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

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       Chapter 2

      Lucy spotted the stray in her tiny square of garden later that evening, weaving its way in and out of the assorted pots of straggly begonias and half-stacked piles of bricks. The poor little thing was all jutty-out limbs and tufty black fur, and had no more meat on its bones than a Lowry matchstalk cat.

      Her efforts to coax it out were met with catty indifference and the nonchalant wipe of a chin along the edge of the battered metal watering can, so she changed tactics and five minutes later the nervous scrap was in her kitchen, peering up from the edge of a saucer of tuna.

      ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Lucy begged. ‘I’d give you a home if I could.’

      There it was again, the feeling her stomach was doing a series of inelegant roly-polies. Realistically, there was no way her landlady would drive all the way out to Renborough for a spot check on a mid-May Monday evening, but Lucy couldn’t escape the nagging possibility, even if statistically it was more likely that the Prime Minister would stop by for a Jaffa Cake and a quick chat about the state of the NHS.

      As the tiny creature licked up the last flake, Lucy swiped open her phone and googled local cat rescue centres. Renborough Animal Rescue was the nearest, but it was overflowing and under-resourced. There was a heartfelt plea on the website for people to consider offering a forever home to one of their twelve black cats as they were either considered unlucky or boring; the cute kittens and striking ginger toms were always chosen first. If the centre took Lucy’s neighbourhood stray on, it would be number thirteen and that made her feel even more uncomfortable.

      Reluctantly, she dialled the number as the cat halted its post-banquet ablutions, cast her a catty glance and attempted to meow in protest. A pathetic squeak came out.

      ‘Sorry, sweetheart, I don’t have a choice.’

      The centre was closed but the answerphone invited her to leave a message or dial another number if it was an emergency. Lucy looked over to the cat, who was strutting up and down the kitchen and sniffing the stretcher rail of a chair. It hardly qualified as an emergency so she hung up.

      Fetching a hand-crocheted blanket through from the living room, she folded it to make a temporary bed on one of the mismatched pine kitchen chairs, but the curious cat had wandered into the hallway, so she scooped up the creature and returned it to the kitchen. Carefully closing the door behind her, she went into the living room to pick up her knitting. Not a skill mastered by many twenty-five-year-olds but the only real talent Lucy believed she had. Such a shame there wasn’t a great deal of demand for it in a professional capacity, knitting Shreddies for Nestlé aside, and she was fairly certain you had to be a nana for that.

      Later that evening, in the middle of a complicated bit of shaping, there was a genteel knock at the front door, followed by a cheery ‘Co-ee!’

      Lucy’s heart didn’t exactly sink but it certainly didn’t do a joyful skip as she opened the door to reveal her elegant mother; the sort of woman who coordinated everything from her soft furnishings to the contents of her fridge and expected everyone else to do the same.

      ‘Darling. Stand up straight. We don’t slouch.’ She double-kissed the air either side of Lucy’s face and took in her daughter’s resigned expression. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’

      ‘It’s always lovely to see you, but you could have rung first. I might have had company or been out somewhere.’

      Her mother laughed at the joke Lucy didn’t know she’d made.

      ‘I’ll have a coffee please if you’re offering, but only if you’ve got the decent ground coffee in. Your father has driven out this way to collect an oily engine part from some eBay person for that damn BMW of his, and I said I’d come along for the ride so I could tell you about my simply marvellous plan for September.’

      Lucy gave her mother a blank look, the significance of September momentarily eluding her.

      ‘My Big Birthday,’ her mother prompted.

      ‘Oh.’ An uneasy feeling began to ripple across Lucy’s body. ‘I thought you’d decided to go for something low-key?’

      ‘I know I said I didn’t want to advertise the fact I’m turning fifty, but after that poor woman across the road dropped down dead with an undiagnosed brain tumour at fifty-nine, it started me thinking. Life is precious and I want to celebrate that. Plus, it will be a wonderful excuse for a party. I rarely get the opportunity to dress up these days. You know what your father’s like with social occasions. And it’s not like I’m going to be buying another wedding outfit any time soon.’

      Lucy felt a bubbling panic rise in her chest. ‘I’m hardly an old maid.’ She had enough insecurities without the announcement of a forthcoming event where they could be bandied about by her less than subtle mother, in front of an intimate gathering of close family and friends. This was not a simply marvellous plan; this was a total and utter catastrophe.

      ‘Emily was married for two years and expecting her first child by the time she was your age.’

      Deliberately not responding, Lucy walked towards the kitchen to hunt for the packet of Colombian ground coffee she kept in especially for these visits. Not a coffee drinker herself, except in emergencies, she’d never quite got around to mentioning it to her mother.

      ‘I’m not saying motherhood is for everyone, but perhaps that’s where your strength lies. Perhaps you are a homemaker rather than a breadwinner?’

      Again, Lucy didn’t comment. Even though she loved Emily dearly, she wasn’t in the mood for a soliloquy about the virtues and achievements of her big sister. They had always been close, despite a five-year age gap and sixty miles between them, but her sister’s high-flying career and two adorable daughters were the bright orange carrot her mother periodically waved in front of her, even though Lucy wasn’t sure carrots were her thing.

      As Lucy swung open the kitchen door, a black head poked out from under the cluttered table.

      ‘Oh darling, not a cat. They bring in dead things.’ Her mother scrunched up her face. ‘Mind you, anything left on this table wouldn’t be discovered for weeks.’ She moved a pile of knitting patterns to the side and put her Jasper Conran handbag down.

      ‘I’m only looking after it until I can get in touch with the rescue centre in the morning.’

      ‘You mean it’s a stray? Lucy! It will be riddled with fleas and goodness knows what. You really don’t think these things through. Sometimes I despair of you.’

      Yanking the cafetière from the back of the cupboard, Lucy nearly knocked over several precariously balanced mugs in the process. As she began making the coffee, her shoulders slumped and her mother was perceptive enough to notice.

      ‘Oh sweetheart, I know it seems I am constantly scolding you, but it’s only because I care. You’ve got this lovely cosy flat now, and the little job at the toy shop, or whatever it is. You’re right, you’re still young. I love both my girls so much and you know how much I… Eurgh, it’s coming towards me. Make it go away.’

      Lucy plunged the cafetière with too much force and the coffee gurgled in the glass jug. Okay, so perhaps she wasn’t a successful regional manager living in a СКАЧАТЬ