by Diana Finley
Chapter Forty
2003
Alison
How Lucy has matured during her time at university. Our relationship seems to have entered a different phase. I’ve missed her terribly and felt quite lonely without her. Yet when she returns for the holidays I feel we have been closer than for some time.
While she’s less confrontational with me, she’s more confident and assertive. What delights me is that her old loving and affectionate nature has returned. Sometimes I’m concerned that there’s an element of desperation in her attitude, as if she senses things must change – and that terrifies me.
Before she left for university she seemed to be becoming distracted – obsessed even – with chipping away at her background. Her “history” she called it. Thankfully, her preoccupation with that quest seems to have receded for the moment. I suppose she has so much else to occupy her thoughts. I myself have thought much about sharing more information with Lucy, especially in the light of recent developments with my health.
It will have to happen; she will have to know – but I insist it is a subject over which I – and I alone – will have control. I will talk to Lucy in time, but when has to be my choice, as does the manner in which she is told. There are so many risks. My greatest fear is losing control over the situation, or even jeopardising any continuing contact with her. I couldn’t bear to lose her, not ever of course, but especially not now.
Naturally I’m pleased that Lucy has made some good friends – maybe they will even dilute the intensity of her relationship with Cassie, which could surely only be a positive thing. Not that they have lost contact. Cassie has made several trips to Birmingham during the years of Lucy’s studies, and similarly, Lucy has been to visit her in Edinburgh – at not inconsiderable expense. Unnecessary and extravagant I would say, given that in the vacations, Lucy has barely set foot in her own house, but rather she hurries off to meet Cassie, and to visit Fiona and Simon. I try not to let it upset me, but I can’t pretend I’m not hurt.
I suspect that Lucy has found romance at Birmingham too. She hasn’t confided any such thing to me, but sometimes I catch her staring dreamily at nothing in particular, and smiling in a secretive way. I’m not jealous, of course, but I find it a little irritating. I just hope she’s being careful.
Chapter Forty-One
2003
Lucy
My final year at university was very strange, full of unbelievable ups and downs; Himalayan, you could say. I experienced some incredible, life-changing “highs” – followed by being plunged into deep chasm-like “lows”. Meeting Guy was definitely one of the most significant highs. Guy Downing was doing his final year of Medicine. We met at a gathering at the house of a friend of Cassie and Ed’s, another medic, of course.
The moment we set eyes on each other I felt an extraordinary connection. I could tell Guy did too. We talked non-stop that first evening. After an hour we’d exchanged phone numbers. By the time I went home, we’d agreed to meet for a drink the following evening. He had already taken possession of my whole consciousness.
That night I lay in bed and thought of him. I gave a small yelp of pleasure as I pictured him; I actually smiled as I recalled the soft curl of his hair around his ears, the way his mouth lifted on one side when he smiled, the shape of his hands, the slightly languorous turn of his eyes when he looked at me, the easy way he took my hand as he walked me back to my flat that night.
One single day before meeting Guy, I would have asserted that “love at first sight” was a ridiculous concept, invented by some fatuous Hollywood screenwriter. Now I had no doubt that this man, whom I had encountered only five hours previously, would mean everything to me, always; that our lives were destined to be entwined for ever.
Not long after the joy that was meeting Guy, came the greatest possible “low”. It couldn’t have come at a worse time for me, just a couple of months before finals, when I needed to focus above all else. I’d asked Mum to come and stay. I told her I had something important to tell her. It gave me a thrill to think of telling her about Guy, of being able to talk about our plans together. Surely she would be pleased for my happiness? Surely she would like him when she met him? Surely … yet there was nothing sure about it. Her reactions were never predictable.
I knew something was wrong as soon as she stepped off the train at New Street station, or rather lowered herself cautiously onto the platform, clinging to the support rail beside the train door. She had always been slim – but now she looked frail, quite scrawny, in fact. Her hair was greyish and wispy; it had lost most of its fair colour. Her face was pale, her eyes shadowed. Her cheeks seemed to have sunken inwards.
‘Mum?’
‘Hello, Lucy,’ she said, holding thin arms towards me. ‘How lovely to see you, my dearest girl.’
We hugged and I felt her sharp bones move about inside her coat as if they were no longer quite connected. She clung to my arm. There was a feeling of desperation in the grip of her fragile hand. Her body seemed to tremble slightly. She walked slowly, unsteadily, like a very old person. Where was her brisk, bird-like energy?
‘What’s wrong, Mum? You look terrible. You look … ill.’
‘Oh dear, do I? I have been a bit poorly lately …’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? You never mentioned anything on the phone. When did it start? You didn’t seem ill at Christmas. Have you been to the doctor? What’s wrong with you?’
‘Oh, my dear, so many questions. Here, help me with my bag. Let’s get a taxi today. I’m a bit tired … after the journey, you know.’
I looked sideways at her. She never took taxis.
‘Let’s go to your flat and have a lovely cup of tea. Then we can talk properly, can’t we?’
* * *
The taxi ride was a nightmare of dread. The driver did the usual cheery but banal conversation openers that taxi drivers seem to specialise in. I was incapable of responding other than in monosyllables. But Mum seemed happy to talk in the same light-hearted manner, not normally typical of her. My body felt frozen rigid to the seat. Mum kept turning to smile at me, as if we were on a pleasure trip.
Back home in my shared flat, I prepared a tea tray with trembling hands, while Mum sat serenely in the sitting room. My flatmates were still out. We sat alone while she told me her story.
She’d had some symptoms back in February, she said. They got a bit worse so she’d gone to see the GP. He sent her straight to hospital for tests and a scan, after which she was given a diagnosis of bowel cancer – ‘Not very glamorous, is it?’ she’d said. Even before the diagnosis, she’d guessed, what with the pain and the weight loss. The operation had been a qualified success. They’d removed a large section of her lower intestine, including “all they could” of the cancerous tissue. With cancer, they said, it was always a question of how much it might have spread. She’d clearly had it for some time before consulting the doctor.
The specialist was optimistic, she said. With treatment she could go on for some time, perhaps a year or two, maybe quite a bit longer. Of course, there were no guarantees. It all depended on whether they’d “caught it”, and on how she reacted to the treatment. The chemotherapy was “unpleasant”, she said. It drained her energy. She felt nauseous during the treatment cycles and had little appetite. She was most fortunate, though, she said; in between cycles she felt better, almost normal, in fact. She could do most things, enjoy her usual activities – and she still had most of her hair, for the moment, anyway.
‘Like so often, it’s a case of the cure being worse than the illness,’ she said with a laugh. ‘The latest chemo cycle ended only yesterday, so I’m just a bit low at the moment – but I didn’t want to delay coming to see you – I was so looking forward to it. I’m sure I’ll pick up in a day or two.’
I couldn’t bear it, seeing her so reduced and vulnerable. I put my arms round her and sobbed. I thought of all the times I’d been hurtful, I’d been cruel to her.
‘I’m so sorry
, Mummy. I hate it. I hate to think of you ill – fancy having the operation all by yourself. It’s awful. You should have told me.’
‘Absolutely not! What could you have done, other than worry yourself? I wasn’t alone – Susan was very good, and Fiona too. No, I’m only telling you now because I have to, because I can’t hide it. But you must concentrate on your work and not think about me. You have important exams before long – that’s what matters. The good degree I know you’re going to get – and what comes after it. Everything is under control. The doctors are very good – well, most of them. I’m having the best possible treatment. I’ve insisted they tell me the truth, and I trust them to be straight with me. They don’t like it, of course, they don’t like to be pressed about timescales, and I know they can’t be exact. Doctors want everyone to feel hopeful. Well, I do feel hopeful – I’m perfectly optimistic, but I don’t need to cling to false hopes. After all, life is a terminal illness! There’s no getting away from it. From the moment we’re born, we’re dying!’
She smiled, as if delighted at this thought. She grasped my hand.
‘You don’t need to worry, Lucy. I’m managing fine, and everyone’s being very kind: Susan and Mike, Fiona and Simon, so kind. They all send their love to you, by the way.’
* * *
I made some scrambled eggs for Mum and me for supper. It had always been one of her favourites. She managed a few mouthfuls and a cup of tea, but then said she was a little tired after the journey, and would I mind if she had an early night? On previous visits, she’d slept on a sofa bed in my room, but I wouldn’t hear of it this time, despite her objections.
‘Really, Lucy, there’s no need to fuss. I’ll be perfectly all right on the sofa bed. It’s quite comfortable.’
‘Not as comfortable as the proper bed. You need a good sleep.’
I made up my bed for her with clean sheets and a warm duvet, and put a hot-water bottle in it, even though the weather was mild. She’d always felt the cold, and now she was so thin. It felt strange acting maternally towards her. I moved into the room next door. Hannah, one of my three flatmates, was away on a field trip for her dissertation. I knew she wouldn’t mind me borrowing her bedroom.
It took me a long time to get to sleep; my mind wouldn’t rest. How could it be possible? I picked and picked away at all she had told me, as if it were a scab, analysing it, searching my memory for clues to make sense of it, worrying about all the times I’d been unkind to her. I hardly dared let my thoughts drift to the future. Would she really cope on her own? What if the symptoms became worse? What if the treatment didn’t work? Should I defer my finals? Should I give up my studies to look after her? On and on and round and round. I wished I could talk to Cassie. I wished I could talk to Guy.
The next morning I felt weak and exhausted, but Mum looked a little better. There was a faint blush of colour in her cheeks. She ate a small piece of buttered toast for breakfast and had her usual cup of tea. Kate had left early. Orla came and joined us in the kitchen. She’d come in late and I hadn’t had the chance to talk to her, to warn her about Mum being ill, but I could tell she was concerned to see how she looked.
‘How are you, Mrs Brown? You look a little tired. Did you sleep all right?’
‘Oh, very well, Orla, thank you for asking. In fact, I feel much better this morning,’ Mum said. ‘A good night’s sleep was just what I needed. So, Lucy, if you have to go to a lecture or to the library, off you go. Don’t worry about me at all. You mustn’t let me interrupt your studies; I can entertain myself perfectly well.’
‘Well, I’ve only got some reading to do today, Mrs Brown. I can be here and keep you company today if Lucy needs to go out.’
‘No need, Orla dear. And please just call me Alison. It’s kind of you, but I really don’t need looking after. What I would like is to hear about your Pharmacy studies when you have time, though.’
Mum just loved discussing the details of their courses with my flatmates and friends.
‘Yes, thanks, Orla,’ I said, ‘but I’ve kind of cleared most of my work for the next few days, to make sure I could spend some time with Mum while she’s here. I’ve only got a couple of tutorials this week, and some reading to do. Mum, it’s such a nice day – if you feel up to it, I thought we could take a bus ride to the Lickey Hills today, and go to a nice café I know there?’
‘That sounds a lovely idea, if the bus stop’s not too far. I’m afraid my walking’s a bit feeble at the moment.’
‘I can drop you at the bus station when you’re ready,’ said Orla.
‘I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,’ said Mum.
* * *
Normally, Mum would have enjoyed striding energetically around the entire country park, studying the labels on all the trees, shrubs and flowers, often jotting down details as to their Latin names and origins in her notebook. That day, it was enough to stroll round a couple of fields, close to the Visitor Centre, Mum holding on to my arm and remarking on the spring beds of perennials, just budding or starting to bloom. We found a bench under a magnolia tree, not quite in flower yet, and sat in the dappled sunshine.
When Mum’s breathing had slowed down a bit, I poured her some hot tea from the flask I’d brought. She clasped the mug in both hands, closed her eyes and held her face up into the sun.
‘Ah, this is lovely, isn’t it? Clever girl to bring a Thermos.’
‘Mmm. Not too tired, are you? Are you warm enough?’
‘I’m just right, thank you.’ She paused. The silence between us was filled with a potency that scared me.
‘Lucy, there are things I need to tell you.’
‘I’ve got something to tell you about too, Mum,’ I said, hastily, thinking of Guy and smiling, wishing I could fill the silence with him.
She twisted her body slightly to face me. She smiled too and took my hand.
‘I sensed you had something special to tell me. I want to hear all about it. But first, Lucy, I need to talk seriously, I’m afraid.’
‘Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?’
‘Yes … but there’s something else we need to talk about. You know there is.’
My heart began leaping wildly in my chest, like a captive frog desperate to get out. I took a deep breath.
‘Is this really the right time, Mum?’
‘Yes it is,’ she said quietly. ‘You know we must. I need to tell you the truth, the whole truth. Please. Before it’s too late.’
Chapter Forty-Two
Alison
Once I had made up my mind to tell Lucy everything, my belief in the correctness of that decision was absolute. While the doctors were confident that the cancer was treatable at this stage, it was clear to me that my life would end before much further time had elapsed, despite their excellent efforts. In principle it was possibly a year or more, but equally possible that only months remained to me.
What if I left the full truth concealed? After my death, it was almost inevitable that details of Lucy’s background would emerge. How would she cope with such a revelation at that time, knowing I had misled her and lied to her over all these years? I desperately wanted our relationship to end in closeness and trust. I wanted Lucy to remember me as a mother – yes, a mother – who loved her enough and who was brave enough, to tell her the truth.
Of course she would be shocked, distressed, and perhaps angry, to hear of her real background, but how much better to learn of it now, than after I am gone and unable to reassure and comfort her.
The more I considered my plan of action, the more animated I felt, and the more convinced I was that it was the right decision. In fact, I recalled the excitement of my original campaign to obtain a child; the thrill of first finding Lucy in Riddlesfield, and following the plan one step at a time, each stage meticulously planned, organised and executed. It was still a matter of some pride for me that I had successfully carried out the “abduction”, and remained undiscovered after all these years, despite the extensive poli
ce inquiries.
At a different level, I also found myself feeling some sense of guilt – not regret, never regret – about the anguish caused to Lucy’s birth mother, despite all her inadequacies, and a certain concern about what was a serious criminal act on my part, however justified by the circumstances. Perhaps, as all of us near the end of our lives, we feel compelled to contemplate death with “a clean slate”. It is a compulsion that has grown in me daily in recent weeks. I have no doubts that telling Lucy the full truth is the right thing to do.
Chapter Forty-Three
Lucy
She talked for over an hour, pausing periodically to allow me to wipe my eyes, blow my nose and regain some control. She told me everything: she talked of her desperation to have a child, which was heightened by the death of her mother. How she had planned an abduction after seeing the grave of a tiny child; how – and I found this deeply chilling – it was a child called Lucy Brown. She told me about the intricate preparations she had made; how she had sent for the dead child’s birth certificate (which is now mine), about her search of the streets of Frainham, seeing me for the first time playing outside a terraced house, and her certainty that I was the child she wanted, that she was meant to have.
She had returned some time later to carry out and complete her plan. She had coaxed me into a pushchair, dressed me as a boy – and exchanged her disguise of a brown wig and dark coat for her natural fair hair and a red coat. Oh God, I thought, that red coat. Then she had fled with me on the train to Newcastle, to the home she had created for us both, the home I had regarded as my own these past twenty years.