Finding Lucy. Diana Finley

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ ever …’ and the like. All my opinions about Lucy’s birth family were confirmed. There could be no doubt she was far better off with me – and without them.

      By this time Lucy’s Riddlesfield accent was long gone. Despite some slight lingering immaturities, everyone remarked on how beautifully she spoke, what a wide vocabulary she had, what good manners she had. It was something that mattered a lot to me. I felt it was important to bring her up to be polite, just as Mother had with me.

      At first when Lucy was given something and I had prompted her with ‘What do you say, Lucy?’ she would reply ‘Ta’. I would have to explain to others that unfortunately my aunt in Nottingham, though well meaning, had taught her some slang and also some “baby words”, of which I did not approve. The aunt had misguidedly thought it was easier for a small child to learn to say “ta” rather than “thank you”, I told them. Personally, I never believed there was any necessity to alter language for children. How can “choo-choo” be easier to learn than “train”, or “bye-byes” rather than “sleep”? It just meant the unfortunate child ended up having to learn two words rather than the correct one in the first place.

      So, early on, Lucy had received some intensive speech training from me to great effect, and was soon using “please” and “thank you”, and other social niceties. I find people always prefer a well-mannered child, as I do myself.

      * * *

      The first time I went to see Lucy’s pleasant young Reception teacher, I was delighted to hear positive reports about how well she had settled, and how quick was her progress with literacy and numeracy – she was definitely one of the brightest children in the class. She was a polite and well-behaved little girl, and never caused any trouble.

      It was true she was a little shy, Miss Carson said, but that was quite normal. It was early days. She’d soon learn to form friendships more readily. Perhaps I could help by inviting one or two of the other children to play at home? Of course I was eager to do anything to help Lucy, although I felt there was an unnecessarily heavy emphasis at such a young age on “making friends”. However, that evening I began by asking Lucy what her “best friends” in the class were called. For such a bright child, she seemed to have difficulty grasping the concept.

      ‘I’ve got lots of friends.’

      ‘That’s good, Lucy. So, who do you like best? Who would you like to come and play with you here?’

      She listed nearly all the children in the class. I found this response a little irritating, but tried hard not to show any impatience.

      ‘I’m glad you’ve got so many friends, Lucy, but can you think of one girl or boy you like best? Someone to come and play with you at home?’

      ‘I like to play with Stacy best.’

      I was stunned. Instantly my hands began to tremble. It was as though Lucy had punched me hard in the stomach. I took a deep breath.

      ‘Lucy, Stacy is not real. She’s in your imagination. It’s like a … a dream, but not real.’

      Lucy gazed back at me with her most inscrutable expression. I made a great effort to remain cool, not to show any trace of anxiety or irritation.

      After yet further coaxing, still no special friend’s name was forthcoming, and Lucy was showing signs of becoming distressed by the conversation. In the end I had to avoid prolonging the questioning by deciding to make the choice of special playmate myself. I did this largely on the basis of which of the parents I liked best. After all, good parents tend to have good children.

      We started with Laura. She was a dear little girl, thoughtful and solemn, with a mass of dark curls, contrasting with Lucy’s fair hair. I liked Laura’s mother Rosemary, who was a librarian. She was quiet and contemplative. Both girls shared a love of books. Yet they did not actually share the books. When I went upstairs to Lucy’s room to tell the children tea was ready, I found each girl sitting companionably on the floor cushions next to one another, leaning against the wall on the far side of the room, reading to herself. Not a word passed between them. Nevertheless, they seemed perfectly amicable and content.

      From time to time we asked Charlie to play. I felt we had to – after all, he lived next door and Susan had been so kind to me, and regarded herself as a close friend. On her own, Lucy often enjoyed playing imaginative games with toy animals or figures – inventing elaborate scenes and stories. Charlie preferred lively games. His imagination focused on noisy vehicles, dinosaurs, fierce animals or monsters, fights, chases and crashes. A lot of shouting was involved.

      Both Lucy and I were always quite exhausted by the time he went home. It was a relief to tidy up together at the end of the day. However, the tension Charlie’s company created had a noticeable effect on Lucy, and not a positive one. On one occasion, when he was being particularly loud, Lucy closed her eyes, put her hands over her ears and screwed up her face.

      ‘Stop shouting, Dad!’ she yelled.

      The room seemed to still. Charlie stopped in his tracks. He glanced at me and raised his eyebrows in a knowing fashion, as if he and I shared some special understanding. I felt an urge to smack him. He turned back to Lucy.

      ‘I’m not your dad!’ he said laughing. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

      Poor Lucy looked at me in utter confusion, and burst into tears.

      * * *

      The following term Miss Carson called me in to school for a second time. Having had time to observe Lucy for some months, she said, she had some concerns about Lucy’s “social skills”. ‘Nothing to worry about, but we don’t want Lucy becoming isolated, do we?’ She was not unpopular, Miss Carson said. The other children liked her, but were unsure how to react to her. She often appeared indifferent to them, to live in her own little world. Miss Carson wondered if it would be helpful to refer her to a child psychologist. What would Lucy’s daddy and I feel about that?

      Expected to respond spontaneously out of the blue, I hesitated for a moment, my hands trembling, and then explained to Miss Carson that Lucy’s father had passed away when Lucy was two. There was only Lucy and myself. Miss Carson looked profoundly shocked. Then she appeared to gather herself. She nodded in an understanding way, as if this news explained everything.

      ‘Oh, Mrs Brown, I’m so very sorry. If only you had made that clear to school when Lucy started, we could have … taken it into account.’

      ‘Yes, you’re right. Probably I should have told school staff sooner. But you see, it was so difficult dealing with my own bereavement at that stage, as well as Lucy’s. I … I could hardly bear to talk about it.’ I dabbed my eyes with my handkerchief.

      ‘No, I see, I do understand – how dreadful for you. I’m so, so sorry,’ she repeated. ‘It’s just that … if we had known, maybe we could have given Lucy some special help.’

      ‘She doesn’t need special help – all she needs is more time, more understanding. I will help her. I am helping her. She certainly doesn’t need to see a psychologist.’

      ‘No, of course not,’ Miss Carson said hastily. ‘I’m so sorry. Now that we do know … well … we can all help Lucy.’

      * * *

      Susan agreed with Miss Carson’s viewpoint.

      ‘Honestly, Alison, you’re so secretive. СКАЧАТЬ