Free A Place for Us by Harriet Evans

all of it.”
    “Why not? Lucy, don’t be contrary.”
    “I was really thinking of a piece about our family, how jolly we are, what we get up to, Southpaw drawing us little pictures, you know?” Deborah’s nostrils flared. “Look”—Lucy tried to sound firm—“my grandfather doesn’t like people digging into his past. He wouldn’t even let the man from the Bath Chronicle interview him about his new show. I don’t think he’s going to want you to publish an article about . . . Daisy and stuff.”
    Deborah’s voice took on a gentler, honeyed tone. “Of course. Look, Lucy, you don’t have to be sensationalist about it. There are plenty of people in situations like that: you know, unfinished business. And you never know, you might find out more about her and think how happy your grandparents would be. We’ve got two million readers, there must be someone who knows something.” She cleared her throat delicately. “I’ll be honest. I like you, Lucy. I want to help you. You know? I mean, don’t you want to write it?”
    “I could ask him,” Lucy said hesitantly, trying to feel her way on this slippery ground. “We’ve got a family reunion coming up—I don’t know if Daisy’ll be there. It just feels a bit funny. . . .”
    “Ask your grandparents. Or speak to her daughter. Though I don’t know why you can’t just e-mail your aunt yourself, ask her if she’s coming back for the reunion. That’d make the perfect hook for the piece. Imagine it. You must have an address for her somewhere.” The phone on Deborah’s desk rang and she diverted it with a jab of one bony finger.“When you were in here last week asking for a pay raise, you told me you were positive this was what you wanted to do. I’m not asking you to write some hatchet job on your family. I’m just saying, think about digging around a bit, seeing if there’s something there.”
    Lucy nodded. “Okay.”
    “You can write, Lucy.” Deborah shook her head so her hair fell into its perfect bobbed shape. She ruffled it with her fingers, and then put on some lip gloss. “You’re good at pitching, you made me believe you wanted a job writing for a newspaper. You aren’t there yet.” She stood up, peculiarly gawky, and slung a long coat around her shoulders, rather like Cruella de Vil. “I have to go, I have lunch with Geordie. Think about it, Lucy. G’bye.”
    And she left, leaving Lucy alone in her large glass office, staring out of the window, wondering what she’d just got herself into. You can write . Lucy pulled out Gran’s invitation, her mind racing. She had no idea what she’d do next, but she was sure about one thing: wherever Daisy was, she wasn’t coming back for this party.

Daisy
    March 1969
    I HATE THIS house.
    We have been here for a whole year now and I know I hate it. I am nearly eight and I am not stupid, though everyone seems to think I am, because I don’t like reading stories like baby Florence, and I don’t like hanging round the kitchen with Ma like Billy Lily. He hates it when I call him that!
    When we first saw this house I didn’t understand it would be only us living there. I said to Daddy: “But it’s far too big! There’s only five of us and the dogs!” They thought that was so funny, Daddy and Ma, like I’d said something jolly amusing. Grown-ups never understand that you mean what you say.
    They showed us around the garden and Flo and Bill were awfully keen on it. Because of the space and the woods. But I hate it. I am scared out here. I wish we were back in Putney, where the houses are the same and everything is safe.
    And it is too big for us, now we’re in. Daddy is so pleased with himself because he could afford to buy it, because of him having no money and a sad childhood. I heard him saying that to Ma. I listen to them all the time, when they don’t know I’m there. I know all about his dad and how his mummy died too. All the wood is painted green (in the house). There’s mice