Looking For Lucy

by Julie Houston

  *

  ‘Sarah Sykes is your real mother, Clementine. There’s no doubt about it.’ Rafe handed me a whole load of photocopied cuttings from a couple of 1984 editions of The Yorkshire Post. Sarah’s—much younger—tear-stained face stared back at me from beneath the front cover heading ‘Not so Honourable now!’

  ‘Poor Sarah,’ I said, glancing at the kitchen clock. It wasn’t quite 7 a.m. and Rafe’s knocking had woken me from what seemed only a couple of minutes’ sleep. Embarrassed at being caught in my ancient My Little Pony nightie, I tugged it down over my backside and tried to act like a grownup. ‘But I don’t know why you think this proves anything. It’s no more than what you told me last night. Where’ve you got all this from?’

  ‘I’ve a good mate at The Yorkshire Post and he was more than happy to dig these out from their archives for me last night and fax them over.’

  ‘It still doesn’t prove anything, Rafe. Do you want coffee?’

  Rafe shook his head and passed me another two photocopied sheets of paper. I felt the blood drain from my face as I read the words on the two birth certificates. Both recorded the births of little girls born to Sarah Sykes on March 21st 1984—mine and Lucy’s birth dates—in Styal, Manchester. No mention was made of any prison or institution, but the area of Styal is synonymous with the Manchester women’s prison.

  ‘Coffee,’ Rafe said. ‘You need coffee.’ He went over to the coffee machine and started feeding it pods of the strongest espresso.

  ‘Daisy and Rosie…’ I looked up, stricken. ‘Rafe, I don’t know who I am. Am I Daisy… or am I Rosie? Which am I? Who am I?’

  Rafe abandoned the coffee, came over to where I was standing in shock and wrapped his big arms around me, enveloping me in his chest. It felt so safe—so good.

  ‘But Clem, this is good. Don’t you see? You’ve met Sarah. You like her. You said she was lovely…’

  ‘Oh, Rafe…’ I said. ‘Oh God… her hair is like mine. Why didn’t I see that the other day? Oh God, she loves cooking… she said so. She was sniffing my herbs just like I do. Shit, Rafe, Sarah’s my mother. She’s my mum.’ I sat down, hand to my mouth, reading the words again and again. Daisy and Rosie. Which one was me?

  ‘Yes,’ Rafe said, going back to the coffee machine. ‘I just couldn’t believe Sarah wasn’t your mother, last night, but you wouldn’t have it. I knew it would be pretty easy through all my contacts to come up with your birth certificates.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re not into astrology…?

  ‘Astrology? Load of bollocks! Don’t believe a word of it.’ He grinned, handing me a coffee so strong I could have stood a spoon up in it. ‘I didn’t want to tell you what I was up to because you might have stopped me and, ethically, if you’d forbidden me to nosey around, I wouldn’t really have been able to go ahead.’

  I wasn’t really listening. I was staring at the column on the certificate that gave the child’s father’s name: John Lipton. I had a father—a real one. With a name too.

  ‘Do you think Sarah knows who I am? Do you think that’s why she came round the other day?’

  ‘I’ve no idea—I’ve never actually met her. I know Selena quite well—bit of a snob actually—but although I knew she had this sister who wasn’t often talked about, I don’t think she’s ever been over here before. How did she seem with you? Nervous?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘I mean, did she look you up and down trying to work out if there was any resemblance? Did she ask if you had a twin?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. She was here to pick Poppy up—she’s Harriet Westmoreland’s son’s girlfriend and I was showing them both what they’d have to do if they came to work for me.’

  ‘Oh, shit, Clementine, I’m going to have to get off. I’m getting the shuttle from Manchester to London at ten—got a big meeting with my news team.’

  ‘Right, OK.’ I was still in such a state of shock, I didn’t seem to be able to take in any more information.

  Rafe came over and stood in front of me. I realised he was dressed in chinos and a navy shirt that matched his eyes—ready for the off, in fact—and felt at a distinct disadvantage in my nightie. I hastily rubbed sleep from my eyes. God, I hadn’t even brushed my teeth…

  ‘You can’t imagine the self-control I had to exercise last night in order to drag myself away from you.’ He smiled, taking a lock of my hair and winding it slowly round his fingers. ‘But I really did have phone calls to make and… I wanted to sort this out for you before I left today.’

  I smiled wryly. ‘I think this is only the beginning of sorting all this out…’

  ‘Would you rather I hadn’t, Clem? Would you rather you hadn’t found out about Sarah?’

  ‘No, no. Not at all. I’ve spent all my life being told that my real mother was a nasty piece of work, violent and into hard drugs. Now this… are you sure there’s no mistake?’

  ‘No, Clem, there can’t be, can there?’ He bent to kiss my head. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Do? Erm, well, go and have a shower, start thinking about the lunch party…’

  Rafe tutted. ‘You know exactly what I mean. What are you going to do about Sarah? Hell, I really am going to have to go. Sort it, Clem. Go and tell her.’

  *

  ‘Harriet?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Clementine.’

  ‘Hi, sweetheart, how are you?’

  ‘Do you have Poppy’s address?’

  ‘Her address? She’s actually here. Shall I put her on?’

  I panicked. ‘No, no, I don’t want to talk to her.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  I hesitated. I’d spent the last nine hours—after Rafe had brought me the evidence of who Lucy and I probably were—on autopilot. I’d chopped, sliced, mixed, cooked, smiled and served and, if you were to ask me what, I’m not sure I could have answered. My emotions veered from laughable disbelief that Sarah could be my mother, to euphoria that she was and back to utter despair if she wasn’t. Betty, Mel and I had finally cleared up after the lunch party and Paul, the new chef, was now jack-booting about, giving orders to a couple of frightened minions, as he revved up the kitchen once more for the evening’s guests.

  I made a quick decision. ‘Do you fancy a drink tonight?’ I asked Harriet.

  ‘Tonight? Yes, OK. Where do you fancy?’

  ‘Oh, just come here. Paul’s in charge of The Orangery this evening and I was actually out last night so don’t really want to ask Sophie to babysit again… is that OK? I’ll make us some food?’

  ‘Sounds wonderful. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. But, erm, I could do with chatting to you about something…’

  ‘Right.’ Harriet laughed. ‘Sounds interesting. Look forward to it.’

  After I’d put the phone down and rounded up Max and Allegra, whom I’d promised to take to the late afternoon showing of some must-see cartoon and then pizza, it suddenly occurred to me that Sarah probably wouldn’t want anyone to know about her past, but especially her daughter’s boyfriend’s mother. Shit, why hadn’t I thought about that before ringing Harriet?

  Before I set off with the kids to Midhope and the cinema, I rang my solicitor, as I did almost daily, to find if he’d heard anything about Lucy starting proceedings to reverse the Special Guardianship Order.

  ‘Mrs Broadbent,’ Duncan Black, my solicitor sighed, ‘I keep telling you. You’ll be the first to hear anything, not me. Your sister won’t even know I’m your solicitor—why should she?’

  ‘I know, I know, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just I keep thinking you might have heard something from other solicitors in town—you know when you’re out for a drink or something…?’ I paused, feeling silly, as I always did.

  ‘It really doesn’t work like that.’ I could almost see him raise his eyes in despair at my harassment of him and his practice. ‘Just sit tight. If your sister is going ahead you will have a letter from the courts and
then… then you come to me.’

  *

  In the end I decided I might as well ask Grace, Mel and Izzy for a drink as well as Harriet. Izzy was driving over anyway to drop Emily off to work for me and, while I obviously saw Grace and Mel on a fairly regular basis, we were usually too busy to actually chat about anything other than Clementine’s.

  ‘So, how was the “thank you dinner” with Heathcliffe?’ Izzy asked as soon as she sat down outside in the garden.

  ‘Oh, just that,’ I said, not really wanting to go into any great detail with Izzy. I didn’t want her thinking that the meal out with Rafe had been anything but a thank-you, or she’d be wanting a total post-mortem of all that had gone on.

  She was rummaging in her oversized bag and pulled out a copy of Hello magazine, sliding it across to me as I sat down to join her.

  ‘I wasn’t going to show you this,’ Izzy said seriously. ‘I mean, I don’t know how far you’ve gone down your little meander with the dark, brooding one… But, before you get too involved, I’d take a look at this.’

  Taking up two full double pages of the magazine were photograph after photograph of JoJo Kennedy. JoJo wearing evening dress for some award; JoJo at this year’s Glastonbury festival dressed in green Hunters and the tiniest of denim shorts; JoJo at home, reclining on a leopard-skin sofa, two overweight pugs in her arms…

  I glanced up at Izzy who was looking at me sympathetically. ‘Next page…’ She nodded briefly at the magazine, open on the wooden patio table. I turned the page, a huge photograph of JoJo wrapped around Rafe, with the caption ‘JoJo Kennedy at the London home she shares with the BBC’s Middle Eastern correspondent, Rafe Ahern’ staring smugly up at me.

  35

  ‘Oh God,’ Izzy said, staring at my face. ‘I knew it. You’ve fallen in love with him, haven’t you? You’ve slept with him, haven’t you? I bet he didn’t tell you anything about living with bloody JoJo Kennedy, did he?’

  I felt winded, cheated, bereft almost. I’d not thought for one minute that Rafe had ever actually lived with the impossibly ravishing JoJo Kennedy, let alone be living with her still. I closed the magazine, saw, with sinking heart, that it was the current edition and, handing it back to Izzy, forced a smile. ‘OK, what’ll anyone have to drink?’

  By the time I’d checked on the kids in the snug, been reassured by a somewhat disdainful Paul that everything was more than on schedule in the kitchen, as well as given confidence-boosting pep talks to Sophie and Izzy’s daughter, Emily, who were both waiting on diners in The Orangery for the first time that evening, there was laughter coming from the garden. Collecting wine, glasses and nibbles, I plastered a bright smile on my face and went back outside.

  ‘Sorry it’s a bit of a busman’s holiday coming back here instead of going out,’ I apologised to Mel and Grace, ‘but no babysitter, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No problem.’ Mel smiled. ‘Julian is away for a couple of days and I’m more than happy to leave the decorators and renovations to come and sit in this wonderful garden with you lot.’

  Harriet caught my eye. I knew she didn’t want to ask me what I wanted to talk about, in front of the others, if what it was concerned only her.

  I took a deep breath, pushed the image of Rafe’s blue eyes gazing in seeming adoration at JoJo out of my mind and said, ‘Something really, really weird has happened…’ The four women stopped their chat and looked at me. ‘I know this sounds stupid, and it really is absolutely wonderful… but by telling you, I might really be giving away someone else’s secret… but I have to tell someone before I burst.’

  Izzy’s head came up and she looked at me pointedly. I knew she was thinking I was going to tell them all I’d been having a thing with Rafe Ahern, but that he was living with JoJo Kennedy and what should I do?

  ‘The thing is, I know who mine and Lucy’s real mother is…’

  ‘Gosh, Clem, that’s the last thing I thought you were going to say.’ Izzy looked apologetic.

  ‘Who is it? How’ve you found out?’ Grace and Mel spoke as one.

  I turned to Harriet. ‘Sarah, Poppy’s mum, is also my mum. And Lucy’s of course.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Harriet stared at me. ‘Kit’s Poppy? Sarah Rabbitt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you know? Did she tell you the other day?’

  I shook my head. ‘I honestly don’t think she has any idea. Hang on.’ I went inside, returning with the two birth certificates. ‘Here, look…’

  Mel, Grace and Izzy craned their heads, leaning over Harriet to get a good view. ‘OK,’ Harriet said, frowning, ‘but what makes you think Sarah Rabbitt is this Sarah Sykes? I mean she’s a vicar’s wife, Clem. And she’s absolutely lovely. I can’t see her being the violent drug runner you said your real mum was.’

  ‘Here…’ I handed her the Yorkshire Post cuttings and, again, the others leaned over to see what the cuttings were.

  ‘Shit. It is… That’s Sarah, isn’t it? There’s no mistaking her. And look, she really does have a look of you.’ Harriet stared at me.

  ‘The thing is, Harriet, what if the vicar doesn’t know about her past life? What if he doesn’t know she’s been in prison, had two babies that she gave up for adoption? I can’t just turn up on her doorstep in Harrogate and say, “Excuse me, Reverend Rabbitt”—bloody hell, he’s not really called Reverend Rabbitt, is he?—"is your wife in? Because, actually, she’s my mum, she gave birth to me and my sister when she was in Styal prison.”’

  Harriet gave a nervous giggle. ‘Worse, Clem, the poor man is actually called Roger.’

  ‘What? My mum is married to Roger Rabbit?’ I began to giggle myself and Izzy joined in.

  ‘You have to tell her, Clem.’ Mel leaned forward and patted my arm. It reminded me of only a month or so previously when Mel had said exactly the same about my telling Allegra about Lucy.

  ‘Well, you certainly live life on the edge, Clem,’ Grace said, pulling a face. ‘Your stress levels must be way over the top. In just over a year you’ve finished your degree, married Peter—’ she counted on her fingers ‘—moved here, buried Peter, become stepmother and guardian to two more children, set up Clementine’s, found Lucy—who seems to be playing a cat and mouse game with you—and now found your real mother …’ Grace helped herself to a tiny mushroom pastry. ‘Anyone else would be talking gibberish on a psychiatrist’s couch by now.’

  You’ve not included lusting after and rejecting David Henderson or falling madly in love with Rafe Ahern, I mentally added to Grace’s list. Oh, and now just finding out he lives with another woman as well. Jesus, never mind the shrink, just bring on the men in white coats and take me away…

  ‘Clem?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You were miles away,’ Grace said. ‘Now, what can we do to help?’

  ‘I don’t think there is anything, Grace. I just need Harriet to find Sarah’s phone number for me—I have Poppy’s but I obviously don’t want to go through her—and then…’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then I will ring Sarah and make some excuse to get her over here.’

  *

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Clementine Broadbent. From Clementine’s? We met the other day?’

  I looked out of the kitchen window where the rain was trying its best to beat a patch of gangly gladioli into submission and suddenly felt very tired. Maybe it was best all round if I let sleeping dogs lie; leave the unopened can of worms unopened… I couldn’t think of any more metaphors and leaned my heavy head against the cool windowpane.

  ‘Oh hi, Clementine. Do you want Poppy? I’ll just get her.’

  ‘No, no, Sarah, it’s, erm… you I wanted to talk to…’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘The thing is, when you were here the other week, you seemed so interested in Clementine’s and you said… erm…’ I quickly parroted the words I’d been rehearsing for days. ‘You said you were into Middle Eastern food. I know absolutely no
thing about this,’ I lied. ‘I, erm, wondered if you fancied coming over and sharing your expertise with me?’

  ‘Me?’ Sarah said again. ‘Gosh, Clementine, I really am no expert… just have an interest really…’

  ‘Right.’ I didn’t quite know what else to say.

  ‘But I’d love to come over again, anyway. I was fascinated by what I saw the other day.’ She hesitated. ‘And I could bring over the recipes I’ve concocted,’ she went on shyly, ‘if you think they might be worth looking at?’

  ‘That would be great, Sarah. Is late tomorrow afternoon any good? I’m up to my ears the rest of today and tomorrow lunch, but Paul, the chef, will be in charge after that…’

  I spent the rest of the day working flat out in the kitchen interspersed with taking Max to a sleepover with a school friend and keeping an eye on Allegra and her little mate Martha who was over for the afternoon. I bribed Sophie, with a tenner and the promise of Chicken Caesar salad for supper, to take the girls and George out for a walk over to the nearby farm where there was a public gallery to watch the milking, and then into the little farm shop that sold homemade ice cream.

  The lunch party was for David Henderson and a load of Russians and I always felt nervous cooking for David. The evening dinner, although only for six, included the food critic from Yorkshire And The North, and the menus they’d asked for were challenging. Pushing all thoughts of Rafe, Sarah and Lucy from my mind, I concentrated on what I was good at, haranguing Betty as well as chivvying Sam and Emily to work faster in the process.

  ‘Bloody hell, Clem, will you slow down a bit?’ Betty complained. ‘I’ve not had me break yet and these new potatoes are covered in mud.’ She held up dirty hands, dripping water from one of the huge sinks.

  ‘No time for a break, Betty. Grab yourself a coffee, and I need those potatoes five minutes ago.’

  ‘Bloody Hitler,’ she swore under her breath. ‘They’ll be taking on new staff at Marks and Sparks for Christmas soon…’