About Diana Finley

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

About Diana Finley

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader …

About the Publisher

Chapter One
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

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

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

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

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
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

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.

Chapter Eight

There was nothing to guarantee I would be able to take the child that day, or the next, or the one after that, although I hoped, of course. What was vital was that I travelled to Riddlesfield from Nottingham, and never from Newcastle. That connection must never be made.

If the opportunity to take Lucy did not arise that day, I had planned to stay the night in a bed and breakfast in Brayling, an ancient village in a quiet rural area just outside Riddlesfield, and to return again by taxi the following day, and the day after that if necessary.

In the event, there was no need to stay overnight. My plan went miraculously smoothly. The journey seemed much simpler this time, having experienced it all before. It was late afternoon as I pushed the pushchair – empty but for a large carrier bag – from the station and through the streets. The sky was already darkening, which was greatly to the advantage of my disguise. I was concerned, however, that even the most neglectful parents, as the child’s appeared to be, would surely not allow such a tiny girl to play alone outside in the dark – and I might have missed my chance.

I needn’t have worried. As I approached the now familiar street, I recognised the small figure on the pavement near the yard as before, playing with some sticks. She wore the same yellow dress, this time with a boy’s green jersey over it, clearly a hand-me-down, as it was far too big for her, the sleeves turned up in lumpy rolls.

No one was about. I walked rapidly straight towards her, fishing in my bag for a lollipop. Her parents must have been inside. I could hear raucous shouting, shrieking and coarse laughter coming from the house. They sounded drunk. The little girl stood up, holding a bundle of twigs and sticks. She looked at me as I approached. I crouched to her level.

‘Hello, dear,’ I said quietly. The child stuck a dirty finger in her mouth and smiled. I held the lolly in front of her and she reached for it.

‘Do you like trains? Would you like to go for a ride – on a train?’ I said, holding the lolly just out of reach.

‘Tain,’ the little girl said, her eyes on the lolly.

I gave the lollipop to her and she immediately stuck it into her mouth. I pulled a pink anorak out of my bag and pushed the child’s little arms into it. She looked at it admiringly and did not resist. I put the hood up and tucked the fine, fair hair in.

‘It’s cold,’ I explained, ‘let’s go and see the train.’

‘See tain,’ the little girl replied.

I looked carefully all around us. No one; no sign of her parents, or anyone else. Just howls of laughter, screeching and braying from inside the house. They appeared to be completely unaware of their child, of Lucy. I picked her up and sat her in the pushchair, quickly fastening the straps, as I had practised. I set off at a fast walk. Lucy sat in the pushchair completely relaxed, sucking her lolly, looking about her with interest. I talked constantly, frantically, as if a gap of silence might somehow cause the child to beg to turn around and go home, to cry for her mother. I gabbled about a car, a tree, a dog, a blue door – anything we passed by, anything to engage her interest.

‘Look, Lucy – a black dog! What a big dog! Oh, there’s a bus.’

Lucy looked in the direction of whatever I remarked on in this way. There was nothing wrong with her comprehension. I might have known my Lucy was no fool.

As we approached Churchill Square I said, ‘Let’s go in a shop now, shall we?’

‘Sop,’ Lucy agreed.

We went into British Home Stores, down the escalator to the lower ground floor, and straight to the toilets. No one inside. Good. I lifted her out. I paused for a moment and held Lucy tenderly to me, breathing her in. It was as if I breathed Lucy into my very heart, which beat hectically. I felt something for this child – whom I’d only just met – that I had never felt before. The feeling was so strong and so unfamiliar that for a moment I was afraid.

I put Lucy down, took a flannel from my bag, and wet it thoroughly with warm water at a basin. We squeezed into a cubicle, leaving the pushchair in a marked area by the basins. From the carrier bag I pulled out a spare bag and retrieved the blue dungarees, a red and blue jumper, and a pair of boys’ socks and shoes. I lifted Lucy onto the toilet and said ‘Wee wee’ encouragingly. Lucy looked a bit doubtful, so I gave her a little clown figure to hold, which made her laugh. To my delight, after a moment I heard the sound of success.

‘Good girl, Lucy!’

‘Tacy,’ she replied. ‘Done wee.’

I wiped her with toilet paper, and used the wet flannel to wash her face and then her bottom. We heard the sound of someone entering the end cubicle. Lucy pointed and I smiled and nodded. Lucy nodded back. It was an understanding we shared. Lucy allowed herself to be dressed in clean underwear and the boys’ clothes, including a khaki parka in place of the pink anorak. She watched a little regretfully as I stuffed the anorak into the bag. She studied the sleeves of the parka with some disdain, but did not protest.

The shoes were slightly too big. She gazed at them and banged her feet together. I put all of Lucy’s clothes into the spare bag and quickly took off the navy coat. I put on my red coat instead and pulled off the brown wig. Lucy laughed and pointed.

‘Hair!’ she said.

I folded the blue coat and put it in the large carrier bag, together with the wig. I gathered Lucy’s hair gently into a little band, and put a boy’s woolly hat over it, careful that no long strands had escaped. Lucy put her hands up to touch the hat. I sighed gratefully when she did not try to pull it off. She looked very much like a little boy now. We opened the door of the cubicle. My heart was thundering. A woman was combing her hair at the mirror and smiled down at Lucy. I helped Lucy wash and dry her hands. Then I washed my own.

‘Eee, what a clever lad,’ said the woman. ‘Mine’d make a terrible fuss! You’ve got ’im well trained, God bless ’im.’ We laughed together wryly, as mothers do.

Next, we hurried to the station. I was relieved to see from my timetable that there was a direct train leaving in less than ten minutes. At the ticket office I bought a single to Newcastle for myself and we found the platform. I gave Lucy a shortbread biscuit. She nibbled it daintily. She jiggled with excitement every time a train arrived or departed, flapping her arms up and down.

‘Tain, tain!’ she cried, pointing.

‘This is our train, Lucy,’ I told her.

‘Mam?’

‘Yes, I’m here – Mummy’s here. What fun to go on the train!’

A kind man helped lift the pushchair on. I lifted Lucy up the high step and she ran ahead into the carriage. We folded the pushchair and deposited it in the luggage store and found a seat with a table. The carrier bags fitted in the overhead luggage rack. The train was only half full and, predictably, most other passengers avoided sitting near to a small child, so we had the area to ourselves.

Initially Lucy took delight in the journey, seeing the lights flashing by, watching other passengers walk past, clambering on the seat to peep at those sitting in the next section, but I had to restrain her from this. It was important to avoid attracting anyone’s attention. Also, Lucy was still wearing her boys’ woolly hat to conceal her hair, but I was increasingly anxious that she might try to pull it off as the temperature in the carriage rose. I gave her a carton of chilled fruit juice I’d bought at Riddlesfield station, the loud slurping sounds as Lucy sucked on the straw clear proof of her enjoyment.

After that she sat very quietly for a while, looking at me.

‘Mam?’ she said, her lower lip starting to quiver. A tiny convulsive sob escaped from her. I pulled her onto my knee and whispered,

‘Don’t worry, Lucy – I’m Mummy. Mummy loves you, Lucy.’

‘Tacy,’ she said, a little fractiously. ‘Tacy!’

She had said this before and I was unsure what she meant. Was it some toy she was missing – the dreadful doll I had seen her with the first time?

She began to whimper a little. I guessed she was tired. It was nearly eight in the evening – probably past her bedtime. Rather against my principles, I took out a little plastic box, in which was a sterilised dummy I’d been keeping in reserve, and held it in front of Lucy. She grabbed it and immediately pushed it into her mouth. I took a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar out of my bag and, rocking Lucy gently on my lap, I read the story to her. Her body went limp and relaxed. She sucked rhythmically on the dummy.

When the book was finished, Lucy patted it to indicate she wanted it read again. By the time I had finished the third reading, she was nearly asleep, her head heavy against my arm.

Chapter Nine

As the train doors opened at Newcastle Central Station, a blast of cold air surged in and enclosed us. Lucy was fast asleep in my arms. I hugged her close, as once again a helpful fellow passenger intervened to carry the pushchair down the steps and onto the platform. It was a relief the woman knew how to unfold it and I was able to deposit Lucy straight in and tuck the parka around her drooping form. The woman handed me the carrier bags.

‘There’s a little fellow who’s ready for his bed,’ she remarked kindly. I nodded and thanked her. We joined the queue for taxis. At the sight of Lucy, several people urged me to go ahead of them and take the next taxi. I hadn’t realised how sympathetic people can be when confronted with small children. It must be a human instinct.

‘Here you are, pet. You take the bairn and I’ll put the buggy in the boot.’

The taxi driver regaled me with anecdotes about his own children’s antics on the journey home – I was unable to absorb these stories, my mind focused on our imminent arrival. I was terribly anxious that the neighbours might see us – with Lucy in her “boy-guise”. But it was dark and late in the evening. As the driver pulled up in front of the house, I had his money ready and added a largish tip, eager to be rid of him. Thankfully, not a soul was about.

By now Lucy was writhing and wriggling in my arms, and making strange animal-like moaning sounds. I struggled to hold her and unlock the front door. I put her down in the hall, grabbed the pushchair and bags, pulled them into the house and hurriedly slammed the door shut. I started to pull Lucy’s hat off and unzip her outer clothes, but she wrenched herself free. She threw herself onto the carpet in the hall and kicked her feet on the floor. She started to howl.

‘Maaam!’ she yelled, the sound emerging in great stuttering gulps. ‘Mam-Mam-Maaam! Mam-Mam-Maaaam!’

I stared at her for a moment, deeply alarmed by the noise and unsure how to proceed. I steadied my breathing and tried to recall what Mother might have done when I was upset as a small child. I faintly remembered being taken up to my room to “calm down”. I took off Lucy’s coat, picked up her writhing form, and carried her up to her bedroom.

‘Look, Lucy! Here’s Lucy’s room. Isn’t it lovely! Lots of toys, just for you. And here’s your cosy little bed. Mummy will run you a nice warm bath and we’ll put some lovely clean pyjamas on. Look, here’s Teddy.’

Lucy frowned furiously. She flung the bear across the room and lay sobbing face down on the bed. I was aghast – I hadn’t expected this. In fact, I was trembling, a feeling of panic taking hold – pinching at my spine. Why was Lucy so distressed at leaving behind a sordid home and such unsatisfactory and neglectful parents? Couldn’t she see what a wonderful home I had prepared for her, what a wonderful life I’d planned?

And then I realised. Of course Lucy could not see. I tried to calm myself and allow reason to return, remembering what Mother had always said: “Children have no sense of time.” I had so much to learn about children. It seemed that Lucy had no ability either to evaluate the present or to envisage the future. That dirty, impoverished home and those worthless parents were all she had known and experienced. How could she possibly understand how much better life could be, how much better a mother could be? I resolved to show her, however long it took.

Chapter Ten

I do not regard myself as an intolerant person, nor am I politically minded. I have nothing against poor people; decent, caring, hard-working poor people. No doubt some of them make admirable parents. But equally, there is no doubt that certain types of people do not deserve the privilege of having children. Perhaps some do not even realise that it is a privilege.

Lucy’s parents – Gary and Shelley Watts – spring instantly to mind. Social workers may have had the audacity to decree that I was unworthy of parenting a young child – but no end of feckless individuals, like the Watts, appear to have the right to bring children into the world willy-nilly, with no mention of the responsibilities that go hand in hand with those rights – and without a thought or care for the well-being of the children. Of course, I don’t go so far as to advocate sterilisation, but the balance of rights appears all one-sided to me.

Yet, however much they might have brought the situation upon themselves, I couldn’t help feeling a few transitory moments of pity for Gary and “Shell”. I had ultimately submitted to buying a television set, much as I disapproved of them. Perhaps in the future, Lucy would enjoy some educational programmes, I reasoned. Meanwhile, I felt, it was important for me to keep up with news of the police search, and with their dealings with Lucy’s birth parents.

The usual “television appeal” (media circus, you could call it!) did Gary and “Shell” no favours. To be sure, they were not a photogenic pair. Gary, with his shifty, rat-like features, lumpy shaved head and extensive tattoos, looked the epitome of a vicious criminal rather than a responsible, loving father. Most people would hardly trust him to wash their windows, let alone entrust a small child to his care. Indeed, the Daily Mail reported that according to their information, Gary Watts had served a prison sentence for burglary in the past.

The image projected by Shelley Watts was no more appealing. Her pudding-like face was red and blotchy. Her shapeless body appeared entirely boneless; enormous breasts like vast jellyfish, swelling and spilling over the table in a repulsive way, as she leaned towards the camera. An unfortunate habit of regularly swiping her eyes and nose with her sleeve elicited disgust rather than sympathy. I shuddered. How had such an unprepossessing pair produced an exquisite child like Lucy? It was a mystery.

‘Please, please …’ Shelley sobbed and spluttered on the screen, ‘please don’ ’urt her. Please don’ ’urt me Stace!’ (The name was bad enough without the shortening.) She sat up straight and stared directly into the camera.

‘Stacy baby, we love ya, we miss ya. Please, please, we jus’ want ’er home …’ She dissolved into gulps and wails, her great, hunched shoulders shaking. The police inspector supervising the case – Detective Inspector Lawrence Dempster – was a rather handsome man in his early forties, about my age in fact, I noticed. He was tall, his temples reassuringly streaked with silver. His manner projected intelligence and authority. He patted Shelley’s lumpen back and handed her a bunch of paper tissues. Gary, the father, then had his turn at inarticulate pleading.

‘Was the little girl playing outside on her own, Gary?’ shouted one of the gathered journalists.

‘We ’ardly let ’er outa our sight,’ mumbled Gary. ‘We was in the back room – so we could check ’er all the time, like. ’Er brothers and sisters keep a watch on ’er.’ (This was rich, I thought, remembering how Lucy had been playing entirely alone outside – a two-year-old child!) ‘Yeah, they miss ’er something rotten – Ashley, Sean, Kelly and Ryan – they want ’er back an’ all. We all do. She was just playin’ out the back, like. She was all right.’

He gazed at the cameras open-mouthed, his expression one of challenging idiocy.

‘Then …’ he said, ‘a moment later she was gone. Just … just gone in seconds.’

He shook his head in apparent disbelief, and clasped his forehead with both hands.

The roomful of reporters was silent for a moment, the camera stilled on Gary’s face.

‘Why are no photographs of Stacy being published?’ a woman at the back enquired. ‘Surely that would make it easier to identify the child?’

Gary opened his mouth to respond. Inspector Dempster placed a hand on Gary’s arm and intervened.

‘Unfortunately,’ he said soothingly, ‘the family had no camera beyond Stacy’s babyhood, so they were unable to provide current photographs.’

‘We did have a camera, like, but it broke …’ said Gary. A murmur rose from the gathered press.

‘Is it true you’ve previously had two other children taken into care?’ someone called.

The parents looked dazed and exchanged shifty glances. They both turned and looked at Detective Inspector Dempster, as if for guidance. He stood and raised his hands towards the room, as though preparing to conduct an orchestra.

‘No more questions today, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said firmly. ‘I can assure you that every line of inquiry is being pursued. We will spare no effort to find little Stacy. If any members of the public have any information about Stacy and her disappearance, anything at all, however small, please contact us on the number now on the screen – or via your local police station.’

He narrowed his eyes and swivelled his gaze to take in all the members of the press in the room, like a stern teacher eyeing an unruly class.

‘You will be informed of any further developments, but please understand: this investigation is at a very early stage. Thank you.’

The weeping parents were ushered out.

For some days the newspapers and television news programmes were full of accounts of Stacy and her family, of the search for the child, with long lines of police reinforced by volunteers tramping shoulder to shoulder over grassy slopes, searching any nearby parks and open ground. Ominously, ponds and rivers were dragged repeatedly.

At first the press was largely sympathetic to the parents, but as time went on there were murmurings about whether they themselves might have been involved in her disappearance. The back yard was dug up. Both parents were taken in for questioning by the police on several occasions, although, of course, this was always expressed as “helping the police with their inquiries”.

Next-door neighbours were interviewed and appeared eager to share their impressions of the Watts. They talked of frequent loud arguments, furniture and household objects being thrown about. Domestic violence was hinted at, as was heavy drinking, and possible drug-taking. The older children ran wild; their behaviour was out of control and their school attendance erratic. A picture of a highly dysfunctional family was emerging. What a blessing I had removed Lucy from such an environment.

There were one or two reported sightings of a child of Stacy’s age in the nearby area, and a few from further afield, but they were vague and lacked details. None led to any significant findings. The police tried to put a positive slant on the investigation. They were seriously concerned for the child’s welfare, they said, but were confident that she was still alive. They were pursuing several lines of inquiry.

It was reported that an elderly woman who lived in the next street had seen a dark-haired woman in a navy coat, pushing a buggy with a child of Stacy’s description towards Safeways and British Home Stores in the town centre. A sales assistant in British Home Stores said she thought she might have seen someone a bit like that too, but then again, she thought it might have been a little boy in the pushchair, not a girl, and she wasn’t sure if the coat was blue – maybe it was. After that, I read with interest, “the trail went cold”.

I felt compelled to watch the news programmes about Lucy’s disappearance. Of course, if it hadn’t been absolutely necessary, I would never have obtained a child in that way. The papers and television reports frequently referred to her being “taken”, but I couldn’t accept the term in the sense of stolen or kidnapped. No, her removal from that family was more an act of liberation, of charity, one that relieved her of a life of potential misery, neglect, poverty and ultimate under-achievement.

The more I saw of Lucy’s family and learned of their lifestyle, the more convinced I became that taking her away from her parents could be regarded as salvation.

Chapter Eleven

The time came when I had to admit to myself that the initial period with Lucy was not easy, not easy at all. Should I have expected such difficulties? Yes, I realised, perhaps I should, but my direct experience of small children and their responses had been extremely limited.

It took my little daughter much longer to settle in her new home than I had anticipated. All my careful preparations – with Lucy’s happiness in mind – seemed to mean nothing to her. The pretty bedroom with its colourful matching curtains, cushions and bedding depicting amusing cartoon-like jungle scenes; the carefully chosen toys and books; the cheerful pictures and friezes decorating the walls: none of these things elicited the slightest interest or pleasure in Lucy.

The first week was the hardest. During the daytime, Lucy mostly lay on the floor, crying and moaning. She would kick and scream when I tried to comfort or even approach her. She woke frequently during the night, and her screams were pitiful. So often did she wake with soaking sheets that in the end I had to put nappies on her during the night.

For some days after her arrival, she would eat and drink nothing but a little water, and I began to fear seriously for her health. At last, in desperation, I added a little sugar to a saucepan of milk, warmed it and filled a baby’s bottle. I lifted her onto my knee. At first she arched her back and howled like a wild creature, but I persisted, holding her firm, and after a while she submitted to being rocked gently on my lap. She sucked rhythmically on the teat, and took the whole bottle, her eyes rolling up into their lids. Her body went limp with exhaustion. At last she fell into a deep sleep.

This was a turning point. I realised that perhaps Lucy had missed out on some crucial early stages of babyhood. Of course she had, with neglectful parents like hers. Why had I not thought of it before? I endeavoured to restore these vital experiences to Lucy, even though she was now about two or two and a half years old – hardly a tiny baby. Yet, what did it matter if, in private, I rocked Lucy to sleep like an infant, hummed and sang to her when she was distressed, allowed her a dummy and fed her with a baby bottle?

Lucy talked little at first, but every now and then she repeated a tedious little litany in a plaintive questioning voice.

‘Mam? Dad? Wy-yan? Polly …? Tacy … Mam?’

By this time I had learned more of Lucy’s former family from television and newspaper reports. I knew that “Tacy” referred to her previous name. What a fortunate chance that Stacy and Lucy sounded not totally dissimilar. Surely she would soon adjust? “Wy-yan” of course was Ryan, the brother nearest to Lucy in age – whom I had witnessed paying her little enough attention, indeed, abandoning her on the pavement outside her former house. He was, in my opinion, quite undeserving of her affection. It took me a while to remember that Polly was the name of the filthy, naked and disfigured doll, with which Lucy had been playing when I first set eyes on her.

* * *

The first time I dared to take Lucy out of the house was many weeks after her arrival. I suggested we should go and buy a “new Polly” for her. Lucy’s little face lit up, and she actually smiled! My heart turned to liquid and I nearly wept aloud.

‘Buy Polly,’ she said, nodding eagerly.

We made our way to the High Street, where I had noticed a small toyshop. The assistant immediately stepped forwards and asked how she could help us.

‘We’re looking for a doll,’ I explained. ‘In fact, my little girl has lost a favourite old doll, and I’m hoping to find a similar one for her.’

We were shown the rows of baby dolls, brown dolls, black dolls and white dolls, boy dolls and girl dolls, dolls with plastic heads and dolls with hair. I found one that seemed to me the closest in size and features to Polly, although this one was in pristine condition, quite unlike the stained and discoloured appearance of the original. The doll had blond hair tied up in a bunch on top of her head with a pink ribbon. She wore a frilly pink dress and knickers.

The box in which she reclined also contained a tiny plastic brush and comb, a baby bottle and a small yellow potty, all held to a cardboard base with rubber bands. The doll’s face wore an expression of exceptional stupidity. When upright, her eyelids fluttered open to reveal large blue, sightless eyes. Her red lips were pursed in a look of perpetual astonishment, heightened by the small round hole in their centre, presumably into which the bottle could be inserted.

‘She wets an’ all,’ the assistant informed Lucy, who regarded the doll balefully.

‘Not Polly,’ she said. I crouched down in front of the pushchair, facing Lucy, and spoke in a quiet whisper.

‘No, Lucy, but she’s like Polly, isn’t she? You’ll see, when we get home we’ll take her clothes off and give her a bath, shall we?’

She frowned. ‘Not Polly.’

I quickly paid and we pushed out of the shop. Lucy did not want to carry the doll on the way home and maintained a resentful silence. Once in the house, she yanked all the clothes off the doll and flung them aside. She took the ribbon from its head and pulled violently at the pale, yellow hair, until it stood in rough tufts.

‘Leg off,’ she said, her little hands tugging ineffectually at the doll’s limb. She looked at me. I sighed. Defeated, I prised the right leg out of its rubbery socket and handed the doll back to Lucy.

Chapter Twelve

I knew it was important to introduce Lucy to our neighbours, but the thought of how she might behave filled me with apprehension. I took her first to meet Frank and Molly Armstrong. Molly tried to lift her up into an embrace, but Lucy immediately uttered a squeal, wriggled free and retreated behind me.

‘Oh I’m sorry, Molly – she’s very shy at the moment,’ I said. Molly nodded knowingly and went to a low cupboard in the corner of the room. She extracted a decorated box, crouched on the floor and took the lid off. Lucy watched with interest from behind my legs.

‘Frank, bring that blue and white tin tray from the kitchen, would you, pet?’

Molly emptied a cascade of buttons from the box onto the tray with a satisfying tinging noise. She poured the buttons back into the box and then emptied them onto the tray again. Lucy was mesmerised.

‘There you are, Lucy. You have a look at the pretty buttons, but don’t put them in your mouth, mind.’

Lucy spent half an hour picking up one handful of buttons after another and letting them drop onto the metal tray, time and time again. She didn’t utter a word during the entire visit. Molly and Frank seemed unperturbed. They watched her absorption in the activity with satisfaction.

‘I’m afraid she’s been very quiet … since her daddy died …’ I mouthed at them behind my hand.

‘Don’t you worry, Alison. Your Lucy’s been through a difficult time. She’ll come round before you know it,’ Frank said softly, as Molly made us some tea.

* * *

A few days later I took Lucy to see the Harmons. Michael was at work, but Susan and the children were home. Claire and Charlie were delighted to see Lucy. They brought lots of their toys to show her. She stared wide-eyed at them from the safety of my chair, her expression frozen.

‘Why won’t she play?’ asked Charlie, frowning.

‘Just leave her alone; let her do what she wants,’ said Claire. Such a mature, sensible child.

‘Charlie, will you come and help me get some squash and snacks, please?’ said Susan. They disappeared to the kitchen together. Claire brought a pile of picture books, put them on the floor near Lucy, and retreated. Lucy looked at her and then looked at the books. She looked at me, and then at the books again.

Susan and Charlie brought in a tray. After a few minutes, when Claire and Charlie were occupied with a bowl of crisps and a plate of chocolate animals, Lucy crawled hesitantly across the carpet towards the books and began looking at them. Claire looked at me and her mother, and smiled. Susan winked at her.

I began to realise that Susan had what I had always felt lacking in myself: an instinctive understanding of the thoughts, feelings and reactions of other people. What a wonderful ability it seemed to be, and clearly something that Claire had inherited, or perhaps learned, from her mother. Perhaps, in time, I could learn such skills myself.

Chapter Thirteen

People like Susan and Molly, close neighbours who had extended friendship to me, expressed no surprise that Lucy was quieter and more withdrawn than other children of her age. It was natural, they said, in view of her experience of losing her father, and the disruption this tragedy had imposed on our lives. Molly told me it was important for Lucy to play with other children.

‘She’s such a serious little mite, bless her – be nice to see her running about with some other little bairns her own age.’

‘Why don’t you take her to the playgroup next to the church?’ suggested Susan. ‘It would be good for her to play with other children. Charlie absolutely loved it. Be good for you to meet some other mums too. It’s just a couple of hours three times a week, and Harriet Grant, the playgroup leader, is absolutely fantastic at involving all the children, no matter how shy they are. Go on, Alison, it’d be good for both of you.’

So everyone seemed to know what was good for Lucy, and me – what was best for us. But shouldn’t Lucy be with me? Wasn’t it best for young children to spend as much time as possible with their mothers? Yes, my supporters replied – united in their opinions, it seemed – but it’s just as important for them to have the company of their “peers” – they need to learn to play cooperatively, to communicate, and develop their social skills.

I resented this interference, but in the end their perseverance won and I gave in. Susan came with me – just to introduce me to the playgroup staff and some of the mothers, she said. Lucy sat on my knee clinging tightly to my sleeve for the first half-hour. She’d been eyeing a dolls’ house on a table close to us. Eventually she slid cautiously off my lap and walked hesitantly towards her goal. Susan nudged me.

‘There you are,’ she whispered. ‘What did I tell you?’

A little girl was playing with the dolls and toy furniture, arranging them in one room, then moving them somewhere else. Lucy stood watching her for a few minutes. Then she sat down on the small chair next to her. The other little girl smiled and chatted about the toys.

‘I like that one, that mummy one,’ she said, pointing to a toy figure. ‘I gonna put her in the bath!’ She looked at Lucy and giggled.

Lucy watched her solemnly. She picked up a boy figure, bent his legs and sat him on a chair. She nodded. ‘Put Wy-yan on tair,’ she said.

Every now and then, as she explored the toys, Lucy turned around as if to check what I was doing. Watching her seeking me out for reassurance, I felt a terrible pain in my heart; a feeling that was both intense and mysterious, yet not altogether unpleasant.

Chapter Fourteen

I worked hard at building our life together, and ultimately felt confident that anyone who understood the situation would agree I was very successful, despite the difficult start. Of course, no one did truly understand – I had convinced myself that it was vital that no one should know, and that therefore no one could understand. Although I had never been someone who depended on friends and confidantes, my awareness of this conviction made me feel very lonely at times.

That first summer I rented a cottage for Lucy and me in south-west Scotland, just a hundred yards from the beach. We went for walks, dug endlessly in the sand, paddled and splashed in the shallows, collected shells, ate sandwiches on the beach for lunch, and fish and chips or hot dogs and ice creams for tea.

It was some weeks since Lucy had mentioned her “mam” or had cried. Very gradually she spoke more, looked at me more and even laughed sometimes. She loved stories. Some of our happiest times were spent in the library or curled up on the sofa, looking at picture books together. Every night when I tucked her up in bed, I remembered to hug Lucy and tell her how much I loved her.

Mother had been devoted to me in every way, I knew, but it was not in her nature, or perhaps her upbringing, to express affection openly in this way – and she was aware that I was not a child who enjoyed physical closeness. I was determined that I would have no such inhibitions with Lucy. Had she shown any signs of returning affection to me during those early weeks and months, it would have been so much easier, but she did not – or perhaps, she could not.

‘I love you, Lucy,’ I said each night, kissing her. I knew it was important to tell her. ‘Mummy loves you so, so much.’

Lucy would respond by regarding me silently with a deep, impenetrable look.

* * *

On September 20th 1985, the date I’d assigned to Lucy’s third birthday, I arranged a little party for her. Of course, I was unsure exactly when Stacy was born, but I had created a birthday for Lucy based on the records of poor little dead Lucy, which must have been near enough correct. September 20th was the date written into my Lucy’s birth certificate.

I had made a cake to look like the little house in Lucy’s book of Hansel and Gretel, a story that she loved dearly. I decorated it with coloured icing, chocolate buttons and Smarties. The morning of Lucy’s birthday, Claire asked if she could come in to help me prepare, but I wanted very much to do it all myself. I thanked Claire, but explained that it would really help me create the surprise party food if she would entertain Lucy while I made the preparations. I also asked her to be a special helper at the party itself.

While they played in the sitting room, I shut the kitchen door and assembled plates of tiny sandwiches and sausage rolls, chocolate animals, little cheese and pineapple cubes on sticks, and bowls of crisps and jelly. Just like Mother had made for me years earlier. These preparations gave me such pleasure. There was no doubt I was a real mother now.

Both Claire and Charlie came to the party, of course; Claire enjoyed organising some simple games for the smaller children: Pass the Parcel, The Farmer in his Den and Musical Bumps. Jenny, Mark, Megan and Laura – friends from playgroup – and their parents had been invited too. We asked our neighbours on either side, Susan and Mike and Frank and Molly, as well.

Everyone agreed how much Lucy had “come on” since she first came to Newcastle in March. It was true. She was a different child from the wan, disturbed little creature of seven months previously. She spoke more clearly and confidently, and her vocabulary had grown enormously. These days she hardly ever mentioned members of her former family. I was starting to feel much more positive, more confident about her progress.

Perhaps I was becoming overconfident. When it was time to sit at the long table for tea, the children began squabbling about who should sit next to Lucy, but she kept pushing each of them away.

‘No, not sit there!’

I came and crouched by her chair and spoke quietly. Claire was hovering behind her.

‘Lucy dear, why not let Claire sit next to you?’

Lucy adored Claire; surely this arrangement would please her?

‘She can help you blow out the candles.’

Lucy looked round at Claire and frowned. Her face reflected some inner turmoil. To my consternation, tears sprang in her eyes.

‘Not Claire, no!’ she said firmly, fixing me with her most determined stare. ‘Stacy sit there.’

There it was – the name Stacy again – just when things were going so well. Although, fortunately, only I had heard her say it, this incident chilled me to the core; I worried terribly about it. What did it mean? Did it just happen to be a name that lingered faintly in her memory and perhaps came into her head suddenly; or had she somehow invented an imaginary friend based on her former self? If there were an imagined Stacy, whom she believed could sit next to her, what did that imply about Lucy’s sense of herself – her “identity”, a psychologist might have said?

In the end it was agreed that none of the children should sit next to Lucy. Instead that honour was afforded to Polly, the unfortunate, one-legged doll, which she still worshipped.

* * *

Then, about a month after Lucy’s birthday, there was a great breakthrough. It meant the world to me, and went some way to setting my mind at rest about the “Stacy” incident.

It was a beautiful autumn day, the sun skittering in and out of the oak and sycamore leaves, just taking on their deepest colours. We had gone for a walk and ended up at the little playground in the wooded area behind our house. Lucy was becoming more daring and showed signs of becoming an agile climber. I had to resist the urge to be overprotective, to shield her from any perceived danger – in order to allow her to explore her own capabilities. She had learned to clamber up the bars of the metal fence that separated the playground from the adjoining pathway.

This particular afternoon I went to sit on a wooden bench, enjoying the quiet, the mild air and the slanting golden sunshine – watching while Lucy was balancing at the top of the fence in a “look, no hands” stance. I delighted in Lucy’s pleasure and felt calm and peaceful. Just then, a woman with a large Alsatian dog approached on the path. The dog was busily sniffing the ground.

As they came level with Lucy, the dog suddenly noticed her and tried to leap towards her, barking ferociously. Fortunately, the owner had a tight hold on the lead, so he was restrained, but Lucy got a terrible fright and screamed out ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ at the top of her voice. I rushed to Lucy, carried her back to the seat and cuddled her until the sobs subsided. All the while, as I comforted Lucy in her distress, my heart was leaping with such joy I wanted to laugh out loud. Lucy had called me Mummy.

Chapter Fifteen
January 1987
Lucy

I’m a big girl now. Mummy said so. Going to big school today. Not nursery any more. Got special clothes for school. I like yellow shirt best. Yellow my favourite colour – like sunshine. My sweatshirt is blue. Got a badge with words on. Wear it when it’s cold. I got a grey skirt. Mummy says I look smart; I look grown-up.

We walked to the school. Mummy held my hand. Lots of children in the yard. There are some coloured lines on the ground. Wiggling about. Maybe we paint coloured lines in school today? Some boys and girls running on the lines and laughing.

I want to run on the yellow line, but my heart feels bumpy. Wish Stacy was here. Don’t tell Mummy. Mummy doesn’t like Stacy. Makes her sad. I’m holding Mummy’s hand and watching the boys and girls.

Mummy says, ‘Go on, Lucy, don’t you want to play? It’ll be time to go inside in a minute.’

I see Laura from playgroup. She runs over. She stands in front of me, smile on her face. She sticks out her hand to me. I look at Mummy. She smiles and nods her head. Laura and me hold hands and run. She pulls me to a red line.

‘No! Yellow,’ I say.

Laura says ‘OK’ and we chase the yellow line all round the playground, laughing and laughing.

Suddenly a bell is ringing. Big, loud bell. We stop running. A teacher lady is standing by the door with her face smiling. Another lady next to her. All the children run to near her. She shouts in a kind voice, ‘Good morning, children! How lovely to see you all! Welcome to you on your first day of school! My name is Miss Carson. This is Mrs Hope, our special kind helper. We’re all going to have a lovely day today: playing with toys and games, listening to stories, and learning lots of exciting things! Does that sound like fun?’

Some of the children shout, ‘Yes!’

Laura shouts ‘Yes!’ but I feel shy. I look for Stacy. Some children jump up and down.

Miss Carson says, ‘Well, children, say “bye-bye” to your mummies and daddies now. And say “see you later”.’

Miss Carson says in a loud excited voice, ‘Then – let’s – go – in – and – have – a – look – at – our – classroom!’

I run back to Mummy and she gave me a big hug, and my special yellow schoolbag.

‘Bye-bye, Lucy dear, have a wonderful day, and I’ll be here to pick you up at three o’clock,’ she says, and she pushes me towards Miss Carson, not hard.

Laura walking into school too, and lots of other children. Some children still hugging their mummies and daddies, and crying. The Mrs Hope lady goes to talk to them. I not crying, but I wish Stacy was here.

Chapter Sixteen
1987
Alison

At the start of the January term, when Lucy was nearly four and a half, she began attending the Reception class of the local first school. By this time the press had long tired of Stacy’s disappearance and moved on to other more current or more sensational news stories. Just occasionally, one of the tabloid newspapers ran a feature headed something like “Wherever is Stacy?”, followed by speculation as to her whereabouts, or presented some trumped-up theory about her fate with the white slave trade or itinerant gypsies, or made even darker references to paedophiles and murderers.

About a year after “Stacy’s abduction” Inspector Dempster had made an appeal on the BBC Crimewatch programme. I watched it after Lucy had gone to bed. Detective Inspector Dempster looked tired, I noticed. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he was still a handsome man; distinguished, just as I remembered him. He spoke articulately, with quiet confidence, and with just a hint of a northern accent discernible. He reminded viewers of the few details that were known concerning Stacy’s disappearance, and urged them to search their memories for any further information.

A reconstruction of the “abduction”, as they called it, was shown. A shadowy figure of a woman in a dark coat was scurrying down one of Riddlesfield’s gloomy terraces, pushing a fair-haired toddler in a pushchair. I was delighted to note that the film showed her pushing it down the wrong street! What’s more, they showed only a little girl in the pushchair, and clearly had no idea of her transformation into a boy at that stage – a boy in a woolly hat with no fair hair showing.

The public was asked that anyone present in the area that night, who might have seen a small fair-haired girl or had noticed anything unusual – anything at all, however insignificant it might appear – should report their observations immediately. A little boy was never mentioned. Detective Inspector Dempster did say that Stacy might have been taken to a car parked elsewhere in the town, or possibly to the train station. He therefore reminded viewers that the child could have been taken anywhere in Britain, or even abroad. No mention was made specifically of the North East as a likely destination, which was a relief to me.

The programme had shown an artist’s impression of what Stacy might have looked like at the current time. I wasn’t too concerned about this – it really could have been any snub-nosed, fair-haired four-year-old. The artist had no dental records and no up-to-date photographs on which to base this likeness – the family had never taken Lucy to visit a dentist and had no recent photos of her, only one or two baby pictures. Neither were any distinguishing features mentioned, which might have marked her out. Yet I knew that Lucy actually had a diamond-shaped brown birthmark on the back of her neck, only visible by lifting her hair. I’d seen it as soon as I washed her hair for the first time. No doubt her parents had never even noticed it – it wouldn’t surprise me if they’d never washed her hair.

Detective Inspector Dempster had ended by assuring the public that the case would never, never be closed – until Stacy was found. The unspoken words “alive or dead” hung in the air.

Periodically, there were newspaper interviews with Gary and Shelley Watts, well paid, no doubt, which printed nauseous quotes from the “still-grieving parents”, such as ‘We’ll never forget our Stace …’, ‘We’ll search for our girl if it takes for ever …’ and the like. All my opinions about Lucy’s birth family were confirmed. There could be no doubt she was far better off with me – and without them.

By this time Lucy’s Riddlesfield accent was long gone. Despite some slight lingering immaturities, everyone remarked on how beautifully she spoke, what a wide vocabulary she had, what good manners she had. It was something that mattered a lot to me. I felt it was important to bring her up to be polite, just as Mother had with me.

At first when Lucy was given something and I had prompted her with ‘What do you say, Lucy?’ she would reply ‘Ta’. I would have to explain to others that unfortunately my aunt in Nottingham, though well meaning, had taught her some slang and also some “baby words”, of which I did not approve. The aunt had misguidedly thought it was easier for a small child to learn to say “ta” rather than “thank you”, I told them. Personally, I never believed there was any necessity to alter language for children. How can “choo-choo” be easier to learn than “train”, or “bye-byes” rather than “sleep”? It just meant the unfortunate child ended up having to learn two words rather than the correct one in the first place.

So, early on, Lucy had received some intensive speech training from me to great effect, and was soon using “please” and “thank you”, and other social niceties. I find people always prefer a well-mannered child, as I do myself.

* * *

The first time I went to see Lucy’s pleasant young Reception teacher, I was delighted to hear positive reports about how well she had settled, and how quick was her progress with literacy and numeracy – she was definitely one of the brightest children in the class. She was a polite and well-behaved little girl, and never caused any trouble.

It was true she was a little shy, Miss Carson said, but that was quite normal. It was early days. She’d soon learn to form friendships more readily. Perhaps I could help by inviting one or two of the other children to play at home? Of course I was eager to do anything to help Lucy, although I felt there was an unnecessarily heavy emphasis at such a young age on “making friends”. However, that evening I began by asking Lucy what her “best friends” in the class were called. For such a bright child, she seemed to have difficulty grasping the concept.

‘I’ve got lots of friends.’

‘That’s good, Lucy. So, who do you like best? Who would you like to come and play with you here?’

She listed nearly all the children in the class. I found this response a little irritating, but tried hard not to show any impatience.

‘I’m glad you’ve got so many friends, Lucy, but can you think of one girl or boy you like best? Someone to come and play with you at home?’

‘I like to play with Stacy best.’

I was stunned. Instantly my hands began to tremble. It was as though Lucy had punched me hard in the stomach. I took a deep breath.

‘Lucy, Stacy is not real. She’s in your imagination. It’s like a … a dream, but not real.’

Lucy gazed back at me with her most inscrutable expression. I made a great effort to remain cool, not to show any trace of anxiety or irritation.

After yet further coaxing, still no special friend’s name was forthcoming, and Lucy was showing signs of becoming distressed by the conversation. In the end I had to avoid prolonging the questioning by deciding to make the choice of special playmate myself. I did this largely on the basis of which of the parents I liked best. After all, good parents tend to have good children.

We started with Laura. She was a dear little girl, thoughtful and solemn, with a mass of dark curls, contrasting with Lucy’s fair hair. I liked Laura’s mother Rosemary, who was a librarian. She was quiet and contemplative. Both girls shared a love of books. Yet they did not actually share the books. When I went upstairs to Lucy’s room to tell the children tea was ready, I found each girl sitting companionably on the floor cushions next to one another, leaning against the wall on the far side of the room, reading to herself. Not a word passed between them. Nevertheless, they seemed perfectly amicable and content.

From time to time we asked Charlie to play. I felt we had to – after all, he lived next door and Susan had been so kind to me, and regarded herself as a close friend. On her own, Lucy often enjoyed playing imaginative games with toy animals or figures – inventing elaborate scenes and stories. Charlie preferred lively games. His imagination focused on noisy vehicles, dinosaurs, fierce animals or monsters, fights, chases and crashes. A lot of shouting was involved.

Both Lucy and I were always quite exhausted by the time he went home. It was a relief to tidy up together at the end of the day. However, the tension Charlie’s company created had a noticeable effect on Lucy, and not a positive one. On one occasion, when he was being particularly loud, Lucy closed her eyes, put her hands over her ears and screwed up her face.

‘Stop shouting, Dad!’ she yelled.

The room seemed to still. Charlie stopped in his tracks. He glanced at me and raised his eyebrows in a knowing fashion, as if he and I shared some special understanding. I felt an urge to smack him. He turned back to Lucy.

‘I’m not your dad!’ he said laughing. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

Poor Lucy looked at me in utter confusion, and burst into tears.

* * *

The following term Miss Carson called me in to school for a second time. Having had time to observe Lucy for some months, she said, she had some concerns about Lucy’s “social skills”. ‘Nothing to worry about, but we don’t want Lucy becoming isolated, do we?’ She was not unpopular, Miss Carson said. The other children liked her, but were unsure how to react to her. She often appeared indifferent to them, to live in her own little world. Miss Carson wondered if it would be helpful to refer her to a child psychologist. What would Lucy’s daddy and I feel about that?

Expected to respond spontaneously out of the blue, I hesitated for a moment, my hands trembling, and then explained to Miss Carson that Lucy’s father had passed away when Lucy was two. There was only Lucy and myself. Miss Carson looked profoundly shocked. Then she appeared to gather herself. She nodded in an understanding way, as if this news explained everything.

‘Oh, Mrs Brown, I’m so very sorry. If only you had made that clear to school when Lucy started, we could have … taken it into account.’

‘Yes, you’re right. Probably I should have told school staff sooner. But you see, it was so difficult dealing with my own bereavement at that stage, as well as Lucy’s. I … I could hardly bear to talk about it.’ I dabbed my eyes with my handkerchief.

‘No, I see, I do understand – how dreadful for you. I’m so, so sorry,’ she repeated. ‘It’s just that … if we had known, maybe we could have given Lucy some special help.’

‘She doesn’t need special help – all she needs is more time, more understanding. I will help her. I am helping her. She certainly doesn’t need to see a psychologist.’

‘No, of course not,’ Miss Carson said hastily. ‘I’m so sorry. Now that we do know … well … we can all help Lucy.’

* * *

Susan agreed with Miss Carson’s viewpoint.

‘Honestly, Alison, you’re so secretive. I can’t think why you didn’t tell her teacher before. They need to know about such important aspects of the children’s lives. They need to understand just how well Lucy’s done over the past year, considering what she’s been through.’ Susan grasped my hand.

‘After all, she’s had to make so many adjustments in her short life, hasn’t she? Losing her father, moving to a new city far from her previous home and family. And now, starting school – which is quite enough of an adjustment on its own for most children!’

‘Yes, perhaps I should have been more open about it. It’s just that … well, I suppose I am a very private person.’

Susan smiled, put her arm around me affectionately and hugged me. I steeled myself.

‘Aren’t you just, dear, Alison! A very private person.’ She looked at me thoughtfully.

‘You know, maybe you should talk to Lucy more about her daddy,’ she suggested. ‘Young children need lots of help to absorb such a huge loss; to understand death at all. Why not visit her grandparents – her paternal grandparents – so Lucy could learn more about her father from them? You could look at some photographs of him together.’ Her voice rose with enthusiasm as she expanded her theme.

‘What about making a memory box? Fill it with pictures and mementos, to help her remember and make her daddy more real for her? After all, she was so young when she lost him.’

Susan paused to allow me to absorb these wisdoms. She grasped both of my hands; I forced myself not to recoil and withdraw them. She peered into my face, as though a photograph of my dead “husband” might suddenly appear there.

‘You never talk about him either, Alison,’ she said. ‘I know it must be hard for you, but don’t you think it would help both of you to talk about him more?’

‘You’re probably right,’ I said slowly. ‘It was all so traumatic … I suppose I’ve tried to bury the memory, along with him. I must learn to be more open. But his parents, Lucy’s grandparents … well … er … unfortunately they live abroad … so we can’t visit them just yet.’

‘Oh, what a shame! Well maybe one day …’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Well, what about that aunt who looked after Lucy while you got the house ready just after you bought it? Was she your husband’s aunt? Might she help?’

Another unexpected hurdle to negotiate! I thought rapidly of a solution, and it had to be a final one.

‘No … I’m afraid not,’ I said, looking as sad as I could manage. ‘She was very old, poor thing, and she died not long after I moved up here.’

‘Oh no! How awful. Poor Alison, what a lot of bereavements you’ve had.’

How exhausting it was. I had never considered that maintaining a lie requires constant vigilance and effort. Just when you think you can relax and move on, suddenly a whole new chapter of the story is needed. I realised I was going to have to work on Lucy’s father. I had thought that killing him off would dispose of him conveniently once and for all, but now it was apparent I would have to invent much more of an identity, more of a presence, and even a family history for him, even though he was dead.

‘Do you know, Alison, I don’t think I even know what your poor husband’s name was,’ Susan said, as we sipped our coffee.

It was true – I had never given a thought to his name, and though I had filed it away in a drawer somewhere, I hadn’t given the father’s name on poor dead little Lucy Brown’s birth certificate a thought for so long! I closed my eyes for a moment and applied my mind to this supposed dead husband of mine. Desperately, I scanned my memory for his name. What was it again? Something a bit unusual, something connected with writers or philosophers. A series of rapid thoughts clicked through my brain. Was it Bertrand? No, that was too unusual, too odd … and yet Bertrand rang a bell. I know – Bertrand Russell – that was it! Russell. Russell was his name.

Susan, perhaps observing my mental struggle, assumed I was overcome with emotion. Once again she put an arm around me and hugged me affectionately. Why people seem to need to express friendship in this way I’ll never know. My whole body tensed.

‘Russell!’ I burst out. ‘His name was Russell. Russell Brown of course.’

‘Russell. Aaaah.’

Susan put her head on one side and adopted her sad, sympathetic face, as if there was something inherently endearing about the name Russell. Oh God, I thought, please let this conversation end.

Chapter Seventeen
1988

Just after half-term, chicken pox rampaged through the school. I had hoped Lucy might avoid it – she was one of the last children in her class to show symptoms. One afternoon, as I waited in the schoolyard with little groups of other parents, she emerged slowly, looking quite unlike her normal cheerful self. She was pale and listless, and dragged her schoolbag, as if she hadn’t the energy to carry it.

At home she wanted little to eat, which was unusual for her these days; she generally had a good appetite. I gave her plenty to drink, but all she really wanted was to sit on my lap and be cuddled. There was something very appealing about her in this state; her need for physical contact and affection was rather gratifying – and also a novelty for me, never having learned to enjoy cuddles myself, even as a young child. But I did enjoy cuddling Lucy. Lucy was different. I read stories to her until she became sleepy, and I put her to bed early. In the night I woke with a start to hear Lucy crying and calling out to me.

‘Mummy! Mummy!’

I ran into her room and clutched her hot little frame close. She was damp and trembling, sobs convulsing her body. Her eyes stared straight ahead.

‘Shhh, my darling,’ I said. ‘Everything’s all right, dear girl. Mummy’s here.’

‘Another Mummy was there! I saw her. She said, “Come with me.” She had a dark coat on and brown hair that came off! I’m frightened, Mummy, don’t let her take me!’

‘No one’s going to take you. It was just a dream. You’re safe with me, quite safe.’

I bathed her forehead with a cool flannel and gave her a spoonful of Calpol. Soon her breathing slowed and she slept. My heart was pounding. Did she remember? No, surely, it was just the fever? I was deeply unnerved. Unable to settle back to sleep, I went downstairs, and made some camomile tea.

I extracted Lucy’s crayon box from the toy cupboard, and tipped them out onto the floor. I spent half an hour arranging them in the shape of a rainbow on the carpet, their colours in the order of the spectrum. I counted them. There were forty-one altogether, a prime number, which was a bonus. After that I felt a bit calmer.

In the morning, Lucy’s spots started to appear – a few blisters scattered on her tummy at first, gradually multiplying to form a rash all over her body. She lay limp, vulnerable and dependent. I offered to bring her some breakfast, but she was only able to drink a little orange juice.

‘Poor little Lucy. My poor little girl.’ I stroked her head gently. ‘Never mind. I’ll look after you and you’ll soon be better. At least you can stay home with Mummy. No school this week. I’ll read you a story later. We’ll have a nice time.’

Lucy held my hand and smiled wanly.

‘How did you sleep, Lucy?’

‘All right, I think. But my head hurts.’

‘I know, dear. I’ll get you some more Calpol in a minute.’

I hesitated at the door. I turned and looked at Lucy.

‘Any dreams?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I can’t remember any.’

Chapter Eighteen
October 1989
Shelley

It’s our Stacy’s birthday. Seven years old today. Fancy, five years since she was took, five whole years. Hard to believe I’ve lived through those years, somehow – if you can call it living. I wake up each morning – not that I sleep much – and for just a second or two I wonder if it’s all been a dream, a nightmare. Even after five years.

And then I remember; I realise she’s gone, and it’s like a dark cloud wraps itself around me and works its way inside me. I want to pull the covers over me head and stay there in bed all day, block out the memories. But I can’t. I’ve got me other bairns to think of.

I think about Stacy; what she looks like now, where she is, what she might be doing. Is she somewhere near, or is she far away, is she happy or sad? More than anything, I think about who might be with her. A man, a woman, a whole family? Are they good to her, are they kind? I can’t bear to think they might be cruel, that they might hurt her.

My head starts to hurt and I go all hot and cold thinking about the person what took her. I fill up with such a rage it’s like I’ll explode. I have to press all that anger down inside meself so the kids don’t see it, and get back to thinking of Stacy and her little beautiful face. I think of her smiling, smiling and alive.

It’s never got no easier. Like a huge part of me’s missing; torn from me. An important part, like my heart. I seen a film once, one of them old Westerns. There was a big battle between the white men and the Indians. A Red Indian warrior stuck his knife in a white man; I think he was a General. He stuck his knife in the man’s chest and he tore out his heart and held it up, still beating and dripping blood. That’s how it feels for me. Someone’s torn me heart out. Only it happens over and over, every day. I never knew anyone could feel pain like this.

’Til I lost Stacy I never really knew how important the kids were to me. I’d had Leanne and Dean that young, and never really had a proper mam or dad meself. Nobody to show me what to do, how to look after meself, let alone a kid. I found out the hard way, that’s for sure. I love all my kids, but Stacy – she was the baby, the last one. I got the operation done on me tubes after she was born. There won’t be no more, ever. I miss her something terrible. There’s no words to say how much I miss her.

Our Ryan’s never been the same since Stacy went missing neither. Started off crying and crying; waking in the night, and looking for her, searching for her like a little lost soul, bless him. Then the temper started; yelling at me and his dad, like he blamed us for not looking after our Stacy properly. Well he was right, an’ all. I blame meself. I should’a watched her. The papers called me a slag, a useless mother, a heartless bitch, you name it – for letting a two-year-old play out alone. Well, I thought Ryan was with her, but I know I can’t use that as no excuse.

I cried for Stacy every day – I was worse than Ryan. And for a time I took to the drink, I was that stressed. Anything to blunt my feelings. Gary didn’t seem to have no feelings; his feelings was dead. He said she was gone and that was that; we had to accept it, get used to it. He’d always drank and took the drugs anyway, he didn’t need no excuse. So when he got arrested for dealing – again – I could’a killed him. Just a few months after our Stacy went missing. Then not long after, he got done for breaking and entering – he got two years. Well, course he needed the money for his habit, didn’t he? It’s not like me and the kids saw none of it.

That was the last straw though. The social said we weren’t responsible parents. They were right an’ all. Me eldest two, Dean and Leanne, had got took off us three years before Stacy went missing. They’d been in care all that time. Then the social took the rest of the bairns into care, all of them. So I was on me own. How much worse could life get? The papers made a right meal of it, ’specially the local paper.

Everybody on the estate knew about us. They hated us. People called me names if I went out. Some spat at me. They put dog shit through the letterbox. One night someone threw a brick through the back window. Smashed it into thousands of pieces. I was scared all the time. I was shaking.

I asked the doctor for some pills, to calm me down, like, help me sleep. He shook his head. He patted me hand. I think he reckoned I’d take the lot, top meself, and probably he wasn’t far wrong. He was all right with me though, was Dr Shah. He listened to me troubles. Said he wouldn’t give me no pills, but he could try to help me get me children back. If I really wanted them. It might take time, he said. I’d have to decide to really work at making a proper home for them. With Gary gone it was my chance, he said. It would be hard. What did I want?

Well, of course I said I wanted them back. He said for a start he’d write to the council – ask them to re-house me in a different part of the town, where people didn’t know us. He told me to go back to the social and cooperate with whatever they asked me to do. He even helped me get a part-time job as a cleaner at the hospital. It didn’t pay much, but it was something, a start.

The social worker suggested a counselling course. Counselling! I didn’t even know what the word meant, but I went on it. Then she suggested a “parenting skills” course – anyone could see I needed it – so I went on that an’ all. I even went on an “everyday cooking” course – I reckon they thought we’d lived on chips long enough.

I applied for getting each of the children back, one by one, starting with Ryan – he was that needy. It was dead hard and it took a long, long time, like Dr Shah said, but I managed it in the end. Even when they were back, it wasn’t all plain sailing. Ryan was playing up at school. They said he had behaviour problems. I sat him down and asked him if he wanted to go back in care. He shook his head and looked at his feet.

I told him I didn’t neither; I told him I couldn’t bear to lose him. I’d lost one precious child and I didn’t want to lose another. If he carried on misbehaving, I told him, they’d put him back in care, and that would kill me. He cried, and hugged me, and promised to be a good boy. He really tried, and after a while he started doing all right at school.

The next ones I got back was Dean and Leanne, the eldest two. That wasn’t easy, I can tell you. They’d been in care for that long they hardly knew us. They didn’t trust no one, ’specially not me. They were that angry and disturbed, they nearly took the house apart. It was tough. Time was, I was nearly ready to put them back with the social. But I told them I’d never let them go again, so they might as well put up with me.

Things settled down after a while. They all began going to school regularly. Any sign of bunking off, they had me to answer to. I told them I wasn’t going to let them follow the same road I had, and certainly not their dad. Once they were properly settled, Dean and Leanne turned out to be me rocks, me right little helpers. Then, one by one, the rest came home. We were quite a crowd. Only Stacy missing. Always Stacy missing.

The council give us a house in Moorside. It was a right mess to start with, even though the area seemed posh to me, what with being semi-detacheds, trees along the streets, and little gardens at the back. God knows who was in the house before us. It was filthy, and we had no carpets, no furniture; nothing to start with. The social worker – Michelle they called her – helped us get some beds and other basics from a charity. Me and Leanne scrubbed the place from top to bottom. After that I made sure to keep the house clean. I was always scared of an unexpected visit from the social.

Leanne was a good support, bless her. She did housework and kept an eye on the younger kids if I was working on a late shift. Dean cleared all the rubbish out of the garden and got busy with a paintbrush inside – he didn’t need no asking.

Ashley always had her face stuck in a book and her head in the clouds, so she wasn’t much help, but at least she was no trouble. Kelly and Sean did everything together – they liked to cook the tea sometimes – simple stuff like jacket potatoes and baked beans, sausages and that. I made them all eat vegetables too, even though I wasn’t that keen on them meself – cabbage, sprouts, cauliflower and that. Eat them, they’re good for you, I told them.

Once the kids were all back with me, we decided that every year, on Stacy’s birthday, I’d make a cake and we’d have a bit of a party. Well, the first few were bought cakes from Safeways – ’til I learned how to make one. The first one I made was a bit hard on the outside and soft in the middle, but the kids didn’t seem to mind at all.

So each year, we light the candles and sing “Happy Birthday dear Stacy”. The idea is it helps to take our minds off all the sadness. ’Course it doesn’t really. But that’s what we’ll be doing tonight, when the kids are all home. Her cake’s chocolate this year: the kids’ favourite. It has seven candles on, and a big number seven in Smarties – Ryan done that. It breaks my heart that she’s not here with us all to see it. Stacy, baby, I long for you every day, every minute. We’ll never, never, ever forget you. Will we ever see you again?

I’ve got to believe we will. One day.

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