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

       Chapter Eight

      There was nothing to guarantee I would be able to take the child that day, or the next, or the one after that, although I hoped, of course. What was vital was that I travelled to Riddlesfield from Nottingham, and never from Newcastle. That connection must never be made.

      If the opportunity to take Lucy did not arise that day, I had planned to stay the night in a bed and breakfast in Brayling, an ancient village in a quiet rural area just outside Riddlesfield, and to return again by taxi the following day, and the day after that if necessary.

      In the event, there was no need to stay overnight. My plan went miraculously smoothly. The journey seemed much simpler this time, having experienced it all before. It was late afternoon as I pushed the pushchair – empty but for a large carrier bag – from the station and through the streets. The sky was already darkening, which was greatly to the advantage of my disguise. I was concerned, however, that even the most neglectful parents, as the child’s appeared to be, would surely not allow such a tiny girl to play alone outside in the dark – and I might have missed my chance.

      I needn’t have worried. As I approached the now familiar street, I recognised the small figure on the pavement near the yard as before, playing with some sticks. She wore the same yellow dress, this time with a boy’s green jersey over it, clearly a hand-me-down, as it was far too big for her, the sleeves turned up in lumpy rolls.

      No one was about. I walked rapidly straight towards her, fishing in my bag for a lollipop. Her parents must have been inside. I could hear raucous shouting, shrieking and coarse laughter coming from the house. They sounded drunk. The little girl stood up, holding a bundle of twigs and sticks. She looked at me as I approached. I crouched to her level.

      ‘Hello, dear,’ I said quietly. The child stuck a dirty finger in her mouth and smiled. I held the lolly in front of her and she reached for it.

      ‘Do you like trains? Would you like to go for a ride – on a train?’ I said, holding the lolly just out of reach.

      ‘Tain,’ the little girl said, her eyes on the lolly.

      I gave the lollipop to her and she immediately stuck it into her mouth. I pulled a pink anorak out of my bag and pushed the child’s little arms into it. She looked at it admiringly and did not resist. I put the hood up and tucked the fine, fair hair in.

      ‘It’s cold,’ I explained, ‘let’s go and see the train.’

      ‘See tain,’ the little girl replied.

      I looked carefully all around us. No one; no sign of her parents, or anyone else. Just howls of laughter, screeching and braying from inside the house. They appeared to be completely unaware of their child, of Lucy. I picked her up and sat her in the pushchair, quickly fastening the straps, as I had practised. I set off at a fast walk. Lucy sat in the pushchair completely relaxed, sucking her lolly, looking about her with interest. I talked constantly, frantically, as if a gap of silence might somehow cause the child to beg to turn around and go home, to cry for her mother. I gabbled about a car, a tree, a dog, a blue door – anything we passed by, anything to engage her interest.

      ‘Look, Lucy – a black dog! What a big dog! Oh, there’s a bus.’

      Lucy looked in the direction of whatever I remarked on in this way. There was nothing wrong with her comprehension. I might have known my Lucy was no fool.

      As we approached Churchill Square I said, ‘Let’s go in a shop now, shall we?’

      ‘Sop,’ Lucy agreed.

      We went into British Home Stores, down the escalator to the lower ground floor, and straight to the toilets. No one inside. Good. I lifted her out. I paused for a moment and held Lucy tenderly to me, breathing her in. It was as if I breathed Lucy into my very heart, which beat hectically. I felt something for this child – whom I’d only just met – that I had never felt before. The feeling was so strong and so unfamiliar that for a moment I was afraid.

      I put Lucy down, took a flannel from my bag, and wet it thoroughly with warm water at a basin. We squeezed into a cubicle, leaving the pushchair in a marked area by the basins. From the carrier bag I pulled out a spare bag and retrieved the blue dungarees, a red and blue jumper, and a pair of boys’ socks and shoes. I lifted Lucy onto the toilet and said ‘Wee wee’ encouragingly. Lucy looked a bit doubtful, so I gave her a little clown figure to hold, which made her laugh. To my delight, after a moment I heard the sound of success.

      ‘Good girl, Lucy!’

      ‘Tacy,’ she replied. ‘Done wee.’

      I wiped her with toilet paper, and used the wet flannel to wash her face and then her bottom. We heard the sound of someone entering the end cubicle. Lucy pointed and I smiled and nodded. Lucy nodded back. It was an understanding we shared. Lucy allowed herself to be dressed in clean underwear and the boys’ clothes, including a khaki parka in place of the pink anorak. She watched a little regretfully as I stuffed the anorak into the bag. She studied the sleeves of the parka with some disdain, but did not protest.

      The shoes were slightly too big. She gazed at them and banged her feet together. I put all of Lucy’s clothes into the spare bag and quickly took off the navy coat. I put on my red coat instead and pulled off the brown wig. Lucy laughed and pointed.

      ‘Hair!’ she said.

      I folded the blue coat and put it in the large carrier bag, together with the wig. I gathered Lucy’s hair gently into a little band, and put a boy’s woolly hat over it, careful that no long strands had escaped. Lucy put her hands up to touch the hat. I sighed gratefully when she did not try to pull it off. She looked very much like a little boy now. We opened the door of the cubicle. My heart was thundering. A woman was combing her hair at the mirror and smiled down at Lucy. I helped Lucy wash and dry her hands. Then I washed my own.

      ‘Eee, what a clever lad,’ said the woman. ‘Mine’d make a terrible fuss! You’ve got ’im well trained, God bless ’im.’ We laughed together wryly, as mothers do.

      Next, we hurried to the station. I was relieved to see from my timetable that there was a direct train leaving in less than ten minutes. At the ticket office I bought a single to Newcastle for myself and we found the platform. I gave Lucy a shortbread biscuit. She nibbled it daintily. She jiggled with excitement every time a train arrived or departed, flapping her arms up and down.

      ‘Tain, tain!’ she cried, pointing.

      ‘This is our train, Lucy,’ I told her.

      ‘Mam?’

      ‘Yes, I’m here – Mummy’s here. What fun to go on the train!’

      A kind man helped lift the pushchair on. I lifted Lucy up the high step and she ran ahead into the carriage. We folded the pushchair and deposited it in the luggage store and found a seat with a table. The carrier bags fitted in