by Diana Finley
‘That’s exactly what I mean to do, Guy. Your future and Lucy’s – and little Milo’s. The time has come for me to acknowledge my part in the past, and to “bow out” now.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lucy asked, her face drawn with anxiety.
‘I mean that the time has come for me first, to visit Shelley, to admit to all the wrongs I have done …’ Lucy, wide-eyed, opened her mouth to object, but I raised my hand to silence her.
‘Then, once I have told Shelley the full truth – whatever her reaction – I intend to seek out Inspector Dempster and give myself up to him. Please understand that I have no fear of the consequences; I feel it is right for everyone to know exactly what happened, what I did.’
Lucy looked at Guy and then said, ‘Don’t you want to wait until one or both of us can go with you?’
‘No, my dearest. I want you and Guy to be together with your beautiful son, and for you to concentrate on getting completely better. It was me who inflicted these problems on you, and it should be me who resolves whatever I can by being honest about what I did. I shall return to Newcastle immediately – I want to relieve you of having to consider the welfare of anyone other than yourselves and your precious Milo at this time.’
The room echoed with their silence.
‘If you’re absolutely sure about this, Alison, I’ll take you back to the station,’ Guy said.
‘No, Guy, stay here with Lucy and Milo, but I’d be grateful if you would call me a taxi.’
* * *
Within a week I was on my way to Riddlesfield. I had confided my plan to Fiona. I knew Lucy had spoken to her, and to Susan and Mike too. It had upset me greatly that Susan had felt so let down and angry with me, although her reaction was quite understandable. Yet Susan was the one friend I was convinced would always stand by me. She had always professed total loyalty.
Clearly I was not a very good judge of character. It had been all Lucy and Guy could do to persuade her not to go straight to the police, which just goes to show, that even those you regard as close friends, do not always conform to the expected. It confirmed my view that you can rely on no one but yourself, particularly in extremis.
By contrast, Fiona, to whom I had never been so close, had been kind and understanding. I was particularly touched that she had even offered to accompany me to Riddlesfield. In fact, she had advised me in the strongest terms not to proceed with my plan on my own.
‘Surely if ever there’s a time for needing a friend, this is it? Have you really thought about what might happen, Alison?’
‘I have thought of little else these last few days.’
‘Lucy’s birth family may react very strongly. They may even become violent. You can’t be on your own.’
‘They would be quite justified in attacking me, verbally if not actually physically. Thank you for your support, Fiona. I really appreciate your offer, but this is something I must do on my own.’
Chapter Fifty-Nine
May 2008
How different was this day from that damp and gloomy afternoon when I first arrived in the town long ago; nearly a quarter of a century previously, in fact. As before, I came by train. Last time, I had stepped out of the station into the chill of a late winter’s afternoon. This time the air shimmered with spring sunshine, casting a glow on the stone buildings, giving them a soft warmth, so unlike the unremitting grey I remembered.
Riddlesfield was still far from a prosperous town, but the local authority seemed to have made an effort to improve the urban environment of the city centre, which had been transformed by a neat pedestrian shopping area. Churchill Square bristled with cafés among the “boutique” shops; a brave attempt to emulate a continental atmosphere, perhaps, with people sipping coffee at outside tables and chairs, though little could be done to alter the bracing Riddlesfield breeze. Paved walkways led from the square into a park-like area, with grass and flower beds, and recently planted silver birch trees. Children kicked balls and sped around on scooters, while older people relaxed on wooden benches.
The last time I came, I recalled, I had walked through the square from the station and straight into the dreary and dilapidated town centre, towards the adjoining streets of old terraced houses in Frainham.
This time I hailed a taxi by the park. The driver put my bag on the back seat, and sped me towards Moorside, a pleasant suburb of predominantly council houses. From the range of different front door styles and colours, and the varied alterations to the front gardens, it was clear that many were now privately owned.
I had memorised Shelley’s address from what Lucy and Guy had told me, following their first visit there. Belside Crescent was a long, curving street, consisting mainly of modest, neat semi-detached houses. Most were painted white or cream, with an occasional non-conformist pale pink or green. I asked the taxi driver to drop me at the top of the crescent, so that I could approach the house on foot and in my own time.
‘You gonna manage your bag, pet?’ he asked, looking at me doubtfully.
‘Yes, thank you. It’s not too heavy, and it’s got wheels.’
I identified on which side Shelley’s house, number 34, would be. I walked slowly, shakily, keeping to the opposite pavement alongside the odd house numbers. I was glad of my walking stick. Anyone looking out would see nothing more interesting than a thin, elderly woman making her unsteady way, I mused. No one would pay me much attention; I was almost invisible. I’d always been almost invisible.
Every few houses, I paused to rest, get my breath and lean against a gateway, or sit for a few moments on a low wall. It wasn’t far now. I came to number 43 on my side, opposite 38. I sat on the wall of 43. Just ahead I could see what had to be number 34. I trembled uncontrollably. All was quiet. A middle-aged man pushed a pram past me in the direction from which I had come. He gave me a polite nod as he passed. Two teenage girls walked past me and smiled. Someone closed a window upstairs at number 41. I took some deep breaths. No use sitting here for ever, I told myself, better go over the road and ring the bell.
Just as I started to raise myself, a van drew up on my side of the road, directly opposite house number 34. It was a dirty van, with one or two dents and scrapes, but otherwise looked business-like enough. On the side of the van were printed the words “R.A. Watts, Plumbing and Bathroom Services” in large black letters. I knew the name Watts, but it took my tired brain a few moments to process this information.
A stocky, youngish man got out of the vehicle. He had light brown hair and wore a white T-shirt, with some design I could not make out, and the long, camouflage-style shorts young men seem to wear these days. He spoke briefly through the open window of the van to someone inside. I stared at him as he strode across the road and approached the front door of number 34. He appeared to ring the bell, and then turned around and began to walk away again, like a mischievous child ringing a doorbell and then running away.
‘Dad!’ called a child’s high voice from inside the van.
The man – I had realised by now that he must be Lucy’s brother, Ryan – walked back towards the van.
‘Coming, Lola,’ he said.
A dark-haired young woman emerged from the passenger door of the vehicle. She stood and stretched her spine in a curve, her hands clasped on the small of her back. I could see she was heavily pregnant. Recalling Guy and Lucy’s account of the family, I concluded the young woman must be Ryan’s wife. I stood up and watched as Ryan opened the driver’s door, scooped out a little girl and put her down on the road, holding on to her hand. The child was small and slight, with fair hair. She wore a pale yellow dress. My heart began thumping. I jolted forwards in shock.
‘Lucy …?’ I said, clutching my stick and almost falling as I staggered closer. I took a few tottering steps towards them. ‘Lucy,’ I repeated.
Ryan turned around with a smile. ‘Nah …’ he began, looking at me, ‘she’s called Lola, not Lucy …’ The smile faded on his face, overtaken by a look of puzzlement, and then the beginnings
of enlightenment.
‘I Lola,’ said the little girl.
‘Fuckin’ hell,’ Ryan said, staring at me, horror-struck. Thought processes, questions and deep frowns alternated, traversing his face, like the shadows of clouds drifting across a field on a sunny day.
‘You’re her! You’re that woman, ain’t ya?’ he blurted, violently nodding his head, like a puppet.
He bent to pick up the child again, with stiff, jerky movements. He clutched her to him as if he was afraid I would snatch her and run away with her. The young woman had waddled around the van and approached us now. She held out her hands and took the child from Ryan, who stood limply, staring at me. The little girl wriggled free and skipped towards the front garden. I could hardly take my eyes off her, so unsettling was her resemblance to the infant Lucy.
‘Ryan? What’s going on? Who is she?’ asked the young woman, looking from him to me and back again.
He lurched towards me, his fists clenched. I stood still, unflinching, waiting for a blow, not from bravery, but because I was incapable of moving. He stood before me, bending his face inches from mine, contorted with rage.
‘What are you doing, Ryan? What’s wrong?’ repeated his wife. The child, standing on the front door step, had turned to watch us. She began to whimper.
‘She’s … she’s … the … one … she … stole her …’ The words burst out of Ryan one by one with each stertorous breath. His face was so close I could see beads of sweat oozing from the pores of his forehead. His wild eyes bored into me. I could feel his breath on my face, his spit, his hatred, his fury. His fists still hovered over me, trembling.
‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘I’m sorry … I’m so, so sorry …’
‘Ryan!’ An older woman had come out of number 34. She took hold of the child’s hand and stood shouting from the gate.
‘Ryan! You stop that! Let her be.’
Ryan, looking down like a scolded small boy, withdrew his threatening hands and clasped his head, his shoulders hunched and shaking. I felt a surge of sympathy for him. My own head felt strange. I wobbled and began to topple to my left side. The young woman lurched towards me and supported me, holding my arm. She held me firm with amazing strength.
‘Shelley, who the hell is she? What’s going on?’ she asked, looking at me as if I were a strange, foreign specimen, one she had never seen before.
Of course, the older woman, I had realised by now, was Shelley. She looked me up and down. Her face, revealing no emotion, had a bland, almost resigned expression.
‘This is Alison …’ she said flatly. She gave me a questioning look. ‘She’s the woman what stole our baby, our little Stacy. Kept her these last twenty years or more. Am I right?’
Her eyes swept over me, challenging me to deny her accusation. She started to walk towards the house. I noticed she had a slightly lumbering gait, although she was no longer as heavy as I remembered her from the television appearances of long before. She stopped by the front door and half turned.
‘Well come on, woman, don’t just stand there. You might as well come in.’
Ryan’s wife, still holding me up, gaped at me.
Shelley clucked in irritation. ‘Give over, Brenda,’ she said. ‘What you waiting for? Just bring ’er in, will you.’
We made an awkward procession; Shelley leading the way, Brenda and I shuffling after her in silence together, with the little girl Lola-Lucy prancing around us. Ryan, grimacing – as if in extreme agony – followed at the rear.
Chapter Sixty
Once inside, my nerves calmed. We sat in the sitting room Lucy and Guy had described to me, with its large sofas and glass coffee table. The child Lola played with a plastic kitchen set on the floor in one corner. A small circle of dolls and stuffed animals had each been served with miniature plastic crockery. Every now and then Lola brought a tiny cup and saucer to one of the adults and offered it to them.
‘Want tea, Nan?’ she trilled, thrusting a pink cup up to Shelley’s face. Shelley took the cup and smiled at the child.
‘Yeah, darlin’. Two sugars please.’
Lola approached me next.
‘You want tea, Lady?’
‘The lady doesn’t want none, darlin’,’ said Shelley, glaring at me. ‘Leave ’er be.’
Brenda had been given the task of making adult teas. She could be heard clattering in the kitchen next door. Among the rest of us there was a tension, an atmosphere of proceedings not having started yet, but being about to – and that therefore there was no point in beginning to talk. We sat in silence, regarding one another across the inflammable space of the room. Brenda carried in a tray with four mugs, a small plastic cup of squash, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. She handed them round, beginning with me.
‘D’you take milk and sugar, um … Alison?’
‘Just milk, thank you.’
By unspoken agreement, Shelley was in charge of leading the conversation.
‘So how’s Stacy doing in that hospital place, bless her? Her and the baby?’
‘Stacy …? Oh, she was doing very well, when I saw her last week. Guy goes in for a few hours every day. Little Milo is thriving. He seems to have adapted well to the bottle …’
I faltered. Was I talking too much?
‘I thought she was breastfeeding?’ Shelley said, frowning.
‘She was, but unfortunately she had to stop because of the medications she’s on …’
‘Poor kid, going through all this upset.’ She fixed me with a hostile stare. ‘How long’s she got to stay in there?’
‘They haven’t said for certain. It depends on the progress she makes. They thought for a few weeks anyway.’
Shelley sipped her tea. Her eyes scarcely left me.
‘And you, Alison? Why have you come here? What do you want?’
How strange was this situation, sitting drinking tea with the family from whom I had stolen their youngest child. How to answer her question, to encapsulate why I was there? Why had I exposed myself to this ordeal? Why had I exposed them to me, or myself to them? Why was I there? I leaned forwards, my cup rattling wildly on its saucer. I steadied it with my other hand and put it carefully on the coffee table.
‘Well, I suppose I feel the need to apologise … I know it’s futile … it’s stupid to try to say sorry for something so terrible, so enormous … I … I want to try to explain what I did … but I don’t expect understanding from you, and certainly not forgiveness. I can’t begin to know how you must hate me and resent me for what I did.’
‘No, that you can’t,’ Ryan snarled.
Their eyes were all fixed on me. No one else spoke. I began a stuttering, inarticulate account; I told them of my early life with Mother, the difficulties I had experienced at school and university, about my longing for a baby, and my great sorrow at Mother’s death. I described how by chance I had found the grave of little Lucy Brown in Nottingham, and how at that point, I decided to take a child, a child who I thought needed “rescuing” from her circumstances. I explained how I realised now that my idea of poverty and disadvantage, which I had used to justify my action, was stereotypical and wrong in every way. I stopped and looked around, slightly breathless, mulling over how to continue.
‘So, this is all about you, Alison,’ Shelley said slowly. ‘Sure, you’ve got all the fine words. There’s no way I can talk like you … but really you haven’t begun to say why you’ve really come here.’
‘No, you’re quite right, …er … Shelley. This isn’t about me – it shouldn’t be – it’s about Lucy …’ I paused, aware that their looks had become more hostile again.
‘I’m so sorry, but I can’t think of her as Stacy. I know she’s Stacy to you, of course she is, but she’s always been Lucy to me …’ Pausing again, I fretted about the inadequacy of words.
‘What I did should never have happened, no, never – but … but it did …’
‘It didn’t happen, Alison. You did it. You made it happen,’ Shelley said, her face r
igid with anger.
‘Yes, yes, I did it. I never should have done it, but I did. Stacy became Lucy, and that’s who she is now. She’s been trying desperately to do the right thing for both of us mothers … I mean, you, Shelley, and me …’
I heard Shelley’s sharp intake of breath, sensed the rage in Ryan’s stare. The nerve of referring to myself as her mother. I ploughed on as best I could.
‘Poor girl … trying to be both Lucy and Stacy for our sakes has been tearing her apart, making her ill. That is entirely my fault. I accept that.’
Shelley nodded her head slowly, as if she agreed wholeheartedly with this last statement.
‘What I’m trying to say … is that I should never have stolen Lucy from you. Even though I loved her deeply, and I think she came to love me, she should never have been mine. I hadn’t realised it at the time, but I can see it now. Lucy should have been brought up with you, her true mother, with Ryan as her brother, and all of your family – her family. Had that been her childhood, I’m sure she would have grown up a happier and more secure person.’ I took some gulps of my tea and continued.
‘I can never undo the terrible wrong that I did, but perhaps I can try to repair some of the damage …’
‘How the hell d’you think you can do that, now, after all these years?’ spat Ryan bitterly.
‘No, I can’t, not completely. What I did can’t be undone. You’re right to be angry. All I can do, and will do, is to “bow out” now. Look, I’m not asking for any sympathy, but I think you must all know that I have a … terminal illness.’
Shelley and Ryan nodded their heads, while Brenda looked at them both.
‘The thing is, I won’t be here much longer, perhaps only a month or two. Maybe that’s a good thing – I’d understand if perhaps you feel glad … but it’s going to be hard for Lucy. She’s going to need you, all of you, during the next period, and for the rest of her life. She has her wonderful husband-to-be, Guy, and now she has her beautiful baby Milo … but …’