by Diana Finley
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. S
he 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?
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 dol
l,’ 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.