Finding Lucy

by Diana Finley

  Could Lucy possibly have memories of the red coat? No, surely not, she was so young. Far too young to have conscious memories from the age of two … yet … what if she did? The very thought sent icy shivers down my spine. I would have to be extra vigilant to see just how her active young mind worked. I should certainly make clear to her that she needed to respect my privacy – well, that we needed to respect one another’s privacy. I don’t believe in locked doors in my own house. I have to be able to trust Lucy. She would have to understand that my bedroom is “out of bounds” to her unless she obtains my permission first.

  I suppose I should have been prepared that the time would come for Lucy to ask questions about her father, and, as a result perhaps, about her wider family. I’m not proud of having had to deceive her about her grandparents living (and dying!) in New Zealand. But when she became so questioning a few years ago, I admit I was caught off-guard. It was fortunate that I was able to think of some sort of story, which fitted the bill at the time.

  Some might call it lying, but I don’t think my explanations can be described in that way. They were constructed for the very best of motives – in other words, to help Lucy feel more at ease and to give her the security of feeling she belonged to an ordinary family, just like other children. Of course I was aware that hearing of the “deaths” of her grandparents caused her some distress. But then almost all children have to come to terms with the death of grandparents eventually – and after all she didn’t know them, so her sadness must have been relatively short term. Also, the situation I invented for her relieved her of long-term bewilderment and anxiety, which I am convinced could have been much more damaging. What else could I have done?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Lucy

  One Saturday a few weeks later, Mummy said she was going to nip out to the post office for some stamps and would I go with her? I told her I really needed to finish my French homework. Even though I was nearly twelve, Mummy didn’t like to leave me alone in the house for more than a few minutes, unless she was just going next door.

  ‘Well then I think I’ll pop round to ask Auntie Molly to come and sit with you,’ she said.

  ‘There’s no need, Mummy. You’ll hardly be gone more than half an hour, and you know how Auntie Molly likes to talk and ask questions. I’ll never be able to concentrate, and this French is really important if I’m to get an A. I’ll just sit here and finish my work. Don’t worry about me.’

  That was a clever move. Mummy’s face showed she was torn between not wanting to leave me alone, and her wish for me to get top marks at school. Top marks won.

  ‘Well, all right … if you’re sure, Lucy. But don’t open the door to anyone, will you?’

  After the red coat business, she’d had a serious talk with me about us respecting each other’s privacy. It seemed to me she was more concerned about her privacy than mine. Mummy was always going into my room, but she made me promise I wouldn’t go into hers unless she said I could.

  I was about to break that promise. As soon as she shut the front door, I got up and raced to her room. I opened the wardrobe first – and gasped! Oh my God, it was gone! There was no sign of the red coat! I pushed each hanger along the rail to make sure, but there was no doubt about it; the red coat – and its cover – had vanished. After rearranging the hangers loosely and evenly spaced, as they were before, I shut the wardrobe door.

  Next, I rushed to the bottom drawer of the desk. At first I was astonished to find that the wooden box had also disappeared. There were some cards and envelopes at the front of the drawer instead. I felt with my hand to see if there was anything else in the drawer. There was just a cardboard box with some pens and pencils. Disappointed, I began to shut the drawer, but then I noticed that the desk was quite deep. I opened the drawer again, further this time, carefully removed the box of pens, and felt with my hand right to the very back – and there was the wooden box!

  My heart thumping for some reason, I took it out and put it on the desk. Then I reached into the stationery drawer and found the little tray at the back. The three small keys were still in it. I tried the first key, but that didn’t fit. The second key slipped smoothly into the lock. I turned it and the box opened with a click. Inside was a yellowing newspaper cutting, carefully folded.

  I noticed the date at the top of the page was March 17, 1985. I read the article slowly and carefully:

  Police are continuing to question the parents of missing 2-year-old Stacy Watts about her disappearance on March 8th.

  Detective Inspector Lawrence Dempster emphasised that the search for little Stacy was far from over, and that their questioning of her parents, Gary and Shelley Watts, was routine procedure. It is now over a week since Stacy went missing from outside her home in Frainham, Riddlesfield, and D.I. Dempster told reporters that the police are very concerned for her safety. He appealed to anyone who has any information about a child answering Stacy’s description – however insignificant that information may seem – to come forward, either by ringing the special incident number (printed below) at Riddlesfield central police station, or by contacting their local police station.

  At this stage of the search, he added, police have no reason not to believe that Stacy is still alive. However, Detective Inspector Dempster reminded the public that Stacy is a very young and vulnerable child, small and slight for her 2 years.

  Stacy has fair hair and blue eyes. On the day of her disappearance she was wearing a yellow dress, a green knitted jumper, and black plimsolls a little too large for her. Police are particularly interested to interview a slim, middle-aged woman of average height, with mid-length brown hair, who was seen in the area. It is believed this woman was wearing a brown or dark blue coat and shoes.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I read the article again twice. Then I replaced it in the box and shut the drawer. I don’t know why, but the cutting left me feeling puzzled and disturbed. Why was it there? Why had Mummy kept it? Should I ask her about it? Somehow I didn’t feel I could.

  My stomach felt jittery, like before an important test at school. In fact, I felt quite sick. I wished I could talk to someone about it, but there was no one who felt just right.

  Not until much later, that is, when I had got to know Cassie better. Cassie didn’t seem the least impressed though. In fact, she was completely underwhelmed when I first tried to tell her about it.

  ‘Right … so your mum had a nice red coat she never wears? Just as I would expect really – I mean she doesn’t wear bright colours, does she? She tends to dress a bit dowdy. I don’t quite get the point.’

  ‘Dowdy?’ I was hurt on Mummy’s behalf.

  ‘Well, maybe not dowdy, but conservative. It was probably an impulse buy that she was sorry for later, ’cause it’s not her style.’

  We were sitting on the floor of Cassie’s bedroom and I’d been telling her about my finds: the coat and the cutting. I’d memorised the newspaper article almost word for word.

  ‘I don’t know … oh, I know it sounds stupid. But I keep thinking about it. There’s something about a red coat … I can’t explain it!’ I felt heat working its way up the back of my neck. I pressed my hands hard on my eyes, as if I might construct a picture in my head that would make some sense.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I repeated. ‘It’s just … like I’ve got a vague feeling that I’ve seen a red coat before some time … in my head … or kind of like in a dream.’

  ‘Right …?’ said Cassie. Her voice sounded a bit doubtful, but still encouraging.

  ‘I expect your mum tried it on some time, and you saw it then.’

  ‘Well … why did she get rid of it – the red coat, I mean – after she realised I’d been in her room? Why was she so annoyed I’d seen it? And that article about the little girl. What was that all about? Why had she kept it?’

  ‘I dunno, Lucy. Maybe she knew the family. Maybe she thought it was a sad story … You seem to be linking the coat and the cutting, as if there’s so
mething important about them, just because your mum didn’t like you looking at her coat. Anyway, the article didn’t say anything about a red coat, did it? Just a dark blue or brown coat.’

  ‘No, I know – but it’s not just that. I don’t really know what the problem with the coat was. It’s so hard to explain, but I’ve sometimes had a feeling that … that … oh I don’t know …’

  ‘Come on … what sort of feeling?’

  ‘A sort of feeling that there are things from when I was little that I can’t remember – like there’s some important memories there that I just can’t reach. Like … there’s a black hole or something.’

  Cassie snorted.

  ‘Well there are plenty of things from when I was little that I can’t remember either. My mum’s always telling me funny stuff I’m supposed to have done as a baby or tiny kid – and I can’t remember a single thing about it. Nada!’

  ‘That’s just it, though. My mum never really tells me anything about when I was a little kid. No funny stories, like your mum. Just general things like “Oh, you were a beautiful baby”. Sometimes I feel like I didn’t exist.’

  Cassie looked at me thoughtfully. She waited a while for me to go on.

  ‘Look, Lucy, I know your mum is a bit odd, but I think you’re making more of this than necessary. Maybe she’s just not the sort of person to talk about memories …’

  ‘She is not odd! Why do you say that? She’s lovely. She’s just a bit … reserved.’

  ‘Well, I thought that business with your grandparents dying in New Zealand was a bit odd, didn’t you? It was almost as if she didn’t want you to meet them, or … as if they didn’t even really exist.’

  ‘Didn’t exist? No, that’s crazy. It can’t be true. She did want me to meet them. Why shouldn’t she? Anyway, I got letters from Granny. Quite a lot of letters.’

  Cassie looked thoughtful.

  ‘Hmm … you got typed up messages that your mum gave you.’

  ‘So what? They were still messages from Granny.’

  ‘Were they? Maybe your mum wrote them – maybe she got jealous because you were starting to love your gran.’

  I was shocked.

  ‘How can you say that, Cass? She loves me. She wouldn’t try to trick me. Anyway, they had New Zealand stamps and postmarks, so of course they were real.’

  I started to cry. It was like there was a deep well of sadness inside me. Once I started I couldn’t stop myself.

  Cassie put her arms around me and rocked me like a baby.

  ‘Sorry, Lucy, ’course I’m wrong then. I know your mum loves you. Anyone can see that. It’s just that she’s not a very … relaxed sort of person, is she?’ She gave me her piercing look. ‘But anyway, you’d remember, wouldn’t you? I mean, if anything special, or anything bad had happened when you were little, you’d remember?’ Cassie said.

  ‘Yes, I keep thinking that too. So I don’t believe anything bad happened, except for my dad being killed. That was very bad for Mummy, but I was too little to remember it. You know what? However hard I try, I don’t remember anything before Newcastle – well, not clearly at least. Sometimes I get these strange sorts of picture flashes, but I can’t make proper sense of them. Don’t you get bits of memories like that, from when you were very little?’

  ‘Oh yes, I suppose I do,’ Cassie said. ‘Like you say, they’re mostly just single images – I can’t really remember many details. For instance, I have this memory – I think I was about two or three – and Dad was holding my hands and swinging me round and round in the garden. I have this picture in my head of trees and bushes whizzing by and him laughing. I remember liking it – but that’s about all.’

  We sat in silence for a few moments.

  ‘What about other people, Lucy? Somebody must know – somebody who knew your mum from long ago, and your dad before he died – and you as a baby.’

  ‘Well, that’s another thing. Mummy says we moved here from Nottingham when I was about two or two and a half. But I don’t know of a single person who knew us before we got to Newcastle. My dad had died, of course – I don’t remember him at all – I wish I did. I suppose Mummy was so upset about losing him, she didn’t have much to do with other people. She just wanted to get away to somewhere without all the sad memories and connections. To start a new life. And then her mother – who she adored – also died before we moved here. I don’t remember that grandmother at all. I thought maybe I remembered a fattish sort of woman, but when I asked Mummy what her mother was like, she said she was very small and slim, and always dressed smartly, so I must have just imagined the fat one. And Mummy doesn’t seem to have any friends from that time – or any other family.’

  ‘Couldn’t you look through some photos of your dad and his family with your mum – and then just ask her more about that time?

  ‘No, I can’t do that. Mummy doesn’t have a camera. There are no photos of my dad – or of his parents, my granny and grandpa …’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘None at all. I don’t even know what he looks like.’

  ‘Phew …’

  Cassie turned to face me. She took hold of both my wrists.

  ‘I think you really need to ask your mum some questions, don’t you?’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was a sunny weekend. The air was warm and soft – the first feel of long summer days to come. Normally, I loved that time of year. We were in the car, driving on the Spine Road, which ran parallel to the coast. Mummy had packed a picnic. It was in a basket on the front passenger seat, next to her. We were heading northwards up the coast, past little old villages, and great sweeping bays. I think we were going to visit a castle by the sea; Bamburgh or Dunstanburgh, perhaps. I can’t remember exactly which one. We often went to castles or historic houses of interest at the weekend, or during half-term holidays.

  Of course, I was sitting in the back seat strapped into my seatbelt – Mummy thought it was safer than the front. My hands were twisting a damp handkerchief, tying it into knots and untying them again. Maybe it was that position, behind Mummy, not having to look at her directly, that made me brave enough to ask her. Even so, I opened and closed my mouth several times before eventually I had the courage to speak.

  ‘Mummy …’

  ‘Yes, Lucy?’

  ‘Where was I born?’

  ‘Where …er?’

  ‘Yes, where was I born?’

  There was a long pause while she took some deep breaths.

  ‘Well … you were born in Nottingham, of course. I thought I’d told you that. Nottingham was where I … we … lived before we moved to Newcastle.’

  ‘So was Daddy there too?’

  ‘Er … yes … yes, of course. Daddy was there … with us.’

  ‘But then he died and we moved to Newcastle?’

  ‘Yes. Lucy, these are serious questions, and it’s right that you should ask them, but let’s wait until we stop the car and have our picnic. I really have to concentrate on driving.’

  I could see her eyes keep glancing at me in the rear-view mirror, but we sat in silence until we reached a car park in the dunes. She pulled in and parked the car. We carried our basket and bags over the humpy marram grass to find a sheltered spot overlooking the sea. The water sparkled in the sunshine, the sky was blue and for once the breeze was gentle. The beach stretched far to the north and the south, so extensive that people and dogs looked like figures in a Lowry painting, tiny and distant.

  We put a rug on the pale sand and Mummy arranged the picnic in the middle of it. By this time I was totally dreading the conversation – and wished I’d never raised it. Mummy was very quiet. She handed me an egg and cress sandwich. I took a tiny nibble. My appetite had totally vanished.

  ‘I … um … just thought it would be nice to know a bit more about you and Daddy before I was born,’ I said tentatively.

  Mummy was looking at me. ‘Is there a particular reason for asking about it now?’

  ‘Well …
’ I stammered, ‘you don’t talk about it much, about Daddy I mean, and I don’t remember him. And why did we move, from Nottingham? Why did we come to Newcastle? I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to live in Newcastle. I like it here. But there are lots of things I don’t understand.’

  ‘What sort of things?’ she asked quietly.

  I didn’t know why, but my chest was starting to feel tight and I could hardly breathe. I could tell I was going to start crying. I tried very hard to stop myself, but I couldn’t. I squeezed my eyes tight shut, trying to block the tears, but still they started to seep out, like water escaping from under a closed door; slowly at first and then running down my cheeks in a hot flood. Suddenly, just like the tears, words seemed to come bursting out of me from somewhere inside. I don’t understand exactly where the words came from. It was as if I had no control over them.

  ‘There’s something about that red coat and I don’t know what it is. I don’t know whether someone was wearing it, and I don’t know who that someone might have been!’ I blurted. ‘That red coat in your wardrobe … I wasn’t snooping, really I wasn’t. I was just looking for the sanitary towels and I saw it. There was something special about it. Maybe it was as if I’d seen it before, or maybe it was just in my head … I just don’t know …’ I was running out of breath and stopped to gulp in air three or four times. My head felt funny and I was afraid I might faint. Mummy’s face looked like it was made of stone. Still it was as if someone inside me couldn’t stop talking.

  ‘And … and … also, also, I didn’t tell you this, and you won’t like it, but I looked inside the desk drawers and there was an article from an old newspaper and it was about a girl called Stacy, and I think maybe I know Stacy, but I’m not sure. I feel she’s someone, but I don’t know who. Do I know Stacy, Mummy? Who is she? Do you know who Stacy is? Do you, Mummy?’