Finding Lucy: A suspenseful and moving novel that you won't be able to put down. Diana Finley
So when he got arrested for dealing – again – I could’a killed him. Just a few months after our Stacy went missing. Then not long after, he got done for breaking and entering – he got two years. Well, course he needed the money for his habit, didn’t he? It’s not like me and the kids saw none of it.
That was the last straw though. The social said we weren’t responsible parents. They were right an’ all. Me eldest two, Dean and Leanne, had got took off us three years before Stacy went missing. They’d been in care all that time. Then the social took the rest of the bairns into care, all of them. So I was on me own. How much worse could life get? The papers made a right meal of it, ’specially the local paper.
Everybody on the estate knew about us. They hated us. People called me names if I went out. Some spat at me. They put dog shit through the letterbox. One night someone threw a brick through the back window. Smashed it into thousands of pieces. I was scared all the time. I was shaking.
I asked the doctor for some pills, to calm me down, like, help me sleep. He shook his head. He patted me hand. I think he reckoned I’d take the lot, top meself, and probably he wasn’t far wrong. He was all right with me though, was Dr Shah. He listened to me troubles. Said he wouldn’t give me no pills, but he could try to help me get me children back. If I really wanted them. It might take time, he said. I’d have to decide to really work at making a proper home for them. With Gary gone it was my chance, he said. It would be hard. What did I want?
Well, of course I said I wanted them back. He said for a start he’d write to the council – ask them to re-house me in a different part of the town, where people didn’t know us. He told me to go back to the social and cooperate with whatever they asked me to do. He even helped me get a part-time job as a cleaner at the hospital. It didn’t pay much, but it was something, a start.
The social worker suggested a counselling course. Counselling! I didn’t even know what the word meant, but I went on it. Then she suggested a “parenting skills” course – anyone could see I needed it – so I went on that an’ all. I even went on an “everyday cooking” course – I reckon they thought we’d lived on chips long enough.
I applied for getting each of the children back, one by one, starting with Ryan – he was that needy. It was dead hard and it took a long, long time, like Dr Shah said, but I managed it in the end. Even when they were back, it wasn’t all plain sailing. Ryan was playing up at school. They said he had behaviour problems. I sat him down and asked him if he wanted to go back in care. He shook his head and looked at his feet.
I told him I didn’t neither; I told him I couldn’t bear to lose him. I’d lost one precious child and I didn’t want to lose another. If he carried on misbehaving, I told him, they’d put him back in care, and that would kill me. He cried, and hugged me, and promised to be a good boy. He really tried, and after a while he started doing all right at school.
The next ones I got back was Dean and Leanne, the eldest two. That wasn’t easy, I can tell you. They’d been in care for that long they hardly knew us. They didn’t trust no one, ’specially not me. They were that angry and disturbed, they nearly took the house apart. It was tough. Time was, I was nearly ready to put them back with the social. But I told them I’d never let them go again, so they might as well put up with me.
Things settled down after a while. They all began going to school regularly. Any sign of bunking off, they had me to answer to. I told them I wasn’t going to let them follow the same road I had, and certainly not their dad. Once they were properly settled, Dean and Leanne turned out to be me rocks, me right little helpers. Then, one by one, the rest came home. We were quite a crowd. Only Stacy missing. Always Stacy missing.
The council give us a house in Moorside. It was a right mess to start with, even though the area seemed posh to me, what with being semi-detacheds, trees along the streets, and little gardens at the back. God knows who was in the house before us. It was filthy, and we had no carpets, no furniture; nothing to start with. The social worker – Michelle they called her – helped us get some beds and other basics from a charity. Me and Leanne scrubbed the place from top to bottom. After that I made sure to keep the house clean. I was always scared of an unexpected visit from the social.
Leanne was a good support, bless her. She did housework and kept an eye on the younger kids if I was working on a late shift. Dean cleared all the rubbish out of the garden and got busy with a paintbrush inside – he didn’t need no asking.
Ashley always had her face stuck in a book and her head in the clouds, so she wasn’t much help, but at least she was no trouble. Kelly and Sean did everything together – they liked to cook the tea sometimes – simple stuff like jacket potatoes and baked beans, sausages and that. I made them all eat vegetables too, even though I wasn’t that keen on them meself – cabbage, sprouts, cauliflower and that. Eat them, they’re good for you, I told them.
Once the kids were all back with me, we decided that every year, on Stacy’s birthday, I’d make a cake and we’d have a bit of a party. Well, the first few were bought cakes from Safeways – ’til I learned how to make one. The first one I made was a bit hard on the outside and soft in the middle, but the kids didn’t seem to mind at all.
So each year, we light the candles and sing “Happy Birthday dear Stacy”. The idea is it helps to take our minds off all the sadness. ’Course it doesn’t really. But that’s what we’ll be doing tonight, when the kids are all home. Her cake’s chocolate this year: the kids’ favourite. It has seven candles on, and a big number seven in Smarties – Ryan done that. It breaks my heart that she’s not here with us all to see it. Stacy, baby, I long for you every day, every minute. We’ll never, never, ever forget you. Will we ever see you again?
I’ve got to believe we will. One day.
1993
Lucy
When I try to remember my childhood, a lot of it seems very hazy, as though I was viewing myself through a thick mist, or as though I existed within a dream, a vague, half-remembered dream. Perhaps that’s how it is for everyone. There were one or two difficult times, there was some confusion and some upsets, of course, but nothing out of the ordinary; on the whole I think I was fairly happy until I was about eleven years old.
Mummy was definitely not a funny, jolly sort of person, who played silly games and shrieked with laughter, like some of my friends’ mothers, but I didn’t mind that especially. She was quiet and a bit serious, but I suppose I was too, so maybe we got on well together because we were alike. She was OK with people one to one (some of them at least), but she didn’t much like people in groups, such as at parties or gatherings, and nor did I.
One good thing at least was she hardly ever shouted at me – so when she was cross, which wasn’t often, she just went sort of cold and distant and silent for a while. Actually, I hated her being like that, so it might have been better if she had shouted, and been done with it. When she was in her cool and distant mode, it felt like she was across a wide lake, and I couldn’t reach her. I would have to think of something good and kind I could do or say, to try to please her. Then maybe she’d stop being cross, and the great, frightening, silent expanse between us would evaporate. Sometimes that took a long time.
I guess every child thinks its own experience is normal, just takes its own situation for granted. I know I did, at least until I got older. Of course, I realised it was unusual not to have a father at all, but then quite a lot of my friends had parents who lived apart, so they didn’t all live with a father as an ever-present part of their lives. But when I thought about it, which was only occasionally, I was vaguely aware that there was something different about my family, perhaps because my daddy was so rarely mentioned. Mummy never mentioned him, and even as quite a small child I sensed that questions about him made her nervous.
At the time I just interpreted this as sadness – that she was upset thinking about him. From my earliest