This short story was first published in the small literary magazine, ‘Scribble’, in January 2004. The magazine continues to be published quarterly as a printed magazine at A5 size, by Park Publications, and can be found here. I still subscribe to the mag. With an annual subscription of only £19.00 per annum for the print version, I consider it very good value. The eBook version is available at £12.00 per annum. I invite you to take a look.

Looking For Lucy

I could hear Flight’s message, even from the far side of camp. ‘Right, lads. Job to do. Kid lost in the hills. We’re gonna search. Normal programme’s suspended.’

Jock, the drill corporal, had woken us only seconds before with a screeched, ‘Out o’ your pits an’ get up!’ and had continued up the line with his wake-up call.

I found the hurricane lamp and dredged matches from a plastic bag. The flame revealed five youthful bodies: only one clad in regulation pyjamas. Gilling remained in his pit. Always letting us down, he was the proverbial pain for me as squad leader: silent, withdrawn, hard to know, sullen to command.

Different story with the girls. Rumour was that Frank Gilling had sampled five of the local delights in the fortnight before we set off for camp. More than the rest of us put together.

‘Up, Gilling!’

He grunted but stayed put.

‘Listen, man,’ said Geordie.

We listened and heard Jock fading, Flight approaching.

‘Jock’s yelling. So, what’s new?’ Frog asked.

‘No, man. Listen!’

We listened.

‘Flight?’ I offered.

‘It’s not raining!’ Geordie pointed out.

I joined four grins as they widened with pleasure.

We struggled into yesterday’s damp clothes, cursing as elbows, knees, and feet made contact in the confined space.

‘Kick Gilling out of his pit.’ I urged.

They all kicked, with varying degrees of malice and he moved at last.

As we squelched toward the trucks, the field muddied freshly bulled boots, splattered Air Force blue with dull brown. In the dim, May dawn I sighed relief at Flight’s nod acknowledging we weren’t last, for once.

The initial burst of questions found no response from Flight or the morose Jock, so we settled down quickly. The trucks hacked like early morning smokers, coughing black fumes into the still, clear air as they lurched from the field onto the narrow, steep lane. We crested the hill and began the plunge down the other side, engines screaming in protest.

‘Anyone know what that is?’

We followed the pointing finger and watched the blushing sun rise unclothed above the horizon. Everyone cheered at a sky devoid of cloud. May had arrived in the hills at last.

For three days, we’d endured monsoon conditions under canvas. Our first camp, made late in an afternoon following four hours of jolting and jostling in the trucks, we’d abandoned even before we’d got it erected. The farmer’s prediction, that the field would be waist deep in water by morning, had proved true. The sun was a welcome sight.

Flight’s estimated hour’s journey ended at four fifty in a farmyard bathed in gold. Fifty-nine lads, sixteen to seventeen years old, struggled from the trucks and stretched after the cramped journey over twisting mountain roads.

‘Right, lads, local police are running the show. They’ll be joining us.’

The senior copper stood on a farm wagon, flanked by the girl’s distraught parents on one side, a man in a dog collar on the other. Her mother struggled to hold back tears as we listened. Lucy was three and a half. The family had moved into the farm a week earlier. She’d gone missing during the evening.

Gilling’s eyes never left the mother’s face, real concern improving his face.

Lucy’s dad stepped half a pace forward; drawn and exhausted. ‘I want to thank you all so much for coming to help us out…’ It was all he could manage before he stepped back into his wife’s embrace. They clung to each other for support, isolated in desolation.

A uniformed copper led each section, ours took us to the nearest field. Fanning out across damp grass, we covered the meadow from hedge to hedge. I teamed up with Gilling, at the very edge, searching bushes as well as grass.

That first field took just minutes to eliminate. Three more pastures followed before we started working in half circles, spreading out with the farm as centre. Gilling and I remained on the extreme end of the sweeping arm.

A small river, crossed by a wooden bridge, bisected the farm and I volunteered the pair of us to follow it as far as the next bridge. I’d have preferred Geordie but took Gilling in the hope I might get to know him better.

‘Watch yourselves near that river; fall in and you’re a dunfer.’

Swollen by three day’s continuous rain, the river was a narrow, raging torrent with spray creating deceptive rainbows. The exposed rocks in its craggy bed would tear a body to shreds in seconds.

‘Close on four mile to the bridge.’ Flight nodded me closer and handed me a bag of rations. ‘Sure you want Gilling along?’

‘Might get a chance to break through, Flight.’

‘Good lad.’ He nodded his approval and went off to distribute bags to the others. I looked in mine: Sandwiches in a brown paper bag, a couple of wrinkled apples and two cans of coke. I trotted to where Gilling was staring forlornly at the water, showed him our rations.

‘I’m starving; have one now?’

We breakfasted, hardly tasting the farmhouse cheese and homemade, crusty bread as we scoured meadow and bushes for the little girl.

‘Hope we don’t find her in this lot.’ I offered.

‘Me too. Poor little Lucy. Must be scared out of her wits.’

The remains of the food went in my pack, as we left that strip of water meadow for the next, struggling through a gap in the hawthorn hedge.

‘Lucy!’ Gilling’s voice carried in the silence.

No response, but every few minutes one of us called her name into the warm, soft wind.

Our route took us downstream between steep hills of rough grass. Field after field we checked bushes, stunted oak and ash, unkempt hedgerows, rocky banks and, with dread, the raging torrent itself.

No sign of Lucy and we were far from her home. Chances of finding her alive at this distance were slim. It seemed pointless searching anything but the river. She couldn’t have walked so far at night alone, but the river might’ve taken her body this far. The task became one of seeking something we desperately hoped not to find.

‘You there, boyos! What you about in my fields?’ A little wiry man, ragged as a tramp, shambled toward us over the pasture as we searched the riverbank. We waited for him and his demoralised sheep dog to catch up with us.

He stopped a few paces away, a crooked stick in his gnarled hands, hostility and deep suspicion creasing his face. ‘You’re trespassing, now, you know. Private land this is. No footpaths across here, boyo. What you after, then?’

‘Thought you’d have heard, sir. There’s a little girl lost from Lladrytsyb Farm up there. We’re in the search party.’

He eyed us in silence for a moment, then nodded slowly as belief overtook suspicion. ‘She’s in there, she’s dead,’ he observed in a tone that sounded like satisfaction.

‘We’re hoping not to find her in the river,’ I said, taking an instant dislike to him.

‘Keep away from my beasts,’ he warned and set off back the way he’d come, without a backward glance.

‘Let them know if you see any sign of her, won’t you, sir?’ Gilling tried.

The farmer continued walking away and made a grudging gesture with his stick.

‘Miserable sod.’ Gilling offered.

‘It’s the rain, you know, boyo, seeps into their brains and turns them soggy.’

He gave me the benefit of a brief grin. ‘That, and the sheep, of course.’

We returned to our job; looking for Lucy.

‘What’s that?’ Gilling’s question made my heart turn.

I followed his gaze to a bundle of clothes, bobbing in the swirling water, caught on the roots of a mountain ash near the bank. We approached hesitantly, not wanting to find what the evidence threatened. Closer, we saw a multi-coloured knitted jumper, a white skirt beneath.

Gilling tore his gaze from the object and looked at me, stricken. ‘What was she wearing?’

‘Jumper, skirt, white socks.’ I bit my lip, closed my eyes, breathed deeply. ‘Give us your hand.’

He faced away, arm outstretched to anchor me as I reached into the rushing torrent to grab the sodden clothing.

‘I can’t reach.’

He gritted his teeth and faced forward, grabbing the trunk so he could lean out over the water. The extension allowed me to step on the roots with one foot and crouch to get hold of the bundle. I disentangled it and heaved it up the bank.

‘It’s okay, Frank. Just a fertiliser sack and an old sweater; far too big for a kid, look.’

He examined the find, now I’d discovered it held nothing to appal us. We laughed at our fears, embarrassed by our display of emotion.

Straightening up, he kicked at the sodden bundle. ‘Chuck it back.’

‘And let someone else suffer the same mistake?’ I left it on the bank.

That shared experience helped erode the barrier that had begun to crumble after our meeting with the ragged farmer. I hoped I might make him part of the section at last but knew I’d a long way to go before I found a real solution to my problem.

Further down the river we came to a gorge, where the water plunged over a fall into a deep, boiling pool. Clambering down was hazardous: my fear of heights increasing my sense of peril. I slipped on the wet rock. Inexorably, I slid toward the witch’s cauldron below, helpless against the force of gravity. The churning pool threatened. I yelled my alarm. Frank grabbed my pack. For a moment I hung, suspended over the void. He heaved me up and I found purchase with my feet. Miraculously, I was back on solid ground. At the bottom, I waited for my heart to slow before I thanked him.

He grinned. ‘Food’s in your pack, Ken. It would’ve got wet.’

Shivering in spite of the warmth, I helped him search the edges of the foaming pool and the detritus gathered by the outlet: Nothing.

A dozen more fields, some dotted with sheep or cattle, took us to the bridge. We clambered onto the parapet and sat under a hot sun on cool stone to eat the rest of our meal.

We’d spoken little, concentrating on the task, using our voices to call Lucy’s name in the hope of a response.

‘Girl’s parents looked devastated,’ I observed.

‘Mother must be at her wit’s end. Nice looking woman.’

I recalled the tear-stained face distorted by sadness and wondered what he’d seen that I’d missed.

‘Like women, don’t you, Frank?’

‘Love ‘em. Don’t you?’

‘I’ve got Jean, at home, you know.’

He nodded, slowly. ‘Miss her?’

‘Loads. You really like female company, don’t you, Frank?’

‘Yeah, I do.’

There was such feeling in those three words, but I wanted him to volunteer the rest, rather than drag it out of him. That he preferred the company of women to that of men was suddenly obvious and presented itself as a reason, perhaps, for his reluctance to be one of the gang.

The sun had grown uncomfortably hot and I stripped off my battledress jacket and tie.

‘Improperly dressed, Alderson. ‘Ave you on a fizzer, laddie!’ Frank’s impression of Jock was close enough to have me smirking. He grinned and followed my lead, tying his jacket round his waste with the sleeves.

We set off again, following the narrow country lane across the hump of the bridge. The break had raised our spirits and we walked with more speed and less sense of defeat. The opportunity seemed right to try again.

‘You’re not alone, you know.’

He looked at me, frowning until the penny dropped. ‘I can see you feel the same, Ken. But the others…you’d never guess, the way they talk about women.’

‘Lowest common denominator: I don’t think they actually see women in that way. We’re all still finding our feet; there’s pressure to conform and brag a bit, you know?’

‘I’d rather act than …’

‘I know. But we don’t all have your charms, Frank. I mean, how many women are going to fancy Frog?’

He nodded, a reluctant smile curling his lips.

‘You get to make the moves, so there’s no need for you to boast. I’ve got Jean. The rest of them, well, what they don’t have they’re bound to make up, aren’t they?’

‘I hadn’t seen it like that. Perhaps you’re right, Ken.’

At the waterfall, we scrambled and clambered up the rock face to relatively level ground. It was a heart-pounding climb for me, the memory of the descent still fresh. We paused to get our breath back.

Frank glanced at me. ‘Yeah, mebbie I’ve been a bit… you know?’

I grinned; shrugged my understanding. He relaxed and I felt I’d grown as close to success as I could with just the pair of us. It was up to Frank to demonstrate a change in attitude if he were to mix more readily with the rest of the squad.

More fields followed and it was clear we weren’t going to play the parts of the heroes who found Lucy, as the farm grew close again. On the hill beside us, a sheep muttered in the slight breeze, and I stopped, just taking in the peace before we opened the gate to cross the river again, by the farm bridge.

It was then I heard it. ‘Listen.’

‘What?’

‘Listen.’

Frank followed the line of my gaze, away from the farm and toward a small thicket set in a dip in the ground. I heard the sound again and Frank started to run.

It had been used as a tip; not far from but well out of sight of the farm. Old tyres, a cooker with no door, empty oil drums and fertiliser bags littered the narrow spaces between ancient, stunted trees in the bottom of the dip. It was the obvious place to look.

Lucy stared at us; a mixture of fear and hope in her wide, sky-blue eyes. Mouth half-open for another call of ‘Mummy!’, she was sitting half within a cardboard box lined with polystyrene. Her shelter had once protected a TV. Under her was an ancient, stained mattress, rusty springs poking through faded stripes. Her left foot was hooked within the rusted coils of a spring, the sharp end penetrating her grubby sock and cutting into the skin, trapping her.

Frank reached her first and gentled the blonde curls as she gazed up at him. ‘Hi, Lucy. Have you out of there before you can say, “Blue bananas”.’

I watched him tenderly disentangle her from the spiral of metal, taking great pains to prevent it cutting further into her skin. He checked her ankle and foot for damage before rolling the sock back up her leg.

‘No real harm done,’ he told me.

She cocked her head on one side and frowned at him. ‘Bananas are yellow.’

Frank picked her up, held her close and whispered something in her ear. She laughed, actually laughed and then became abruptly serious. ‘I done a pooh in my pants.’

‘Never mind.’ He shifted his arm a little. ‘Let’s get you back to your mum and dad, shall we?’

‘I’m hungry!’

‘Me too!’

We entered the farmyard to find the rest of the group assembled, eating sandwiches and drinking tea.

‘About bloody time!’ from Jock.

A constable spotted Lucy and dashed off to find her parents. Cheers went up as the rest of them noticed Lucy and saw she seemed unharmed. I fielded questions, as the crowd mobbed us, and asked why no one else had looked for her in that most obvious of places. It turned out to be one of those organisational cock-ups: everyone thought everyone else had done it.

Frank shielded Lucy as she began to cry, frightened by all the noise and excitement. Her parents arrived within seconds and found us, the crowd parting to let them through.

Frank nestled Lucy in her anxious mother’s arms. ‘She’s not hurt.’

She kissed him gratefully and embraced her child. The father shook Frank’s hand, gratitude and relief mingling on his features.

We all smiled at the family reunion.

‘Well done, Frank,’ Geordie offered.

He shrugged, slightly embarrassed.

‘Join the rest of the section, shall we?’ I suggested as Flight approached us.

Frank surveyed his erstwhile persecutors, queuing to congratulate him. ‘Yeah, about time, I s’pose.’

I urged him to explain how we’d discovered Lucy and glanced up to see Flight nodding with satisfaction at me, watching the section come together at last.