LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

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

Скачать книгу