Читать книгу Mummy’s Little Helper - Casey Watson - Страница 11

Despite my resolution not to get involved in things that weren’t my business, Abby was my business and, if it concerned her, it concerned me. So I woke early on Friday morning in a determined mood and with a mental list of questions that needed answers. All of which meant that I couldn’t get back to sleep, so by the time the alarm was due to go off I was already down in the kitchen, pen in one hand, a mug of strong coffee clutched in the other. Since I’d given up smoking, it was my only remaining vice, and one I wouldn’t be giving up any time soon. I sipped the bitter nectar gratefully as I transferred the questions that had been teeming in my brain to a piece of paper. As soon as the taxi came and picked Abby up for school, I knew I had a couple of calls to make.

‘Is it Christmas again?’ asked Mike, trudging blearily into the kitchen and blinking in the brightness of the strip light. ‘Seeing you up at this hour is giving me the strangest feeling of déjà vu.’

It was still pitch-dark, not even seven, and I’d already been up half an hour. I grinned at him. ‘Love, if this were Christmas the turkey would already be in the oven, I’d have Slade blaring out, the Quality Street open, and by now I’d have pulled at least one cracker.’

I pushed my chair back and went across to make him a coffee too – a posh one, from the swish machine we’d treated ourselves to for Christmas. And speaking of Christmas, it was a fair observation. I was nuts about it, and would throw myself into it wholeheartedly, but for the rest of the year Mike was the early riser in the household, bringing the coffee up to me, not vice versa. ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ he said, stretching and yawning. ‘For a minute there I thought you’d be having me up in the loft looking for fairy lights.’

I passed him his coffee. ‘Just couldn’t sleep, that’s all,’ I told him. ‘You know what it’s like when you wake up and straight away your brain reminds you about all the things you need to do? So I thought I’d take a leaf out of Abby’s book and make a list.’

Mike frowned as he sipped his drink. ‘You’re not stressed, are you love?’ he asked, nodding towards the ceiling. ‘About Abby? I mean, compared to Spencer … in fact, compared to all the other kids we’ve had …’

‘No, not at all,’ I reassured him, shaking my head. ‘I’m just on a mission to find out what’s going on there. You know, the more I know about this the harder it is for me to understand how the two of them could have become so isolated. You’d have thought someone would have known what was happening at home, wouldn’t you? What about the GP? I mean, he or she must be prescribing drugs for her, mustn’t they? Or the neighbours? Or, come to that, Abby’s school. Surely they’d have noticed something? It almost beggars belief.’

Mike rolled his eyes. ‘Love, you’re asking me that? You’re asking yourself that? Look at Ashton and Olivia. There’s your answer, right there. Just remember the sort of things that went on in that household. Compared to that, let’s be honest, this is nothing.’

Mike was right, of course. The siblings he’d mentioned – both now thriving in new permanent foster-families, thankfully – had come to us looking like a pair of Dickensian urchins: underweight, covered in scabs, eye-poppingly filthy and feral, yet still living with their parents in the sort of conditions that would have the RSPCA throwing their hands up in horror, let alone the NSPCC. And that was before you took the sexual abuse into account … No, in comparison, this wasn’t a big social scandal. Just a woman who, for whatever reason – blind optimism, maybe? – had seemed to have turned ‘muddling through without troubling the outside world’ into something of an art form.

This was confirmed when I rang Abby’s school, after she’d left for it in the taxi, in the hopes that I’d be able to have a few words with her teacher. Knowing how school timetables tended to work was always a bonus, and I was spot on in being able to grab five minutes with the man, who was a youngish-sounding teacher called Mr Elliot.

‘I’m completely gobsmacked,’ he admitted, when I introduced myself to him. He had no idea that Abby had even been taken into care.

‘I mean, I knew her mum had had to go into hospital,’ he said. ‘But nothing about her going to stay with a foster family or anything. I just assumed she was with other family members. Is this long term?’

I told him I didn’t know. ‘So no one’s been in touch?’ I asked, confused myself now about how this fairly important information had failed to get to him. Not that it didn’t happen from time to time. It had only been a few days, after all, and perhaps Bridget hadn’t yet got around to it.

‘Not to my knowledge,’ he said. ‘Though that doesn’t mean they haven’t. The head teacher was away on a course all day yesterday, so it’s possible that the news just hasn’t trickled through yet … This is a big school, and I wasn’t in myself on Tuesday. These things happen, I suppose … Anyway, thanks for letting me know now.’

‘I’m sure social services will be in touch with you as well,’ I reassured him. ‘Oh, and just so you know, she’ll be coming by taxi each day for the time being, and picked up by taxi as well. I was just phoning myself so we could have a chat about Abby. Under the circumstances, she has a number of issues, as you can imagine …’

‘Circumstances? Forgive me, but as I say, I’m not up to speed.’

‘As a result of her mother’s MS,’ I began.

‘Really? She’s been diagnosed with MS? The poor woman.’

‘Yes, but not recently,’ I explained, once again shocked. He didn’t know this? ‘She’s been suffering with it for years,’ I went on. ‘Abby’s been her carer since she was little, apparently.’

Mr Elliot was even more stunned by this information and maintained he had absolutely no idea. So I spent a few minutes describing the situation, and filling him in on what had been going on at home – as described to me by John and Bridget – after which Mr Elliot seemed flabbergasted.

Not to mention embarrassed. ‘I don’t think anyone here knew anything about this,’ he confirmed. And I believed him. He didn’t sound like he was just covering his back. ‘And you know, Mrs Watson, it explains a great deal. The lateness, the tiredness, the days she’s come in missing kit or uniform …’

So they had noticed something. ‘So why didn’t the school get in touch with her mum?’ I asked him.

‘Oh, believe me, we have. I can think of at least half a dozen letters that have gone home – by post, this is. Not to mention countless phone calls as well. But you know, there’s always been a response from Abby’s mum. And with a plausible excuse as to why, as well. We just – well, I hesitate to say it to you now – but we just thought she was a slightly introverted, slightly difficult child. Only child, of course, and sometimes they can have their own challenges, can’t they? You know – with sharing and so on – connecting with their peers. Oh dear …’ he tailed off. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

I wasn’t about to engage in a debate about only children. I’d dealt with children from all sizes of family in my past career, and if I knew one thing it was that you couldn’t make blanket judgements about why children were the way they were. Some only children thrived, some kids from big families didn’t. But, to be fair to Mr Elliot, he was somewhat on the spot, and probably feeling awful about not picking up on all this before.

‘I know,’ I said, ‘but I can see how it happened. And you’ll have only had her in your class for a term and a bit, anyway, wouldn’t you?’ He agreed he had. ‘And from what I’ve seen so far, I think her mum’s been very keen to be self-supporting. It’s just that perhaps she was being unrealistic about just how sick she was. The collapse has at least brought things out into the open. Perhaps now she’ll get some proper help and support. Anyway,’ I finished, ‘I’m glad I’ve been able to put you in the picture. Let’s hope that between us we can help Abby through all this. School’s an important routine right now for her, of course, and she does have a need to keep to routines. Just one last thing –’

‘Of course,’ Mr Elliot answered.

‘Friends. Abby’s adamant she doesn’t actually have any. Is she really that isolated from her peers? Only she has her birthday coming up and I wanted to arrange something for her, but without some friends to invite I don’t know if it’s even feasible.’

I heard a sigh. ‘I’m afraid she’s telling you the truth,’ Mr Elliot said sadly. ‘I mean she mixes okay in class – well, up to a point – as best as can be expected. But, well, between you and me, she has something of a temper. Very easily irritated. She does tend to turn other kids off. I’ve not had a parents’ evening with her mother yet, to be honest. But it would definitely be something I’d be mentioning to her. It’s not that she’s bullied or anything. Just that, well, as I say, she doesn’t seem to want friends. She really is a loner, I’m afraid.’

And now I knew that Sarah always had answers to the school’s concerns, I could see how easy it had been for Abby to remain under the radar.

Schools were busy places, and this one was a large one. And there were likely to be all too many kids constantly above the radar and causing a whole lot more grief.

Kids like the ones I generally fostered myself.

I called John afterwards, both to update him on things generally and to fill him in on school and pass on the message that Abby’s teacher had been completely in the dark. And then I put the whole thing out of my mind and decided to get on with my day. After all, my role in all this was simply to take care of Abby for as long as was needed – not concern myself with whatever was going on with her mother. Of course I couldn’t know then just how dramatic the consequences of ‘concerning myself with Sarah’ would be.

But for now, it was just a small itch of curiosity, easily put out of sight and out of mind. I did my housework with my mind on my own family, mostly, happy that Riley would be over with the little ones the following day. I adored my grandsons as much as any self-respecting nanna, and time spent with them was always very precious.

It would also, I thought, be nice for Abby to meet them, and something of a distraction for a little girl who had way too much of the weight of the world on her shoulders and not a soul – from what Mr Elliot had said – to support her. That she was feeling it was growing ever more obvious as well. When Abby arrived home from school I’d intended to sit her down and see if we could make a little progress with that, at least in relation to school. Once John had fed my news through to Bridget, and she’d been in touch with them herself, perhaps they could start taking measures to keep a closer eye on her and help her through this difficult period.

I made some pancakes, which I could microwave for when she got in, and pondered this odd little girl. Because she’d come to us so suddenly we still hadn’t really had a chance to get to know all her likes and dislikes. As this obviously hadn’t happened, filling it in with Abby now might be the perfect way to get her to open up a little about herself and give me an opportunity to probe a little deeper into school and friendships.

But I was unprepared for how strung out she clearly was. She’d come in from school pale and drawn-looking, and with half her packed lunch uneaten. And though she accepted a hot chocolate, she refused anything else, adamant that she wasn’t hungry. I didn’t press it. I had a feeling it would just stress her more, and at a time when she had more than enough to contend with. And not just with her mother – though she was co-operative enough about answering my questions (even a little animated describing the things she most enjoyed on TV, however unusually adult her choices), as soon as I mentioned having spoken to her teacher her eyes immediately filled with tears.

‘It’s all right, sweetie. You’re not in any trouble,’ I reassured her. ‘I just needed to have a chat with Mr Elliot this morning, so he knows who I am and that you’re staying here, that’s all.’

‘But I couldn’t help it!’ she spluttered, as if she wasn’t even taking in what I was saying, the tears now spilling onto her cheeks. ‘I couldn’t!’

I felt mortified. The last thing I wanted was to upset her. But upset her I clearly had. She was looking really distressed. ‘Couldn’t help what?’ I asked her gently, getting up from the kitchen table and returning with some tissues. ‘Sweetheart, you’re not in trouble, I promise,’ I said. ‘What is it? What couldn’t you help?’

‘About the rota for the beans! And I said I was sorry!’

I had no idea what she was talking about, and gently said so. Upon which she explained, juddering, through both tissue and tears now, that she’d been supposed to be the one watering some bean seeds her group had been growing for an experiment, and how she’d come into school late and forgotten and she’d already been told off, but how someone’s bean had died now and they were all saying it was her fault and someone had been really nasty and called her names and how everybody hated her. And so on. This had been on Monday – so before everything had happened with her mum – but the girl, who was apparently called Hayley (I made a mental note: not one for the party list, then), had got everyone to gang up on her and how it was just horrible.

‘But I couldn’t help it!’ she said again, distress morphing into indignation. ‘I have to go to the post office on Monday!’ she sobbed. ‘To get mummy’s money. And they don’t open till nearly school time and if there’s a queue I have to wait!’

‘You do this every week?’ I asked her.

She looked surprised at the question. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Monday is money day. If I didn’t, we wouldn’t have anything to eat, would we?’

Which was a valid enough point. And there was no point in my asking if the teachers knew about this, because I already knew the answer to that one.

‘And I just get so tired,’ she said, her shoulders slumping. She began turning the half-empty chocolate mug around in her hands. Round and round it went, in slow, precise circles. ‘That’s why I forget things,’ she explained. ‘I didn’t mean to forget. I just get so tired when I’m in school.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ I said. ‘What with all the things you do for Mummy. I’d be tired too. And forgetful. But that’s one of the reasons I needed to speak to Mr Elliot,’ I added slowly, keeping an eye on her expression, in case something I said unleashed another flood. ‘Because if they know, they can help you better, and make sure the other children –’

‘How can they help me?’ she wanted to know. ‘I shouldn’t be made to go to school, even. Least, not that much. I have too many more important things to do at home. And what if Mummy falls over? She falls over and she can’t get back up again. What if that happens when I’m at school? An’ she can’t get to the toilet, or anything?’

There was something about the way she said this that made me prick up my ears. ‘Has that happened, Abby?’

I could see her chin dimpling and her eyes filling up again. She didn’t answer. Which I took to mean yes. On both counts. What an image. How on earth did she deal with something like that? She was so slight, for one thing, so, physically, it would be a struggle. And what about psychologically? And there being no one to tell. No one to share it with. How could any mother consider that an acceptable state of affairs? I got out of my seat and squatted down beside Abby’s. Unlike many of the kids I dealt with, she didn’t seem to have any attachment issues, at least; as before, she seemed happy enough to let me pull her into my arms. I could feel her sobs against my chest. ‘I just want Mummy back,’ she mumbled brokenly into my sweatshirt. ‘I just want my mummy back. I want to go home. Please. When can I go HOME?’

‘I know, my love.’ I said, rubbing her back and hugging her. ‘I know.’

I just didn’t know when I could give her an answer.