Читать книгу Finding Lucy - Diana Finley - Страница 23

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.’