by Diana Finley
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.
Chapter Seven
I scarcely noticed the journey back to Nottingham. I even forgot to spread my clean handkerchief on the back of the seat behind my head. Somehow I made each connection and boarded the correct trains. Ticket collectors came and went. I must have presented the relevant ticket, though I had no memory of doing so.
One cheery conductor on the Leeds-to-Derby stretch said, ‘Penny for them, duck!’ as he punched my ticket – such a foolish expression. But he shrugged and quickly moved on, disappointed, I suppose, that I had failed to respond in the same spirit. He could have offered me a fortune for them, but I wouldn’t have shared them; my thoughts were all on Lucy. How could such a dreadful place, such a dreadful family, have produced a child of such beauty and perfection? My mind drifted unbidden to my own history.
Could I have been born into just such a slum? Certainly my “birth mother” must have lacked morals. “Unmarried mother”, the adoption agency had written in the sketchy notes Mother had shared with me, when she felt that, at fourteen or so, I was mature enough for such information. Mother had always been open about the adoption. From my earliest memories, I knew I’d been “chosen” and that somehow this made me special. Mother had emphasised that it was unnecessary to share this information about my roots with anyone else. It was just for the two of us. Well, Mother was my real mother in every true sense of the word, wasn’t she?
When thoughts of this “unmarried mother” occasionally surfaced, I shuddered at the image of a slovenly, unkempt woman – such as those I had seen today in abundance on the streets and back lanes of Frainham. I screwed up my eyes tightly and forced myself to concentrate on Mother, neat and decent, her morals intact, and felt I could breathe easily again. Thank goodness I had decided years ago never to attempt to make contact with my birth mother.
Finally, the bus from Derby deposited me and I walked the last half-mile or so home in the dark. As so often happened, sleep did not come easily that night, although I was exhausted, both physically and mentally, from the day. I had had nothing to eat since breakfast, except an egg and cress sandwich hastily bought at Riddlesfield station, of which I could swallow only half. I knew I should eat something when I got home, but the very thought of food was repellent.
I lay back in a soothing hot bath and then fell into bed. My mind spun and my whole being was as tense as a spring with excitement. If it had been possible, I would have returned to that street, that house, the very next day, indeed that very minute. I would have scooped the beautiful child up in my arms and run off with her.
But impulsiveness was not in my nature. I knew it was an impulse that, like so many urges, had to be resisted – and a good thing too. It was vital to concentrate on the longer term. By focusing solely o
n my immediate longing, the whole future could be jeopardised. Self-control was everything. The final stages were approaching, and that made it all the more important to adhere absolutely to the plan.
* * *
The last day in Nottingham came soon enough. I stood in the chill of the empty house, and spent some minutes listening to the echo of the many years gone by. I checked each room one last time. Here, where we sat comfortably by the fire, Mother with embroidery or knitting on her lap, me with a book, or my stamp album (how I loved those colourful stamps, especially the ones sent by Mother’s friend Maureen from New Zealand, with their bird pictures).
Here, too, where we shared the evening meal together, the table always perfectly laid – not for us a plate on our laps in front of the television. Here my bedroom to which I had loved to retreat during difficult times as a child, for peace and solitude. And here was Mother’s room with its pink carpet and white built-in cupboard. The delicate smell of Mother lingered still, hung softly in the air, like a gentle ghost.
Now was the time for leaving. I locked the front door and went next door to say goodbye to Sylvia Blythe, our elderly neighbour, and leave the key with her for the agents to pick up. I took her two large carrier bags full of the non-perishable remnants from the kitchen cupboards: tins of soup, dried fruit, pots of jam and the like.
‘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 m
uch 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.