Читать книгу Finding Lucy: A suspenseful and moving novel that you won't be able to put down - Diana Finley - Страница 22

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.