Finding Lucy. Diana Finley
goin’ to do wiv yourself all the time?’ Julie was the newest office recruit. Her long nails clacked away on her typewriter.
‘I’m sure I’ll find plenty to occupy my time, Julie.’
‘Oh yeah, goin’ to museums and libraries and that?’ She winked at Debbie and they giggled, without revealing the source of their amusement. Certainly, I mused, I would not miss the banality of office conversation.
It was clear that Mrs Anderson was at least sensitive enough to register the strength of my determination, because at no time did she try to dissuade me from my decision. She had never been generous with praise, so it was a particular pleasure to see myself described with words such as “efficient”, “invaluable”, “intelligent”, “loyal” and “highly valued” in the brief note about my departure circulated to the staff. It would have been perfectly proper for Mrs Anderson to have written a personal note or card to me at home, and perhaps to have wished me well, but this was not her way.
At the end of my last day at Chambers, a select gathering had been arranged in the main office by way of a “leaving do”. Cups of my favourite Earl Grey tea and a tray of tasteful and dainty iced cakes were handed around by the juniors. I was seen off with a gift token, a bunch of flowers and a jovial peck on the cheek by Sir Julian, delivered amid the usual waft of winey fumes – he had not long returned from his usual lunchtime expedition.
‘A new year, a new life! Eh, my dear? Jolly good for you.’
I tried to smile benignly. He could never have imagined how true those words were!
I had wanted a child of my own for as many years as I could remember. I might even admit to having felt a desperate longing for a child. I frequently recall Mother’s words to me during the last days of her life.
‘Don’t live alone, Alison,’ she had said. ‘It’s not good for you, dear. I do so wish for you to have a child – a child to love, and to love you. I won’t be a grandmother, of course – it’s too late for that – but if only I could know that you will have the joy of being a mother, as I did with you; that would be such a comfort for me.’
‘You’re right, Mother,’ I had told her soothingly, Mother’s hand in mine as frail and fleshless as a chicken’s claw.
‘Please don’t worry – I want to have a child. I will have a child, I promise.’
Perhaps it was a rash promise, but I had genuinely meant those words. Three days later Mother was dead. I had underestimated the impact her loss would have on me. She had been right; I needed someone to love, and to love me. I needed a child. That need grew in me until it was all-consuming.
* * *
Of course, I had tried all avenues: conventional means some might say. But none felt truly right for me. Why not give birth to a child of your own, some might ask. The fundamental barrier is that first a man is required. My attitude to men had been permanently coloured by the event at university some years before. I didn’t dislike men, but neither did I trust them, and they had never played a significant role in my life. I could not envisage the constant presence of a man in my home, in my life. Above all, I regarded acts of physical intimacy with a man with the utmost revulsion.
Some women might even pursue what I understood were referred to as “one-night stands” – a revolting term – but this was not a path I could ever have contemplated. Even thinking about it caused me to tremble and feel quite nauseous. Thus I had dispensed with the idea of “natural” means of having a child.
Next, I considered the possibility of artificial insemination. However, I could never have submitted myself to such a humiliating procedure – little better than the means by which a prize cow might be used for breeding.
Having dismissed all these avenues, I looked into legal adoption. One would imagine that a respectable woman, still in her thirties at that time, and willing to offer a home to an unwanted waif, would be welcomed with open arms. Not so! After weeks of visits from social workers and their ceaseless interviews and questionnaires, I had been told that I was not considered suitable to adopt a child. Not suitable! “The team” had decided – “regretfully” – that I was not suited to bringing up a child, especially a young and vulnerable child, they said. Words like “judgemental”, “lacking in empathy”, and “rigid personality” had been bandied about; meaningless psycho-babble straight out of some left-wing social work textbook, no doubt. And thus this questionable group of people had passed their own judgement on me.
There had been no means of appeal. As will be appreciated by anyone with a scrap of insight, I had been left with no choice but to take the matter into my own hands.
By February, I was taking the first steps towards a fundamentally different future. I had decided on Newcastle for its distance from Nottingham, and as a fine, distinctive city in its own right. Only Newcastle’s proximity to Durham, with that city’s sad associations for me, made me hesitate over my choice at first. Yet the advantages were clear and I resolved to overcome my doubts, and to look firmly down at a book rather than out of the window as the train passed through Durham station.
I made my very specific wishes quite clear to the Homefind estate agency. As a widow with a small daughter, I explained, I was looking for a smallish house, with three bedrooms, preferably detached, with a neat, easy-to-manage and secure back garden, to allow the child to play safely. I felt no qualms about presenting myself in this way – in my mind I was already Lucy’s mother.
The agency soon found a very suitable house on a predominantly post-Fifties estate on the edge of the suburb of Gosforth. It was perfect for my needs, having one bedroom off the “half-landing”, and two further bedrooms with dormer windows set into the slope of the roof. It was described as a “Dutch bungalow”. I liked the term. It gave my new home a touch of the exotic, while retaining a wholesome image.
The house was freshly whitewashed and stood at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, its garden backing onto a pleasant area of trees and fields where people strolled and walked their dogs. There was even a small playground nearby – ideal for Lucy. The neighbouring houses were far enough away for me not to feel overlooked. My – sorry, our! – new home (I would have to get used to using the plural pronoun) had been well maintained by the elderly couple who were selling it. Certainly, the decoration was a little old-fashioned, but that didn’t matter to me. Thanks to Mother’s carefully invested estate, added to the anticipated sale of our house in Nottingham, and my own smaller savings, I was able to contemplate not working while caring for a young child. This was very important to me; far too many young children were placed in the care of nurseries or childminders. I had no intention of Lucy becoming a “latch-key” child.
Fortunately, there were spare funds to put in a new kitchen and bathroom, and for fresh wallpaper and paint throughout. Mother had never been a great spender, but she would have enjoyed discussing decoration and soft furnishings with me, especially when it came to Lucy’s room. At times like this I missed her terribly. In fact, if I am truthful, not a moment went by when I did not miss her, but at least having so much to occupy my mind did help.
It was vital to be able to come and go freely at the new house over the coming weeks, without arousing curiosity or suspicion. One of my first tasks was to visit the next-door neighbours on either side and introduce myself. I’d never been one for dropping in and out of other people’s homes, so I felt a degree of anxiety about these initial contacts. To the left was a youngish couple, Susan and Mike Harmon. They had a nice polite little girl of about nine called Claire, and a younger boy, Charlie, who seemed somewhat boisterous and over-excitable.
‘Come on in, it’s just lovely to meet you, Alison!’ said Susan,