Finding Lucy: A suspenseful and moving novel that you won't be able to put down. Diana Finley

       Chapter Fourteen

      I worked hard at building our life together, and ultimately felt confident that anyone who understood the situation would agree I was very successful, despite the difficult start. Of course, no one did truly understand – I had convinced myself that it was vital that no one should know, and that therefore no one could understand. Although I had never been someone who depended on friends and confidantes, my awareness of this conviction made me feel very lonely at times.

      That first summer I rented a cottage for Lucy and me in south-west Scotland, just a hundred yards from the beach. We went for walks, dug endlessly in the sand, paddled and splashed in the shallows, collected shells, ate sandwiches on the beach for lunch, and fish and chips or hot dogs and ice creams for tea.

      It was some weeks since Lucy had mentioned her “mam” or had cried. Very gradually she spoke more, looked at me more and even laughed sometimes. She loved stories. Some of our happiest times were spent in the library or curled up on the sofa, looking at picture books together. Every night when I tucked her up in bed, I remembered to hug Lucy and tell her how much I loved her.

      Mother had been devoted to me in every way, I knew, but it was not in her nature, or perhaps her upbringing, to express affection openly in this way – and she was aware that I was not a child who enjoyed physical closeness. I was determined that I would have no such inhibitions with Lucy. Had she shown any signs of returning affection to me during those early weeks and months, it would have been so much easier, but she did not – or perhaps, she could not.

      ‘I love you, Lucy,’ I said each night, kissing her. I knew it was important to tell her. ‘Mummy loves you so, so much.’

      Lucy would respond by regarding me silently with a deep, impenetrable look.

      * * *

      On September 20th 1985, the date I’d assigned to Lucy’s third birthday, I arranged a little party for her. Of course, I was unsure exactly when Stacy was born, but I had created a birthday for Lucy based on the records of poor little dead Lucy, which must have been near enough correct. September 20th was the date written into my Lucy’s birth certificate.

      I had made a cake to look like the little house in Lucy’s book of Hansel and Gretel, a story that she loved dearly. I decorated it with coloured icing, chocolate buttons and Smarties. The morning of Lucy’s birthday, Claire asked if she could come in to help me prepare, but I wanted very much to do it all myself. I thanked Claire, but explained that it would really help me create the surprise party food if she would entertain Lucy while I made the preparations. I also asked her to be a special helper at the party itself.

      While they played in the sitting room, I shut the kitchen door and assembled plates of tiny sandwiches and sausage rolls, chocolate animals, little cheese and pineapple cubes on sticks, and bowls of crisps and jelly. Just like Mother had made for me years earlier. These preparations gave me such pleasure. There was no doubt I was a real mother now.

      Both Claire and Charlie came to the party, of course; Claire enjoyed organising some simple games for the smaller children: Pass the Parcel, The Farmer in his Den and Musical Bumps. Jenny, Mark, Megan and Laura – friends from playgroup – and their parents had been invited too. We asked our neighbours on either side, Susan and Mike and Frank and Molly, as well.

      Everyone agreed how much Lucy had “come on” since she first came to Newcastle in March. It was true. She was a different child from the wan, disturbed little creature of seven months previously. She spoke more clearly and confidently, and her vocabulary had grown enormously. These days she hardly ever mentioned members of her former family. I was starting to feel much more positive, more confident about her progress.

      Perhaps I was becoming overconfident. When it was time to sit at the long table for tea, the children began squabbling about who should sit next to Lucy, but she kept pushing each of them away.

      ‘No, not sit there!’

      I came and crouched by her chair and spoke quietly. Claire was hovering behind her.

      ‘Lucy dear, why not let Claire sit next to you?’

      Lucy adored Claire; surely this arrangement would please her?

      ‘She can help you blow out the candles.’

      Lucy looked round at Claire and frowned. Her face reflected some inner turmoil. To my consternation, tears sprang in her eyes.

      ‘Not Claire, no!’ she said firmly, fixing me with her most determined stare. ‘Stacy sit there.’

      There it was – the name Stacy again – just when things were going so well. Although, fortunately, only I had heard her say it, this incident chilled me to the core; I worried terribly about it. What did it mean? Did it just happen to be a name that lingered faintly in her memory and perhaps came into her head suddenly; or had she somehow invented an imaginary friend based on her former self? If there were an imagined Stacy, whom she believed could sit next to her, what did that imply about Lucy’s sense of herself – her “identity”, a psychologist might have said?

      In the end it was agreed that none of the children should sit next to Lucy. Instead that honour was afforded to Polly, the unfortunate, one-legged doll, which she still worshipped.

      * * *

      Then, about a month after Lucy’s birthday, there was a great breakthrough. It meant the world to me, and went some way to setting my mind at rest about the “Stacy” incident.

      It was a beautiful autumn day, the sun skittering in and out of the oak and sycamore leaves, just taking on their deepest colours. We had gone for a walk and ended up at the little playground in the wooded area behind our house. Lucy was becoming more daring and showed signs of becoming an agile climber. I had to resist the urge to be overprotective, to shield her from any perceived danger – in order to allow her to explore her own capabilities. She had learned to clamber up the bars of the metal fence that separated the playground from the adjoining pathway.

      This particular afternoon I went to sit on a wooden bench, enjoying the quiet, the mild air and the slanting golden sunshine – watching while Lucy was balancing at the top of the fence in a “look, no hands” stance. I delighted in Lucy’s pleasure and felt calm and peaceful. Just then, a woman with a large Alsatian dog approached on the path. The dog was busily sniffing the ground.

      As they came level with Lucy, the dog suddenly noticed her and tried to leap towards her, barking ferociously. Fortunately, the owner had a tight hold on the lead, so he was restrained, but Lucy got a terrible fright and screamed out ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ at the top of her voice. I rushed to Lucy, carried her back to the seat and cuddled her until the sobs subsided. All the while, as I comforted Lucy in her distress, my heart was leaping with such joy I wanted to laugh out loud. Lucy had called me Mummy.