Will You Love Me?: The story of my adopted daughter Lucy

Miranda joined her on the small landing.

‘Yes. She go,’ Alicja said, opening the door to the flat. ‘Me and husband come last night. No unpacking yet.’

Miranda followed Alicja into the flat, which, like the staircase, smelled damp and musty. A drizzle of winter light filtered through the grimy windows, but even in the half-light Miranda could see the flat was unfit for human habitation.

‘We unpack later,’ Alicja said, almost apologetically, waving a hand at the bags, cardboard boxes and carrier bags that littered the floor. ‘No time yet.’

Miranda gave a weak smile and nodded; her gaze had gone to the nylon sleeping bags open on the grimy, worn sofa and armchair.

‘No beds,’ Alicja said, following Miranda’s gaze. ‘Ivan say no bed. He lock door to bedrooms. He have key. Me and husband sleep here.’

Not for the first time since Miranda had begun her career in social work, she was appalled at the conditions some people were forced to live in. And while it was true that this wasn’t the worse she’d seen – not by a long way – it was bad, and she felt Alicja’s humiliation that she and her husband – two hard-working adults – had been reduced to living like this. She also felt anger towards the landlords who exploited immigrant labour.

‘And there was a baby living here?’ Miranda asked, now concerned that a baby could have been living in such conditions.

‘Yes,’ Alicja said. ‘Mother leave dirty nappy and clothes, baby clothes. I show you.’

Miranda followed Alicja round the boxes and bags into what passed for a kitchen. Freezing cold, with crumbling plaster and filthy like the rest of the flat, Miranda noted it didn’t even have the basics of storage cupboards or a fridge. Alicja went to a row of knotted bin bags propped against the old cooker, which had its oven door hanging off. Untying the top of one of the bags, Alicja tilted it towards her so she could see in. Miranda saw the soiled nappy and baby clothes among the other garbage and took a step back, away from the smell coming from the bag.

‘I put these out later, and clean when I finish work,’ Alicja said quickly, retying the bag.

Miranda was tempted to ask how much she and her husband were paying Ivan for this dump, but it was none of her business. She’d learnt early on in her career that social workers couldn’t save every adult living in poverty; the social services budget didn’t stretch that far. As there was no child or vulnerable adult living here, her involvement was effectively finished. There was nothing she could do.

‘I show you bathroom?’ Alicja offered. ‘Then I work. Ivan angry if I not work.’

‘Thank you,’ Miranda said. She followed Alicja out of the kitchen, around the bags and boxes in the living room to the bathroom. It was pretty much as Miranda had expected: basic, with mould growing on the walls and around the window, an old cracked bath and sink, ripped lino, a leaking toilet and no heating. That a baby had been living here was appalling.

‘Do you know where the woman and baby went?’ Miranda asked, as they returned to the top of the stairs and Alicja pressed the light switch.

‘No. Good that Ivan not know,’ Alicja said. ‘He very angry. She take his money, but he bad man. He frighten me, but not frighten my husband.’

Alicja went ahead to the bottom of the stairs and kept the light switch pressed so Miranda could complete her decent without suddenly being plunged into darkness.

‘Now I work,’ Alicja said, as they returned to the launderette.

‘Thank you very much for your time,’ Miranda said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’ She took a social services compliment slip, which she used as a business card, from her bag and handed it to Alicja. ‘That is the telephone number of where I work,’ she said. ‘If the girl and her baby come back, will you call me please?’

Alicja nodded and tucked the slip of paper into the pocket of her jeans and picked up the iron. ‘She not come back here. She keep away from Ivan. Maybe you talk to the man in the shop next door? He come here this morning. Ask about baby. He worried – his wife hear baby crying.’

‘I will,’ Miranda said gratefully. ‘Thank you. Take care.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Wishing that there was something she could do to help Alicja and her husband and the thousands like them being exploited for cheap labour, she left the launderette. Not bothering to put up her umbrella, she stepped quickly into the newsagent’s next door. Being a social worker often involved detective work – asking questions of neighbours, friends and family and trying to build a picture of the person they were investigating. Some people were happy to help, others were not; some were rude and even threatening. It was part of the job.

Two teenage lads came out of the newsagent’s as Miranda entered. She went up to the counter where an Asian gentleman wearing glasses and a thick jumper was serving. He looked at her and smiled. ‘Can I help you?’

Miranda smiled back. ‘I’m a social worker. I –’

‘You’ve come about the baby next door?’ he said, before she could get any further.

‘Yes,’ Miranda said, a little taken aback.

‘You’re too late. She’s gone,’ he said. ‘My wife saw them go on Monday morning, at about half past seven. We have been very concerned. You should have come sooner.’

‘We didn’t know they were here,’ Miranda said, taking her notepad and pen from her shoulder bag and making a note of the date and time.

‘The mother and baby moved in about five months ago,’ he continued. ‘My wife and I heard the baby crying. We heard it every evening while the mother worked downstairs in the launderette. It’s not right to leave a baby crying for so long. We were very worried. We have two children and when they were babies we comforted them when they cried. We never left them.’

‘Do you know the woman’s name?’ Miranda asked, writing and then glancing up.

‘No. But the baby was called Lucy. I know because when I went round to see if they were all right, the mother referred to her as Lucy. She was ironing and the washing machines were going and making such a noise, she couldn’t hear the baby crying in the flat above. When I told her we could hear the baby through the wall she looked very worried and stopped ironing. She said, “I’m going to see to Lucy now.” She worked very long hours, too long with the baby. I suppose she needed the money.’

‘Yes. Thank you. I see,’ Miranda said, frowning, and writing quickly to catch up. ‘Can I take your name?’

‘Mr Singh.’

Miranda made a note.

‘My wife offered to look after the baby while the woman worked,’ Mr Singh continued. ‘But she didn’t want our help. It’s understandable, she didn’t know us. But it would have been better for us to look after the baby than to leave it crying for hours.’

‘Did the woman have a partner or boyfriend living with her?’

‘Not as far as I know. There was a man, oriental origin I think, who used to visit sometimes. I don’t think he was living there.’

‘Did you see the baby?’ Miranda now asked.

Mr Singh shook his head. ‘No. The baby was always in the flat. It never went out. The only time we saw the baby was when they left on Monday morning. My wife was looking out of the window and called me over. We saw her leaving with the baby in a funny type of basket. She had a big bag with her so it was obvious she was going. Running away, I think. She seemed very anxious and kept looking behind her as she went up the road. That was the only time we saw the baby.’

‘Thank you,’ Miranda said again, as she wrote.

‘The mother always kept herself to herself,’ Mr Singh added. ‘Perhaps she was in trouble with the police. I don’t know.’ He gave a small shrug. ‘She was young, early twenties; white skin, fair hair and very thin. My wife said she looked like she needed a good meal.’

‘I don’t suppose you know where they might have gone?’ Miranda now asked, knowing it was a long shot.

‘No. As I say, she never spoke to us. We just heard the baby crying.’

‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful,’ Miranda said again, returning her pen and pad to her bag. She took out another compliment slip and passed it to Mr Singh. ‘If you see the girl again, perhaps you would phone me on that number?’

‘Yes.’ He nodded and placed the compliment slip beside the till. ‘I hope you find them. My wife and I were very worried about the baby. Children are so precious.’

‘Yes, they are,’ Miranda agreed. ‘I’ll try my best to find them.’

Thanking him again, Miranda left the shop, more worried than when she’d arrived. Clearly baby Lucy was being badly neglected, but with no surname, national health number or address, there was very little she could do to trace and help them. Dodging the rain, she ran to her car, got in and closed the door. On her return to the office she would discuss her findings with her line manager who would make sure she hadn’t overlooked anything and then she’d file her report. It was a great pity Mr and Mrs Singh hadn’t called the social services or the police while Lucy and her mother had been living in the flat, then she could have been helped. But like many people who didn’t report their concerns, they’d probably felt that they would be prying and hoped someone else would assume the responsibility and phone.

As Miranda returned to her office, Bonnie was three miles away boarding a train for the next big town – forty miles south – where her Aunt Maggie lived. Having spent two nights sleeping rough, desperate and worried about Lucy’s health, Bonnie had reluctantly telephoned her mother and asked for help. Her mother, sober for once, was surprised to hear from her after so long, but not wholly surprised to hear she had a baby. ‘I always thought you’d end up getting up the duff,’ she said, with a smoker’s cough. ‘Like mother like daughter!’

Bonnie had stopped herself from snapping back that she wasn’t like her and never would be, not in a million years, for she needed her mother’s help. But Bonnie didn’t get any further, for her mother said: ‘And if you’re thinking of asking if you can come home, forget it. My new bloke’s moving in with his kids soon so there’s no room.’