Amy was 6 when she disappeared, didn’t even make her 7th birthday. Her death was confirmed by The Guernsbury Senior Parks Officer. Found with brown wavy hair missing in circular patches from the scalp, looking more like the bristles of a styling brush than a full head of beautiful flowing hair. Her body was found dismembered in the bush by the playground. Lottie and I used to hide in there. Amy was only wearing one shoe.
“She was quite small for her age,” is all he managed to say. As the park detective he concluded it was the local dog walker with her multiple hounds who had torn into Amy’s multi-coloured biscuit-scented dress.
The Senior Parks Officer knows me. He knows my family. He knows Lottie and I played lots with Amy in that playground, knows that we bought ice creams afterwards.
He has organised a service for Saturday week by the café where we spent our pocket money. It includes afternoon tea. My friends will be there, and Amy’s, and Lottie of course. Amy loved afternoon teas, on the grass, on a patchwork blanket. It’s where she knew everything I knew.
She leaves behind a miniature china tea set, wooden sandwiches, knitted cakes and biscuits, a collection of cuddly teddy bears, and beloved dachshund, Bertie.
And our conversations.