Reaching Out

A mysterious young girl receives some advice in this emotional short story by Lydia Jones.

THE young woman’s shoulders are hunched and she’s sobbing. “What’s up?” I ask. My hand on her back is light, but she jumps like I’ve prodded her with a poker.

She must be a new member of staff because I’ve not seen her before. “What’s your name, love?” “Lily,” she says. Her eyes are dark pools of tears.

“I’m Angela. I would say ‘pleased to meet you’, but I’m not pleased to see you so upset.”

She’s calmer now. She gives me a tentative smile.

“Your costume’s lovely, Lily. Very authentic.”

All museum staff have to wear costume and speak in character for the visitors. When you start you feel silly, but you get used to it.

Nowadays, when I’m at work, I do almost feel like I am housekeeper to Lord and Lady Slinton in 1901.

“I made mine myself,” I say, inspecting a rip. “It’s not up to much. But yours is lovely.”

I’m gabbling to give her time to compose herself.

“I don’t know what’s upset you, but if it’s work, it’s not worth fretting. I’ve been at Slinton House for years and there’s nothing that can’t get sorted.”

“It’s not work.”

Her voice sounds so small, I want to take her in my arms.

“It’s my mother.” Her voice catches on the word.

“We argued.”

My stomach lurches.

“We argued,” Lily repeats, then subsides into fresh tears. “And now she’s dead.”

“Oh, love!” I give her that hug.

I hear the footsteps of visitors on their way into the servants’ corridor.

I turn to play my role, and when I turn back Lily has gone.

The memory of her stays with me. The subject of mother-daughter spats is a raw one for me.

Relations with my own daughter, Hannah, have been strained lately.

“I love you, Mum,” she said last week in a voice shaking with fury. “But I’m putting the phone down.” Since then, silence.

I have an absurd need to know why Lily argued with her mother, but it is several days before I see her again.

She’s mopping flagstones in the dairy when I go to check the cheese.

“We don’t actually have to do the work, you know.” I smile.

She looks puzzled, but stops mopping.

“How are you?” I venture. “I’m fine.” She shrugs. “I can do my work.”

Her fingers close around her mop handle.

“I have to carry on with my life now, even though there is sadness inside me.”

“Time heals,” I murmur, thinking what a platitude that is.

She gives a polite nod of acknowledgement.

“I will never again be anyone’s daughter.”

I remember feeling the same way when my mother passed 10 years ago.

“Was it sudden?” I ask. “Factory accident,” Lily replies.

“That’s shocking! With all the health and safety and everything –”

“There are many things I wish I’d said and now I can’t.” Lily presses her lips hard together.

“Your mother knew you loved her, Lily,” I say.

“You think so?”

Her eyes are huge with hope.

“Yes. What was it you argued about?”

She sighs.

“It was about a boy.”

The chatter of children’s voices alerts me to visitors. I turn to resume my role and, mop in hand, Lily moves away.

Lily’s situation was closer to my heart than I’d expected . . .

****

I stare at the phone for probably the fiftieth time.

“You can’t will it to ring,” my husband says gently.

“Not even a text, Dave,” I say miserably.

“She’ll come round.” My endlessly patient husband, who has spent half his parenting life being referee between Hannah and me, exhales loudly.

“Why don’t you call her? Just don’t talk about him. Talk about girly stuff.”

“But that would be superficial.” I sigh.

“Safe, Angela, that’s what it would be. Call her.”

But I can’t. What if she hangs up again?

****

The museum has been busy this week so I savour the peace when I walk into the darkening parlour to close up for the night.

I’m startled to see Lily in the shadows, still dusting.

“It was closing time ages ago. Get yourself off home!”

There is a sad stillness about this young woman.

We talk pleasantries, then I ask what I’ve been dying to know.

“Lily, was your mother right about your man?”

Lily’s lips twist into a melancholy smile.

“Yes, he left me. Just like she said. But I had to find out for myself, you see?” Lily sighs.

“I said terrible things.” “You didn’t mean them,” I say.

I reach out to pat Lily’s arm, and from behind I hear my manager Fiona’s voice.

“Who are you talking to?” I turn. Lily has left.

Fiona talks shifts and rotas, and suddenly I notice a new picture on the sideboard.

“Who are they?” I ask, waving at the silver-framed scene.

Fiona glances across.

“Oh, household staff from 1901. Somebody’s just donated the photo.”

There, in the front row, is Lily.

****

I am still shaken by my discovery, but it has forced me to a decision.

If a young woman came from beyond the grave to teach me something, then I will learn the lesson.

Perhaps Lily came for her own reasons, too. I’d like to think my words were able to reassure her.

For Hannah and me, it’s time to begin again. We need to stop the eggshellwalking dance we do.

Nothing on earth is strong enough to break the bond. Certainly not a boy. I pick up the phone. “Mum!” Hannah says with a smile in her voice.

Something inside my heart turns itself the right way up.

The End.