Lucy talked little at first, but every now and then she repeated a tedious little litany in a plaintive questioning voice.
‘Mam? Dad? Wy-yan? Polly …? Tacy … Mam?’
By this time I had learned more of Lucy’s former family from television and newspaper reports. I knew that “Tacy” referred to her previous name. What a fortunate chance that Stacy and Lucy sounded not totally dissimilar. Surely she would soon adjust? “Wy-yan” of course was Ryan, the brother nearest to Lucy in age – whom I had witnessed paying her little enough attention, indeed, abandoning her on the pavement outside her former house. He was, in my opinion, quite undeserving of her affection. It took me a while to remember that Polly was the name of the filthy, naked and disfigured doll, with which Lucy had been playing when I first set eyes on her.
* * *
The first time I dared to take Lucy out of the house was many weeks after her arrival. I suggested we should go and buy a “new Polly” for her. Lucy’s little face lit up, and she actually smiled! My heart turned to liquid and I nearly wept aloud.
‘Buy Polly,’ she said, nodding eagerly.
We made our way to the High Street, where I had noticed a small toyshop. The assistant immediately stepped forwards and asked how she could help us.
‘We’re looking for a doll,’ I explained. ‘In fact, my little girl has lost a favourite old doll, and I’m hoping to find a similar one for her.’
We were shown the rows of baby dolls, brown dolls, black dolls and white dolls, boy dolls and girl dolls, dolls with plastic heads and dolls with hair. I found one that seemed to me the closest in size and features to Polly, although this one was in pristine condition, quite unlike the stained and discoloured appearance of the original. The doll had blond hair tied up in a bunch on top of her head with a pink ribbon. She wore a frilly pink dress and knickers.
The box in which she reclined also contained a tiny plastic brush and comb, a baby bottle and a small yellow potty, all held to a cardboard base with rubber bands. The doll’s face wore an expression of exceptional stupidity. When upright, her eyelids fluttered open to reveal large blue, sightless eyes. Her red lips were pursed in a look of perpetual astonishment, heightened by the small round hole in their centre, presumably into which the bottle could be inserted.
‘She wets an’ all,’ the assistant informed Lucy, who regarded the doll balefully.
‘Not Polly,’ she said. I crouched down in front of the pushchair, facing Lucy, and spoke in a quiet whisper.
‘No, Lucy, but she’s like Polly, isn’t she? You’ll see, when we get home we’ll take her clothes off and give her a bath, shall we?’
She frowned. ‘Not Polly.’
I quickly paid and we pushed out of the shop. Lucy did not want to carry the doll on the way home and maintained a resentful silence. Once in the house, she yanked all the clothes off the doll and flung them aside. She took the ribbon from its head and pulled violently at the pale, yellow hair, until it stood in rough tufts.
‘Leg off,’ she said, her little hands tugging ineffectually at the doll’s limb. She looked at me. I sighed. Defeated, I prised the right leg out of its rubbery socket and handed the doll back to Lucy.
Chapter Twelve
I knew it was important to introduce Lucy to our neighbours, but the thought of how she might behave filled me with apprehension. I took her first to meet Frank and Molly Armstrong. Molly tried to lift her up into an embrace, but Lucy immediately uttered a squeal, wriggled free and retreated behind me.
‘Oh I’m sorry, Molly – she’s very shy at the moment,’ I said. Molly nodded knowingly and went to a low cupboard in the corner of the room. She extracted a decorated box, crouched on the floor and took the lid off. Lucy watched with interest from behind my legs.
‘Frank, bring that blue and white tin tray from the kitchen, would you, pet?’
Molly emptied a cascade of buttons from the box onto the tray with a satisfying tinging noise. She poured the buttons back into the box and then emptied them onto the tray again. Lucy was mesmerised.
‘There you are, Lucy. You have a look at the pretty buttons, but don’t put them in your mouth, mind.’
Lucy spent half an hour picking up one handful of buttons after another and letting them drop onto the metal tray, time and time again. She didn’t utter a word during the entire visit. Molly and Frank seemed unperturbed. They watched her absorption in the activity with satisfaction.
‘I’m afraid she’s been very quiet … since her daddy died …’ I mouthed at them behind my hand.
‘Don’t you worry, Alison. Your Lucy’s been through a difficult time. She’ll come round before you know it,’ Frank said softly, as Molly made us some tea.
* * *
A few days later I took Lucy to see the Harmons. Michael was at work, but Susan and the children were home. Claire and Charlie were delighted to see Lucy. They brought lots of their toys to show her. She stared wide-eyed at them from the safety of my chair, her expression frozen.
‘Why won’t she play?’ asked Charlie, frowning.
‘Just leave her alone; let her do what she wants,’ said Claire. Such a mature, sensible child.
‘Charlie, will you come and help me get some squash and snacks, please?’ said Susan. They disappeared to the kitchen together. Claire brought a pile of picture books, put them on the floor near Lucy, and retreated. Lucy looked at her and then looked at the books. She looked at me, and then at the books again.
Susan and Charlie brought in a tray. After a few minutes, when Claire and Charlie were occupied with a bowl of crisps and a plate of chocolate animals, Lucy crawled hesitantly across the carpet towards the books and began looking at them. Claire looked at me and her mother, and smiled. Susan winked at her.
I began to realise that Susan had what I had always felt lacking in myself: an instinctive understanding of the thoughts, feelings and reactions of other people. What a wonderful ability it seemed to be, and clearly something that Claire had inherited, or perhaps learned, from her mother. Perhaps, in time, I could learn such skills myself.
Chapter Thirteen
People like Susan and Molly, close neighbours who had extended friendship to me, expressed no surprise that Lucy was quieter and more withdrawn than other children of her age. It was natural, they said, in view of her experience of losing her father, and the disruption this tragedy had imposed on our lives. Molly told me it was important for Lucy to play with other children.
‘She’s such a serious little mite, bless her – be nice to see her running about with some other little bairns her own age.’
‘Why don’t you take her to the playgroup next to the church?’ suggested Susan. ‘It would be good for her to play with other children. Charlie absolutely loved it. Be good for you to meet some other mums too. It’s just a couple of hours three times a week, and Harriet Grant, the playgroup leader, is absolutely fantastic at involving all the children, no matter how shy they are. Go on, Alison, it’d be good for both of you.’
So everyone seemed to know what was good for Lucy, and me – what was best for us. But shouldn’t Lucy be with me? Wasn’t it best for young children to spend as much time as possible with their mothers? Yes, my supporters replied – united in their opinions, it seemed – but it’s just as important for them to have the company of their “peers” – they need to learn to play cooperatively, to communicate, and develop their social skills.
I resented this interference, but in the end their perseverance won and I gave in. Susan came with me – just to introduce me to the playgroup staff and some of the mothers, she said. Lucy sat on my knee clinging tightly to my sleeve for the first half-hour. She’d been eyeing a dolls’ house on a table close to us. Eventually she slid cautiously off my lap and walked hesitantly towards her goal. Susan nudged me.
‘There you are,’ she whispered. ‘What did I tell you?’
A little girl was playing with the dolls and toy furniture, arranging them in one room, then moving them somewhere else. Lucy stood watching her for a few minutes. Then she sat down on the small chair next to her. The other little girl smiled and chatted about the toys.
‘I like that one, that mummy one,’ she said, pointing to a toy figure. ‘I gonna put her in the bath!’ She looked at Lucy and giggled.
Lucy watched her solemnly. She picked up a boy figure, bent his legs and sat him on a chair. She nodded. ‘Put Wy-yan on tair,’ she said.
Every now and then, as she explored the toys, Lucy turned around as if to check what I was doing. Watching her seeking me out for reassurance, I felt a terrible pain in my heart; a feeling that was both intense and mysterious, yet not altogether unpleasant.
Chapter Fourteen
I worked hard at building our life together, and ultimately felt confident that anyone who understood the situation would agree I was very successful, despite the difficult start. Of course, no one did truly understand – I had convinced myself that it was vital that no one should know, and that therefore no one could understand. Although I had never been someone who depended on friends and confidantes, my awareness of this conviction made me feel very lonely at times.
That first summer I rented a cottage for Lucy and me in south-west Scotland, just a hundred yards from the beach. We went for walks, dug endlessly in the sand, paddled and splashed in the shallows, collected shells, ate sandwiches on the beach for lunch, and fish and chips or hot dogs and ice creams for tea.
It was some weeks since Lucy had mentioned her “mam” or had cried. Very gradually she spoke more, looked at me more and even laughed sometimes. She loved stories. Some of our happiest times were spent in the library or curled up on the sofa, looking at picture books together. Every night when I tucked her up in bed, I remembered to hug Lucy and tell her how much I loved her.
Mother had been devoted to me in every way, I knew, but it was not in her nature, or perhaps her upbringing, to express affection openly in this way – and she was aware that I was not a child who enjoyed physical closeness. I was determined that I would have no such inhibitions with Lucy. Had she shown any signs of returning affection to me during those early weeks and months, it would have been so much easier, but she did not – or perhaps, she could not.
‘I love you, Lucy,’ I said each night, kissing her. I knew it was important to tell her. ‘Mummy loves you so, so much.’
Lucy would respond by regarding me silently with a deep, impenetrable look.
* * *
On September 20th 1985, the date I’d assigned to Lucy’s third birthday, I arranged a little party for her. Of course, I was unsure exactly when Stacy was born, but I had created a birthday for Lucy based on the records of poor little dead Lucy, which must have been near enough correct. September 20th was the date written into my Lucy’s birth certificate.
I had made a cake to look like the little house in Lucy’s book of Hansel and Gretel, a story that she loved dearly. I decorated it with coloured icing, chocolate buttons and Smarties. The morning of Lucy’s birthday, Claire asked if she could come in to help me prepare, but I wanted very much to do it all myself. I thanked Claire, but explained that it would really help me create the surprise party food if she would entertain Lucy while I made the preparations. I also asked her to be a special helper at the party itself.
While they played in the sitting room, I shut the kitchen door and assembled plates of tiny sandwiches and sausage rolls, chocolate animals, little cheese and pineapple cubes on sticks, and bowls of crisps and jelly. Just like Mother had made for me years earlier. These preparations gave me such pleasure. There was no doubt I was a real mother now.
Both Claire and Charlie came to the party, of course; Claire enjoyed organising some simple games for the smaller children: Pass the Parcel, The Farmer in his Den and Musical Bumps. Jenny, Mark, Megan and Laura – friends from playgroup – and their parents had been invited too. We asked our neighbours on either side, Susan and Mike and Frank and Molly, as well.
Everyone agreed how much Lucy had “come on” since she first came to Newcastle in March. It was true. She was a different child from the wan, disturbed little creature of seven months previously. She spoke more clearly and confidently, and her vocabulary had grown enormously. These days she hardly ever mentioned members of her former family. I was starting to feel much more positive, more confident about her progress.
Perhaps I was becoming overconfident. When it was time to sit at the long table for tea, the children began squabbling about who should sit next to Lucy, but she kept pushing each of them away.
‘No, not sit there!’
I came and crouched by her chair and spoke quietly. Claire was hovering behind her.
‘Lucy dear, why not let Claire sit next to you?’
Lucy adored Claire; surely this arrangement would please her?
‘She can help you blow out the candles.’
Lucy looked round at Claire and frowned. Her face reflected some inner turmoil. To my consternation, tears sprang in her eyes.
‘Not Claire, no!’ she said firmly, fixing me with her most determined stare. ‘Stacy sit there.’
There it was – the name Stacy again – just when things were going so well. Although, fortunately, only I had heard her say it, this incident chilled me to the core; I worried terribly about it. What did it mean? Did it just happen to be a name that lingered faintly in her memory and perhaps came into her head suddenly; or had she somehow invented an imaginary friend based on her former self? If there were an imagined Stacy, whom she believed could sit next to her, what did that imply about Lucy’s sense of herself – her “identity”, a psychologist might have said?
In the end it was agreed that none of the children should sit next to Lucy. Instead that honour was afforded to Polly, the unfortunate, one-legged doll, which she still worshipped.
* * *
Then, about a month after Lucy’s birthday, there was a great breakthrough. It meant the world to me, and went some way to setting my mind at rest about the “Stacy” incident.
It was a beautiful autumn day, the sun skittering in and out of the oak and sycamore leaves, just taking on their deepest colours. We had gone for a walk and ended up at the little playground in the wooded area behind our house. Lucy was becoming more daring and showed signs of becoming an agile climber. I had to resist the urge to be overprotective, to shield her from any perceived danger – in order to allow her to explore her own capabilities. She had learned to clamber up the bars of the metal fence that separated the playground from the adjoining pathway.
This particular afternoon I went to sit on a wooden bench, enjoying the quiet, the mild air and the slanting golden sunshine – watching while Lucy was balancing at the top of the fence in a “look, no hands” stance. I delighted in Lucy’s pleasure and felt calm and peaceful. Just then, a woman with a large Alsatian dog approached on the path. The dog was busily sniffing the ground.
As they came level with Lucy, the dog suddenly noticed her and tried to leap towards her, barking ferociously. Fortunately, the owner had a tight hold on the lead, so he was restrained, but Lucy got a terrible fright and screamed out ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ at the top of her voice. I rushed to Lucy, carried her back to the seat and cuddled her until the sobs subsided. All the while, as I comforted Lucy in her distress, my heart was leaping with such joy I wanted to laugh out loud. Lucy had called me Mummy.
Chapter Fifteen
January 1987
Lucy
I’m a big girl now. Mummy said so. Going to big school today. Not nursery any more. Got special clothes for school. I like yellow shirt best. Yellow my favourite colour – like sunshine. My sweatshirt is blue. Got a badge with words on. Wear it when it’s cold. I got a grey skirt. Mummy says I look smart; I look grown-up.
We walked to the school. Mummy held my hand. Lots of children in the yard. There are some coloured lines on the ground. Wiggling about. Maybe we paint coloured lines in school today? Some boys and girls running on the lines and laughing.
I want to run on the yellow line, but my heart feels bumpy. Wish Stacy was here. Don’t tell Mummy. Mummy doesn’t like Stacy. Makes her sad. I’m holding Mummy’s hand and watching the boys and girls.
Mummy says, ‘Go on, Lucy, don’t you want to play? It’ll be time to go inside in a minute.’
I see Laura from playgroup. She runs over. She stands in front of me, smile on her face. She sticks out her hand to me. I look at Mummy. She smiles and nods her head. Laura and me hold hands and run. She pulls me to a red line.
‘No! Yellow,’ I say.
Laura says ‘OK’ and we chase the yellow line all round the playground, laughing and laughing.
Suddenly a bell is ringing. Big, loud bell. We stop running. A teacher lady is standing by the door with her face smiling. Another lady next to her. All the children run to near her. She shouts in a kind voice, ‘Good morning, children! How lovely to see you all! Welcome to you on your first day of school! My name is Miss Carson. This is Mrs Hope, our special kind helper. We’re all going to have a lovely day today: playing with toys and games, listening to stories, and learning lots of exciting things! Does that sound like fun?’
Some of the children shout, ‘Yes!’
Laura shouts ‘Yes!’ but I feel shy. I look for Stacy. Some children jump up and down.
Miss Carson says, ‘Well, children, say “bye-bye” to your mummies and daddies now. And say “see you later”.’
Miss Carson says in a loud excited voice, ‘Then – let’s – go – in – and – have – a – look – at – our – classroom!’
I run back to Mummy and she gave me a big hug, and my special yellow schoolbag.
‘Bye-bye, Lucy dear, have a wonderful day, and I’ll be here to pick you up at three o’clock,’ she says, and she pushes me towards Miss Carson, not hard.
Laura walking into school too, and lots of other children. Some children still hugging their mummies and daddies, and crying. The Mrs Hope lady goes to talk to them. I not crying, but I wish Stacy was here.
Chapter Sixteen
1987
Alison
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.
