Finding Lucy - Diana Finley

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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

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