Diana Finley - Finding Lucy

It was a bright, crisp December day. Long shadows streaked the wet grass. Early afternoon, but already the sun was starting its descent towards the rooftops. As often before, I had been wandering through one of the city’s urban cemeteries. Not that I was attracted to such places for any macabre reasons. No, it was the quiet I yearned for, the peace, and perhaps the sense of the past. This was a particularly agreeable cemetery: serene, well maintained and cared for, with mature trees and shrubs creating a screen from the surrounding suburban streets, emphasising the separateness of the graveyard.

At first I had been drawn to the grave simply by the fresh, bright flowers arranged in neat vases, which contrasted with the faded, bedraggled blooms nearby. But standing there in front of the grave, my attention soon moved on from the flowers. I was mesmerised by the name: Brown. It is natural to notice one’s own surname. I stood and gazed at the neat letters, the scrolled stonework marking the boundary of the pitifully small grave and containing shiny gravel of various colours: pink, brown, yellow and green. On the headstone, carved stone hands curved beneath the words “Safe in the hands of Jesus” as though gently lifting them – or perhaps Lucy herself – upwards, heavenwards.

All the while, as my eyes absorbed these details, my heart was beating unevenly and with great excitement. A plan started to take shape in my mind. It was so simple; Lucy Brown would become my child – indeed, my invention. Just as, years ago, Mother had created me as Alison Brown. I could hardly wait to get home and begin to put my ideas onto paper.

Once back in my own house on the other side of Nottingham, I made a cup of tea, sat down at my desk and started to write a list. I love to make lists. So reassuring. Firstly, the birth certificate. Having that in my possession would make it all seem real. This first item on the list occupied me for quite some time. I worried about the application process though. Would proof of identity be required?

As it turned out, discovering the details of Lucy Brown’s parents’ names and dates of birth was extraordinarily simple. All I had to do was to write to the General Register Office giving Lucy’s first name, surname and date of birth – and requesting a copy of her birth certificate. An address was required. I provided my own, of course. I sent the modest payment as indicated – and a week or so later the precious document was in my hands. I studied it with a trembling thrill; it was almost as though I held Lucy herself, as if she was reborn!

Her mother’s name was given as Audrey Brown, and her father’s as Russell Brown. That would need some adjustment in time of course. I would be her mother, Alison Brown – but then people often used a different first name to the original one.

This was just the beginning. Much needed to be done, but that did not deter me, not at all. Indeed, anticipating the tasks ahead filled me with great pleasure and excitement.

I had already decided to stop working for a time. Mother’s death had left me feeling deeply unsettled. It had always been just the two of us. Apart from my brief and unhappy sojourn at university, I could scarcely remember spending a night apart from her. Or rather, the very few occasions when we had been apart stood out in my memory as rarities; exceptional – and a little frightening.

Now suddenly I found myself completely alone. During those initial weeks of bereavement, I found it impossible to enjoy anything of ordinary, domestic life – for example, mealtimes. I ate almost nothing at all. Sitting alone at the table where, all my life, Mother and I had sat together, sharing the small events and anecdotes of the day, felt almost as though I were in the grave rather than Mother. I found little pleasure in my own company.

Sleep was even more difficult. I tried to postpone the moment of plunging myself into darkness by reading for as long as possible – often reading the same passage over and over again – until exhaustion forced me to switch off the light. As if by signal, this act heralded a succession of morbid, disturbing and often terrifying thoughts, which would not be still. Sometimes I was obliged to get up and make myself a cup of camomile tea, and sit with it in the armchair in the soft light of the kitchen, until a fitful sleep eventually overcame me.

Dr Munroe, who had known me since I was an infant, suggested a mild sleeping pill might help – ‘just during these sad and difficult early weeks, my dear’. I accepted his prescription, but never swallowed a single one of his pills. No, it was not my preferred way. It was important to remain in control of my consciousness.

At the office, my mind would not focus properly. Every task seemed difficult, yet nothing seemed to matter to me as before. I felt the need for a complete change, a time for peace and reflection; a time to reconsider my life and my future. Perhaps it was something to do with having turned forty last year. Not that I believed in phenomena such as “mid-life crises”, but it was surely reasonable to regard forty as a chance to embark on new endeavours. So, back in November, not long after Mother’s will was read, I had handed in the obligatory three months’ notice at Chambers.

‘So what are you going to do, Alison?’ asked Mrs Anderson, the administrative manager (promoted well above her capabilities, I always believed). ‘Have you found another job to go to?’

‘Not exactly. I feel it’s time to re-evaluate, to think about the next period of my life and work out exactly what I want to do with it.’

Mrs Anderson sniffed. ‘Re-evaluate? Sounds a bit of a luxury to me. “Re-evaluation” isn’t something most of us can afford. Still, I suppose it’s unsettling to lose your mum when you’ve always spent so much time together – is that it?’

‘Certainly losing Mother has been a blow …’ I paused for a moment.

Mrs Anderson sighed and glanced at her watch.

‘Yes,’ I said hastily, ‘you’re right, very unsettling.’

Despite this unsatisfactory exchange, I was touched to note the genuine regret expressed by most of my colleagues at my leaving – both the legal team and the administrative staff.

‘S’pect you’ll miss us ’ere in the office, won’t you, Alison? What you 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.