person.’ She looked at me thoughtfully.
‘You know, maybe you should talk to Lucy more about her daddy,’ she suggested. ‘Young children need lots of help to absorb such a huge loss; to understand death at all. Why not visit her grandparents – her paternal grandparents – so Lucy could learn more about her father from them? You could look at some photographs of him together.’ Her voice rose with enthusiasm as she expanded her theme.
‘What about making a memory box? Fill it with pictures and mementos, to help her remember and make her daddy more real for her? After all, she was so young when she lost him.’
Susan paused to allow me to absorb these wisdoms. She grasped both of my hands; I forced myself not to recoil and withdraw them. She peered into my face, as though a photograph of my dead “husband” might suddenly appear there.
‘You never talk about him either, Alison,’ she said. ‘I know it must be hard for you, but don’t you think it would help both of you to talk about him more?’
‘You’re probably right,’ I said slowly. ‘It was all so traumatic … I suppose I’ve tried to bury the memory, along with him. I must learn to be more open. But his parents, Lucy’s grandparents … well … er … unfortunately they live abroad … so we can’t visit them just yet.’
‘Oh, what a shame! Well maybe one day …’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Well, what about that aunt who looked after Lucy while you got the house ready just after you bought it? Was she your husband’s aunt? Might she help?’
Another unexpected hurdle to negotiate! I thought rapidly of a solution, and it had to be a final one.
‘No … I’m afraid not,’ I said, looking as sad as I could manage. ‘She was very old, poor thing, and she died not long after I moved up here.’
‘Oh no! How awful. Poor Alison, what a lot of bereavements you’ve had.’
How exhausting it was. I had never considered that maintaining a lie requires constant vigilance and effort. Just when you think you can relax and move on, suddenly a whole new chapter of the story is needed. I realised I was going to have to work on Lucy’s father. I had thought that killing him off would dispose of him conveniently once and for all, but now it was apparent I would have to invent much more of an identity, more of a presence, and even a family history for him, even though he was dead.
‘Do you know, Alison, I don’t think I even know what your poor husband’s name was,’ Susan said, as we sipped our coffee.
It was true – I had never given a thought to his name, and though I had filed it away in a drawer somewhere, I hadn’t given the father’s name on poor dead little Lucy Brown’s birth certificate a thought for so long! I closed my eyes for a moment and applied my mind to this supposed dead husband of mine. Desperately, I scanned my memory for his name. What was it again? Something a bit unusual, something connected with writers or philosophers. A series of rapid thoughts clicked through my brain. Was it Bertrand? No, that was too unusual, too odd … and yet Bertrand rang a bell. I know – Bertrand Russell – that was it! Russell. Russell was his name.
Susan, perhaps observing my mental struggle, assumed I was overcome with emotion. Once again she put an arm around me and hugged me affectionately. Why people seem to need to express friendship in this way I’ll never know. My whole body tensed.
‘Russell!’ I burst out. ‘His name was Russell. Russell Brown of course.’
‘Russell. Aaaah.’
Susan put her head on one side and adopted her sad, sympathetic face, as if there was something inherently endearing about the name Russell. Oh God, I thought, please let this conversation end.
1988
Just after half-term, chicken pox rampaged through the school. I had hoped Lucy might avoid it – she was one of the last children in her class to show symptoms. One afternoon, as I waited in the schoolyard with little groups of other parents, she emerged slowly, looking quite unlike her normal cheerful self. She was pale and listless, and dragged her schoolbag, as if she hadn’t the energy to carry it.
At home she wanted little to eat, which was unusual for her these days; she generally had a good appetite. I gave her plenty to drink, but all she really wanted was to sit on my lap and be cuddled. There was something very appealing about her in this state; her need for physical contact and affection was rather gratifying – and also a novelty for me, never having learned to enjoy cuddles myself, even as a young child. But I did enjoy cuddling Lucy. Lucy was different. I read stories to her until she became sleepy, and I put her to bed early. In the night I woke with a start to hear Lucy crying and calling out to me.
‘Mummy! Mummy!’
I ran into her room and clutched her hot little frame close. She was damp and trembling, sobs convulsing her body. Her eyes stared straight ahead.
‘Shhh, my darling,’ I said. ‘Everything’s all right, dear girl. Mummy’s here.’
‘Another Mummy was there! I saw her. She said, “Come with me.” She had a dark coat on and brown hair that came off! I’m frightened, Mummy, don’t let her take me!’
‘No one’s going to take you. It was just a dream. You’re safe with me, quite safe.’
I bathed her forehead with a cool flannel and gave her a spoonful of Calpol. Soon her breathing slowed and she slept. My heart was pounding. Did she remember? No, surely, it was just the fever? I was deeply unnerved. Unable to settle back to sleep, I went downstairs, and made some camomile tea.
I extracted Lucy’s crayon box from the toy cupboard, and tipped them out onto the floor. I spent half an hour arranging them in the shape of a rainbow on the carpet, their colours in the order of the spectrum. I counted them. There were forty-one altogether, a prime number, which was a bonus. After that I felt a bit calmer.
In the morning, Lucy’s spots started to appear – a few blisters scattered on her tummy at first, gradually multiplying to form a rash all over her body. She lay limp, vulnerable and dependent. I offered to bring her some breakfast, but she was only able to drink a little orange juice.
‘Poor little Lucy. My poor little girl.’ I stroked her head gently. ‘Never mind. I’ll look after you and you’ll soon be better. At least you can stay home with Mummy. No school this week. I’ll read you a story later. We’ll have a nice time.’
Lucy held my hand and smiled wanly.
‘How did you sleep, Lucy?’
‘All right, I think. But my head hurts.’
‘I know, dear. I’ll get you some more Calpol in a minute.’
I hesitated at the door. I turned and looked at Lucy.
‘Any dreams?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I can’t remember any.’
