Finding Lucy - Diana Finley

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      ‘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

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