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

‘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.

Chapter Fifteen (#ulink_e39a0a99-eb11-57e6-a7cc-61767cd06b71)

January 1987

Lucy

I’m a big girl now. Mummy said so. Going to big school today. Not nursery any more. Got special clothes for school. I like yellow shirt best. Yellow my favourite colour – like sunshine. My sweatshirt is blue. Got a badge with words on. Wear it when it’s cold. I got a grey skirt. Mummy says I look smart; I look grown-up.

We walked to the school. Mummy held my hand. Lots of children in the yard. There are some coloured lines on the ground. Wiggling about. Maybe we paint coloured lines in school today? Some boys and girls running on the lines and laughing.

I want to run on the yellow line, but my heart feels bumpy. Wish Stacy was here. Don’t tell Mummy. Mummy doesn’t like Stacy. Makes her sad. I’m holding Mummy’s hand and watching the boys and girls.

Mummy says, ‘Go on, Lucy, don’t you want to play? It’ll be time to go inside in a minute.’

I see Laura from playgroup. She runs over. She stands in front of me, smile on her face. She sticks out her hand to me. I look at Mummy. She smiles and nods her head. Laura and me hold hands and run. She pulls me to a red line.

‘No! Yellow,’ I say.

Laura says ‘OK’ and we chase the yellow line all round the playground, laughing and laughing.

Suddenly a bell is ringing. Big, loud bell. We stop running. A teacher lady is standing by the door with her face smiling. Another lady next to her. All the children run to near her. She shouts in a kind voice, ‘Good morning, children! How lovely to see you all! Welcome to you on your first day of school! My name is Miss Carson. This is Mrs Hope, our special kind helper. We’re all going to have a lovely day today: playing with toys and games, listening to stories, and learning lots of exciting things! Does that sound like fun?’

Some of the children shout, ‘Yes!’

Laura shouts ‘Yes!’ but I feel shy. I look for Stacy. Some children jump up and down.

Miss Carson says, ‘Well, children, say “bye-bye” to your mummies and daddies now. And say “see you later”.’

Miss Carson says in a loud excited voice, ‘Then – let’s – go – in – and – have – a – look – at – our – classroom!’

I run back to Mummy and she gave me a big hug, and my special yellow schoolbag.

‘Bye-bye, Lucy dear, have a wonderful day, and I’ll be here to pick you up at three o’clock,’ she says, and she pushes me towards Miss Carson, not hard.

Laura walking into school too, and lots of other children. Some children still hugging their mummies and daddies, and crying. The Mrs Hope lady goes to talk to them. I not crying, but I wish Stacy was here.

Chapter Sixteen (#ulink_d777c017-ff7e-5305-9378-81eda94f60ae)

1987

Alison

At the start of the January term, when Lucy was nearly four and a half, she began attending the Reception class of the local first school. By this time the press had long tired of Stacy’s disappearance and moved on to other more current or more sensational news stories. Just occasionally, one of the tabloid newspapers ran a feature headed something like “Wherever is Stacy?”, followed by speculation as to her whereabouts, or presented some trumped-up theory about her fate with the white slave trade or itinerant gypsies, or made even darker references to paedophiles and murderers.

About a year after “Stacy’s abduction” Inspector Dempster had made an appeal on the BBC Crimewatch programme. I watched it after Lucy had gone to bed. Detective Inspector Dempster looked tired, I noticed. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he was still a handsome man; distinguished, just as I remembered him. He spoke articulately, with quiet confidence, and with just a hint of a northern accent discernible. He reminded viewers of the few details that were known concerning Stacy’s disappearance, and urged them to search their memories for any further information.

A reconstruction of the “abduction”, as they called it, was shown. A shadowy figure of a woman in a dark coat was scurrying down one of Riddlesfield’s gloomy terraces, pushing a fair-haired toddler in a pushchair. I was delighted to note that the film showed her pushing it down the wrong street! What’s more, they showed only a little girl in the pushchair, and clearly had no idea of her transformation into a boy at that stage – a boy in a woolly hat with no fair hair showing.

The public was asked that anyone present in the area that night, who might have seen a small fair-haired girl or had noticed anything unusual – anything at all, however insignificant it might appear – should report their observations immediately. A little boy was never mentioned. Detective Inspector Dempster did say that Stacy might have been taken to a car parked elsewhere in the town, or possibly to the train station. He therefore reminded viewers that the child could have been taken anywhere in Britain, or even abroad. No mention was made specifically of the North East as a likely destination, which was a relief to me.

The programme had shown an artist’s impression of what Stacy might have looked like at the current time. I wasn’t too concerned about this – it really could have been any snub-nosed, fair-haired four-year-old. The artist had no dental records and no up-to-date photographs on which to base this likeness – the family had never taken Lucy to visit a dentist and had no recent photos of her, only one or two baby pictures. Neither were any distinguishing features mentioned, which might have marked her out. Yet I knew that Lucy actually had a diamond-shaped brown birthmark on the back of her neck, only visible by lifting her hair. I’d seen it as soon as I washed her hair for the first time. No doubt her parents had never even noticed it – it wouldn’t surprise me if they’d never washed her hair.

Detective Inspector Dempster had ended by assuring the public that the case would never, never be closed – until Stacy was found. The unspoken words “alive or dead” hung in the air.