Will You Love Me?: The story of my adopted daughter Lucy: Part 1 of 3. Cathy Glass
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‘No! Stop. Think of Lucy. Ivan will hurt her as well as me if you take the money.’
‘Not as much as the gang I owe will hurt me,’ he sneered. He pushed her from him and continued filling his jacket pockets.
‘No. Stop!’ Bonnie cried again. In desperation she grabbed his hands and tried to stop him from taking the money, but he shook her off.
She grabbed his hands again but his next push was much harder and sent her reeling backwards against the hard metal edge of a washing machine. She cried out as the impact winded her and pain shot through her. Vince quickly stuffed the last of the money into his jacket pockets and without looking back ran from the shop.
Bonnie stayed where she was, trying to catch her breath. She was also trying to come to terms with what had just happened. Vince had gone, probably for good, and he’d taken all of Ivan’s money – the money Ivan would expect to collect at 8.00 the following morning. Tears stung the backs of her eyes as she stood and leant against the washing machine, trying to work out what to do.
The launderette was uncannily quiet. The dryers that had been working when Vince arrived had completed their cycles and now stood still; the washing machines were in mid-cycle, their drums gently swishing water from side to side. Bonnie looked at the shop door, which was still wide open from Vince’s exit. The chill from the night was quickly replacing the previous warmth of the shop. Before long, if she didn’t close the door, a drunk, druggie or yob would come in. Not that there was any money left to steal, she thought grimly; there was just her safety to worry about.
Heaving herself away from the support of the machine, Bonnie rubbed her back and began to make her way towards the open door. Despite Vince’s behaviour, Bonnie didn’t condemn him for what he’d done; she believed she deserved it. Abuse was always her fault. Things like this didn’t happen to nice girls. She was bad, so men treated her badly. It was as simple as that. She closed and locked the door, slid the bolts across and turned to survey the shop. Baskets of washing waited to be loaded into machines and dryers, the ironing was half done and the whole shop needed to be cleaned and tidied ready for when it opened at 7.30 a.m. the next day. Bonnie usually did all this before she went to bed. Ivan expected it and liked a clean and tidy shop when he called to collect his money at 8.00 a.m. Even if it took her until midnight to finish, she always made sure everything was done, just as Ivan liked it.
But not tonight, Bonnie thought. There’s no point in finishing the laundry and cleaning the shop, for the crime of losing Ivan’s money was far greater and could not be put right by a clean and tidy shop. It briefly crossed her mind that perhaps she could say they’d been broken into and the day’s takings had been stolen, but with no forced entry she doubted Ivan would believe her, and she didn’t dare take the risk. Bonnie lived in fear of Ivan, as she did most men who came into her life.
With a very heavy heart and her back paining her, Bonnie went to the corner of the shop and opened the internal door that led to the flat above. She pressed the light switch and the staircase was illuminated, then she turned off the lights in the shop – all except the night light, which always stayed on. Closing the door on the shop, she began up the stairs, and as she did so she heard Lucy crying. Bonnie knew from the distress in her screams that she’d been crying for a very long time.
Chapter Two
Halfway up the damp and foul-smelling staircase, with its dangerously frayed carpet, the light went out. Ivan had the light switches at the top and bottom of the stairs on timers so as not to waste electricity: he paid for the electricity on the stairs and in the shop; Bonnie paid for it in the flat. As usual, Bonnie climbed the last six steps in darkness and then groped for the light switch on the landing and pressed it, which gave her another ten seconds of light – enough to open the door to the flat and go inside.
The door opened directly into the room where Lucy lay, and her screams were deafening now. The living room was lit by a single standard lamp that Bonnie left on whenever Lucy was alone – which was 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.