Читать книгу Finding Lucy - Diana Finley - Страница 12

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.