‘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.
Chapter Eight
There was nothing to guarantee I would be able to take the child that day, or the next, or the one after that, although I hoped, of course. What was vital was that I travelled to Riddlesfield from Nottingham, and never from Newcastle. That connection must never be made.
If the opportunity to take Lucy did not arise that day, I had planned to stay the night in a bed and breakfast in Brayling, an ancient village in a quiet rural area just outside Riddlesfield, and to return again by taxi the following day, and the day after that if necessary.
In the event, there was no need to stay overnight. My plan went miraculously smoothly. The journey seemed much simpler this time, having experienced it all before. It was late afternoon as I pushed the pushchair – empty but for a large carrier bag – from the station and through the streets. The sky was already darkening, which was greatly to the advantage of my disguise. I was concerned, however, that even the most neglectful parents, as the child’s appeared to be, would surely not allow such a tiny girl to play alone outside in the dark – and I might have missed my chance.
I needn’t have worried. As I approached the now familiar street, I recognised the small figure on the pavement near the yard as before, playing with some sticks. She wore the same yellow dress, this time with a boy’s green jersey over it, clearly a hand-me-down, as it was far too big for her, the sleeves turned up in lumpy rolls.
No one was about. I walked rapidly straight towards her, fishing in my bag for a lollipop. Her parents must have been inside. I could hear raucous shouting, shrieking and coarse laughter coming from the house. They sounded drunk. The little girl stood up, holding a bundle of twigs and sticks. She looked at me as I approached. I crouched to her level.
‘Hello, dear,’ I said quietly. The child stuck a dirty finger in her mouth and smiled. I held the lolly in front of her and she reached for it.
‘Do you like trains? Would you like to go for a ride – on a train?’ I said, holding the lolly just out of reach.
‘Tain,’ the little girl said, her eyes on the lolly.
I gave the lollipop to her and she immediately stuck it into her mouth. I pulled a pink anorak out of my bag and pushed the child’s little arms into it. She looked at it admiringly and did not resist. I put the hood up and tucked the fine, fair hair in.
‘It’s cold,’ I explained, ‘let’s go and see the train.’
‘See tain,’ the little girl replied.
I looked carefully all around us. No one; no sign of her parents, or anyone else. Just howls of laughter, screeching and braying from inside the house. They appeared to be completely unaware of their child, of Lucy. I picked her up and sat her in the pushchair, quickly fastening the straps, as I had practised. I set off at a fast walk. Lucy sat in the pushchair completely relaxed, sucking her lolly, looking about her with interest. I talked constantly, frantically, as if a gap of silence might somehow cause the child to beg to turn around and go home, to cry for her mother. I gabbled about a car, a tree, a dog, a blue door – anything we passed by, anything to engage her interest.
‘Look, Lucy – a black dog! What a big dog! Oh, there’s a bus.’
Lucy looked in the direction of whatever I remarked on in this way. There was nothing wrong with her comprehension. I might have known my Lucy was no fool.
As we approached Churchill Square I said, ‘Let’s go in a shop now, shall we?’
‘Sop,’ Lucy agreed.
We went into British Home Stores, down the escalator to the lower ground floor, and straight to the toilets. No one inside. Good. I lifted her out. I paused for a moment and held Lucy tenderly to me, breathing her in. It was as if I breathed Lucy into my very heart, which beat hectically. I felt something for this child – whom I’d only just met – that I had never felt before. The feeling was so strong and so unfamiliar that for a moment I was afraid.
I put Lucy down, took a flannel from my bag, and wet it thoroughly with warm water at a basin. We squeezed into a cubicle, leaving the pushchair in a marked area by the basins. From the carrier bag I pulled out a spare bag and retrieved the blue dungarees, a red and blue jumper, and a pair of boys’ socks and shoes. I lifted Lucy onto the toilet and said ‘Wee wee’ encouragingly. Lucy looked a bit doubtful, so I gave her a little clown figure to hold, which made her laugh. To my delight, after a moment I heard the sound of success.
‘Good girl, Lucy!’
‘Tacy,’ she replied. ‘Done wee.’
I wiped her with toilet paper, and used the wet flannel to wash her face and then her bottom. We heard the sound of someone entering the end cubicle. Lucy pointed and I smiled and nodded. Lucy nodded back. It was an understanding we shared. Lucy allowed herself to be dressed in clean underwear and the boys’ clothes, including a khaki parka in place of the pink anorak. She watched a little regretfully as I stuffed the anorak into the bag. She studied the sleeves of the parka with some disdain, but did not protest.
The shoes were slightly too big. She gazed at them and banged her feet together. I put all of Lucy’s clothes into the spare bag and quickly took off the navy coat. I put on my red coat instead and pulled off the brown wig. Lucy laughed and pointed.
‘Hair!’ she said.
I folded the blue coat and put it in the large carrier bag, together with the wig. I gathered Lucy’s hair gently into a little band, and put a boy’s woolly hat over it, careful that no long strands had escaped. Lucy put her hands up to touch the hat. I sighed gratefully when she did not try to pull it off. She looked very much like a little boy now. We opened the door of the cubicle. My heart was thundering. A woman was combing her hair at the mirror and smiled down at Lucy. I helped Lucy wash and dry her hands. Then I washed my own.
‘Eee, what a clever lad,’ said the woman. ‘Mine’d make a terrible fuss! You’ve got ’im well trained, God bless ’im.’ We laughed together wryly, as mothers do.
Next, we hurried to the station. I was relieved to see from my timetable that there was a direct train leaving in less than ten minutes. At the ticket office I bought a single to Newcastle for myself and we found the platform. I gave Lucy a shortbread biscuit. She nibbled it daintily. She jiggled with excitement every time a train arrived or departed, flapping her arms up and down.
‘Tain, tain!’ she cried, pointing.
‘This is our train, Lucy,’ I told her.
‘Mam?’
‘Yes, I’m here – Mummy’s here. What fun to go on the train!’
A kind man helped lift the pushchair on. I lifted Lucy up the high step and she ran ahead into the carriage. We folded the pushchair and deposited it in the luggage store and found a seat with a table. The carrier bags fitted in the overhead luggage rack. The train was only half full and, predictably, most other passengers avoided sitting near to a small child, so we had the area to ourselves.
Initially Lucy took delight in the journey, seeing the lights flashing by, watching other passengers walk past, clambering on the seat to peep at those sitting in the next section, but I had to restrain her from this. It was important to avoid attracting anyone’s attention. Also, Lucy was still wearing her boys’ woolly hat to conceal her hair, but I was increasingly anxious that she might try to pull it off as the temperature in the carriage rose. I gave her a carton of chilled fruit juice I’d bought at Riddlesfield station, the loud slurping sounds as Lucy sucked on the straw clear proof of her enjoyment.
After that she sat very quietly for a while, looking at me.
‘Mam?’ she said, her lower lip starting to quiver. A tiny convulsive sob escaped from her. I pulled her onto my knee and whispered,
‘Don’t worry, Lucy – I’m Mummy. Mummy loves you, Lucy.’
‘Tacy,’ she said, a little fractiously. ‘Tacy!’
She had said this before and I was unsure what she meant. Was it some toy she was missing – the dreadful doll I had seen her with the first time?
She began to whimper a little. I guessed she was tired. It was nearly eight in the evening – probably past her bedtime. Rather against my principles, I took out a little plastic box, in which was a sterilised dummy I’d been keeping in reserve, and held it in front of Lucy. She grabbed it and immediately pushed it into her mouth. I took a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar out of my bag and, rocking Lucy gently on my lap, I read the story to her. Her body went limp and relaxed. She sucked rhythmically on the dummy.
When the book was finished, Lucy patted it to indicate she wanted it read again. By the time I had finished the third reading, she was nearly asleep, her head heavy against my arm.
Chapter Nine
As the train doors opened at Newcastle Central Station, a blast of cold air surged in and enclosed us. Lucy was fast asleep in my arms. I hugged her close, as once again a helpful fellow passenger intervened to carry the pushchair down the steps and onto the platform. It was a relief the woman knew how to unfold it and I was able to deposit Lucy straight in and tuck the parka around her drooping form. The woman handed me the carrier bags.
‘There’s a little fellow who’s ready for his bed,’ she remarked kindly. I nodded and thanked her. We joined the queue for taxis. At the sight of Lucy, several people urged me to go ahead of them and take the next taxi. I hadn’t realised how sympathetic people can be when confronted with small children. It must be a human instinct.
‘Here you are, pet. You take the bairn and I’ll put the buggy in the boot.’
The taxi driver regaled me with anecdotes about his own children’s antics on the journey home – I was unable to absorb these stories, my mind focused on our imminent arrival. I was terribly anxious that the neighbours might see us – with Lucy in her “boy-guise”. But it was dark and late in the evening. As the driver pulled up in front of the house, I had his money ready and added a largish tip, eager to be rid of him. Thankfully, not a soul was about.
By now Lucy was writhing and wriggling in my arms, and making strange animal-like moaning sounds. I struggled to hold her and unlock the front door. I put her down in the hall, grabbed the pushchair and bags, pulled them into the house and hurriedly slammed the door shut. I started to pull Lucy’s hat off and unzip her outer clothes, but she wrenched herself free. She threw herself onto the carpet in the hall and kicked her feet on the floor. She started to howl.
‘Maaam!’ she yelled, the sound emerging in great stuttering gulps. ‘Mam-Mam-Maaam! Mam-Mam-Maaaam!’
I stared at her for a moment, deeply alarmed by the noise and unsure how to proceed. I steadied my breathing and tried to recall what Mother might have done when I was upset as a small child. I faintly remembered being taken up to my room to “calm down”. I took off Lucy’s coat, picked up her writhing form, and carried her up to her bedroom.
‘Look, Lucy! Here’s Lucy’s room. Isn’t it lovely! Lots of toys, just for you. And here’s your cosy little bed. Mummy will run you a nice warm bath and we’ll put some lovely clean pyjamas on. Look, here’s Teddy.’
Lucy frowned furiously. She flung the bear across the room and lay sobbing face down on the bed. I was aghast – I hadn’t expected this. In fact, I was trembling, a feeling of panic taking hold – pinching at my spine. Why was Lucy so distressed at leaving behind a sordid home and such unsatisfactory and neglectful parents? Couldn’t she see what a wonderful home I had prepared for her, what a wonderful life I’d planned?
And then I realised. Of course Lucy could not see. I tried to calm myself and allow reason to return, remembering what Mother had always said: “Children have no sense of time.” I had so much to learn about children. It seemed that Lucy had no ability either to evaluate the present or to envisage the future. That dirty, impoverished home and those worthless parents were all she had known and experienced. How could she possibly understand how much better life could be, how much better a mother could be? I resolved to show her, however long it took.
Chapter Ten
I do not regard myself as an intolerant person, nor am I politically minded. I have nothing against poor people; decent, caring, hard-working poor people. No doubt some of them make admirable parents. But equally, there is no doubt that certain types of people do not deserve the privilege of having children. Perhaps some do not even realise that it is a privilege.
Lucy’s parents – Gary and Shelley Watts – spring instantly to mind. Social workers may have had the audacity to decree that I was unworthy of parenting a young child – but no end of feckless individuals, like the Watts, appear to have the right to bring children into the world willy-nilly, with no mention of the responsibilities that go hand in hand with those rights – and without a thought or care for the well-being of the children. Of course, I don’t go so far as to advocate sterilisation, but the balance of rights appears all one-sided to me.
Yet, however much they might have brought the situation upon themselves, I couldn’t help feeling a few transitory moments of pity for Gary and “Shell”. I had ultimately submitted to buying a television set, much as I disapproved of them. Perhaps in the future, Lucy would enjoy some educational programmes, I reasoned. Meanwhile, I felt, it was important for me to keep up with news of the police search, and with their dealings with Lucy’s birth parents.
The usual “television appeal” (media circus, you could call it!) did Gary and “Shell” no favours. To be sure, they were not a photogenic pair. Gary, with his shifty, rat-like features, lumpy shaved head and extensive tattoos, looked the epitome of a vicious criminal rather than a responsible, loving father. Most people would hardly trust him to wash their windows, let alone entrust a small child to his care. Indeed, the Daily Mail reported that according to their information, Gary Watts had served a prison sentence for burglary in the past.
The image projected by Shelley Watts was no more appealing. Her pudding-like face was red and blotchy. Her shapeless body appeared entirely boneless; enormous breasts like vast jellyfish, swelling and spilling over the table in a repulsive way, as she leaned towards the camera. An unfortunate habit of regularly swiping her eyes and nose with her sleeve elicited disgust rather than sympathy. I shuddered. How had such an unprepossessing pair produced an exquisite child like Lucy? It was a mystery.
‘Please, please …’ Shelley sobbed and spluttered on the screen, ‘please don’ ’urt her. Please don’ ’urt me Stace!’ (The name was bad enough without the shortening.) She sat up straight and stared directly into the camera.
‘Stacy baby, we love ya, we miss ya. Please, please, we jus’ want ’er home …’ She dissolved into gulps and wails, her great, hunched shoulders shaking. The police inspector supervising the case – Detective Inspector Lawrence Dempster – was a rather handsome man in his early forties, about my age in fact, I noticed. He was tall, his temples reassuringly streaked with silver. His manner projected intelligence and authority. He patted Shelley’s lumpen back and handed her a bunch of paper tissues. Gary, the father, then had his turn at inarticulate pleading.
‘Was the little girl playing outside on her own, Gary?’ shouted one of the gathered journalists.
‘We ’ardly let ’er outa our sight,’ mumbled Gary. ‘We was in the back room – so we could check ’er all the time, like. ’Er brothers and sisters keep a watch on ’er.’ (This was rich, I thought, remembering how Lucy had been playing entirely alone outside – a two-year-old child!) ‘Yeah, they miss ’er something rotten – Ashley, Sean, Kelly and Ryan – they want ’er back an’ all. We all do. She was just playin’ out the back, like. She was all right.’
He gazed at the cameras open-mouthed, his expression one of challenging idiocy.
‘Then …’ he said, ‘a moment later she was gone. Just … just gone in seconds.’
He shook his head in apparent disbelief, and clasped his forehead with both hands.
The roomful of reporters was silent for a moment, the camera stilled on Gary’s face.
‘Why are no photographs of Stacy being published?’ a woman at the back enquired. ‘Surely that would make it easier to identify the child?’
Gary opened his mouth to respond. Inspector Dempster placed a hand on Gary’s arm and intervened.
‘Unfortunately,’ he said soothingly, ‘the family had no camera beyond Stacy’s babyhood, so they were unable to provide current photographs.’
‘We did have a camera, like, but it broke …’ said Gary. A murmur rose from the gathered press.
‘Is it true you’ve previously had two other children taken into care?’ someone called.
The parents looked dazed and exchanged shifty glances. They both turned and looked at Detective Inspector Dempster, as if for guidance. He stood and raised his hands towards the room, as though preparing to conduct an orchestra.
‘No more questions today, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said firmly. ‘I can assure you that every line of inquiry is being pursued. We will spare no effort to find little Stacy. If any members of the public have any information about Stacy and her disappearance, anything at all, however small, please contact us on the number now on the screen – or via your local police station.’
He narrowed his eyes and swivelled his gaze to take in all the members of the press in the room, like a stern teacher eyeing an unruly class.
‘You will be informed of any further developments, but please understand: this investigation is at a very early stage. Thank you.’
The weeping parents were ushered out.
For some days the newspapers and television news programmes were full of accounts of Stacy and her family, of the search for the child, with long lines of police reinforced by volunteers tramping shoulder to shoulder over grassy slopes, searching any nearby parks and open ground. Ominously, ponds and rivers were dragged repeatedly.
At first the press was largely sympathetic to the parents, but as time went on there were murmurings about whether they themselves might have been involved in her disappearance. The back yard was dug up. Both parents were taken in for questioning by the police on several occasions, although, of course, this was always expressed as “helping the police with their inquiries”.
Next-door neighbours were interviewed and appeared eager to share their impressions of the Watts. They talked of frequent loud arguments, furniture and household objects being thrown about. Domestic violence was hinted at, as was heavy drinking, and possible drug-taking. The older children ran wild; their behaviour was out of control and their school attendance erratic. A picture of a highly dysfunctional family was emerging. What a blessing I had removed Lucy from such an environment.
There were one or two reported sightings of a child of Stacy’s age in the nearby area, and a few from further afield, but they were vague and lacked details. None led to any significant findings. The police tried to put a positive slant on the investigation. They were seriously concerned for the child’s welfare, they said, but were confident that she was still alive. They were pursuing several lines of inquiry.
It was reported that an elderly woman who lived in the next street had seen a dark-haired woman in a navy coat, pushing a buggy with a child of Stacy’s description towards Safeways and British Home Stores in the town centre. A sales assistant in British Home Stores said she thought she might have seen someone a bit like that too, but then again, she thought it might have been a little boy in the pushchair, not a girl, and she wasn’t sure if the coat was blue – maybe it was. After that, I read with interest, “the trail went cold”.
I felt compelled to watch the news programmes about Lucy’s disappearance. Of course, if it hadn’t been absolutely necessary, I would never have obtained a child in that way. The papers and television reports frequently referred to her being “taken”, but I couldn’t accept the term in the sense of stolen or kidnapped. No, her removal from that family was more an act of liberation, of charity, one that relieved her of a life of potential misery, neglect, poverty and ultimate under-achievement.
The more I saw of Lucy’s family and learned of their lifestyle, the more convinced I became that taking her away from her parents could be regarded as salvation.
Chapter Eleven
The time came when I had to admit to myself that the initial period with Lucy was not easy, not easy at all. Should I have expected such difficulties? Yes, I realised, perhaps I should, but my direct experience of small children and their responses had been extremely limited.
It took my little daughter much longer to settle in her new home than I had anticipated. All my careful preparations – with Lucy’s happiness in mind – seemed to mean nothing to her. The pretty bedroom with its colourful matching curtains, cushions and bedding depicting amusing cartoon-like jungle scenes; the carefully chosen toys and books; the cheerful pictures and friezes decorating the walls: none of these things elicited the slightest interest or pleasure in Lucy.
The first week was the hardest. During the daytime, Lucy mostly lay on the floor, crying and moaning. She would kick and scream when I tried to comfort or even approach her. She woke frequently during the night, and her screams were pitiful. So often did she wake with soaking sheets that in the end I had to put nappies on her during the night.
For some days after her arrival, she would eat and drink nothing but a little water, and I began to fear seriously for her health. At last, in desperation, I added a little sugar to a saucepan of milk, warmed it and filled a baby’s bottle. I lifted her onto my knee. At first she arched her back and howled like a wild creature, but I persisted, holding her firm, and after a while she submitted to being rocked gently on my lap. She sucked rhythmically on the teat, and took the whole bottle, her eyes rolling up into their lids. Her body went limp with exhaustion. At last she fell into a deep sleep.
This was a turning point. I realised that perhaps Lucy had missed out on some crucial early stages of babyhood. Of course she had, with neglectful parents like hers. Why had I not thought of it before? I endeavoured to restore these vital experiences to Lucy, even though she was now about two or two and a half years old – hardly a tiny baby. Yet, what did it matter if, in private, I rocked Lucy to sleep like an infant, hummed and sang to her when she was distressed, allowed her a dummy and fed her with a baby bottle?
