The Hopes and Dreams of Lucy Baker: The most heart-warming book you’ll read this year. Jenni Keer

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       Chapter 8

      The next morning, Lucy ambled into her living room and heaved back the faded green velvet curtains, determined to embrace a bolder version of herself. Standing in the middle of Lancaster Road, wearing not much and holding the battered, floral-patterned cake tin, was Brenda.

      Seeing the movement of swishing curtains from the corner of her eye, the old lady looked across to the window but registered no recognition. Almost looking through Lucy, she returned her gaze to the tin and shook her head as if she was trying to focus.

      It was then that Lucy noticed the rain – a drizzly mist, not proper splashy raindrops, but enough to get a scantily clad old lady wet and cold, even in May. A creeping panic swept through her body. It was the first real and frightening embodiment of her recent fears concerning her neighbour. Not pausing for thought, or to even change out of her pyjamas, Lucy dashed to the front door, but Brenda was already scuttling towards the junction with Tudor Avenue.

      Dashing past number twenty-four, Lucy paused as she noticed George’s incredulous face peering out the window. He stared at his pyjama-clad neighbour, bouncing around on the pavement in front of his house, gesturing something at him. The next moment she was banging at his door, hoping to enlist him on her search and rescue mission.

      ‘Brenda’s gone walkabout and she’s dressed completely inappropriately,’ she blurted out.

      ‘Unlike your good self.’

      ‘Seriously, she’s in a thin, cotton nightie. She’s seventy-nine. Please help.’ She swallowed back a sob. Her priority was finding her friend.

      The mocking eyebrow dropped and he nodded, noticing her genuine distress.

      ‘Of course.’ He grabbed his keys and mobile from the otherwise empty side table next to his front door.

      They eventually caught up with Brenda near the postbox at the bottom of the avenue. Lucy reached out for her friend’s shoulder and made eye contact.

      ‘Brenda? It’s me. Lucy.’ She gently took her neighbour’s hand in her own. It felt cold, and the drizzle was now turning to heavy rain.

      ‘Jim forgot his lunch again. I have to get to the school and give it to him…’ Brenda’s eyes were frantic.

      ‘It’s okay. Let’s get you in the warm and I’ll deliver it for you.’ The way the old lady’s eyes narrowed as she looked into Lucy’s face broke her heart, as she realised there was no sign of recognition. She bit back tears and forced out a gentle smile.

      Brenda started to shake with the cold, so Lucy put an arm around her and rubbed her bare shoulders to try and warm her up. George, who was only a couple of paces behind them, started to pull his smart, grey V-neck jumper over his head, but as he did so, his shirt untucked itself and rode up his body with the jumper.

      Lucy stood motionless for a fraction of a second and tried hard not to focus on the narrow trail of dark hairs that disappeared into the waistband of his navy blue suit trousers. And she totally failed not to gape at the muscle definition across his abdomen. There was an almost imperceptible flash of nipple as the shirt slid back down his body.

      ‘Put this over her.’

      Lucy snapped her mouth shut and wriggled the jumper over a protesting Brenda. Between them they cajoled and coerced her back up the street and through the front door. Lucy collected a towel from the downstairs cloakroom and patted her down, aware of a strong smell of wee now they were inside. The orange and purple patchwork blanket Lucy knitted two Christmases ago was draped over the back of the upholstered wing chair, so she wrapped it around the shivering lady and finally caught Brenda’s eye. A trembling hand reached out and gripped her own, squeezing it for reassurance. Lucy squeezed back.

      ‘Everything’s okay, Brenda,’ she said. ‘We’re home. We’re safe. There’s nothing for you to worry about.’

      A hovering George beckoned her into the hall, as Lucy felt more treacherous tears building. He studied her face for a second and then briefly reached out to touch her shoulder. At a moment when she felt everything was collapsing, it gave her the strength to pull herself together. His hand dropped back to his side.

      ‘I don’t want to interfere, but I think she needs to be seen by someone as a matter of urgency.’

      ‘I agree. I’ll try the surgery. Could you grab my mobile from my kitchen table? I don’t want to leave her. My front door isn’t locked.’

      George nodded and returned with her phone two minutes later, handing it over just as his own started to buzz. He turned away to answer it.

      ‘No, I hadn’t forgotten… Has he? Oh, for goodness’ sake… I’ll have to sort it then…’ George covered the phone with his hand. ‘I need to go.’

      ‘I can manage. She’s much calmer now. Honestly. It’s fine.’ Brenda looked tired, her thin fingers stroking the blanket, and her eyes closing.

      ‘Give me a contact number. I’ll ring later to see how she is, but there’s an emergency at work.’

      She gave him her mobile number. ‘Thanks for your help. I wouldn’t want you getting into trouble with the boss.’

      ‘Yeah, bit of an ogre.’ He put the phone back to his face. ‘With you in ten,’ he said, then slid it back into his trouser pocket. ‘Bye then, Grandma,’ he said to Lucy.

      Lucy followed his eyes and remembered she was wearing her Keep Calm and Carry on Knitting pyjamas.

      ‘Russell Crowe knits,’ she said, indignantly.

      ‘Oh, you mean you actually do knit? I thought the pyjamas were ironic, or a gift, or something.’

      ‘It’s a very therapeutic pastime.’

      ‘Yeah, if you’re about ninety.’ He ran his hand through his thick brown hair, ruffling it up without realising. Brenda watched him from the living room and smiled. She looked at Lucy, who was sporting a cross face, and smiled even more. Then she clasped her hands together and let out a happy sigh.

      ‘The cat?’ Brenda called out to George. Lucy couldn’t work out if it was a question or a reminder. Or even if she knew who George was.

      ‘Oh yes. Did the rescue centre find it? They said—’ Lucy began.

      ‘It’s all in hand.’ He nodded at Brenda to signal his departure and the front door clicked shut. There was a pause and the old lady noticed the battered tin by her feet. Bending forward, she prised open the lid enough to see the contents. Lucy waited for her to comment but she didn’t.

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