Looking For Lucy

by Julie Houston

  ‘Back with you? Where?’ Sarah was playing for time. She longed to be with him, to go anywhere with him but it was a bit like being with a sleepy black panther. She didn’t know what he was going to do next and, more worryingly, apart from the basics she’d gleaned from the more adventurous girls at school, she’d no real idea what she was supposed to do in return.

  All the while, they’d been walking away from the main streets and through a maze of litter-strewn side streets, grubby in the heat of the day. Johnny stopped suddenly outside a betting shop.

  ‘Come on,’ he said again, smiling down at her.

  ‘You want to make a bet?’ Sarah asked surprised.

  ‘Not particularly. I’d far rather make you.’

  He took out a key from the front pocket of his jeans and used it to open a sludge-coloured door to one side of the shop’s entrance. ‘I live here.’

  ‘Here?’ Sarah glanced up at the dirty, net-curtained windows above the betting shop. It didn’t look much like a home.

  ‘Now don’t go all uppity on me. See how the other half live—I’ll make you tea if you like.’

  Terrified of being thought a snob, Sarah went into overdrive, commenting enthusiastically on the battered velvet sofa, the large dusty rugs and pine table that were crammed into the tiny living room.

  Johnny handed Sarah a huge chipped mug of strong tea. ‘Come and sit down, Sarah,’ he said, patting a cushion next to him on the sofa. ‘You’re making me feel carsick, circling round the room like that.’

  He didn’t lunge for her but simply stroked her face with practised yet nonchalant fingers until she was almost trembling with longing for him, terrified he was going to take it further and whisk her off to the bedroom, but equally terrified he was not.

  ‘Don’t be frightened, lovely Sarah,’ he eventually said. ‘I promise you’ll wonder why you left it so long.’

  *

  After that afternoon in the flat above the betting shop, she couldn’t get enough of both Johnny and the things he did to her body. He persuaded her that having sex at the same time as smoking a joint made the whole thing even better and after a week’s initiation into both the pleasures of the flesh and the use of cannabis, she felt as though she were an old hand at both.

  Sarah knew she should be working on her final pieces of art if she were to take up the provisional offer of the degree course at The National School of Fine Arts on the Rue Bonaparte in Paris in the autumn, but every day, by early afternoon, the longing to be with Johnny broke her resolve and, ignoring both April’s disapproving looks and her tutting, would dash to the loos, fill her generous mouth with lip gloss, outline her huge brown eyes with kohl and be off in the direction of The Headrow and the flat above the betting shop.

  One weekend towards the middle of June, Sarah stayed over at the flat, telling her parents she’d been invited to April’s parents’ silver wedding celebrations at their house in Midhope and wouldn’t be home until the Monday teatime after college. Anne and Gerald accepted this lie without question and even gave her a bottle of Gerald’s best Veuve Clicquot that Anne ordered Gerald to—somewhat grudgingly—bring up from his wine cellar for April’s parents by way of thanks for having their daughter stay with them.

  By Friday evening the champagne had been drunk and Johnny was restless. Sarah didn’t see much of him during the Saturday—he had business to see to, he said and would be some time—and, missing him, spent what was left of her allowance shopping in Leeds Market for and then cooking a fabulous three-course meal for him on his return. By the time he finally rolled up at midnight, Sarah was convinced he was lying dead in a gutter somewhere and was on the point of setting off for A and E at Leeds General to see if he was there.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart, I ended up with a couple of mates I’d not seen for months and one thing led to another.’

  Sarah was so glad he was back, in one piece and not lying somewhere with a knife in his back, she didn’t even notice the faint scent of an unknown, but very feminine perfume that came in on the warm night air with him.

  On the Monday morning Sarah knew she just had to go in to college and work nonstop until the evening if she were to complete her final pieces, although the very thought of leaving Johnny in the September, even for the wonders of three years in Paris, was anathema to her now. Reaching out across the bed for him, the sun’s rays already illuminating the shabbiness of the womb-like room above the bookies, Sarah was surprised to find him gone. She’d never known him rise before midday—he did most of his business at night, he’d assured her and, as such she must think of him as a shift worker—and here he was, fully dressed, munching on a bowl of dry cereal.

  ‘What are you up to?’ she asked sleepily, torn between the desire to pull him back into the bed with her and the knowledge that she had to be back in college later on. She looked at her watch. ‘Johnny,’ she laughed, ‘it’s only six o’clock. Come back to bed.’

  ‘We, my darling Sarah, are having a day out. Come on, get your clothes on. We need to move.’

  ‘I can’t, Johnny, I have to finish my course work. I’m way, way behind.’

  ‘Sarah,’ he said, patiently, ‘what is more important? A few pieces of artwork that you can catch up with tomorrow, or a day showing that bitch, Thatcher, we won’t be moved?’

  ‘We?’ Sarah was puzzled. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Sarah,’ he said, a note of impatience creeping into his voice, ‘just get your face washed and your jeans on and I’ll buy you a coffee on the train.’

  Sarah hated it when she heard that petulance in his voice. She was always frightened he’d go off and leave her, find someone more adventurous, more experienced to take her place.

  Oh, what harm could one more day playing hooky make in the larger scheme of things? The sun was shining, she was young, she’d have a whole day to herself with Johnny. Sod it. She jumped out of the grubby sheets and made for the bathroom.

  ‘So where are we going?’ she shouted through a mouthful of toothpaste. ‘Scarborough? Whitby? Filey?’

  ‘Rotherham. Come on, the train goes in twenty minutes.’

  *

  Two men in an ancient Toyota Corolla met them at Rotherham Central. ‘Why’ve you brought her?’ the taller of the two asked impatiently, nodding towards Sarah as she climbed into the back of the car. ‘There’ll be very few women coming.’

  ‘Sarah’s OK,’ Jonny said. ‘I thought we’d look a bit less conspicuous if we had a gorgeous girl with us.’

  ‘Don’t get your logic there,’ the man snapped. ‘It’s not a place for women.’

  ‘Never mind,’ the smaller man said, turning from the driver’s seat to give her a brief smile. ‘Just keep your head down when we get there, love.’

  It was a five-mile drive to the British Steel coking plant at Orgreave, South Yorkshire, and by the time they joined the ten thousand or so pickets from around the UK, Sarah had been well and truly brought up to date on what the men thought about the miners’ strike in general and Margaret Thatcher in particular.

  The police were waiting for them but, unlike most of the strikes at this time where pickets were kept well away from their intended positions, they were escorted along with the thousands of others to a field to the north of the plant. Sarah clung tightly to Johnny’s hand and, although she was terrified at being here among miners and pickets she’d only seen previously on the evening news programmes, she felt a mounting rush of excitement that she was helping the workers against Johnny’s hated Margaret Thatcher. The field was flanked, it appeared, by as many police as strikers. Sarah couldn’t believe the number of dark blue and black uniforms in so small an area, couldn’t believe so many police could actually exist.

  ‘Why here, Johnny? Why aren’t we outside the mines?’ Sarah panted breathlessly as she stumbled after him, trying desperately to keep up as he strode ahead to get a good position.

  Johnny didn’t seem overly sure himself, but the driver of the Toyota slow
ed down his pace to hers and they walked on together. ‘The British Steel plants have been receiving “dispensations” or picket-permitted coal so that their furnaces don’t end up damaged,’ he explained. ‘But it seems they’ve been shifting far more coal than was agreed with the NUM—the miners’ union. That’s not on, love. If the steelworkers’ union won’t cooperate with us then we’ll just have to take it on ourselves to stop the fucking delivery of coal from the coking plant. When the lorries arrive to fetch the coal from the plant up there,’ he nodded in the direction of the road past the fields, ‘to take to the steelworks, we’re not going to let them through.’

  ‘But how will you stop them?’ Sarah asked. ‘Won’t it be dangerous?’

  ‘How’ve you got involved with this lot, love? You’ve absolutely no idea, have you? What are your mum and dad doing letting you come out like this? Why don’t you just go back now? Go on, love, it’s a five-mile walk back to the station, but you’re better out of it. I’ve never seen so many police all at once. It’s going to get really nasty, I can tell.’

  ‘She’s all right, Davey,’ Johnny called over his shoulder. ‘She needs to see how the workers live, what shit they have to put up with.’

  ‘And you’re a bloody worker yourself, are you…?’ Davey muttered, at the same time as the strident call, ‘Lorries’ went up from all over the field. This was the cue for the pickets to charge towards the police in an attempt to break the lines. Sarah found herself in the middle of a terrifying crowd hurtling down towards the road where it was met by an even more terrifying group of mounted police.

  ‘Oh, those poor, poor horses,’ Sarah cried as stones were lobbed over her head.

  ‘Never mind the fucking horses, you stupid bitch,’ a man yelled furiously in her ear. ‘The fucking lorries are getting through.’

  After ten minutes the crowd surged again and was met by a second mounted response. Sarah had lost both Johnny and the two men from the car by this time and found herself on a tide of pickets, being pushed forward to meet the police before being carried back up the field. She felt something hit the back of her head and had a few seconds to realise she was bleeding before being swept down towards the line of police once more. We should have gone to Filey, she kept thinking, dazed and battered. The waves there would have been just as good.

  Sarah managed to look at her watch; it was only nine-twenty-five but she felt she’d been in that field and that crowd for a lifetime. There was a shift in the mood of the men around her and she saw that the fully laden lorries of coal were beginning to leave the coking plant. Once more the miners surged and once more Sarah found herself taken along with them. And then, mercifully, there was a lull in the proceedings.

  ‘Go, Arthur,’ someone shouted and she realised it was Johnny standing just behind her, thoroughly enjoying the whole thing.

  As the NUM leader, Arthur Scargill, walked defiantly in front of the police lines for just a few moments, Johnny grabbed Sarah’s hand and pulled her, running down towards the crowd who were making their way towards Orgreave village itself.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she yelled. Her head was throbbing badly and she had cuts to both arms and legs but she felt safe now that Johnny was holding her hand.

  ‘Someone’s just said there’s drink and food in the village,’ he yelled back. ‘Come on, I’m starving.’

  The stone throwing had abated for a while, but as they ran towards the waiting police a brick was lobbed over her head, catching the nose of one of the huge mounted horses. Its training prevented it from rearing, but Sarah, unable to see any animal in pain, instinctively let go of Johnny’s hand and dashed towards it. As she reached a hand to the frightened beast, something hit her around the back of her legs and she fell, stumbling into the cordon of mounted police.

  20

  ‘Lucy? Is it Lucy?’ My hand, still clutching the weeds I’d plucked from my rosemary patch moments before, was instantly sweaty and my stomach churned as adrenalin coursed through every inch of me at the sight of the two police officers walking towards me.

  ‘Can we go inside, Mrs Broadbent? Are you by yourself?’

  ‘The children are here with me. My husband is out with his wife…’ My mouth couldn’t seem to form the words properly. ‘His first wife, I mean…’

  The officers followed me as I turned and went to open the huge oak front door that was, as always, locked. ‘I’m sorry. I was out in the back garden. I don’t have a key… We need to go back this way.’

  I led the way back down the pebbled path, George sniffing interestedly at the officers’ legs as they walked round to the back of the house, through the open French window and into the kitchen. A faint reminder of the fish I’d cooked earlier still lingered and I would, from then on, always associate that particular smell with the same sensation of doom I was feeling now as the police followed me, unsmiling, into the house.

  ‘We’re sorry, Mrs Broadbent, to bring bad news, but I’m sorry to have to tell you…’ the young policeman hesitated, obviously torn between the enormity of being allowed by his senior officer to break such terrible news to me and anxiety at carrying out such a task. ‘I’m afraid your husband, Peter Broadbent, is… is significantly unresponsive.’

  My head, bowed as I waited for the inevitable about Lucy, shot up and I stared at the young rookie. He looked about sixteen, his acned face, already crimson porridge, flushing uncomfortably as he spoke the words.

  ‘Peter? He’s what? Significantly unresponsive…? Oh God, has he been done for drink-driving? Has he passed out somewhere? He was upset when he drove off. I told him he’d had too much whisky before he left…’

  Tutting at the now totally embarrassed young police officer, the female constable took my arm and steered me towards the chair she pulled out from the kitchen table.

  ‘I’m sorry, love, I’m afraid your husband was involved in a car accident earlier this evening. He died instantly.’

  My hand, still clutching the now wilting weed, flew to my mouth. One’s hand really did fly to one’s mouth, I thought stupidly, recalling myriad characters’ invariable reaction to loss and tragedy in the novels I’d devoured over the years.

  ‘Oh God, no. Max and Sophie…they adore their father. Allegra too… she’s only known him a little while, you see, but she loves him too. He’s the only father she’s ever known.’

  ‘Is there someone we can get in touch with for you? You shouldn’t be by yourself,’ the woman officer said. ‘I’m not sure yet, but we may need a formal identification at some stage. Mr Justin…’ She took out her notebook and riffled the pages until she found what she was looking for. ‘… Sanderson is already on his way to identify his wife. He may be able to identify your husband as well.’

  ‘His wife? Vanessa?’ My hand went involuntarily to my mouth once more.

  ‘Mrs Vanessa Sanderson died too. I believe she was your husband’s first wife?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Oh, Jesus, how am I going to tell Max? And Sophie?’

  ‘Mr Sanderson said the children are with you at the moment?’

  ‘Yes, yes, they’re asleep upstairs. Well, at least Max is. I doubt that Sophie is in bed yet…’

  ‘Are there grandparents? Can they come and be with them?’

  I shook my head, as much to confirm that no grandparents existed apart from the old woman up in Scotland (dear God, did I have to inform her? Would I have to ring her, speak to her on the phone: did I even have a number or would I need to drive up to Aberdeen and tell her face to face that her son was no longer), as to try and assemble some sense of what had happened and the implications for myself and those poor, poor children now that Peter had died.

  I suddenly remembered Vanessa’s mother was alive too, but somewhere in a home with Alzheimer’s.

  ‘What about your parents? A friend? You need someone here, love.’

  ‘What’s going on? What’s happened?’ Sophie suddenly appeared, almost silently, in the kitchen. ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘Soph
ie, come and sit down. I’m so sorry, darling, I have some really dreadfully bad news to tell you…’

  *

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Izzy said. The Indian summer that had gloriously taken care of most of that September had, overnight it appeared, gone back to the subcontinent leaving a cold and miserably wet October in its wake.

  ‘Would you, Izzy? That is so kind. I have to be there at one this afternoon. There’s so much paperwork to sort out, so many bills that need paying that I can’t just bury my head anymore. I need to see Peter’s solicitors for help with it all. I need to sort out bank details, mortgage deeds on the house, a ton of stuff that Peter sorted automatically that I’m afraid I just let him get on with.’

  ‘Well, why wouldn’t you?’ Izzy asked, moving to finish making the coffee that I’d started on ten minutes earlier but which, it seemed, I’d now forgotten all about. ‘You’d only been married, what, six weeks? Why would he have told you everything about his financial situation when it was pretty obvious to anyone who had a pair of eyes—’ Izzy flung her arms in the direction of the kitchen and beyond ‘—that you didn’t need to worry your head about it whatsoever. I mean, let’s face it, Clem, and I don’t wish to sound crass, you’re not going to have any financial worries for the rest of your life, are you?’

  ‘But I’m a grown adult, an intelligent woman. I should have been aware of things: money, mortgage etc. I mean, as far as I know, there is no mortgage on the house—I do seem to remember Peter being very proud of the fact that it was paid off years ago. But I don’t even know if he had life insurance or… or what was being paid to Vanessa each month. And now she’s dead as well. I mean, the children…? Am I in charge of them now? Do they belong to me?’

  ‘That’s why I’m coming with you this afternoon. You have to find out what was written in the will—what Peter and Vanessa had put in place. I mean people usually name someone to be guardian of their children in the event of their death, don’t they? There’s probably an aunt or uncle or… or university friend or someone who agreed to take them in the event of their being left alone. Vanessa must have girlfriends you don’t know about.’