariably not there and Annabelle, his mother, is so charming she just plies you with drink and you forget why you were there in the first place.’ He laughed. ‘Oh well, never mind, been nice meeting you, Clementine.’

  David headed back towards the open French window and Peter, obviously not wanting to let him go, suddenly said, ‘Erm, how about dinner here in a couple of weeks, David? Clementine is an exceptional cook…’

  I looked at Peter in horror. I knew I was a good cook, but exceptional? And for the legendary David Henderson?

  ‘…and we’d love to have you here. I’m just in the process of inviting Oliver Cromwell along at some stage too. I think you two would have a lot in common.’

  David Henderson looked totally bemused for a couple of seconds and then glanced across at me where I stood, trying not to laugh, and grinned.

  ‘Well, if Clementine is cooking, then we’d be delighted. Mandy is the social secretary; I’ll get her to give you a ring sometime, Peter.’

  Hmm, bit dismissive, that, but Peter, now encouraged, was in raptures. ‘Ooh,’ he said, ‘that’s marvellous. And how about Harriet and Nick Westmoreland? I have met them a couple of times and I know they’re very good friends of yours, David…?’

  ‘I’m er… guessing they’d be delighted too. Nick, I’m sure, would love to meet, er, Oliver. I’ll leave it all up to you, Peter. Look forward to hearing from you.’ David winked at me and patted Allegra on her head before stepping out into the garden with Peter, apparently reluctant to let the great man out of his sight, hot on his heels.

  ‘Mummy, I love George. And I love Peter,’ Allegra said solemnly as she nursed another glass of juice while I turned back to the lunch ingredients on the granite. ‘I’m really good at tennis now. I think I’d like to be one when I grow up.’

  ‘One what?’ I laughed, delighted to feel the
happiness radiating from her.

  ‘A tennis lady at Wimbledon. Peter says that’s where ladies who get good go. I don’t know where it is but I think that’s where I’m going to be when I’m a big lady…’

  ‘Well, better a big lady than a bag lady, sweetie pie,’ I smiled, wiping the ring of orange from her top lip.

  ‘… Or a dog lady. I’m very good with dogs too, you know.’

  ‘Well, I’m very pleased to hear it. Why don’t you have a look at some of those lovely books on the shelf over there?’ I indicated some children’s picture books that were arranged neatly on the bottom shelf over in the ‘family area’ of the kitchen. ‘I can see Farmer Duck and Owl Babies, I said, spying Allegra’s favourite stories. ‘And then I can get on with cooking lunch.’

  ‘Who do these books belong to?’ Allegra asked, as she walked over to the bookshelf. ‘Does Peter read them? Does Peter like ducks and owls too?’

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ I laughed. ‘But those belong to his children.’

  ‘Where are they?’ Allegra asked, looking round as if his children were about to manifest themselves in front of her.

  ‘Well, the big girl, darling, is away at school.’

  Allegra’s eyes widened. ‘At school? On Sunday?’

  ‘Well, yes. She goes to boarding school. She lives there.’

  ‘She lives at school? Why?’

  ‘Er, well…’ I shrugged my shoulders. I couldn’t think why anyone would send their children away to school. My own parents had sent me to a second-rate private school that I’d not always enjoyed.

  Peter strode back into the kitchen, his face one big smile, and I was able to pass Allegra’s question over to him. ‘I’ve just been telling Allegra that your daughter is away at school, Peter. She wants to know why she lives there and not here.’

  ‘Well, Allegra, you see my children’s mummy isn’t here anymore…’

  Allegra looked worried. ‘Is she with Jesus?’