Finding Lucy: A suspenseful and moving novel that you won′t be able to put down
Finding Lucy: A suspenseful and moving novel that you won't be able to put down
Diana Finley
Every family has its secrets. None more than this one. Alison’s life has been a lonely one, but now it’s time to change that. With no children in her future there is only one answer – she’ll take one.She’ll rescue a girl who needs a better home. A better mother. A better life.It will be the start of a perfect family, and no one will question who Lucy really is. Especially not Lucy herself…A dark story of psychological suspense, perfect for fans of Kerry Fisher, Liane Moriarty and Linda Green.
About Diana Finley (#ufd01aa96-d5f0-50e3-a65c-cd25011f6462)
DIANA FINLEY was born and grew up in Germany, where her father was a British Army officer. After a move to London, at eighteen, Diana spent a year living with nomadic people in the remote Pamir mountains of Afghanistan – an experience about which she wrote several stories and accounts. These helped secure her first job, as copywriter and then as writer and editor of children’s information books for Macdonald Educational Publishers.
A move to North East England meant changing direction. Diana took a degree in Speech and Psychology, and worked for many years as a Specialist in Autism, publishing a professional book. In 2011 she completed an MA in Creative Writing with distinction at Newcastle University. In 2014 her debut novel, The Loneliness of Survival, a moving family saga, was published.
Diana enjoys exploring complex and often contradictory characters and emotions in her writing. Finding Lucy, her second novel, is a dark, intriguing, psychological story about every parent’s worst nightmare – a stolen child.
Finding Lucy
DIANA FINLEY
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Diana Finley
Diana Finley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008297749
Version: 2018-11-05
For Harvey, who may read it one day.
Table of Contents
Cover (#ue96444b8-c59b-5d21-b07a-ac2bbe4c6f06)
About Diana Finley (#u2d75d163-3e5c-5094-bab9-feaf31b47158)
Title Page (#u7861c8b2-ac1a-5eb1-81f0-0b75afa39c00)
Copyright (#ub9150a6b-1a34-5130-ab77-9abb31ee39a6)
Dedication (#u3bda47ee-c071-5467-8b9b-c288e14a995a)
Chapter One (#u4b225c1f-05c4-57ed-90c1-3b453c224928)
Chapter Two (#udaf1ae6e-bf09-572d-bfd4-0ffb69a7c59a)
Chapter Three (#ub6845677-6251-5903-addf-532bf70a7e95)
Chapter Four (#ub080b307-0295-554e-8355-ea19d7ef4bd1)
Chapter Five (#ud6490a83-32b1-50cf-8990-8c395020ff91)
Chapter Six (#u0c76498c-e6d9-5272-8568-d2ff6dd88872)
Chapter Seven (#ubdd5cfd1-3a9f-5f1e-928c-fe42776cb40e)
Chapter Eight (#u050faea0-d144-54ac-b37a-2bc4b8428ccc)
Chapter Nine (#u670d35c4-84a4-5d62-a72b-01ed3b5b4943)
Chapter Ten (#udfd7efb6-2603-5c08-a195-2bf1b37901e7)
Chapter Eleven (#u5300bfa3-8e84-547d-b8c7-7aafc2ec58b3)
Chapter Twelve (#ubdd6b7d6-60e8-5100-b31e-25b8010b4746)
Chapter Thirteen (#u6b219704-6c6d-552e-8b0d-cae0539bd8d4)
Chapter Fourteen (#ub695074d-29e1-5778-947e-0f9fa3351066)
Chapter Fifteen (#u974ee418-b300-58e9-936a-fd8b197ba42f)
Chapter Sixteen (#ud6b5450d-81be-56de-bada-abe016b36e6d)
Chapter Seventeen (#u85c323a7-44d2-5aca-a91d-d2aa13604506)
Chapter Eighteen (#u35fa1c66-2a9f-5f23-a507-b7733e8aec70)
Chapter Nineteen (#ua7108a45-2398-5a13-9fec-82ef9b685073)
Chapter Twenty (#u6db08684-d43d-557f-ae4b-ea9b1f259aea)
Chapter Twenty-One (#u5140e3a1-f269-5878-9f6b-1cec510f77b9)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#u5733b5a0-65c6-5eb7-ae79-4e122eea908f)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#u23da1916-f4f3-5dec-88a9-555ae98ccf99)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#ud5ef6226-3281-58e8-8c0a-69bdd3073f26)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#u1c1b9713-580b-5bb5-8868-3f39ae11d909)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#u171e8b33-01d5-5a69-94ec-7ab56908a495)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#uc8d854d0-9854-510f-9f5d-52b3a6f4cdb7)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#u951875cd-5557-50a5-8d3c-098b6189ef73)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#u6e0ea99a-e597-51b0-aa19-928d0557cb6e)
Chapter Thirty (#u5a09b137-e8c8-52de-a41b-516ead5519ac)
Chapter Thirty-One (#uafac17ca-a2f3-5574-a7ec-5450734cdb4c)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#ua200f166-43d4-57b7-8940-7bd7ab1fa80b)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#u956fdcfd-645c-53bd-ae42-d70a5e5d5f1a)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#u66c726e7-40a1-567f-8214-26d483c01909)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#ub68fd488-8cdc-5eed-b278-742a4b3ec52f)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#u4d868dc8-04e3-571e-8b03-eb90f5ebf20c)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#ufc0c2581-989e-5cc6-94f3-f2ffa0fe3006)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#u8c1173fa-0d40-57a3-a910-ebd6a36c42c0)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#u0a178b4d-fb4c-5861-b5e2-8ca105d6a7b9)
Chapter Forty (#u83d69c03-339d-51eb-b813-95044178e72b)
Chapter Forty-One (#u77f8f34e-882f-5f99-868b-0e0054290205)
Chapter Forty-Two (#u3d50486a-2a6d-5a59-a4c7-e4d71e6285c7)
Chapter Forty-Three (#u47c472ba-c891-5e5f-99bb-e52b280b29f7)
Chapter Forty-Four (#u298058c5-3e75-5836-a411-7ef4ebb00535)
Chapter Forty-Five (#ud198edc9-1c30-5f25-b5e8-f11adebd4c93)
Chapter Forty-Six (#ue30dfb93-75fd-5222-987b-e9796e4b94e8)
Chapter Forty-Seven (#uadaf9705-af07-54e0-9798-6f8dc41fb8b5)
Chapter Forty-Eight (#ue54966cc-e324-5240-8967-5fd0f6284b8c)
Chapter Forty-Nine (#u27620d61-b32f-5fcc-a0db-11b2749a987f)
Chapter Fifty (#u22b13f23-b2fa-5021-8e5e-28d888bfba9e)
Chapter Fifty-One (#uf102c9d7-9dd3-595a-b080-2fdd896d171a)
Chapter Fifty-Two (#u27d2099e-ce22-5b23-96b8-d5441c7fb0d9)
Chapter Fifty-Three (#uee3a8c23-4d89-54cf-9c4a-e72e1be19337)
Chapter Fifty-Four (#u9a685c3b-655f-58e5-b473-1919f513352d)
Chapter Fifty-Five (#udf3631ca-9ccc-5342-9f2a-ac5a6f7a32be)
Chapter Fifty-Six (#ud3c737b0-eca5-570f-8c91-e0e33218025c)
Chapter Fifty-Seven (#u01a6cfc0-e938-5de7-a30e-8899e453a359)
Chapter Fifty-Eight (#u1fb3c05d-7402-5ff2-8b86-b1fa399259d5)
Chapter Fifty-Nine (#u7cc5929e-d749-5242-9fe0-00b06a9514c6)
Chapter Sixty (#u0b714850-9de9-57f4-84de-a77dafda4fe9)
Chapter Sixty-One (#u6458c42a-fa78-54e5-bc61-36548525b8b0)
Chapter Sixty-Two (#u946deb90-9a80-5701-a725-435f2a970877)
Chapter Sixty-Three (#u9742b23e-3c23-5b53-b21b-8fe5a0d28fbc)
Chapter Sixty-Four (#u54532b26-a8d9-57e3-b5ba-5840cd6e5f0b)
Chapter Sixty-Five (#u997fe97a-f426-5330-8372-1959202c75c1)
Acknowledgements (#u3ef7c60b-618b-50c9-95fd-5abfed74fb9f)
Dear Reader … (#ud1a9d6c9-fa6d-5b69-a414-c3ea842769ef)
About the Publisher (#u16c05056-82ac-5a1f-bfa7-25c226d418c2)
Chapter One (#ufd01aa96-d5f0-50e3-a65c-cd25011f6462)
1984
Alison
It was after seeing the grave that I finally decided to take a child. There was nothing special about it – the grave, that is. Not one of those ghastly, over-sentimentalised affairs sprouting angels’ wings or teddy bears. Quite plain. A simple stone and a concise message:
In memory of our dearly loved little girl
Lucy Sarah Brown aged 2 years
Born 20-9-1982 – Died 16-10-1984
Safe in the hands of Jesus
Somehow, imagining little Lucy’s life – and her demise – touched me deeply, coming as it did just a month after Mother’s death. How desperately tragic. What might have killed a child so young? A car accident? Meningitis? A hole in the heart? How her parents must have suffered. How they must have grieved for their “dearly loved little girl” – still be grieving, in fact; she’d been gone only two months, after all. So very sad.
As I thought about it, I almost wished I could share my plans with them: with Lucy’s original parents. Let them know that, in a sense, their Lucy was going to be brought back to life; I was going to bring Lucy back to life! Perhaps they would be comforted by that thought. Of course, telling them would never be possible, and anyway, she would cease to be their Lucy. She would become my Lucy. Lucy would be my secret. She would be my daughter, my secret daughter. How perfect! Lucy Brown. A fine, tasteful name – yet “normal”. Not one that stood out too vividly, just like the sad little grave.
It wasn’t as though I had planned the whole thing beforehand, thought it through – not at that stage. The idea grew out of a medley of thoughts that had been swirling in my mind; indistinct, like miscellaneous letter-shaped noodles stirred into soup, sometimes emerging for a moment to make meaningful combinations on the surface, then breaking up and disappearing into the depths of the pot. Stumbling upon the grave that day drew the letters together, began to make order and sense of them. I had decided.
It was a bright, crisp December day. Long shadows streaked the wet grass. Early afternoon, but already the sun was starting its descent towards the rooftops. As often before, I had been wandering through one of the city’s urban cemeteries. Not that I was attracted to such places for any macabre reasons. No, it was the quiet I yearned for, the peace, and perhaps the sense of the past. This was a particularly agreeable cemetery: serene, well maintained and cared for, with mature trees and shrubs creating a screen from the surrounding suburban streets, emphasising the separateness of the graveyard.
At first I had been drawn to the grave simply by the fresh, bright flowers arranged in neat vases, which contrasted with the faded, bedraggled blooms nearby. But standing there in front of the grave, my attention soon moved on from the flowers. I was mesmerised by the name: Brown. It is natural to notice one’s own surname. I stood and gazed at the neat letters, the scrolled stonework marking the boundary of the pitifully small grave and containing shiny gravel of various colours: pink, brown, yellow and green. On the headstone, carved stone hands curved beneath the words “Safe in the hands of Jesus” as though gently lifting them – or perhaps Lucy herself – upwards, heavenwards.
All the while, as my eyes absorbed these details, my heart was beating unevenly and with great excitement. A plan started to take shape in my mind. It was so simple; Lucy Brown would become my child – indeed, my invention. Just as, years ago, Mother had created me as Alison Brown. I could hardly wait to get home and begin to put my ideas onto paper.
Chapter Two (#ufd01aa96-d5f0-50e3-a65c-cd25011f6462)
Once back in my own house on the other side of Nottingham, I made a cup of tea, sat down at my desk and started to write a list. I love to make lists. So reassuring. Firstly, the birth certificate. Having that in my possession would make it all seem real. This first item on the list occupied me for quite some time. I worried about the application process though. Would proof of identity be required?
As it turned out, discovering the details of Lucy Brown’s parents’ names and dates of birth was extraordinarily simple. All I had to do was to write to the General Register Office giving Lucy’s first name, surname and date of birth – and requesting a copy of her birth certificate. An address was required. I provided my own, of course. I sent the modest payment as indicated – and a week or so later the precious document was in my hands. I studied it with a trembling thrill; it was almost as though I held Lucy herself, as if she was reborn!
Her mother’s name was given as Audrey Brown, and her father’s as Russell Brown. That would need some adjustment in time of course. I would be her mother, Alison Brown – but then people often used a different first name to the original one.
This was just the beginning. Much needed to be done, but that did not deter me, not at all. Indeed, anticipating the tasks ahead filled me with great pleasure and excitement.
I had already decided to stop working for a time. Mother’s death had left me feeling deeply unsettled. It had always been just the two of us. Apart from my brief and unhappy sojourn at university, I could scarcely remember spending a night apart from her. Or rather, the very few occasions when we had been apart stood out in my memory as rarities; exceptional – and a little frightening.
Now suddenly I found myself completely alone. During those initial weeks of bereavement, I found it impossible to enjoy anything of ordinary, domestic life – for example, mealtimes. I ate almost nothing at all. Sitting alone at the table where, all my life, Mother and I had sat together, sharing the small events and anecdotes of the day, felt almost as though I were in the grave rather than Mother. I found little pleasure in my own company.
Sleep was even more difficult. I tried to postpone the moment of plunging myself into darkness by reading for as long as possible – often reading the same passage over and over again – until exhaustion forced me to switch off the light. As if by signal, this act heralded a succession of morbid, disturbing and often terrifying thoughts, which would not be still. Sometimes I was obliged to get up and make myself a cup of camomile tea, and sit with it in the armchair in the soft light of the kitchen, until a fitful sleep eventually overcame me.
Dr Munroe, who had known me since I was an infant, suggested a mild sleeping pill might help – ‘just during these sad and difficult early weeks, my dear’. I accepted his prescription, but never swallowed a single one of his pills. No, it was not my preferred way. It was important to remain in control of my consciousness.
At the office, my mind would not focus properly. Every task seemed difficult, yet nothing seemed to matter to me as before. I felt the need for a complete change, a time for peace and reflection; a time to reconsider my life and my future. Perhaps it was something to do with having turned forty last year. Not that I believed in phenomena such as “mid-life crises”, but it was surely reasonable to regard forty as a chance to embark on new endeavours. So, back in November, not long after Mother’s will was read, I had handed in the obligatory three months’ notice at Chambers.
‘So what are you going to do, Alison?’ asked Mrs Anderson, the administrative manager (promoted well above her capabilities, I always believed). ‘Have you found another job to go to?’
‘Not exactly. I feel it’s time to re-evaluate, to think about the next period of my life and work out exactly what I want to do with it.’
Mrs Anderson sniffed. ‘Re-evaluate? Sounds a bit of a luxury to me. “Re-evaluation” isn’t something most of us can afford. Still, I suppose it’s unsettling to lose your mum when you’ve always spent so much time together – is that it?’
‘Certainly losing Mother has been a blow …’ I paused for a moment.
Mrs Anderson sighed and glanced at her watch.
‘Yes,’ I said hastily, ‘you’re right, very unsettling.’
Despite this unsatisfactory exchange, I was touched to note the genuine regret expressed by most of my colleagues at my leaving – both the legal team and the administrative staff.
‘S’pect you’ll miss us ’ere in the office, won’t you, Alison? What you goin’ to do wiv yourself all the time?’ Julie was the newest office recruit. Her long nails clacked away on her typewriter.
‘I’m sure I’ll find plenty to occupy my time, Julie.’
‘Oh yeah, goin’ to museums and libraries and that?’ She winked at Debbie and they giggled, without revealing the source of their amusement. Certainly, I mused, I would not miss the banality of office conversation.
It was clear that Mrs Anderson was at least sensitive enough to register the strength of my determination, because at no time did she try to dissuade me from my decision. She had never been generous with praise, so it was a particular pleasure to see myself described with words such as “efficient”, “invaluable”, “intelligent”, “loyal” and “highly valued” in the brief note about my departure circulated to the staff. It would have been perfectly proper for Mrs Anderson to have written a personal note or card to me at home, and perhaps to have wished me well, but this was not her way.
At the end of my last day at Chambers, a select gathering had been arranged in the main office by way of a “leaving do”. Cups of my favourite Earl Grey tea and a tray of tasteful and dainty iced cakes were handed around by the juniors. I was seen off with a gift token, a bunch of flowers and a jovial peck on the cheek by Sir Julian, delivered amid the usual waft of winey fumes – he had not long returned from his usual lunchtime expedition.
‘A new year, a new life! Eh, my dear? Jolly good for you.’
I tried to smile benignly. He could never have imagined how true those words were!
Chapter Three (#ufd01aa96-d5f0-50e3-a65c-cd25011f6462)
I had wanted a child of my own for as many years as I could remember. I might even admit to having felt a desperate longing for a child. I frequently recall Mother’s words to me during the last days of her life.
‘Don’t live alone, Alison,’ she had said. ‘It’s not good for you, dear. I do so wish for you to have a child – a child to love, and to love you. I won’t be a grandmother, of course – it’s too late for that – but if only I could know that you will have the joy of being a mother, as I did with you; that would be such a comfort for me.’
‘You’re right, Mother,’ I had told her soothingly, Mother’s hand in mine as frail and fleshless as a chicken’s claw.
‘Please don’t worry – I want to have a child. I will have a child, I promise.’
Perhaps it was a rash promise, but I had genuinely meant those words. Three days later Mother was dead. I had underestimated the impact her loss would have on me. She had been right; I needed someone to love, and to love me. I needed a child. That need grew in me until it was all-consuming.
* * *
Of course, I had tried all avenues: conventional means some might say. But none felt truly right for me. Why not give birth to a child of your own, some might ask. The fundamental barrier is that first a man is required. My attitude to men had been permanently coloured by the event at university some years before. I didn’t dislike men, but neither did I trust them, and they had never played a significant role in my life. I could not envisage the constant presence of a man in my home, in my life. Above all, I regarded acts of physical intimacy with a man with the utmost revulsion.
Some women might even pursue what I understood were referred to as “one-night stands” – a revolting term – but this was not a path I could ever have contemplated. Even thinking about it caused me to tremble and feel quite nauseous. Thus I had dispensed with the idea of “natural” means of having a child.
Next, I considered the possibility of artificial insemination. However, I could never have submitted myself to such a humiliating procedure – little better than the means by which a prize cow might be used for breeding.
Having dismissed all these avenues, I looked into legal adoption. One would imagine that a respectable woman, still in her thirties at that time, and willing to offer a home to an unwanted waif, would be welcomed with open arms. Not so! After weeks of visits from social workers and their ceaseless interviews and questionnaires, I had been told that I was not considered suitable to adopt a child. Not suitable! “The team” had decided – “regretfully” – that I was not suited to bringing up a child, especially a young and vulnerable child, they said. Words like “judgemental”, “lacking in empathy”, and “rigid personality” had been bandied about; meaningless psycho-babble straight out of some left-wing social work textbook, no doubt. And thus this questionable group of people had passed their own judgement on me.
There had been no means of appeal. As will be appreciated by anyone with a scrap of insight, I had been left with no choice but to take the matter into my own hands.
Chapter Four (#ulink_e4beada9-e60a-5abd-ba59-e96fe7a801a4)
By February, I was taking the first steps towards a fundamentally different future. I had decided on Newcastle for its distance from Nottingham, and as a fine, distinctive city in its own right. Only Newcastle’s proximity to Durham, with that city’s sad associations for me, made me hesitate over my choice at first. Yet the advantages were clear and I resolved to overcome my doubts, and to look firmly down at a book rather than out of the window as the train passed through Durham station.
I made my very specific wishes quite clear to the Homefind estate agency. As a widow with a small daughter, I explained, I was looking for a smallish house, with three bedrooms, preferably detached, with a neat, easy-to-manage and secure back garden, to allow the child to play safely. I felt no qualms about presenting myself in this way – in my mind I was already Lucy’s mother.
The agency soon found a very suitable house on a predominantly post-Fifties estate on the edge of the suburb of Gosforth. It was perfect for my needs, having one bedroom off the “half-landing”, and two further bedrooms with dormer windows set into the slope of the roof. It was described as a “Dutch bungalow”. I liked the term. It gave my new home a touch of the exotic, while retaining a wholesome image.
The house was freshly whitewashed and stood at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, its garden backing onto a pleasant area of trees and fields where people strolled and walked their dogs. There was even a small playground nearby – ideal for Lucy. The neighbouring houses were far enough away for me not to feel overlooked. My – sorry, our! –new home (I would have to get used to using the plural pronoun) had been well maintained by the elderly couple who were selling it. Certainly, the decoration was a little old-fashioned, but that didn’t matter to me. Thanks to Mother’s carefully invested estate, added to the anticipated sale of our house in Nottingham, and my own smaller savings, I was able to contemplate not working while caring for a young child. This was very important to me; far too many young children were placed in the care of nurseries or childminders. I had no intention of Lucy becoming a “latch-key” child.
Fortunately, there were spare funds to put in a new kitchen and bathroom, and for fresh wallpaper and paint throughout. Mother had never been a great spender, but she would have enjoyed discussing decoration and soft furnishings with me, especially when it came to Lucy’s room. At times like this I missed her terribly. In fact, if I am truthful, not a moment went by when I did not miss her, but at least having so much to occupy my mind did help.
It was vital to be able to come and go freely at the new house over the coming weeks, without arousing curiosity or suspicion. One of my first tasks was to visit the next-door neighbours on either side and introduce myself. I’d never been one for dropping in and out of other people’s homes, so I felt a degree of anxiety about these initial contacts. To the left was a youngish couple, Susan and Mike Harmon. They had a nice polite little girl of about nine called Claire, and a younger boy, Charlie, who seemed somewhat boisterous and over-excitable.
‘Come on in, it’s just lovely to meet you, Alison!’ said Susan, eagerly taking my arm as I hesitated on the doorstep. ‘Come into the kitchen and let’s have a cup of tea.’
Susan didn’t think to ask what sort of tea I might prefer. In fact, she served what Mother would have called “builders’ tea”, but I drank it and made no comment.
‘So you see, we’ll be coming up in a while – my little girl Lucy and I – just as soon as the house is ready,’ I explained.
‘Ooh, how lovely! It’ll be so nice for all of us to have a younger family next door. Charlie – did you hear that? A little girl next door for you to play with!’ Susan turned back to me. ‘How old is Lucy?’
I almost panicked for a moment. I felt a rush of colour swarming up my neck and cheeks. How could I know exactly how old Lucy was?
‘She’s … er … a bit younger than Charlie.’ I lowered my voice. ‘The thing is, Susan, we lost Lucy’s daddy recently …’
This was a useful device to distract Susan from her question. Her eyes widened and she put her hands up to her face, which adopted a tragic expression.
‘Lost …? Oh no, how terrible! I’m so sorry … er … how …’
‘Accident …’ I whispered under my breath. ‘Yes, that’s why we had to move, you understand … to allow us to rebuild our lives together up here in Newcastle. A completely new start.’
I was getting into my stride now. I noted Susan’s agonised expression and continued. ‘I’m looking forward to making a happy, loving home, for Lucy’s sake. That’s what I’ll live for now.’
Susan nodded at me knowingly. To my astonishment, her eyes filled with tears. She squeezed my arm tenderly. I gulped and looked at my lap.
‘Right now,’ I said, inserting a slight tremor into my voice, ‘Lucy has been staying with … um … an aunt back in Nottingham whenever I make these visits to the North East to get things sorted. She’s been very supportive, but I’m hoping we can both settle here properly soon.’
Susan continued her nodding, while biting her lip in a rather foolish way that I supposed was intended to denote empathy. I took a deep breath, and concentrated on brightening my facial expression.
‘I’m sorry, Susan – I didn’t want to upset you with all this gloomy talk. Just listen to me, I’ve done nothing but talk about myself! How rude of me – please tell me more about you.’
Susan didn’t need asking twice; she looked relieved to change the subject. She was a naturally talkative person, and seemed keen to tell me all about the family; her husband Michael (‘most people call him Mike’) was a GP and she herself was a part-time solicitor. There was an excellent first school on the estate, which Claire attended. She had the rest of that year there before moving on to the middle school. Charlie had started going to the nursery part-time.
Susan was sure Lucy would love it too, when she started. I quickly intervened and explained that I felt Lucy was too young for nursery just at the moment. She would need some time to settle down first.
‘Of course she will, Alison. Dear little Lucy will need her mummy more than anything at the moment,’ she said, ‘but don’t forget she can come and play with Charlie any time, any time at all – and Claire will just love playing the older sister. Also, we know most of the people around here and can easily introduce you. That’ll help you to settle and get to know people. Everyone’s really friendly.’
I wasn’t at all sure I liked the sound of these introductions, but decided that at least it showed that Susan and Mike were welcoming and accepting.
The neighbours on the other side were an older retired couple, Frank and Molly Armstrong. They were equally warm, rushing about to produce tea and homemade scones for me when I called. I told them the same story as I’d told to the Harmons. Molly Armstrong shook her head and patted my hand sympathetically. Frank said if there was anything he could help with, anything at all – he was handy with tools or a paintbrush – just to let him know.
They both said how nice it would be to have a little girl growing up next door, and they would be happy to babysit at any time – they didn’t go out much. I almost responded that I didn’t go out much either, but decided it was best to reveal as little of myself as possible.
Chapter Five (#ulink_4ea860cf-7bd2-5890-a6ba-f241dcf15507)
I found the next stage of the preparations highly enjoyable. I got up early, took the train to York, and spent the morning in the city centre buying the necessary items: a navy blue gabardine coat (a bit dull) and some clumpy navy shoes; a more stylish, pillar-box red, lightweight wool coat; and black knee-length boots for me. Then I went into British Home Stores and Marks and Spencer for a number of sets of girls’ clothing, including pyjamas and underwear, all sized for age two years, and one set of boys’ clothes: dungarees, jumper, hat and parka, also for age two years.
Next, I allowed myself a break – a delightful light lunch and pot of tea at Betty’s Tea Room. Mother frequently said I should allow myself more “treats”. As always, she was right – I found I could relax and enjoy myself as I nursed a good cup of my favourite Earl Grey tea in the comfort and warmth of Betty’s.
It was pleasant strolling through the historic lanes and looking in at the shop windows. Mothercare was not far. With some helpful advice I selected a lightweight Maclaren pushchair, which the assistant referred to as a “buggy”. I also bought a potty, some nappies (just in case), a set of child’s plastic crockery and cutlery, and a few toys and books. This was all I could manage, but by putting several of the carrier bags into the buggy I was able to make my way back to York station, and from there I caught my train to Newcastle.
The next day I ordered a child’s bed, mattress and bedding, a wardrobe and chest of drawers, a little table and two chairs to match, some cheerful pictures, and a few more toys, all from Bainbridge’s excellent department store in Newcastle city centre. These items were to be delivered to my new house the following Friday, by which time Lucy’s room would be decorated and carpeted.
* * *
At home, I tried on the navy coat and shoes for the third time, together with the dark brown wig I’d ordered previously from a discreet company dealing mainly with cancer sufferers. I’d never taken great interest in fashion, much to the scorn of my schoolmates, but I knew exactly what I liked in the way of clothes.
I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. The effect on my appearance was immediate and striking. I was totally transformed – how very satisfactory. I even felt different in my new outfit: older and, it has to be said, somewhat dowdy. Removing those clothes, I delighted in observing the metamorphosis wrought by switching to the red coat, the delicious high boots, and the return to my natural fair hair. Not exactly a “scarlet woman”, but certainly a more lively and attractive persona.
The following week I arranged for some of my furniture and household possessions to be moved from Nottingham to Newcastle. I had stocked the new kitchen cupboards and the freezer with suitable food for me and a young child. The house was ready.
I invited Mike and Susan Harmon, together with their children, and Frank and Molly Armstrong to come in for drinks to celebrate. Mike and Susan opted for a glass of wine and I’d got in Kia-Ora and Ribena for Claire and Charlie. I’d laid out some toys, books, paper and drawing pens and crayons on the dining table for them, as well as some crisps and snacks. It pained me a little to see Charlie sift through the objects I had so carefully ordered. He seemed to have no thought for rearranging the colours of the crayons, nor the size order of the books and toys. Oh well; I resolved to do it myself later.
‘Oh, aren’t you thoughtful, Alison!’ said Susan, looking around.
‘Well, I know what it’s like for children when adults are talking together.’
‘’Course you do. We can’t wait to meet Lucy, isn’t that right, children?’
Claire looked up from her drawing and smiled. ‘It’ll be nice to have a little girl next door,’ she said emphatically, glancing at her brother.
‘Have you got a photo of Lucy, Alison?’ asked Mike, looking around the room. My mouth dried up suddenly.
‘No … well … yes, of course I have … er … but they’re still in boxes. Lots of things still to unpack – or at my other house, you see.’
Charlie was looking around too. What would they ask for next? ‘Alison … got no TV?’
I don’t approve of children being allowed to use adults’ names without permission, but I let this pass.
‘No, sorry, not yet, Charlie. But it won’t be long before Lucy’s here for you to play with – just another two or three weeks, I hope.’
After all my preparations, I thought, all Charlie could think about was television! Never mind. My Lucy wouldn’t be glued to a screen – I was certain of that. I turned to the Armstrongs.
‘Now, what would you like, Molly?’
‘Eee, I’d love a cup of tea, pet, if it’s not too much trouble, and Frank’s noticed you’ve got some beer over there. He’s not really a wine man, are you, love?’
‘Yes of course. Here, Frank, here’s the opener and a glass. Just help yourself while I get Betty’s tea.’
‘Thanks, pet, that’s grand. I hope we’re going to get the guided tour after, are we?’
‘It’ll be a pleasure, Frank.’
‘You’ve done an amazing job here, Alison,’ said Mike, looking around the sitting room.
‘Thank you, Michael … Mike. I’m pleased with the way it’s turned out. That’s partly down to the decorators you recommended. They’ve been wonderful – completely reliable. I’m really grateful.’
Mike followed me out to the kitchen. The back of my neck began to prickle uncomfortably to feel his physical presence so close behind me. However, he seemed rather a nice man – quieter than Susan, and thoughtful.
‘Wow, what a difference!’ he said, looking around.
‘Well, it was basically a sound house, and the Turners had left everything in pretty good condition. All I’ve done is a bit of window-dressing.’
I put the small teapot on a tray with a milk jug.
‘Can I get the cups, Alison?’ Mike asked.
‘Just in that cupboard above the bread bin.’
It was a relief to watch him walk to the other side of the kitchen.
‘Oh, that’s very tidy,’ said Mike, opening the cupboard and smiling back at me. ‘You’re a woman after my own heart.’
‘Cups in the front, saucers at the back on the left.’
‘Thanks. I’m so sorry you’ve had to do all this on your own, Alison. Susie told me … It can’t have been easy.’
I sighed tragically and nodded. ‘I’ll be very glad when Lucy joins me up here at last – it has been a bit … lonely … on my own.’
Mike gently touched my shoulder, sending a shock down my spine as I carried the tray through. I gripped the handles tightly.
I decided that the evening was turning out to be a great success, although I worried that Charlie might break something with his frenetic racing about. I hoped Lucy wouldn’t turn out to be quite so lively. I wasn’t sure I could deal with that. The children were both thrilled to see Lucy’s room, though.
‘Oh it’s so pretty. Look, Mum – all the animals on the bed! Lucy’s got her own little desk. Look how tidy it is! Can we sit on the chairs, Alison?’
Even Claire was using my first name.
‘Of course you can. I’m sure it won’t stay as tidy once Lucy gets here.’ Everyone laughed. Although I secretly hoped it might.
Chapter Six (#ulink_daa751be-f82c-554e-bbd7-71be33bff4b6)
1985
Next came the trickier part of the plan. After weeks of research I had decided on Riddlesfield. All the indices showed it to be one of the most “disadvantaged” towns in the country, with certain districts such as Thornhough, Hollerton, Woodhope and Frainham consistently reported as areas of the highest child poverty in England. Studying a map of the town and its surrounds, it was Frainham that stood out as most suitable for my needs. Not only was there street after street of small, tightly packed terraced houses, but the area was easily accessible from the city centre, and more importantly, from Riddlesfield railway station. I pored over the map so often that soon I was able to close my eyes and picture the exact pattern of streets, squares and landmarks required for my purpose.
The morning after the house-warming party for the neighbours, I returned to Nottingham for a few days, awaiting rain. On the third day, I woke to a dank and gloomy morning. By the time I’d had breakfast it was drizzling steadily. A solid bank of lowering grey clouds sat over the houses and foretold of more to come – perfect.
I put on my navy coat and shoes, and the brown wig. Then I tied a large paisley headscarf over my head, using kirby grips to make sure all the hair was firmly tucked in beneath it. For extra anonymity, I put up a large umbrella as I emerged from the front door. If I’d been of a more dramatic inclination, no doubt all this would have been a source of great entertainment, but not for me. I felt sick with anxiety. Over and over again, I rehearsed in my mind exactly what I had to do. Nothing must go wrong.
I needn’t have worried. By now the rain was falling heavily. The few pedestrians I encountered on my way to the bus station hurried head-down to their destinations, clutching their collars around their necks, striving only to get out of the wet as quickly as possible, and scarcely glancing in my direction.
Nottingham to Riddlesfield was not a straightforward journey, but I felt that this was in my favour. The number of necessary changes – though daunting – made it less likely that I would ever be linked to my destination. After a bus ride to Derby station I bought a day return to Leeds, where I had about forty-five minutes to wait for a direct train to Riddlesfield.
Thankfully, by this time the rain clouds had cleared and I was able to dispense with the unpleasantly damp headscarf, revealing my dark hair. The train to Riddlesfield was not too crowded. I tried to read the newspaper, but found I couldn’t concentrate. Nevertheless, I kept the paper open, and sheltered behind its protective screen. An hour and a half later the train arrived at Riddlesfield.
I found myself increasingly nervous as I stepped onto the platform and made my way out of the station, my heart pounding unpleasantly. I had to pause a few moments, breathing deeply, while I calmed myself by picturing the map with which I had become so familiar. Sure enough, the layout of the actual streets before me precisely matched the image in my mind.
I quickly crossed the road and walked southwards until I came to Churchill Square, with its shops and cafés. One café looked bright and welcoming. I noted it as somewhere I might allow myself another cup of tea later on that day. I continued along Holbrook Street and, after a few minutes’ walk, turned right into City Road. After perhaps a quarter of a mile, I turned left and soon found myself in precisely the right area of narrow streets, densely built with mean and coal-blackened terraced houses, just as my research had indicated. This must be Frainham, I thought, recalling the map, this must be it.
As if to confirm that it was indeed the poor, run-down neighbourhood I wanted, two small boys, aged only about three or four – both dirty and inadequately dressed for the time of year – were playing unsupervised in the gutter at the end of a back lane strewn with rubbish. An overflowing dustbin provided the little urchins with playthings; they were rolling tin cans noisily over the cobbles.
I stopped and made a deliberate effort to smile at them. The children stared back at me impassively. Then the slightly larger boy stood up, and, looking both impish and defiant, he stuck his tongue out at me! I knew it was ridiculous to allow myself to feel intimidated by two such tiny children, barely out of babyhood – but nevertheless I did feel it, and so hurried on, fearing the boys might have started throwing stones or items of rubbish.
I explored the streets systematically, working my way southwards, wandering up one terrace, and then down the next – all the while trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. As I rounded a corner, I encountered another small boy – this one of maybe five or six years old – who almost bumped into me. He wore shorts much too long for him and a torn jersey. His hair was tousled and unwashed-looking.
‘’ello, missus,’ he said, standing sturdily in my path and grinning up at me.
‘Hello …’ I said, beginning to edge around him. He shifted sideways, as if to bar my way again.
‘Wanta see what’s in me box, missus?’ he said, thrusting a battered cardboard box up at me. I looked about uneasily.
‘Well … um … yes, all right.’
He carefully prised off the lid, to reveal a scrawny, greyish house mouse. It twitched its nose and regarded me with glittery black eyes. Horrified, I took a step back.
‘It’s me mouse,’ the boy informed me unnecessarily. ‘He’s me pet. I call ’im Billy. You got ten pee for Billy, missus? For ’is dinner, like?’
With trembling fingers I searched my purse for a coin. Finding two ten-pence pieces, I held them in the air in front of the boy.
‘Put the lid on the box,’ I urged him, dropping one ten-pence piece into his expectant palm. ‘That’s for your mouse’s food,’ I said, ‘and here’s ten pence for you to spend.’ The child smiled a gap-toothed smile.
‘Ta, missus.’
I hurried onwards.
I could have no doubts that this was a suitable area. Greyish, shabby-looking washing hung in many of the yards, and in places was draped right across the back lanes. A group of young men clustered around a motorbike outside a corner shop, talking and laughing loudly and crudely, in a way I could not help finding unsettling. Some were drinking what I assumed was beer from cans or bottles. One threw an empty can at an advertisement hoarding just behind me, causing such a sudden clang that I jumped with shock, which only made the youths laugh louder still.
I turned quickly down the next back lane. Here and there women smoked and chatted with one another in pairs or threes. The local dialect was so broad that I could scarcely make out a word of what was said, although their frequent use of profanities was clear enough. Some held babies on their hips, while toddlers swarmed around their legs. Bigger children chased each other about, screaming like savages.
At one street corner a bigger girl pushed two younger children in a large cardboard box, careless of broken glass strewn across the ground. The scene struck me as more reminiscent of the Twenties or Thirties than the Eighties. I made sure not to linger, anxious to remain inconspicuous. It was essential that no one should notice my presence too readily, or engage me in conversation.
Just as my resolve, in this hostile environment, was beginning to falter, I came to a row of houses that appeared to hold some promise. My attention was drawn by a woman’s voice shouting.
‘Will youse two ger’out from under me effin’ feet right now! Go on – ger’outside!’
I slowed my pace. A boy of about five yanked open a battered door hanging by one hinge, and ran out of the yard. He looked from left to right, and then ran leftwards until he was out of sight. I caught my breath, gasped, and stood still. For a moment I hadn’t noticed a second child emerge from the door. But yes, there she was: tiny, elfin; two or perhaps two and a half years old. She stood in the yard doorway looking about her, a finger in her mouth.
‘Wy-yan …?’ she called plaintively.
I guessed the child was calling her brother. Her fair hair was tangled and matted at the back, her face extraordinarily grubby. She wore a stained yellow dress and an equally grimy cardigan, which had once been white. In her hand she held a filthy, one-legged doll by what remained of its hair. I paused and watched her, scarcely breathing. The little girl put the doll on the pavement and squatted down, crooning softly to it. She picked up a paper wrapper from the gutter and smoothed it carefully across her knee. Then she laid it over the doll with great tenderness, muttering something like ‘Dere y’are. Dere y’are, Polly.’
I tiptoed towards the child, holding my breath, longing to linger, but knowing I could not. As I reached her, the child looked up and noticed me. She raised her little face to gaze up at me and give me a startlingly beautiful, radiant smile. I paused and smiled back for a moment, and then, reluctantly forcing myself to turn away, I walked on. My heart was pounding. I had found my Lucy.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_ac265a49-5609-5c24-8c42-c12151a30bae)
I scarcely noticed the journey back to Nottingham. I even forgot to spread my clean handkerchief on the back of the seat behind my head. Somehow I made each connection and boarded the correct trains. Ticket collectors came and went. I must have presented the relevant ticket, though I had no memory of doing so.
One cheery conductor on the Leeds-to-Derby stretch said, ‘Penny for them, duck!’ as he punched my ticket – such a foolish expression. But he shrugged and quickly moved on, disappointed, I suppose, that I had failed to respond in the same spirit. He could have offered me a fortune for them, but I wouldn’t have shared them; my thoughts were all on Lucy. How could such a dreadful place, such a dreadful family, have produced a child of such beauty and perfection? My mind drifted unbidden to my own history.
Could I have been born into just such a slum? Certainly my “birth mother” must have lacked morals. “Unmarried mother”, the adoption agency had written in the sketchy notes Mother had shared with me, when she felt that, at fourteen or so, I was mature enough for such information. Mother had always been open about the adoption. From my earliest memories, I knew I’d been “chosen” and that somehow this made me special. Mother had emphasised that it was unnecessary to share this information about my roots with anyone else. It was just for the two of us. Well, Mother was my real mother in every true sense of the word, wasn’t she?
When thoughts of this “unmarried mother” occasionally surfaced, I shuddered at the image of a slovenly, unkempt woman – such as those I had seen today in abundance on the streets and back lanes of Frainham. I screwed up my eyes tightly and forced myself to concentrate on Mother, neat and decent, her morals intact, and felt I could breathe easily again. Thank goodness I had decided years ago never to attempt to make contact with my birth mother.
Finally, the bus from Derby deposited me and I walked the last half-mile or so home in the dark. As so often happened, sleep did not come easily that night, although I was exhausted, both physically and mentally, from the day. I had had nothing to eat since breakfast, except an egg and cress sandwich hastily bought at Riddlesfield station, of which I could swallow only half. I knew I should eat something when I got home, but the very thought of food was repellent.
I lay back in a soothing hot bath and then fell into bed. My mind spun and my whole being was as tense as a spring with excitement. If it had been possible, I would have returned to that street, that house, the very next day, indeed that very minute. I would have scooped the beautiful child up in my arms and run off with her.
But impulsiveness was not in my nature. I knew it was an impulse that, like so many urges, had to be resisted – and a good thing too. It was vital to concentrate on the longer term. By focusing solely on my immediate longing, the whole future could be jeopardised. Self-control was everything. The final stages were approaching, and that made it all the more important to adhere absolutely to the plan.
* * *
The last day in Nottingham came soon enough. I stood in the chill of the empty house, and spent some minutes listening to the echo of the many years gone by. I checked each room one last time. Here, where we sat comfortably by the fire, Mother with embroidery or knitting on her lap, me with a book, or my stamp album (how I loved those colourful stamps, especially the ones sent by Mother’s friend Maureen from New Zealand, with their bird pictures).
Here, too, where we shared the evening meal together, the table always perfectly laid – not for us a plate on our laps in front of the television. Here my bedroom to which I had loved to retreat during difficult times as a child, for peace and solitude. And here was Mother’s room with its pink carpet and white built-in cupboard. The delicate smell of Mother lingered still, hung softly in the air, like a gentle ghost.
Now was the time for leaving. I locked the front door and went next door to say goodbye to Sylvia Blythe, our elderly neighbour, and leave the key with her for the agents to pick up. I took her two large carrier bags full of the non-perishable remnants from the kitchen cupboards: tins of soup, dried fruit, pots of jam and the like.
‘So kind of you, dear, just like your mother, aren’t you? I can’t believe you won’t be here any more. Not you, nor poor Dorothy.’ Sylvia’s voice broke with a sob. ‘After all these years – oh Alison, I shall miss you terribly.’
‘I’m sure the new neighbours will be nice.’
‘Maybe, but that’s just what they’ll be: new. Dorothy and I were friends for nearly fifty years – fifty years, Alison!’
Tears wound a crooked path down Sylvia’s wrinkled cheek. I held my breath, bent over her armchair and hugged her. I couldn’t help recoiling slightly at the feel of the soft, loose flesh of her face and its powdery smell. Sylvia recalled memories of her friendship with Mother: anecdotes I had heard many times.
When at last I was able to say my final goodbyes and extricate myself, I left by Sylvia’s back door and returned through the side gate to the garden. It was still only half past eleven. I fetched the pushchair and bags from their hiding place in the shed, put on my navy coat and brown wig, checked that no one was about, and departed through the back gate. I left the house I’d lived in for all of my forty-one years without a backwards glance.
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Diana Finley
Every family has its secrets. None more than this one. Alison’s life has been a lonely one, but now it’s time to change that. With no children in her future there is only one answer – she’ll take one.She’ll rescue a girl who needs a better home. A better mother. A better life.It will be the start of a perfect family, and no one will question who Lucy really is. Especially not Lucy herself…A dark story of psychological suspense, perfect for fans of Kerry Fisher, Liane Moriarty and Linda Green.
About Diana Finley (#ufd01aa96-d5f0-50e3-a65c-cd25011f6462)
DIANA FINLEY was born and grew up in Germany, where her father was a British Army officer. After a move to London, at eighteen, Diana spent a year living with nomadic people in the remote Pamir mountains of Afghanistan – an experience about which she wrote several stories and accounts. These helped secure her first job, as copywriter and then as writer and editor of children’s information books for Macdonald Educational Publishers.
A move to North East England meant changing direction. Diana took a degree in Speech and Psychology, and worked for many years as a Specialist in Autism, publishing a professional book. In 2011 she completed an MA in Creative Writing with distinction at Newcastle University. In 2014 her debut novel, The Loneliness of Survival, a moving family saga, was published.
Diana enjoys exploring complex and often contradictory characters and emotions in her writing. Finding Lucy, her second novel, is a dark, intriguing, psychological story about every parent’s worst nightmare – a stolen child.
Finding Lucy
DIANA FINLEY
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Diana Finley
Diana Finley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008297749
Version: 2018-11-05
For Harvey, who may read it one day.
Table of Contents
Cover (#ue96444b8-c59b-5d21-b07a-ac2bbe4c6f06)
About Diana Finley (#u2d75d163-3e5c-5094-bab9-feaf31b47158)
Title Page (#u7861c8b2-ac1a-5eb1-81f0-0b75afa39c00)
Copyright (#ub9150a6b-1a34-5130-ab77-9abb31ee39a6)
Dedication (#u3bda47ee-c071-5467-8b9b-c288e14a995a)
Chapter One (#u4b225c1f-05c4-57ed-90c1-3b453c224928)
Chapter Two (#udaf1ae6e-bf09-572d-bfd4-0ffb69a7c59a)
Chapter Three (#ub6845677-6251-5903-addf-532bf70a7e95)
Chapter Four (#ub080b307-0295-554e-8355-ea19d7ef4bd1)
Chapter Five (#ud6490a83-32b1-50cf-8990-8c395020ff91)
Chapter Six (#u0c76498c-e6d9-5272-8568-d2ff6dd88872)
Chapter Seven (#ubdd5cfd1-3a9f-5f1e-928c-fe42776cb40e)
Chapter Eight (#u050faea0-d144-54ac-b37a-2bc4b8428ccc)
Chapter Nine (#u670d35c4-84a4-5d62-a72b-01ed3b5b4943)
Chapter Ten (#udfd7efb6-2603-5c08-a195-2bf1b37901e7)
Chapter Eleven (#u5300bfa3-8e84-547d-b8c7-7aafc2ec58b3)
Chapter Twelve (#ubdd6b7d6-60e8-5100-b31e-25b8010b4746)
Chapter Thirteen (#u6b219704-6c6d-552e-8b0d-cae0539bd8d4)
Chapter Fourteen (#ub695074d-29e1-5778-947e-0f9fa3351066)
Chapter Fifteen (#u974ee418-b300-58e9-936a-fd8b197ba42f)
Chapter Sixteen (#ud6b5450d-81be-56de-bada-abe016b36e6d)
Chapter Seventeen (#u85c323a7-44d2-5aca-a91d-d2aa13604506)
Chapter Eighteen (#u35fa1c66-2a9f-5f23-a507-b7733e8aec70)
Chapter Nineteen (#ua7108a45-2398-5a13-9fec-82ef9b685073)
Chapter Twenty (#u6db08684-d43d-557f-ae4b-ea9b1f259aea)
Chapter Twenty-One (#u5140e3a1-f269-5878-9f6b-1cec510f77b9)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#u5733b5a0-65c6-5eb7-ae79-4e122eea908f)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#u23da1916-f4f3-5dec-88a9-555ae98ccf99)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#ud5ef6226-3281-58e8-8c0a-69bdd3073f26)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#u1c1b9713-580b-5bb5-8868-3f39ae11d909)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#u171e8b33-01d5-5a69-94ec-7ab56908a495)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#uc8d854d0-9854-510f-9f5d-52b3a6f4cdb7)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#u951875cd-5557-50a5-8d3c-098b6189ef73)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#u6e0ea99a-e597-51b0-aa19-928d0557cb6e)
Chapter Thirty (#u5a09b137-e8c8-52de-a41b-516ead5519ac)
Chapter Thirty-One (#uafac17ca-a2f3-5574-a7ec-5450734cdb4c)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#ua200f166-43d4-57b7-8940-7bd7ab1fa80b)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#u956fdcfd-645c-53bd-ae42-d70a5e5d5f1a)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#u66c726e7-40a1-567f-8214-26d483c01909)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#ub68fd488-8cdc-5eed-b278-742a4b3ec52f)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#u4d868dc8-04e3-571e-8b03-eb90f5ebf20c)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#ufc0c2581-989e-5cc6-94f3-f2ffa0fe3006)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#u8c1173fa-0d40-57a3-a910-ebd6a36c42c0)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#u0a178b4d-fb4c-5861-b5e2-8ca105d6a7b9)
Chapter Forty (#u83d69c03-339d-51eb-b813-95044178e72b)
Chapter Forty-One (#u77f8f34e-882f-5f99-868b-0e0054290205)
Chapter Forty-Two (#u3d50486a-2a6d-5a59-a4c7-e4d71e6285c7)
Chapter Forty-Three (#u47c472ba-c891-5e5f-99bb-e52b280b29f7)
Chapter Forty-Four (#u298058c5-3e75-5836-a411-7ef4ebb00535)
Chapter Forty-Five (#ud198edc9-1c30-5f25-b5e8-f11adebd4c93)
Chapter Forty-Six (#ue30dfb93-75fd-5222-987b-e9796e4b94e8)
Chapter Forty-Seven (#uadaf9705-af07-54e0-9798-6f8dc41fb8b5)
Chapter Forty-Eight (#ue54966cc-e324-5240-8967-5fd0f6284b8c)
Chapter Forty-Nine (#u27620d61-b32f-5fcc-a0db-11b2749a987f)
Chapter Fifty (#u22b13f23-b2fa-5021-8e5e-28d888bfba9e)
Chapter Fifty-One (#uf102c9d7-9dd3-595a-b080-2fdd896d171a)
Chapter Fifty-Two (#u27d2099e-ce22-5b23-96b8-d5441c7fb0d9)
Chapter Fifty-Three (#uee3a8c23-4d89-54cf-9c4a-e72e1be19337)
Chapter Fifty-Four (#u9a685c3b-655f-58e5-b473-1919f513352d)
Chapter Fifty-Five (#udf3631ca-9ccc-5342-9f2a-ac5a6f7a32be)
Chapter Fifty-Six (#ud3c737b0-eca5-570f-8c91-e0e33218025c)
Chapter Fifty-Seven (#u01a6cfc0-e938-5de7-a30e-8899e453a359)
Chapter Fifty-Eight (#u1fb3c05d-7402-5ff2-8b86-b1fa399259d5)
Chapter Fifty-Nine (#u7cc5929e-d749-5242-9fe0-00b06a9514c6)
Chapter Sixty (#u0b714850-9de9-57f4-84de-a77dafda4fe9)
Chapter Sixty-One (#u6458c42a-fa78-54e5-bc61-36548525b8b0)
Chapter Sixty-Two (#u946deb90-9a80-5701-a725-435f2a970877)
Chapter Sixty-Three (#u9742b23e-3c23-5b53-b21b-8fe5a0d28fbc)
Chapter Sixty-Four (#u54532b26-a8d9-57e3-b5ba-5840cd6e5f0b)
Chapter Sixty-Five (#u997fe97a-f426-5330-8372-1959202c75c1)
Acknowledgements (#u3ef7c60b-618b-50c9-95fd-5abfed74fb9f)
Dear Reader … (#ud1a9d6c9-fa6d-5b69-a414-c3ea842769ef)
About the Publisher (#u16c05056-82ac-5a1f-bfa7-25c226d418c2)
Chapter One (#ufd01aa96-d5f0-50e3-a65c-cd25011f6462)
1984
Alison
It was after seeing the grave that I finally decided to take a child. There was nothing special about it – the grave, that is. Not one of those ghastly, over-sentimentalised affairs sprouting angels’ wings or teddy bears. Quite plain. A simple stone and a concise message:
In memory of our dearly loved little girl
Lucy Sarah Brown aged 2 years
Born 20-9-1982 – Died 16-10-1984
Safe in the hands of Jesus
Somehow, imagining little Lucy’s life – and her demise – touched me deeply, coming as it did just a month after Mother’s death. How desperately tragic. What might have killed a child so young? A car accident? Meningitis? A hole in the heart? How her parents must have suffered. How they must have grieved for their “dearly loved little girl” – still be grieving, in fact; she’d been gone only two months, after all. So very sad.
As I thought about it, I almost wished I could share my plans with them: with Lucy’s original parents. Let them know that, in a sense, their Lucy was going to be brought back to life; I was going to bring Lucy back to life! Perhaps they would be comforted by that thought. Of course, telling them would never be possible, and anyway, she would cease to be their Lucy. She would become my Lucy. Lucy would be my secret. She would be my daughter, my secret daughter. How perfect! Lucy Brown. A fine, tasteful name – yet “normal”. Not one that stood out too vividly, just like the sad little grave.
It wasn’t as though I had planned the whole thing beforehand, thought it through – not at that stage. The idea grew out of a medley of thoughts that had been swirling in my mind; indistinct, like miscellaneous letter-shaped noodles stirred into soup, sometimes emerging for a moment to make meaningful combinations on the surface, then breaking up and disappearing into the depths of the pot. Stumbling upon the grave that day drew the letters together, began to make order and sense of them. I had decided.
It was a bright, crisp December day. Long shadows streaked the wet grass. Early afternoon, but already the sun was starting its descent towards the rooftops. As often before, I had been wandering through one of the city’s urban cemeteries. Not that I was attracted to such places for any macabre reasons. No, it was the quiet I yearned for, the peace, and perhaps the sense of the past. This was a particularly agreeable cemetery: serene, well maintained and cared for, with mature trees and shrubs creating a screen from the surrounding suburban streets, emphasising the separateness of the graveyard.
At first I had been drawn to the grave simply by the fresh, bright flowers arranged in neat vases, which contrasted with the faded, bedraggled blooms nearby. But standing there in front of the grave, my attention soon moved on from the flowers. I was mesmerised by the name: Brown. It is natural to notice one’s own surname. I stood and gazed at the neat letters, the scrolled stonework marking the boundary of the pitifully small grave and containing shiny gravel of various colours: pink, brown, yellow and green. On the headstone, carved stone hands curved beneath the words “Safe in the hands of Jesus” as though gently lifting them – or perhaps Lucy herself – upwards, heavenwards.
All the while, as my eyes absorbed these details, my heart was beating unevenly and with great excitement. A plan started to take shape in my mind. It was so simple; Lucy Brown would become my child – indeed, my invention. Just as, years ago, Mother had created me as Alison Brown. I could hardly wait to get home and begin to put my ideas onto paper.
Chapter Two (#ufd01aa96-d5f0-50e3-a65c-cd25011f6462)
Once back in my own house on the other side of Nottingham, I made a cup of tea, sat down at my desk and started to write a list. I love to make lists. So reassuring. Firstly, the birth certificate. Having that in my possession would make it all seem real. This first item on the list occupied me for quite some time. I worried about the application process though. Would proof of identity be required?
As it turned out, discovering the details of Lucy Brown’s parents’ names and dates of birth was extraordinarily simple. All I had to do was to write to the General Register Office giving Lucy’s first name, surname and date of birth – and requesting a copy of her birth certificate. An address was required. I provided my own, of course. I sent the modest payment as indicated – and a week or so later the precious document was in my hands. I studied it with a trembling thrill; it was almost as though I held Lucy herself, as if she was reborn!
Her mother’s name was given as Audrey Brown, and her father’s as Russell Brown. That would need some adjustment in time of course. I would be her mother, Alison Brown – but then people often used a different first name to the original one.
This was just the beginning. Much needed to be done, but that did not deter me, not at all. Indeed, anticipating the tasks ahead filled me with great pleasure and excitement.
I had already decided to stop working for a time. Mother’s death had left me feeling deeply unsettled. It had always been just the two of us. Apart from my brief and unhappy sojourn at university, I could scarcely remember spending a night apart from her. Or rather, the very few occasions when we had been apart stood out in my memory as rarities; exceptional – and a little frightening.
Now suddenly I found myself completely alone. During those initial weeks of bereavement, I found it impossible to enjoy anything of ordinary, domestic life – for example, mealtimes. I ate almost nothing at all. Sitting alone at the table where, all my life, Mother and I had sat together, sharing the small events and anecdotes of the day, felt almost as though I were in the grave rather than Mother. I found little pleasure in my own company.
Sleep was even more difficult. I tried to postpone the moment of plunging myself into darkness by reading for as long as possible – often reading the same passage over and over again – until exhaustion forced me to switch off the light. As if by signal, this act heralded a succession of morbid, disturbing and often terrifying thoughts, which would not be still. Sometimes I was obliged to get up and make myself a cup of camomile tea, and sit with it in the armchair in the soft light of the kitchen, until a fitful sleep eventually overcame me.
Dr Munroe, who had known me since I was an infant, suggested a mild sleeping pill might help – ‘just during these sad and difficult early weeks, my dear’. I accepted his prescription, but never swallowed a single one of his pills. No, it was not my preferred way. It was important to remain in control of my consciousness.
At the office, my mind would not focus properly. Every task seemed difficult, yet nothing seemed to matter to me as before. I felt the need for a complete change, a time for peace and reflection; a time to reconsider my life and my future. Perhaps it was something to do with having turned forty last year. Not that I believed in phenomena such as “mid-life crises”, but it was surely reasonable to regard forty as a chance to embark on new endeavours. So, back in November, not long after Mother’s will was read, I had handed in the obligatory three months’ notice at Chambers.
‘So what are you going to do, Alison?’ asked Mrs Anderson, the administrative manager (promoted well above her capabilities, I always believed). ‘Have you found another job to go to?’
‘Not exactly. I feel it’s time to re-evaluate, to think about the next period of my life and work out exactly what I want to do with it.’
Mrs Anderson sniffed. ‘Re-evaluate? Sounds a bit of a luxury to me. “Re-evaluation” isn’t something most of us can afford. Still, I suppose it’s unsettling to lose your mum when you’ve always spent so much time together – is that it?’
‘Certainly losing Mother has been a blow …’ I paused for a moment.
Mrs Anderson sighed and glanced at her watch.
‘Yes,’ I said hastily, ‘you’re right, very unsettling.’
Despite this unsatisfactory exchange, I was touched to note the genuine regret expressed by most of my colleagues at my leaving – both the legal team and the administrative staff.
‘S’pect you’ll miss us ’ere in the office, won’t you, Alison? What you goin’ to do wiv yourself all the time?’ Julie was the newest office recruit. Her long nails clacked away on her typewriter.
‘I’m sure I’ll find plenty to occupy my time, Julie.’
‘Oh yeah, goin’ to museums and libraries and that?’ She winked at Debbie and they giggled, without revealing the source of their amusement. Certainly, I mused, I would not miss the banality of office conversation.
It was clear that Mrs Anderson was at least sensitive enough to register the strength of my determination, because at no time did she try to dissuade me from my decision. She had never been generous with praise, so it was a particular pleasure to see myself described with words such as “efficient”, “invaluable”, “intelligent”, “loyal” and “highly valued” in the brief note about my departure circulated to the staff. It would have been perfectly proper for Mrs Anderson to have written a personal note or card to me at home, and perhaps to have wished me well, but this was not her way.
At the end of my last day at Chambers, a select gathering had been arranged in the main office by way of a “leaving do”. Cups of my favourite Earl Grey tea and a tray of tasteful and dainty iced cakes were handed around by the juniors. I was seen off with a gift token, a bunch of flowers and a jovial peck on the cheek by Sir Julian, delivered amid the usual waft of winey fumes – he had not long returned from his usual lunchtime expedition.
‘A new year, a new life! Eh, my dear? Jolly good for you.’
I tried to smile benignly. He could never have imagined how true those words were!
Chapter Three (#ufd01aa96-d5f0-50e3-a65c-cd25011f6462)
I had wanted a child of my own for as many years as I could remember. I might even admit to having felt a desperate longing for a child. I frequently recall Mother’s words to me during the last days of her life.
‘Don’t live alone, Alison,’ she had said. ‘It’s not good for you, dear. I do so wish for you to have a child – a child to love, and to love you. I won’t be a grandmother, of course – it’s too late for that – but if only I could know that you will have the joy of being a mother, as I did with you; that would be such a comfort for me.’
‘You’re right, Mother,’ I had told her soothingly, Mother’s hand in mine as frail and fleshless as a chicken’s claw.
‘Please don’t worry – I want to have a child. I will have a child, I promise.’
Perhaps it was a rash promise, but I had genuinely meant those words. Three days later Mother was dead. I had underestimated the impact her loss would have on me. She had been right; I needed someone to love, and to love me. I needed a child. That need grew in me until it was all-consuming.
* * *
Of course, I had tried all avenues: conventional means some might say. But none felt truly right for me. Why not give birth to a child of your own, some might ask. The fundamental barrier is that first a man is required. My attitude to men had been permanently coloured by the event at university some years before. I didn’t dislike men, but neither did I trust them, and they had never played a significant role in my life. I could not envisage the constant presence of a man in my home, in my life. Above all, I regarded acts of physical intimacy with a man with the utmost revulsion.
Some women might even pursue what I understood were referred to as “one-night stands” – a revolting term – but this was not a path I could ever have contemplated. Even thinking about it caused me to tremble and feel quite nauseous. Thus I had dispensed with the idea of “natural” means of having a child.
Next, I considered the possibility of artificial insemination. However, I could never have submitted myself to such a humiliating procedure – little better than the means by which a prize cow might be used for breeding.
Having dismissed all these avenues, I looked into legal adoption. One would imagine that a respectable woman, still in her thirties at that time, and willing to offer a home to an unwanted waif, would be welcomed with open arms. Not so! After weeks of visits from social workers and their ceaseless interviews and questionnaires, I had been told that I was not considered suitable to adopt a child. Not suitable! “The team” had decided – “regretfully” – that I was not suited to bringing up a child, especially a young and vulnerable child, they said. Words like “judgemental”, “lacking in empathy”, and “rigid personality” had been bandied about; meaningless psycho-babble straight out of some left-wing social work textbook, no doubt. And thus this questionable group of people had passed their own judgement on me.
There had been no means of appeal. As will be appreciated by anyone with a scrap of insight, I had been left with no choice but to take the matter into my own hands.
Chapter Four (#ulink_e4beada9-e60a-5abd-ba59-e96fe7a801a4)
By February, I was taking the first steps towards a fundamentally different future. I had decided on Newcastle for its distance from Nottingham, and as a fine, distinctive city in its own right. Only Newcastle’s proximity to Durham, with that city’s sad associations for me, made me hesitate over my choice at first. Yet the advantages were clear and I resolved to overcome my doubts, and to look firmly down at a book rather than out of the window as the train passed through Durham station.
I made my very specific wishes quite clear to the Homefind estate agency. As a widow with a small daughter, I explained, I was looking for a smallish house, with three bedrooms, preferably detached, with a neat, easy-to-manage and secure back garden, to allow the child to play safely. I felt no qualms about presenting myself in this way – in my mind I was already Lucy’s mother.
The agency soon found a very suitable house on a predominantly post-Fifties estate on the edge of the suburb of Gosforth. It was perfect for my needs, having one bedroom off the “half-landing”, and two further bedrooms with dormer windows set into the slope of the roof. It was described as a “Dutch bungalow”. I liked the term. It gave my new home a touch of the exotic, while retaining a wholesome image.
The house was freshly whitewashed and stood at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, its garden backing onto a pleasant area of trees and fields where people strolled and walked their dogs. There was even a small playground nearby – ideal for Lucy. The neighbouring houses were far enough away for me not to feel overlooked. My – sorry, our! –new home (I would have to get used to using the plural pronoun) had been well maintained by the elderly couple who were selling it. Certainly, the decoration was a little old-fashioned, but that didn’t matter to me. Thanks to Mother’s carefully invested estate, added to the anticipated sale of our house in Nottingham, and my own smaller savings, I was able to contemplate not working while caring for a young child. This was very important to me; far too many young children were placed in the care of nurseries or childminders. I had no intention of Lucy becoming a “latch-key” child.
Fortunately, there were spare funds to put in a new kitchen and bathroom, and for fresh wallpaper and paint throughout. Mother had never been a great spender, but she would have enjoyed discussing decoration and soft furnishings with me, especially when it came to Lucy’s room. At times like this I missed her terribly. In fact, if I am truthful, not a moment went by when I did not miss her, but at least having so much to occupy my mind did help.
It was vital to be able to come and go freely at the new house over the coming weeks, without arousing curiosity or suspicion. One of my first tasks was to visit the next-door neighbours on either side and introduce myself. I’d never been one for dropping in and out of other people’s homes, so I felt a degree of anxiety about these initial contacts. To the left was a youngish couple, Susan and Mike Harmon. They had a nice polite little girl of about nine called Claire, and a younger boy, Charlie, who seemed somewhat boisterous and over-excitable.
‘Come on in, it’s just lovely to meet you, Alison!’ said Susan, eagerly taking my arm as I hesitated on the doorstep. ‘Come into the kitchen and let’s have a cup of tea.’
Susan didn’t think to ask what sort of tea I might prefer. In fact, she served what Mother would have called “builders’ tea”, but I drank it and made no comment.
‘So you see, we’ll be coming up in a while – my little girl Lucy and I – just as soon as the house is ready,’ I explained.
‘Ooh, how lovely! It’ll be so nice for all of us to have a younger family next door. Charlie – did you hear that? A little girl next door for you to play with!’ Susan turned back to me. ‘How old is Lucy?’
I almost panicked for a moment. I felt a rush of colour swarming up my neck and cheeks. How could I know exactly how old Lucy was?
‘She’s … er … a bit younger than Charlie.’ I lowered my voice. ‘The thing is, Susan, we lost Lucy’s daddy recently …’
This was a useful device to distract Susan from her question. Her eyes widened and she put her hands up to her face, which adopted a tragic expression.
‘Lost …? Oh no, how terrible! I’m so sorry … er … how …’
‘Accident …’ I whispered under my breath. ‘Yes, that’s why we had to move, you understand … to allow us to rebuild our lives together up here in Newcastle. A completely new start.’
I was getting into my stride now. I noted Susan’s agonised expression and continued. ‘I’m looking forward to making a happy, loving home, for Lucy’s sake. That’s what I’ll live for now.’
Susan nodded at me knowingly. To my astonishment, her eyes filled with tears. She squeezed my arm tenderly. I gulped and looked at my lap.
‘Right now,’ I said, inserting a slight tremor into my voice, ‘Lucy has been staying with … um … an aunt back in Nottingham whenever I make these visits to the North East to get things sorted. She’s been very supportive, but I’m hoping we can both settle here properly soon.’
Susan continued her nodding, while biting her lip in a rather foolish way that I supposed was intended to denote empathy. I took a deep breath, and concentrated on brightening my facial expression.
‘I’m sorry, Susan – I didn’t want to upset you with all this gloomy talk. Just listen to me, I’ve done nothing but talk about myself! How rude of me – please tell me more about you.’
Susan didn’t need asking twice; she looked relieved to change the subject. She was a naturally talkative person, and seemed keen to tell me all about the family; her husband Michael (‘most people call him Mike’) was a GP and she herself was a part-time solicitor. There was an excellent first school on the estate, which Claire attended. She had the rest of that year there before moving on to the middle school. Charlie had started going to the nursery part-time.
Susan was sure Lucy would love it too, when she started. I quickly intervened and explained that I felt Lucy was too young for nursery just at the moment. She would need some time to settle down first.
‘Of course she will, Alison. Dear little Lucy will need her mummy more than anything at the moment,’ she said, ‘but don’t forget she can come and play with Charlie any time, any time at all – and Claire will just love playing the older sister. Also, we know most of the people around here and can easily introduce you. That’ll help you to settle and get to know people. Everyone’s really friendly.’
I wasn’t at all sure I liked the sound of these introductions, but decided that at least it showed that Susan and Mike were welcoming and accepting.
The neighbours on the other side were an older retired couple, Frank and Molly Armstrong. They were equally warm, rushing about to produce tea and homemade scones for me when I called. I told them the same story as I’d told to the Harmons. Molly Armstrong shook her head and patted my hand sympathetically. Frank said if there was anything he could help with, anything at all – he was handy with tools or a paintbrush – just to let him know.
They both said how nice it would be to have a little girl growing up next door, and they would be happy to babysit at any time – they didn’t go out much. I almost responded that I didn’t go out much either, but decided it was best to reveal as little of myself as possible.
Chapter Five (#ulink_4ea860cf-7bd2-5890-a6ba-f241dcf15507)
I found the next stage of the preparations highly enjoyable. I got up early, took the train to York, and spent the morning in the city centre buying the necessary items: a navy blue gabardine coat (a bit dull) and some clumpy navy shoes; a more stylish, pillar-box red, lightweight wool coat; and black knee-length boots for me. Then I went into British Home Stores and Marks and Spencer for a number of sets of girls’ clothing, including pyjamas and underwear, all sized for age two years, and one set of boys’ clothes: dungarees, jumper, hat and parka, also for age two years.
Next, I allowed myself a break – a delightful light lunch and pot of tea at Betty’s Tea Room. Mother frequently said I should allow myself more “treats”. As always, she was right – I found I could relax and enjoy myself as I nursed a good cup of my favourite Earl Grey tea in the comfort and warmth of Betty’s.
It was pleasant strolling through the historic lanes and looking in at the shop windows. Mothercare was not far. With some helpful advice I selected a lightweight Maclaren pushchair, which the assistant referred to as a “buggy”. I also bought a potty, some nappies (just in case), a set of child’s plastic crockery and cutlery, and a few toys and books. This was all I could manage, but by putting several of the carrier bags into the buggy I was able to make my way back to York station, and from there I caught my train to Newcastle.
The next day I ordered a child’s bed, mattress and bedding, a wardrobe and chest of drawers, a little table and two chairs to match, some cheerful pictures, and a few more toys, all from Bainbridge’s excellent department store in Newcastle city centre. These items were to be delivered to my new house the following Friday, by which time Lucy’s room would be decorated and carpeted.
* * *
At home, I tried on the navy coat and shoes for the third time, together with the dark brown wig I’d ordered previously from a discreet company dealing mainly with cancer sufferers. I’d never taken great interest in fashion, much to the scorn of my schoolmates, but I knew exactly what I liked in the way of clothes.
I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. The effect on my appearance was immediate and striking. I was totally transformed – how very satisfactory. I even felt different in my new outfit: older and, it has to be said, somewhat dowdy. Removing those clothes, I delighted in observing the metamorphosis wrought by switching to the red coat, the delicious high boots, and the return to my natural fair hair. Not exactly a “scarlet woman”, but certainly a more lively and attractive persona.
The following week I arranged for some of my furniture and household possessions to be moved from Nottingham to Newcastle. I had stocked the new kitchen cupboards and the freezer with suitable food for me and a young child. The house was ready.
I invited Mike and Susan Harmon, together with their children, and Frank and Molly Armstrong to come in for drinks to celebrate. Mike and Susan opted for a glass of wine and I’d got in Kia-Ora and Ribena for Claire and Charlie. I’d laid out some toys, books, paper and drawing pens and crayons on the dining table for them, as well as some crisps and snacks. It pained me a little to see Charlie sift through the objects I had so carefully ordered. He seemed to have no thought for rearranging the colours of the crayons, nor the size order of the books and toys. Oh well; I resolved to do it myself later.
‘Oh, aren’t you thoughtful, Alison!’ said Susan, looking around.
‘Well, I know what it’s like for children when adults are talking together.’
‘’Course you do. We can’t wait to meet Lucy, isn’t that right, children?’
Claire looked up from her drawing and smiled. ‘It’ll be nice to have a little girl next door,’ she said emphatically, glancing at her brother.
‘Have you got a photo of Lucy, Alison?’ asked Mike, looking around the room. My mouth dried up suddenly.
‘No … well … yes, of course I have … er … but they’re still in boxes. Lots of things still to unpack – or at my other house, you see.’
Charlie was looking around too. What would they ask for next? ‘Alison … got no TV?’
I don’t approve of children being allowed to use adults’ names without permission, but I let this pass.
‘No, sorry, not yet, Charlie. But it won’t be long before Lucy’s here for you to play with – just another two or three weeks, I hope.’
After all my preparations, I thought, all Charlie could think about was television! Never mind. My Lucy wouldn’t be glued to a screen – I was certain of that. I turned to the Armstrongs.
‘Now, what would you like, Molly?’
‘Eee, I’d love a cup of tea, pet, if it’s not too much trouble, and Frank’s noticed you’ve got some beer over there. He’s not really a wine man, are you, love?’
‘Yes of course. Here, Frank, here’s the opener and a glass. Just help yourself while I get Betty’s tea.’
‘Thanks, pet, that’s grand. I hope we’re going to get the guided tour after, are we?’
‘It’ll be a pleasure, Frank.’
‘You’ve done an amazing job here, Alison,’ said Mike, looking around the sitting room.
‘Thank you, Michael … Mike. I’m pleased with the way it’s turned out. That’s partly down to the decorators you recommended. They’ve been wonderful – completely reliable. I’m really grateful.’
Mike followed me out to the kitchen. The back of my neck began to prickle uncomfortably to feel his physical presence so close behind me. However, he seemed rather a nice man – quieter than Susan, and thoughtful.
‘Wow, what a difference!’ he said, looking around.
‘Well, it was basically a sound house, and the Turners had left everything in pretty good condition. All I’ve done is a bit of window-dressing.’
I put the small teapot on a tray with a milk jug.
‘Can I get the cups, Alison?’ Mike asked.
‘Just in that cupboard above the bread bin.’
It was a relief to watch him walk to the other side of the kitchen.
‘Oh, that’s very tidy,’ said Mike, opening the cupboard and smiling back at me. ‘You’re a woman after my own heart.’
‘Cups in the front, saucers at the back on the left.’
‘Thanks. I’m so sorry you’ve had to do all this on your own, Alison. Susie told me … It can’t have been easy.’
I sighed tragically and nodded. ‘I’ll be very glad when Lucy joins me up here at last – it has been a bit … lonely … on my own.’
Mike gently touched my shoulder, sending a shock down my spine as I carried the tray through. I gripped the handles tightly.
I decided that the evening was turning out to be a great success, although I worried that Charlie might break something with his frenetic racing about. I hoped Lucy wouldn’t turn out to be quite so lively. I wasn’t sure I could deal with that. The children were both thrilled to see Lucy’s room, though.
‘Oh it’s so pretty. Look, Mum – all the animals on the bed! Lucy’s got her own little desk. Look how tidy it is! Can we sit on the chairs, Alison?’
Even Claire was using my first name.
‘Of course you can. I’m sure it won’t stay as tidy once Lucy gets here.’ Everyone laughed. Although I secretly hoped it might.
Chapter Six (#ulink_daa751be-f82c-554e-bbd7-71be33bff4b6)
1985
Next came the trickier part of the plan. After weeks of research I had decided on Riddlesfield. All the indices showed it to be one of the most “disadvantaged” towns in the country, with certain districts such as Thornhough, Hollerton, Woodhope and Frainham consistently reported as areas of the highest child poverty in England. Studying a map of the town and its surrounds, it was Frainham that stood out as most suitable for my needs. Not only was there street after street of small, tightly packed terraced houses, but the area was easily accessible from the city centre, and more importantly, from Riddlesfield railway station. I pored over the map so often that soon I was able to close my eyes and picture the exact pattern of streets, squares and landmarks required for my purpose.
The morning after the house-warming party for the neighbours, I returned to Nottingham for a few days, awaiting rain. On the third day, I woke to a dank and gloomy morning. By the time I’d had breakfast it was drizzling steadily. A solid bank of lowering grey clouds sat over the houses and foretold of more to come – perfect.
I put on my navy coat and shoes, and the brown wig. Then I tied a large paisley headscarf over my head, using kirby grips to make sure all the hair was firmly tucked in beneath it. For extra anonymity, I put up a large umbrella as I emerged from the front door. If I’d been of a more dramatic inclination, no doubt all this would have been a source of great entertainment, but not for me. I felt sick with anxiety. Over and over again, I rehearsed in my mind exactly what I had to do. Nothing must go wrong.
I needn’t have worried. By now the rain was falling heavily. The few pedestrians I encountered on my way to the bus station hurried head-down to their destinations, clutching their collars around their necks, striving only to get out of the wet as quickly as possible, and scarcely glancing in my direction.
Nottingham to Riddlesfield was not a straightforward journey, but I felt that this was in my favour. The number of necessary changes – though daunting – made it less likely that I would ever be linked to my destination. After a bus ride to Derby station I bought a day return to Leeds, where I had about forty-five minutes to wait for a direct train to Riddlesfield.
Thankfully, by this time the rain clouds had cleared and I was able to dispense with the unpleasantly damp headscarf, revealing my dark hair. The train to Riddlesfield was not too crowded. I tried to read the newspaper, but found I couldn’t concentrate. Nevertheless, I kept the paper open, and sheltered behind its protective screen. An hour and a half later the train arrived at Riddlesfield.
I found myself increasingly nervous as I stepped onto the platform and made my way out of the station, my heart pounding unpleasantly. I had to pause a few moments, breathing deeply, while I calmed myself by picturing the map with which I had become so familiar. Sure enough, the layout of the actual streets before me precisely matched the image in my mind.
I quickly crossed the road and walked southwards until I came to Churchill Square, with its shops and cafés. One café looked bright and welcoming. I noted it as somewhere I might allow myself another cup of tea later on that day. I continued along Holbrook Street and, after a few minutes’ walk, turned right into City Road. After perhaps a quarter of a mile, I turned left and soon found myself in precisely the right area of narrow streets, densely built with mean and coal-blackened terraced houses, just as my research had indicated. This must be Frainham, I thought, recalling the map, this must be it.
As if to confirm that it was indeed the poor, run-down neighbourhood I wanted, two small boys, aged only about three or four – both dirty and inadequately dressed for the time of year – were playing unsupervised in the gutter at the end of a back lane strewn with rubbish. An overflowing dustbin provided the little urchins with playthings; they were rolling tin cans noisily over the cobbles.
I stopped and made a deliberate effort to smile at them. The children stared back at me impassively. Then the slightly larger boy stood up, and, looking both impish and defiant, he stuck his tongue out at me! I knew it was ridiculous to allow myself to feel intimidated by two such tiny children, barely out of babyhood – but nevertheless I did feel it, and so hurried on, fearing the boys might have started throwing stones or items of rubbish.
I explored the streets systematically, working my way southwards, wandering up one terrace, and then down the next – all the while trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. As I rounded a corner, I encountered another small boy – this one of maybe five or six years old – who almost bumped into me. He wore shorts much too long for him and a torn jersey. His hair was tousled and unwashed-looking.
‘’ello, missus,’ he said, standing sturdily in my path and grinning up at me.
‘Hello …’ I said, beginning to edge around him. He shifted sideways, as if to bar my way again.
‘Wanta see what’s in me box, missus?’ he said, thrusting a battered cardboard box up at me. I looked about uneasily.
‘Well … um … yes, all right.’
He carefully prised off the lid, to reveal a scrawny, greyish house mouse. It twitched its nose and regarded me with glittery black eyes. Horrified, I took a step back.
‘It’s me mouse,’ the boy informed me unnecessarily. ‘He’s me pet. I call ’im Billy. You got ten pee for Billy, missus? For ’is dinner, like?’
With trembling fingers I searched my purse for a coin. Finding two ten-pence pieces, I held them in the air in front of the boy.
‘Put the lid on the box,’ I urged him, dropping one ten-pence piece into his expectant palm. ‘That’s for your mouse’s food,’ I said, ‘and here’s ten pence for you to spend.’ The child smiled a gap-toothed smile.
‘Ta, missus.’
I hurried onwards.
I could have no doubts that this was a suitable area. Greyish, shabby-looking washing hung in many of the yards, and in places was draped right across the back lanes. A group of young men clustered around a motorbike outside a corner shop, talking and laughing loudly and crudely, in a way I could not help finding unsettling. Some were drinking what I assumed was beer from cans or bottles. One threw an empty can at an advertisement hoarding just behind me, causing such a sudden clang that I jumped with shock, which only made the youths laugh louder still.
I turned quickly down the next back lane. Here and there women smoked and chatted with one another in pairs or threes. The local dialect was so broad that I could scarcely make out a word of what was said, although their frequent use of profanities was clear enough. Some held babies on their hips, while toddlers swarmed around their legs. Bigger children chased each other about, screaming like savages.
At one street corner a bigger girl pushed two younger children in a large cardboard box, careless of broken glass strewn across the ground. The scene struck me as more reminiscent of the Twenties or Thirties than the Eighties. I made sure not to linger, anxious to remain inconspicuous. It was essential that no one should notice my presence too readily, or engage me in conversation.
Just as my resolve, in this hostile environment, was beginning to falter, I came to a row of houses that appeared to hold some promise. My attention was drawn by a woman’s voice shouting.
‘Will youse two ger’out from under me effin’ feet right now! Go on – ger’outside!’
I slowed my pace. A boy of about five yanked open a battered door hanging by one hinge, and ran out of the yard. He looked from left to right, and then ran leftwards until he was out of sight. I caught my breath, gasped, and stood still. For a moment I hadn’t noticed a second child emerge from the door. But yes, there she was: tiny, elfin; two or perhaps two and a half years old. She stood in the yard doorway looking about her, a finger in her mouth.
‘Wy-yan …?’ she called plaintively.
I guessed the child was calling her brother. Her fair hair was tangled and matted at the back, her face extraordinarily grubby. She wore a stained yellow dress and an equally grimy cardigan, which had once been white. In her hand she held a filthy, one-legged doll by what remained of its hair. I paused and watched her, scarcely breathing. The little girl put the doll on the pavement and squatted down, crooning softly to it. She picked up a paper wrapper from the gutter and smoothed it carefully across her knee. Then she laid it over the doll with great tenderness, muttering something like ‘Dere y’are. Dere y’are, Polly.’
I tiptoed towards the child, holding my breath, longing to linger, but knowing I could not. As I reached her, the child looked up and noticed me. She raised her little face to gaze up at me and give me a startlingly beautiful, radiant smile. I paused and smiled back for a moment, and then, reluctantly forcing myself to turn away, I walked on. My heart was pounding. I had found my Lucy.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_ac265a49-5609-5c24-8c42-c12151a30bae)
I scarcely noticed the journey back to Nottingham. I even forgot to spread my clean handkerchief on the back of the seat behind my head. Somehow I made each connection and boarded the correct trains. Ticket collectors came and went. I must have presented the relevant ticket, though I had no memory of doing so.
One cheery conductor on the Leeds-to-Derby stretch said, ‘Penny for them, duck!’ as he punched my ticket – such a foolish expression. But he shrugged and quickly moved on, disappointed, I suppose, that I had failed to respond in the same spirit. He could have offered me a fortune for them, but I wouldn’t have shared them; my thoughts were all on Lucy. How could such a dreadful place, such a dreadful family, have produced a child of such beauty and perfection? My mind drifted unbidden to my own history.
Could I have been born into just such a slum? Certainly my “birth mother” must have lacked morals. “Unmarried mother”, the adoption agency had written in the sketchy notes Mother had shared with me, when she felt that, at fourteen or so, I was mature enough for such information. Mother had always been open about the adoption. From my earliest memories, I knew I’d been “chosen” and that somehow this made me special. Mother had emphasised that it was unnecessary to share this information about my roots with anyone else. It was just for the two of us. Well, Mother was my real mother in every true sense of the word, wasn’t she?
When thoughts of this “unmarried mother” occasionally surfaced, I shuddered at the image of a slovenly, unkempt woman – such as those I had seen today in abundance on the streets and back lanes of Frainham. I screwed up my eyes tightly and forced myself to concentrate on Mother, neat and decent, her morals intact, and felt I could breathe easily again. Thank goodness I had decided years ago never to attempt to make contact with my birth mother.
Finally, the bus from Derby deposited me and I walked the last half-mile or so home in the dark. As so often happened, sleep did not come easily that night, although I was exhausted, both physically and mentally, from the day. I had had nothing to eat since breakfast, except an egg and cress sandwich hastily bought at Riddlesfield station, of which I could swallow only half. I knew I should eat something when I got home, but the very thought of food was repellent.
I lay back in a soothing hot bath and then fell into bed. My mind spun and my whole being was as tense as a spring with excitement. If it had been possible, I would have returned to that street, that house, the very next day, indeed that very minute. I would have scooped the beautiful child up in my arms and run off with her.
But impulsiveness was not in my nature. I knew it was an impulse that, like so many urges, had to be resisted – and a good thing too. It was vital to concentrate on the longer term. By focusing solely on my immediate longing, the whole future could be jeopardised. Self-control was everything. The final stages were approaching, and that made it all the more important to adhere absolutely to the plan.
* * *
The last day in Nottingham came soon enough. I stood in the chill of the empty house, and spent some minutes listening to the echo of the many years gone by. I checked each room one last time. Here, where we sat comfortably by the fire, Mother with embroidery or knitting on her lap, me with a book, or my stamp album (how I loved those colourful stamps, especially the ones sent by Mother’s friend Maureen from New Zealand, with their bird pictures).
Here, too, where we shared the evening meal together, the table always perfectly laid – not for us a plate on our laps in front of the television. Here my bedroom to which I had loved to retreat during difficult times as a child, for peace and solitude. And here was Mother’s room with its pink carpet and white built-in cupboard. The delicate smell of Mother lingered still, hung softly in the air, like a gentle ghost.
Now was the time for leaving. I locked the front door and went next door to say goodbye to Sylvia Blythe, our elderly neighbour, and leave the key with her for the agents to pick up. I took her two large carrier bags full of the non-perishable remnants from the kitchen cupboards: tins of soup, dried fruit, pots of jam and the like.
‘So kind of you, dear, just like your mother, aren’t you? I can’t believe you won’t be here any more. Not you, nor poor Dorothy.’ Sylvia’s voice broke with a sob. ‘After all these years – oh Alison, I shall miss you terribly.’
‘I’m sure the new neighbours will be nice.’
‘Maybe, but that’s just what they’ll be: new. Dorothy and I were friends for nearly fifty years – fifty years, Alison!’
Tears wound a crooked path down Sylvia’s wrinkled cheek. I held my breath, bent over her armchair and hugged her. I couldn’t help recoiling slightly at the feel of the soft, loose flesh of her face and its powdery smell. Sylvia recalled memories of her friendship with Mother: anecdotes I had heard many times.
When at last I was able to say my final goodbyes and extricate myself, I left by Sylvia’s back door and returned through the side gate to the garden. It was still only half past eleven. I fetched the pushchair and bags from their hiding place in the shed, put on my navy coat and brown wig, checked that no one was about, and departed through the back gate. I left the house I’d lived in for all of my forty-one years without a backwards glance.
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Diana Finley
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 17.04.2024
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О книге: Every family has its secrets. None more than this one. Alison’s life has been a lonely one, but now it’s time to change that. With no children in her future there is only one answer – she’ll take one.She’ll rescue a girl who needs a better home. A better mother. A better life.It will be the start of a perfect family, and no one will question who Lucy really is. Especially not Lucy herself…A dark story of psychological suspense, perfect for fans of Kerry Fisher, Liane Moriarty and Linda Green.