Finding Lucy: A suspenseful and moving novel that you won't be able to put down

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‘Wow, what a difference!’ he said, looking around.

‘Well, it was basically a sound house, and the Turners had left everything in pretty good condition. All I’ve done is a bit of window-dressing.’

I put the small teapot on a tray with a milk jug.

‘Can I get the cups, Alison?’ Mike asked.

‘Just in that cupboard above the bread bin.’

It was a relief to watch him walk to the other side of the kitchen.

‘Oh, that’s very tidy,’ said Mike, opening the cupboard and smiling back at me. ‘You’re a woman after my own heart.’

‘Cups in the front, saucers at the back on the left.’

‘Thanks. I’m so sorry you’ve had to do all this on your own, Alison. Susie told me … It can’t have been easy.’

I sighed tragically and nodded. ‘I’ll be very glad when Lucy joins me up here at last – it has been a bit … lonely … on my own.’

Mike gently touched my shoulder, sending a shock down my spine as I carried the tray through. I gripped the handles tightly.

I decided that the evening was turning out to be a great success, although I worried that Charlie might break something with his frenetic racing about. I hoped Lucy wouldn’t turn out to be quite so lively. I wasn’t sure I could deal with that. The children were both thrilled to see Lucy’s room, though.

‘Oh it’s so pretty. Look, Mum – all the animals on the bed! Lucy’s got her own little desk. Look how tidy it is! Can we sit on the chairs, Alison?’

Even Claire was using my first name.

‘Of course you can. I’m sure it won’t stay as tidy once Lucy gets here.’ Everyone laughed. Although I secretly hoped it might.

Chapter Six (#ulink_daa751be-f82c-554e-bbd7-71be33bff4b6)

1985

Next came the trickier part of the plan. After weeks of research I had decided on Riddlesfield. All the indices showed it to be one of the most “disadvantaged” towns in the country, with certain districts such as Thornhough, Hollerton, Woodhope and Frainham consistently reported as areas of the highest child poverty in England. Studying a map of the town and its surrounds, it was Frainham that stood out as most suitable for my needs. Not only was there street after street of small, tightly packed terraced houses, but the area was easily accessible from the city centre, and more importantly, from Riddlesfield railway station. I pored over the map so often that soon I was able to close my eyes and picture the exact pattern of streets, squares and landmarks required for my purpose.

The morning after the house-warming party for the neighbours, I returned to Nottingham for a few days, awaiting rain. On the third day, I woke to a dank and gloomy morning. By the time I’d had breakfast it was drizzling steadily. A solid bank of lowering grey clouds sat over the houses and foretold of more to come – perfect.

I put on my navy coat and shoes, and the brown wig. Then I tied a large paisley headscarf over my head, using kirby grips to make sure all the hair was firmly tucked in beneath it. For extra anonymity, I put up a large umbrella as I emerged from the front door. If I’d been of a more dramatic inclination, no doubt all this would have been a source of great entertainment, but not for me. I felt sick with anxiety. Over and over again, I rehearsed in my mind exactly what I had to do. Nothing must go wrong.

I needn’t have worried. By now the rain was falling heavily. The few pedestrians I encountered on my way to the bus station hurried head-down to their destinations, clutching their collars around their necks, striving only to get out of the wet as quickly as possible, and scarcely glancing in my direction.

Nottingham to Riddlesfield was not a straightforward journey, but I felt that this was in my favour. The number of necessary changes – though daunting – made it less likely that I would ever be linked to my destination. After a bus ride to Derby station I bought a day return to Leeds, where I had about forty-five minutes to wait for a direct train to Riddlesfield.

Thankfully, by this time the rain clouds had cleared and I was able to dispense with the unpleasantly damp headscarf, revealing my dark hair. The train to Riddlesfield was not too crowded. I tried to read the newspaper, but found I couldn’t concentrate. Nevertheless, I kept the paper open, and sheltered behind its protective screen. An hour and a half later the train arrived at Riddlesfield.

I found myself increasingly nervous as I stepped onto the platform and made my way out of the station, my heart pounding unpleasantly. I had to pause a few moments, breathing deeply, while I calmed myself by picturing the map with which I had become so familiar. Sure enough, the layout of the actual streets before me precisely matched the image in my mind.

I quickly crossed the road and walked southwards until I came to Churchill Square, with its shops and cafés. One café looked bright and welcoming. I noted it as somewhere I might allow myself another cup of tea later on that day. I continued along Holbrook Street and, after a few minutes’ walk, turned right into City Road. After perhaps a quarter of a mile, I turned left and soon found myself in precisely the right area of narrow streets, densely built with mean and coal-blackened terraced houses, just as my research had indicated. This must be Frainham, I thought, recalling the map, this must be it.

As if to confirm that it was indeed the poor, run-down neighbourhood I wanted, two small boys, aged only about three or four – both dirty and inadequately dressed for the time of year – were playing unsupervised in the gutter at the end of a back lane strewn with rubbish. An overflowing dustbin provided the little urchins with playthings; they were rolling tin cans noisily over the cobbles.

I stopped and made a deliberate effort to smile at them. The children stared back at me impassively. Then the slightly larger boy stood up, and, looking both impish and defiant, he stuck his tongue out at me! I knew it was ridiculous to allow myself to feel intimidated by two such tiny children, barely out of babyhood – but nevertheless I did feel it, and so hurried on, fearing the boys might have started throwing stones or items of rubbish.

I explored the streets systematically, working my way southwards, wandering up one terrace, and then down the next – all the while trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. As I rounded a corner, I encountered another small boy – this one of maybe five or six years old – who almost bumped into me. He wore shorts much too long for him and a torn jersey. His hair was tousled and unwashed-looking.

‘’ello, missus,’ he said, standing sturdily in my path and grinning up at me.

‘Hello …’ I said, beginning to edge around him. He shifted sideways, as if to bar my way again.

‘Wanta see what’s in me box, missus?’ he said, thrusting a battered cardboard box up at me. I looked about uneasily.

‘Well … um … yes, all right.’

He carefully prised off the lid, to reveal a scrawny, greyish house mouse. It twitched its nose and regarded me with glittery black eyes. Horrified, I took a step back.

‘It’s me mouse,’ the boy informed me unnecessarily. ‘He’s me pet. I call ’im Billy. You got ten pee for Billy, missus? For ’is dinner, like?’

With trembling fingers I searched my purse for a coin. Finding two ten-pence pieces, I held them in the air in front of the boy.

‘Put the lid on the box,’ I urged him, dropping one ten-pence piece into his expectant palm. ‘That’s for your mouse’s food,’ I said, ‘and here’s ten pence for you to spend.’ The child smiled a gap-toothed smile.

‘Ta, missus.’

I hurried onwards.

I could have no doubts that this was a suitable area. Greyish, shabby-looking washing hung in many of the yards, and in places was draped right across the back lanes. A group of young men clustered around a motorbike outside a corner shop, talking and laughing loudly and crudely, in a way I could not help finding unsettling. Some were drinking what I assumed was beer from cans or bottles. One threw an empty can at an advertisement hoarding just behind me, causing such a sudden clang that I jumped with shock, which only made the youths laugh louder still.

I turned quickly down the next back lane. Here and there women smoked and chatted with one another in pairs or threes. The local dialect was so broad that I could scarcely make out a word of what was said, although their frequent use of profanities was clear enough. Some held babies on their hips, while toddlers swarmed around their legs. Bigger children chased each other about, screaming like savages.

At one street corner a bigger girl pushed two younger children in a large cardboard box, careless of broken glass strewn across the ground. The scene struck me as more reminiscent of the Twenties or Thirties than the Eighties. I made sure not to linger, anxious to remain inconspicuous. It was essential that no one should notice my presence too readily, or engage me in conversation.

Just as my resolve, in this hostile environment, was beginning to falter, I came to a row of houses that appeared to hold some promise. My attention was drawn by a woman’s voice shouting.

‘Will youse two ger’out from under me effin’ feet right now! Go on – ger’outside!’

I slowed my pace. A boy of about five yanked open a battered door hanging by one hinge, and ran out of the yard. He looked from left to right, and then ran leftwards until he was out of sight. I caught my breath, gasped, and stood still. For a moment I hadn’t noticed a second child emerge from the door. But yes, there she was: tiny, elfin; two or perhaps two and a half years old. She stood in the yard doorway looking about her, a finger in her mouth.

‘Wy-yan …?’ she called plaintively.

I guessed the child was calling her brother. Her fair hair was tangled and matted at the back, her face extraordinarily grubby. She wore a stained yellow dress and an equally grimy cardigan, which had once been white. In her hand she held a filthy, one-legged doll by what remained of its hair. I paused and watched her, scarcely breathing. The little girl put the doll on the pavement and squatted down, crooning softly to it. She picked up a paper wrapper from the gutter and smoothed it carefully across her knee. Then she laid it over the doll with great tenderness, muttering something like ‘Dere y’are. Dere y’are, Polly.’

I tiptoed towards the child, holding my breath, longing to linger, but knowing I could not. As I reached her, the child looked up and noticed me. She raised her little face to gaze up at me and give me a startlingly beautiful, radiant smile. I paused and smiled back for a moment, and then, reluctantly forcing myself to turn away, I walked on. My heart was pounding. I had found my Lucy.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_ac265a49-5609-5c24-8c42-c12151a30bae)

I scarcely noticed the journey back to Nottingham. I even forgot to spread my clean handkerchief on the back of the seat behind my head. Somehow I made each connection and boarded the correct trains. Ticket collectors came and went. I must have presented the relevant ticket, though I had no memory of doing so.

One cheery conductor on the Leeds-to-Derby stretch said, ‘Penny for them, duck!’ as he punched my ticket – such a foolish expression. But he shrugged and quickly moved on, disappointed, I suppose, that I had failed to respond in the same spirit. He could have offered me a fortune for them, but I wouldn’t have shared them; my thoughts were all on Lucy. How could such a dreadful place, such a dreadful family, have produced a child of such beauty and perfection? My mind drifted unbidden to my own history.

Could I have been born into just such a slum? Certainly my “birth mother” must have lacked morals. “Unmarried mother”, the adoption agency had written in the sketchy notes Mother had shared with me, when she felt that, at fourteen or so, I was mature enough for such information. Mother had always been open about the adoption. From my earliest memories, I knew I’d been “chosen” and that somehow this made me special. Mother had emphasised that it was unnecessary to share this information about my roots with anyone else. It was just for the two of us. Well, Mother was my real mother in every true sense of the word, wasn’t she?

When thoughts of this “unmarried mother” occasionally surfaced, I shuddered at the image of a slovenly, unkempt woman – such as those I had seen today in abundance on the streets and back lanes of Frainham. I screwed up my eyes tightly and forced myself to concentrate on Mother, neat and decent, her morals intact, and felt I could breathe easily again. Thank goodness I had decided years ago never to attempt to make contact with my birth mother.

Finally, the bus from Derby deposited me and I walked the last half-mile or so home in the dark. As so often happened, sleep did not come easily that night, although I was exhausted, both physically and mentally, from the day. I had had nothing to eat since breakfast, except an egg and cress sandwich hastily bought at Riddlesfield station, of which I could swallow only half. I knew I should eat something when I got home, but the very thought of food was repellent.

I lay back in a soothing hot bath and then fell into bed. My mind spun and my whole being was as tense as a spring with excitement. If it had been possible, I would have returned to that street, that house, the very next day, indeed that very minute. I would have scooped the beautiful child up in my arms and run off with her.

But impulsiveness was not in my nature. I knew it was an impulse that, like so many urges, had to be resisted – and a good thing too. It was vital to concentrate on the longer term. By focusing solely on my immediate longing, the whole future could be jeopardised. Self-control was everything. The final stages were approaching, and that made it all the more important to adhere absolutely to the plan.

* * *

The last day in Nottingham came soon enough. I stood in the chill of the empty house, and spent some minutes listening to the echo of the many years gone by. I checked each room one last time. Here, where we sat comfortably by the fire, Mother with embroidery or knitting on her lap, me with a book, or my stamp album (how I loved those colourful stamps, especially the ones sent by Mother’s friend Maureen from New Zealand, with their bird pictures).

Here, too, where we shared the evening meal together, the table always perfectly laid – not for us a plate on our laps in front of the television. Here my bedroom to which I had loved to retreat during difficult times as a child, for peace and solitude. And here was Mother’s room with its pink carpet and white built-in cupboard. The delicate smell of Mother lingered still, hung softly in the air, like a gentle ghost.

Now was the time for leaving. I locked the front door and went next door to say goodbye to Sylvia Blythe, our elderly neighbour, and leave the key with her for the agents to pick up. I took her two large carrier bags full of the non-perishable remnants from the kitchen cupboards: tins of soup, dried fruit, pots of jam and the like.

‘So kind of you, dear, just like your mother, aren’t you? I can’t believe you won’t be here any more. Not you, nor poor Dorothy.’ Sylvia’s voice broke with a sob. ‘After all these years – oh Alison, I shall miss you terribly.’

‘I’m sure the new neighbours will be nice.’

‘Maybe, but that’s just what they’ll be: new. Dorothy and I were friends for nearly fifty years – fifty years, Alison!’

Tears wound a crooked path down Sylvia’s wrinkled cheek. I held my breath, bent over her armchair and hugged her. I couldn’t help recoiling slightly at the feel of the soft, loose flesh of her face and its powdery smell. Sylvia recalled memories of her friendship with Mother: anecdotes I had heard many times.

When at last I was able to say my final goodbyes and extricate myself, I left by Sylvia’s back door and returned through the side gate to the garden. It was still only half past eleven. I fetched the pushchair and bags from their hiding place in the shed, put on my navy coat and brown wig, checked that no one was about, and departed through the back gate. I left the house I’d lived in for all of my forty-one years without a backwards glance.