by Diana Finley
A young woman opened the front door and came towards us.
‘Hello. Can I help you? Are you looking for something?’ she asked.
‘Sorry, we’re just being nosy. My … er … mother lived in this house some years ago, at first with her mother, and then on her own for a while. It was sold round about 1985, and I’ve never seen it before. We didn’t mean to intrude.’
‘No problem, would you like to have a look round inside? You’d have to excuse the mess.’
‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I’m sure it’s changed a lot since my mum was here, and I’ve never actually been here myself, so it wouldn’t mean a lot to me.’
‘Wouldn’t your mother like to come and see the house again?’
‘I’m afraid she died a few months ago.’
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ the woman said. ‘What was she called, your mother?’
‘Her name was Alison Brown, and her mother, who lived here ’til she died, was called Dorothy Brown.’
‘I remember those names from the deeds. I think there have been three owners since your mum sold it. We love it here. It’s got all its original features – not all modernised like so many houses of this period.’
A little boy of five or six appeared in the doorway. ‘Mummy!’ he called.
‘Sorry, I’d better go,’ said the young woman. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in?’
‘No, thank you, we should be going.’
So this fairly nondescript house, this quiet, pleasant area, was where she had started; where she grew into who she became; where she lived before me, before Newcastle. Now I would always be able to picture her in this house. It felt good to be able to anchor my thoughts and memories of her to this solid place, yet it gave no clue as to how or whether her environment had contributed to the complexities of Alison’s personality. I picked Milo up and carried him back to the car, where Guy was waiting and watching.
But there was somewhere else I needed to see too. Somewhere where I had started.
* * *
The caretaker emerged from the lodge at the entrance gate, and gave us directions where to find what we were looking for. I’d never spent much time in a graveyard before. This one was beautifully cared for. I could imagine Alison’s pleasure in the quiet, and in the trees all around it, and in the neat, well-kept graves and paths. The graves of the recently dead stood out with colourful floral arrangements. Even the areas allotted to the long-dead, to which visitors no longer came, where no one placed fresh flowers, were brightened with borders of flowering perennials and shrubs.
Milo, in his pushchair, sat alert and erect as a new shoot. He had his tiny index finger at the ready, eagerly waiting to indicate anything of interest.
‘Twee!’ he shouted, pointing. ‘Man! Bird! Fower! Swiwwel!’
Suddenly there it was. Lucy Brown’s grave. The shock of seeing her name – my name – on the sad little gravestone took me by surprise. A pain rose from my chest and gripped my throat. Tears ran down my face. Guy put his arms around me, and nuzzled the top of my head. We gazed at the inscription.
In memory of our dearly loved little girl
Lucy Sarah Brown aged 2 years
Born 20-9-1982 – Died 16-10-1984
Safe in the hands of Jesus
It was like staring at a notice of my own death. Yet Alison would have believed it was more a notification of Lucy Brown’s birth – or perhaps rebirth.
‘It’s OK, sweetheart, it’s OK,’ Guy said, squeezing me. Milo looked up in concern.
‘Mummy … cry?’
‘No, no, Milo. Mummy’s not crying, not really.’
I pointed to the writing on the grave. ‘Look there. It’s a story … about a baby. It’s a sad story. It made me feel sad for a minute, but I’m happy again now.’
‘We’ve brought flowers for the baby, Milo,’ Guy said. He delved into a carrier bag on the back of the pushchair and extracted a wrapped bunch of flowers and a large glass jar.
Solemnly, he poured water from a plastic bottle into the jar, and fixed it securely on the grave, just in front of the headstone. He handed the flowers to me.
I took the cellophane wrapping and silk ribbons off the bouquet. The bright reds, yellows, oranges and blues seemed fitting for a child: a supermarket selection, not too subtle. I knelt down and arranged the flowers in the jar. I tied the silky ribbons round the arrangement.
‘Yep,’ said Milo, ‘pwetty.’
Guy swept him up and put him on his shoulders.
‘C’mon Milo,’ he said, ‘let’s leave Mummy in peace for a minute, and go see if we can find any squirrels!’
‘Yeah! Swiwwels!’
They galloped off together.
I felt the sun gently slanting through the chestnut trees behind me, warming my back.
I am not this Lucy Brown, I thought, I am myself. I am Lucy Brown Watts now. Lucy Brown Watts is married to Guy Downing. She is the mother of Milo Downing. We are a family. My background is complicated, but I have an extensive family; a living mother and one who has died. I have several siblings. I have in-laws who accept and like me for who I am. We are all family. We have good friends; we have work we enjoy. We have a future. I am loved. I am truly blessed.
Guy and Milo came haring back. I pulled Milo off Guy’s shoulders and hugged them both.
‘We’ve got a long drive back to Edinburgh,’ Guy said. ‘Shall we make a start?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Let’s go home.’
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Bill Goodall, my agent at A for Authors, for his kindness, support, and belief in my work. Also to Nia Beynon, my sharp-eyed editor at HQ, for saying ‘yes’!
Special thanks always to my family for their support and insightful opinions; Terence, Luke, Jo, Thomas, Rose, and Harvey. Also to my good friends; Anna, Barbara, Christine, Heather, Judy, and Margaret, for their willingness to express their thoughts and responses.
My appreciation to Neal for his insights into police procedures, and to Michael for his guidance on legal matters.
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