Will You Love Me?: The story of my adopted daughter Lucy. Cathy Glass

often. The main overhead light had never worked, and Ivan had never offered to fix it. In the half-light Bonnie crossed to where her daughter lay in a Moses basket on the floor. Lucy’s eyes were screwed shut and her mouth was open in a grimace of crying. The smell was putrid, a combination of the diarrhoea and vomit that had been festering since the last time Bonnie had checked on Lucy and changed her nappy, over five hours previously. Bonnie knew it was wrong to leave a baby unattended for so long, but she had to work. She also knew that, at six months old, Lucy was too old for a Moses basket, but she couldn’t afford a cot. She kept the basket on the floor so that if Lucy did tumble out she wouldn’t have far to fall.

      Lucy’s eyes shot open as her mother picked her up and she stopped crying. But her expression wasn’t one of relaxed reassurance sensing that, as a baby, all her needs were about to be met. She didn’t smile on seeing her mother, as most six-month-old babies would. No, Lucy’s little brow furrowed and her eyes registered concern and anxiety, as though she shared her mother’s fears and responsibilities for their future.

      The sheet in the Moses basket and the Baby-gro and cardigan Lucy wore were caked with dried vomit. Round the tops of the legs of the Baby-gro were fresh brown stains where her nappy had overflowed. Lucy’s sickness and diarrhoea were in their third day now and Bonnie knew she should really take her to a doctor, but if she did she would be registered on their computer system, and then it would only be a matter of time before concerns were raised and a social worker came knocking on her door. At present, no one knew where she was, not even her mother. Only the hospital where Lucy had been born – over 100 miles away – knew of her baby’s existence, and that was all they knew.

      Bonnie felt Lucy’s forehead. Thankfully she didn’t feel hot so Bonnie assumed she didn’t have a temperature. Bonnie was hoping, praying, that nature would take its course and Lucy would get better of her own accord, although how long that would take she didn’t know. Ignoring the squalor of the living room, Bonnie carried her daughter through to the bathroom where she pulled on the light cord. Filthy broken tiles formed the splashback to an old chipped and badly stained bath. What was left of the lino on the floor was stained from the leaking toilet and the ceiling was covered with large, dark, irregular-shaped water marks from the leaking roof above. This room, like the rest of the flat, was cold, and mould had formed between the tiles, around the edge of the bath and around the window, which couldn’t be opened but rattled in the wind. Bonnie knew that this room – like the others she was allowed to use in the flat: the living room and kitchen – was unfit for human habitation. Ivan knew it too, and that she wouldn’t complain, because she was desperate and had nowhere else to go. The doors to the two bedrooms were permanently locked and Ivan had the keys. He’d never told her what was in them and she’d never dared to ask.

      Spreading the one towel she owned on the filthy bathroom floor, Bonnie carefully laid Lucy on top of it. Lucy immediately began to cry again, as if she anticipated what was coming next.

      ‘There, there,’ Bonnie soothed. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to wash you.’ Bonnie always felt a sense of panic when Lucy cried, as though she was doing something wrong.

      Lucy’s cries grew louder as Bonnie began taking off her dirty clothes. ‘You must stop crying,’ she said anxiously. ‘The man next door will hear you.’

      The Asian man who ran the newsagent’s next door and lived in the flat above with his wife and two children had twice come into the launderette worried that they’d heard a baby crying for long periods and that there might be something wrong. Bonnie had reassured him, but now lived in dread that he would voice his concerns to the police or social services.

      Bonnie placed Lucy’s soiled cardigan, Baby-gro and vest to one side and then unfastened the tabs on her nappy. The smell was overpowering and Bonnie swallowed to stop herself from gagging. Before removing Lucy’s nappy, in a well-practised routine she reached into the bath and turned on the hot tap. Cold water spluttered out as the pipes running through the flat creaked and banged. Bonnie held her fingers under the small stream of water until it lost its chill and became lukewarm. This was as hot as it got, so she and Lucy always washed in lukewarm water, and Lucy always cried.

      Leaving the tap running, Bonnie took off Lucy’s nappy and lifted her into the bath where she held her bottom under the tap. Lucy’s cries escalated. ‘Sssh,’ Bonnie said, as she washed her with an old flannel. ‘Please be quiet.’ But Lucy didn’t understand.

      Having cleaned her back and bottom, Bonnie turned Lucy around and washed her front, finishing with her face and the little hair she had. Lucy gave a climactic scream and shivered as the water ran over her head and face. ‘Finished. All done!’ Bonnie said.

      Turning off the tap, she lifted Lucy out of the bath and onto the towel. The comparative warmth and comfort of the fabric soothed Lucy and she finally stopped crying. ‘Good girl,’ Bonnie said, relieved.

      She knelt on the floor in front of her daughter and patted her dry with the towel. Lucy’s gaze followed her mother’s movements apprehensively as though at any moment she might have reason to cry again. Once Lucy was dry, Bonnie wrapped the towel around her daughter like a shawl and then carried her into the half-light of the living room, where she sat on the threadbare sofa with Lucy on her lap. ‘Soon have you dressed,’ she said, kissing her head.

      Bonnie took a disposable nappy from the packet she kept with most of her other possessions on the sofa. Bonnie owned very little; her and Lucy’s belongings were easily accommodated on the sofa and armchair. At least I won’t have much packing to do, she thought bitterly. Where she would go escaped her, but she knew she had no choice but to leave, now that Ivan’s money had gone.

      Lying Lucy flat on the sofa, Bonnie secured the clean nappy with the sticky fasteners, and then reached to the end of the sofa for Lucy’s clean clothes. One advantage of working in the launderette was that she’d been able to wash and dry their clothes for free.

      Taking the clean vest, Baby-gro and cardigan (bought second-hand), Bonnie dressed Lucy as quickly as she could. The only heating in the room was an electric fire, which was far too expensive to use, so Bonnie relied on the heat rising from the launderette to take the chill off the flat, but it was never warm. Lucy didn’t cry as Bonnie dressed her; in fact, she didn’t make any noise at all. Bonnie found that Lucy was either silent or crying; there was no contented in-between. Neither had she begun to make the babbling and chuntering noises most babies of her age do. The reason was lack of stimulation, but Bonnie didn’t know that.

      Once Lucy was dressed, Bonnie replaced the sheet in the Moses basket ready for later and then carried her daughter into the squalid kitchen. Balancing Lucy on her hip with one arm, she filled and plugged in the kettle with the other, and then took the carton of milk from the windowsill. There was no fridge so the windowsill, draughty from the ill-fitting window, acted as a fridge in winter. Bonnie kept her ‘fridge foods’ there – milk, yoghurt and cheese spread. An ancient gas cooker stood against one wall but only the hobs had ever worked, so since coming to the flat five months previously Bonnie had lived on cold baked beans, cheese spread on bread, cornflakes, crisps and biscuits. Lucy was on cow’s milk – the formula was too expensive – and Bonnie wondered if this could be the reason for Lucy’s sickness and diarrhoea.

      Bonnie prepared the milk for Lucy in the way she usually did, by half filling the feeding bottle with milk and topping it up with boiling water. Without a hob or milk pan it was all she could do, and it also made the milk go further. She made herself a mug of tea and, taking a handful of biscuits from the open packet, returned to the living room. She sat on the sofa and gave Lucy her bottle while she drank her tea and nervously ate the biscuits. She would have liked to make her escape now so she was well away from the area before Ivan returned in the morning and found his money and them gone, but the night was cold, so it made sense to stay in the flat for as long as possible. Bonnie decided that if she left at 6.00 a.m. she’d have two hours before Ivan arrived – enough time to safely make their getaway.

      Physically exhausted and emotionally drained, Bonnie rested her head against the back of the grimy sofa and closed her eyes, as Lucy suckled on her bottle. She wondered if she should head north for Scotland where her mother lived, but her mother wouldn’t be pleased to see her.