Diana Finley - Finding Lucy

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 the overhead luggage rack. The train was only half full and, predictably, most other passengers avoided sitting near to a small child, so we had the area to ourselves.

Initially Lucy took delight in the journey, seeing the lights flashing by, watching other passengers walk past, clambering on the seat to peep at those sitting in the next section, but I had to restrain her from this. It was important to avoid attracting anyone’s attention. Also, Lucy was still wearing her boys’ woolly hat to conceal her hair, but I was increasingly anxious that she might try to pull it off as the temperature in the carriage rose. I gave her a carton of chilled fruit juice I’d bought at Riddlesfield station, the loud slurping sounds as Lucy sucked on the straw clear proof of her enjoyment.

After that she sat very quietly for a while, looking at me.

‘Mam?’ she said, her lower lip starting to quiver. A tiny convulsive sob escaped from her. I pulled her onto my knee and whispered,

‘Don’t worry, Lucy – I’m Mummy. Mummy loves you, Lucy.’

‘Tacy,’ she said, a little fractiously. ‘Tacy!’

She had said this before and I was unsure what she meant. Was it some toy she was missing – the dreadful doll I had seen her with the first time?

She began to whimper a little. I guessed she was tired. It was nearly eight in the evening – probably past her bedtime. Rather against my principles, I took out a little plastic box, in which was a sterilised dummy I’d been keeping in reserve, and held it in front of Lucy. She grabbed it and immediately pushed it into her mouth. I took a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar out of my bag and, rocking Lucy gently on my lap, I read the story to her. Her body went limp and relaxed. She sucked rhythmically on the dummy.

When the book was finished, Lucy patted it to indicate she wanted it read again. By the time I had finished the third reading, she was nearly asleep, her head heavy against my arm.

As the train doors opened at Newcastle Central Station, a blast of cold air surged in and enclosed us. Lucy was fast asleep in my arms. I hugged her close, as once again a helpful fellow passenger intervened to carry the pushchair down the steps and onto the platform. It was a relief the woman knew how to unfold it and I was able to deposit Lucy straight in and tuck the parka around her drooping form. The woman handed me the carrier bags.

‘There’s a little fellow who’s ready for his bed,’ she remarked kindly. I nodded and thanked her. We joined the queue for taxis. At the sight of Lucy, several people urged me to go ahead of them and take the next taxi. I hadn’t realised how sympathetic people can be when confronted with small children. It must be a human instinct.

‘Here you are, pet. You take the bairn and I’ll put the buggy in the boot.’

The taxi driver regaled me with anecdotes about his own children’s antics on the journey home – I was unable to absorb these stories, my mind focused on our imminent arrival. I was terribly anxious that the neighbours might see us – with Lucy in her “boy-guise”. But it was dark and late in the evening. As the driver pulled up in front of the house, I had his money ready and added a largish tip, eager to be rid of him. Thankfully, not a soul was about.

By now Lucy was writhing and wriggling in my arms, and making strange animal-like moaning sounds. I struggled to hold her and unlock the front door. I put her down in the hall, grabbed the pushchair and bags, pulled them into the house and hurriedly slammed the door shut. I started to pull Lucy’s hat off and unzip her outer clothes, but she wrenched herself free. She threw herself onto the carpet in the hall and kicked her feet on the floor. She started to howl.

‘Maaam!’ she yelled, the sound emerging in great stuttering gulps. ‘Mam-Mam-Maaam! Mam-Mam-Maaaam!’

I stared at her for a moment, deeply alarmed by the noise and unsure how to proceed. I steadied my breathing and tried to recall what Mother might have done when I was upset as a small child. I faintly remembered being taken up to my room to “calm down”. I took off Lucy’s coat, picked up her writhing form, and carried her up to her bedroom.

‘Look, Lucy! Here’s Lucy’s room. Isn’t it lovely! Lots of toys, just for you. And here’s your cosy little bed. Mummy will run you a nice warm bath and we’ll put some lovely clean pyjamas on. Look, here’s Teddy.’