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.’
Lucy frowned furiously. She flung the bear across the room and lay sobbing face down on the bed. I was aghast – I hadn’t expected this. In fact, I was trembling, a feeling of panic taking hold – pinching at my spine. Why was Lucy so distressed at leaving behind a sordid home and such unsatisfactory and neglectful parents? Couldn’t she see what a wonderful home I had prepared for her, what a wonderful life I’d planned?
And then I realised. Of course Lucy could not see. I tried to calm myself and allow reason to return, remembering what Mother had always said: “Children have no sense of time.” I had so much to learn about children. It seemed that Lucy had no ability either to evaluate the present or to envisage the future. That dirty, impoverished home and those worthless parents were all she had known and experienced. How could she possibly understand how much better life could be, how much better a mother could be? I resolved to show her, however long it took.
I do not regard myself as an intolerant person, nor am I politically minded. I have nothing against poor people; decent, caring, hard-working poor people. No doubt some of them make admirable parents. But equally, there is no doubt that certain types of people do not deserve the privilege of having children. Perhaps some do not even realise that it is a privilege.
Lucy’s parents – Gary and Shelley Watts – spring instantly to mind. Social workers may have had the audacity to decree that I was unworthy of parenting a young child – but no end of feckless individuals, like the Watts, appear to have the right to bring children into the world willy-nilly, with no mention of the responsibilities that go hand in hand with those rights – and without a thought or care for the well-being of the children. Of course, I don’t go so far as to advocate sterilisation, but the balance of rights appears all one-sided to me.
Yet, however much they might have brought the situation upon themselves, I couldn’t help feeling a few transitory moments of pity for Gary and “Shell”. I had ultimately submitted to buying a television set, much as I disapproved of them. Perhaps in the future, Lucy would enjoy some educational programmes, I reasoned. Meanwhile, I felt, it was important for me to keep up with news of the police search, and with their dealings with Lucy’s birth parents.
The usual “television appeal” (media circus, you could call it!) did Gary and “Shell” no favours. To be sure, they were not a photogenic pair. Gary, with his shifty, rat-like features, lumpy shaved head and extensive tattoos, looked the epitome of a vicious criminal rather than a responsible, loving father. Most people would hardly trust him to wash their windows, let alone entrust a small child to his care. Indeed, the Daily Mail reported that according to their information, Gary Watts had served a prison sentence for burglary in the past.
The image projected by Shelley Watts was no more appealing. Her pudding-like face was red and blotchy. Her shapeless body appeared entirely boneless; enormous breasts like