by Kathryn Montague
In the Spring of 1982, when Patricia Bliss put a notice in the window of the post office saying, 'Single room to rent in pleasant house. Female, non-smoker only. Must like cats. No DSS', she assumed that she'd get a student from the local university or perhaps a young woman who'd recently started working in an office and couldn't quite afford to rent a flat. Patricia checked other notices for what appeared to be the going rent for the area, made hers slightly lower, and added her phone number.
Patricia had been a teacher but by this time, as she didn't need the money, she just did occasional supply work. Her husband had died ten years previously. She had been devastated at the time and still felt great sadness when she thought about him. They had one delightful daughter, Emily, who had stayed at home while she went to medical school but then, a couple of years after qualifying as a doctor, had moved to Australia. Emily phoned every week and promised to visit one day soon, but Patricia found the large, Victorian house rather quiet without her, and so a friend had suggested that she advertise for a lodger.
She posted the notice on Saturday. The next day, she got a call from someone who sounded very young on the phone.
"I'm calling about the room to rent," the young voice said. "Can I come and see it?"
Patricia gave her the address and they agreed that the girl would come that evening. At 7pm, just as arranged, the doorbell rang. Patricia opened the door to see what appeared to be just a little girl on the doorstep. A skinny little girl with brown hair cut with a jagged fringe, who looked like she'd raided her mother's makeup box.
"Hello," said the girl. "I spoke to you on the phone. I'm here to see the room. I'm Lucy."
Patricia hesitated. "I'm Mrs Bliss," she said. "Please excuse me for asking, but just how old are you?"
"I'm 22," said the girl.
"Really?" said Patricia in disbelief. "I've seen 13-year olds who look older than you. I hope you're telling me the truth. I'm not harbouring any runaways."
Lucy laughed. "I look young, I know," she said. "But I'm definitely 22. All my family are like this. We're small and skinny with baby faces."
Patricia ushered Lucy into the house and led her up the stairs. "And what do you do?" she asked. "Are you a student?" Though Patricia didn't think the girl looked much like any of the university students she'd seen, dressed in their deliberately alternative fashions.
"I'm a waitress," said Lucy. "I work at Gino's. You know, the café on Kirkstall Road?"
Patricia was vaguely aware of Gino's but it was certainly not the sort of café she was ever likely to enter. It was a dark, greasy, smoky place, serving chips and strong mugs of tea.
Patricia showed Lucy the room she was planning to let. It was quite small but clean and sunny. There was a single bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers that doubled as a dressing table, and a chair. The curtains were pale blue and flowery and the carpet was blue.
Patricia didn't see how this little waif who worked at Gino's could afford to rent a room. "I shouldn't have thought you earn much, dear," she said, concernedly. "Is it a good idea to spend most of your wages on rent? Why don't you stay at home?"
Lucy's face clouded over, as she remembered home. "I left home years ago," she explained. "My mum's latest boyfriend was a right fucking pervert. I didn't like him and he didn't like me. He wanted me gone, and Mum just did whatever he said so they chucked me out. First, I stayed with different friends in turn but they all got a bit sick of me and then this bloke said I could live with him, but he was another fucking perv..." Lucy's voice faltered and tears filled her eyes. She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing mascara across her face as she did so, and continued in a firmer voice. "So, I need my own place. This room is clean and nice and you're clean and nice, and I can afford it."
Lucy held out a handful of money in a slightly grubby hand with bitten fingernails. "Look," she said, proudly. "I can pay you the first week's rent in advance."
The sight of that grubby little hand and the pleading, pinched little face, wearing far too much makeup, touched something in Patricia's heart. She thought of herself as a sensible no-nonsense woman but she'd never come across anyone quite like Lucy. "Let's go down to the kitchen for a cup of tea," she said, "and we'll discuss how this will work."
Patricia measured three spoons of tea into her Wedgwood teapot. Lucy watched her. "Ooh posh," she said. "At Gino's we use bags."
"Well in this house I use loose leaf tea," said Patricia. "It's Earl Grey. It's best served without milk but I do have milk if you prefer."
Lucy said she'd have milk but she took a sip and made a face. "It tastes a bit weird," she said. Lucy didn't really like tea at all but she supposed Patricia wasn't the sort of person who'd have Coke or fizzy orange in the house.
Patricia explained that she was happy for Lucy to take the room but wanted to make sure that Lucy understood this was her home and there were rules about how she wanted her home kept. "I said in the advert no smoking, so obviously you won't ever smoke in my house," said Patricia. "I'll expect you to keep your own room and the bathroom clean and tidy. There's a cupboard in the kitchen for you to keep your food in, and a shelf in the fridge. What hours do you work?"
Lucy explained that she got to work at 9am, ready for the cafe to open at 10, and worked till 6pm with an hour's unpaid break when it could be squeezed in. She said that she could eat what she liked at the café so tended not to bother with anything outside work hours. The café was closed on Sunday and Monday and Lucy was a bit vague about how she managed for food on those days.
"You can play music if you wish," said Patricia. "But I'm afraid I don't have a television. And there's another thing. There was a word you used before when talking about your mother's boyfriend."
"Pervert?" said Lucy, in puzzled tones.
Patricia shook her head. "Another word, beginning with 'F'. I don't wish to hear that word in my house again. Or any other expletives."
"What are expletives?" asked Lucy.
"Swear words," replied Patricia. "There will be no swearing in my house. And if you're 22, surely you know the word 'expletive'. Didn't you go to school?"
Lucy shrugged. "I messed around a lot at school. I was so little and I always looked a mess so everyone used to pick on me. I didn't want them to call me a swot as well, so I was as naughty as possible so everyone would think I was tough. My teachers wouldn't even enter me for O-levels because they were so sure I'd fail. I bunked off most of the last year anyway."
Patricia wondered if she was making a mistake letting this odd girl rent the room in her house. A girl who said she'd been as naughty as possible at school was not the sort of person that schoolteacher Patricia would usually want around. The girl seemed quite likely to make a mess and not have the money to pay the rent but there was something so vulnerable and endearing about her. The maternal side of Patricia wanted to reach out and cuddle Lucy, give her hair a good brush, wash off the makeup, scrub her hands and face, and put her in some clean, ironed clothes. Patricia did none of those things however but just asked Lucy when she would like to move in.
"Tomorrow?" said Lucy.
Just then there was the click of the cat flap and a large, fluffy grey cat walked in. He went up to Lucy and rubbed round her ankles. Her face lit up. She reached down and scooped the unprotesting cat into her arms, then rubbed her face into his furry white tummy. "Oh, you're a lovely pussy cat, aren't you?" she said. "Yes, you like having your tummy rubbed, don't you? What's his name?" she asked Patricia.
"Fluffkins," Patricia replied. "Silly, I know, but my daughter, Emily named him. He's a very old cat now."
Fluffkins purred appreciatively at his tummy rubbing.
Lucy turned to Patricia. "Can he sleep on my bed when I live here?" she asked.
Patricia explained that Fluffkins wasn't supposed to sleep on beds and that he had his own perfectly good basket downstairs. Lucy looked rather disappointed and she looked even more disappointed when Fluffkins jumped out of her arms and went to see if there was any food for him.
They agreed that Lucy would move in the next day and so, on Monday, she arrived clutching a bin bag with her belongings in. Patricia was surprised that she didn't have a suitcase but Lucy explained that she'd had one once but it had been stolen some time ago. Patricia suspected that the clothes in the bin bag would be none too clean so she showed Lucy the utility room and explained how to operate the washing machine. Later, when Lucy's clothes were hanging up to dry on the airer, Patricia had a look at them. Lucy seemed to have hardly any underwear and what she did have was worn and greyish. Patricia had a look at the size labels in the T-shirts and jeans. There seemed to be a mixture of age 11-12 and age 13-14. None of them had adult size labels. She wondered again if Lucy really was 22 or if she was lying.
Lucy didn't put any food in her cupboard so Patricia offered her an evening meal. Lucy looked slightly appalled at Patricia's lentil and aubergine bake and said that she wasn't hungry. She stayed in her room listening to her radio. At 9pm Patricia asked her to lower the volume as she was getting rather tired of hearing male voices bellowing, 'Welcome to the house of fun' although she thought Lucy's voice singing along with them sounded rather sweet.
The following morning, Patricia got up early as she always did, and listened to The Today Programme, while she had her morning coffee. At 8am there was no sound from Lucy's room. At 8.15, when there was still no sound, Patricia went up and tapped on the door. "Lucy, Lucy dear," she called. "Shouldn't you be getting up for work?"
There was a groan from Lucy. Patricia pushed open the door. Lucy's jeans and T-shirt from the day before were screwed up on the floor. Lucy was lying in bed, asleep. The duvet was flung aside revealing that Lucy was wearing nothing but a rather faded pair of pink knickers. Patricia shook Lucy's shoulder. "Lucy," she said, sharply. "You need to wake up."
Lucy blinked and sat up. "What time is it?" she mumbled.
Patricia looked at her watch. "It's 8.25. You're going to be late for work. Didn't you set an alarm?"
Lucy put her feet on the floor. "I haven't got an alarm clock," she said. "I just tell myself I've got to wake up and I usually do." She picked up a greying little bra and the screwed-up T-shirt from the floor and put them on.
Patricia wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Surely you're not going to wear the same clothes as yesterday?" she said.
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