As Arthur walked to Lucy’s he took in the sights and sounds around him that he didn’t usually notice, stopping occasionally to admire what a beautiful place he lived in. The fields in the distance were a patchwork of greens. He noticed bursts of daisies sprouting from the cracks in the pavement. He was aware of each step he took, from the soreness of his ankle to the thrilling feeling that he was moving closer to his daughter.
The top of York Minster gleamed gold in the sun and Arthur really couldn’t remember the last time he had visited and gone inside. He’d never had a to-do list, taking each day as it came, doing whatever Miriam and the kids wanted to do, but he thought that he might start one.
He arrived at Lucy’s in the realization that he hadn’t been there for months. Lucy always came to them, at Christmas, for birthdays, for her usual weekly visits—before they petered out after Miriam’s death. He wasn’t even sure if she had picked up his message.
The door was freshly painted in scarlet and the window frames were white and bright. When Lucy opened the door he had an urge to leap forward and hug her, as he had done with Mike, but he held back, unsure of what her reaction would be. He wasn’t certain of her feelings toward him any longer.
“Come in,” she said, and opened the door. She was wearing a white apron and green rubber gardening gloves. A smudge of soil ran from her eye to her chin. She turned and for a moment she looked just like her mother. Arthur stopped still. The resemblance was uncanny. They shared the same tilted nose and aquamarine eyes and the same air of serenity. “Dad?” she said. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, yes. I...well...you reminded me of your mum then. Just for a moment.”
Lucy looked away quickly. “Come in,” she repeated. “We can go through to the garden. It’s too nice to stay indoors.”
Arthur recalled that there used to be beige carpet in the dining room and now there were stripped-back floorboards. A pair of men’s Wellington boots stood at the door. Were they Anthony’s old ones or did they belong to a new man? He didn’t even know if Lucy had met anyone else, or if she was still mourning her marriage.
As if she could read his mind, Lucy followed his gaze. “They’re too big but I wear them for gardening. I’m not giving them back to Anthony but they’re too good to give away. A few pairs of thick socks and they fit me just fine.”
“Good. They look nice and sturdy. I need to get some new boots. Mine have a hole in them.”
“These ones are size ten.”
“Oh. I used to be a ten. I’m eight and a half now.”
“You should take them.”
“No. I can’t. You use them...”
“They’re too big.” She picked them up and thrust them into his arms. “Please have them.”
He was about to protest but then he saw the determination in her eyes. The hurt. So he relented. “Thanks. They’re just the ticket. Maybe your mother has some that will fit you.”
“She was a four and I’m a six.”
“Oh.”
They chatted and agreed that it had been a good year for carrots but not so great for potatoes. They listed the different dishes that you could make with rhubarb and the merits of using wooden lollipop sticks to mark the rows of vegetables. They agreed that there had been a lot of sun that year so far but not enough rain. Lucy asked what kind of savories Bernadette was making at the moment and Arthur said that he particularly enjoyed her sausage rolls but he wished that she wouldn’t bring marzipan cake, as he didn’t like the taste but didn’t want to offend her by not eating it. Lucy agreed that marzipan was by far the worst food she could imagine and wasn’t it strange that it was made from almonds and she liked those. They both thought that Christmas cake would be much better with just a layer of icing.
It was a hot day. Arthur wore his slacks and a shirt with a stiff collar. He wondered how he had ever felt comfortable wearing these clothes day in and day out. He decided that he had never really liked them. Miriam had laid them out for him each day and they became a uniform.
Sweat dribbled down his neck and gathered in a small pool beneath his collar. He found the belt on his trousers cut into his waist as he bent over. “I owe you an explanation about my travels,” he said.
Lucy dug in the trowel, scooped and then flung weeds, not watching where they landed. “Well, yes, you do. You took off to Graystock Manor, then left me a garbled message to say you’d been attacked by a tiger.”
“I went to London, too.” He had decided that he needed to tell her the truth. He wanted her to know about the bracelet and the stories it held.
Lucy clenched her teeth, which made dimples appear in her cheeks. She focused intently on each weed, staring, then jabbing. “I’m really worried about you.”
“There’s no need.”
“Of course there’s need. You’re acting very oddly. What on earth are you doing traveling around the country?”
Arthur looked at his shoes. The toes were flecked with soil from Lucy’s digging. “I need to tell you something. It will explain what I’ve been up to. It’s about your mother...”
Lucy didn’t look up. “Go on, then.”
Arthur wished that she would meet his eyes, but she was intent on attacking the lawn. It looked as if moles had been on a rampage. He spoke, anyway. “I was clearing out your mother’s wardrobe, you see, one year after she...you know. I was most surprised to find a gold charm bracelet stuffed inside her boot. I’d never seen it before. It had all sorts of charms on it—an elephant, a heart, a flower. Do you know anything about it?”
Lucy shook her head. “No. Mum didn’t wear stuff like that. A charm bracelet? Are you sure it was hers?”
“Well, it was in her boot. And Mr. Mehra in India said that he gave her the elephant.”
“An elephant?”
“Well, a charm one. Apparently your mother was Mr. Mehra’s child-minder in Goa, when he was a boy.”
“Dad.” Lucy sat back on her heels. Her cheeks reddened. “You’re not making sense. Mum never went to India.”
“That’s what I thought, too. But she did, Lucy. She lived there. Mr. Mehra told me and I believe him. I know it sounds awfully strange. I’m trying to find out where else she lived, what she did before we married. That’s why I went to Graystock, why I went to London.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on here. What are you talking about?”
Arthur slowed down his words. “I found a number engraved on one of the charms on the bracelet. It was a phone number. I spoke to a wonderful man in India who said that Miriam used to look after him. I’m finding out things about your mother that I never knew.”
“Mum never went to India,” Lucy insisted.
“I know. It’s difficult to believe.”
“There must be some kind of mix-up.”
“Mr. Mehra is a doctor. He described your mother’s laugh perfectly, and her bag of marbles. I believe he’s telling the truth.”
Lucy started to stab the soil again. She stopped briefly to scoop up a worm with the tip of her trowel and deposit it in a plant pot, then used her trowel like a dagger again. All the while she muttered under her breath.
Arthur didn’t know how to handle other people’s emotions. When Lucy’s teenage hormones reared their ugly head when she turned thirteen, he found the best way to deal with it was to study the newspaper and to leave it all to Miriam. It was she who dealt with tears over boys, a brief dabble with blue-streaked hair, the slamming of doors and the occasional thrown coffee cup. She told Dan to quieten down when he was high-spirited and regularly said to him, “Don’t speak to your father like that.”
Arthur felt if he ignored moods, maybe they would go away. But now he could see that his daughter was consumed by something. It was as if she had swallowed a swarm of bees that were bursting to get out. He couldn’t stand it any longer. “Lucy. Are you okay?” He placed his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before.”
She squinted against the sun, her forehead rippling. “Yes, I’m fine.”
He paused for a moment, wondering whether to leave things alone, like he had done so many times over the years. But he kept his hand in place. “No, you’re not. I can tell.”
Lucy stood up straight. She dropped the trowel to the ground. “I don’t think I can handle all this.”