Читать книгу Mummy’s Little Helper: The heartrending true story of a young girl secretly caring for her severely disabled mother - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 9

John called at nine, as he’d promised he would the night before, for an update on how things had gone. But it was John, not me, who had the most to say in terms of updating, having just returned to his office from a further trip to Abby’s home.

In the next few days, assuming Abby’s mum remained in hospital, she’d be allocated to a health-care team, who’d take charge of things at home for her, but as a stop-gap it had fallen to Bridget. So John had gone and met her there first thing. Abby’s mum, who was apparently called Sarah, had been anxious about the place being empty, and had requested that she go back to check things, make sure the heating had been set to low, and that the windows were all locked, as well as to collect a list of further items for Abby – school books and footwear and her winter coat and so on – none of which, in the rush, she’d had time to take with her, and about which both mother and daughter had been fretting.

‘So it made sense for me to take them,’ John explained. ‘Since I’d be the next one stopping by at yours. So I’ll bring them up when I come to you next week. And I am so glad I did go, I can tell you, because it’s given me a really useful insight. Just incredible. You’d have to see it to believe it, trust me. It’s told us volumes in terms of how these two have been living. It’s no wonder they were under the radar. Honestly, Casey, if an alien came to earth on a reconnaissance mission, they’d have everything they needed in that one house alone. There is an instruction for absolutely everything. Anyway, first up, how has Abby been overnight? Okay?’

I told him about the hair pulling, and that it was something I’d keep an eye on, but reassured him that, all things considered, she’d been fine. She’d been fast asleep the couple of times I’d gone in and checked on her, and had woken looking marginally less traumatised at least. Though not for long – not once she’d remembered about school.

A taxi had been organised the day before, to take her, and had arrived promptly at eight, its exhaust billowing white in the cold air. It had struck me as a little odd that she’d be going to school at all, but, as Bridget had pointed out, it was important that Abby had at least some normality to cling on to. Besides, it was a special day – it was Abby’s class assembly, which was as good a reason as any not to miss it.

But, despite apparently accepting this at the hospital the day before, she’d been upset by its arrival, when the reality of actually going to school sunk in. Not because she was anxious about being there, particularly, but because she was so anxious about her mother’s welfare. ‘But what about Mummy’s breakfast?’ she’d asked me, her chin wobbling, as I’d tried to coax her into eating some of her own. I’d gently reminded her that the nurses would have seen to it she had breakfast. ‘But what if they don’t?’ she persisted. ‘Or what if they don’t know what she likes?’

I’d sat down and explained about the little menu cards for meals they had in hospitals and how patients could tick boxes to say what they wanted, be it porridge, Weetabix or toast and marmalade and so on. But this just threw up another whole set of problems. ‘But she won’t be able to read it. Will they realise that?’ she asked plaintively. ‘Will they just think she can and then get cross when she hasn’t ticked things?’

I told her no, they certainly wouldn’t get cross about anything. And that they knew about her mum’s MS and how reading was a bit difficult, and reassured her that someone would go through the list with her. Which, along with my promise to ring the hospital while she was at school, seemed to settle her enough for her to sit at the kitchen table, at least.

‘But then there were the bins,’ I explained to John now.

‘The bins?’ he asked. ‘What bins?’

‘The bins at her house. Wednesday is dustbin day where they live, apparently. And she was really worried about who would take the bins out for them.’

‘Ah,’ John said. ‘Well, you can certainly reassure her on that point. We’ve seen the next-door neighbours – the ones on the right, anyway. The house the other side is currently empty – and they’ve given us a number, in case we need to get in touch with them. I’m hoping that when we next have contact with Sarah we’ll be able to persuade her to give them a key as well. I’ll ring them if you like; ask them to deal with the bins. That way you can at least put the poor girl’s mind at rest.’

‘That would be good, John. Because you know what she did, before she left for school?’

‘Tell me.’

‘She was just about to get into the taxi when she turned around and ran back – I actually thought she’d decided she wasn’t going at this point, of course – but, no. She grabbed our wheelie bin and dragged it to the pavement.’

‘Your wheelie bin? Why would she put out your wheelie bin?’

‘I know. And I’d already told her it wasn’t our bin day. But then I realised she probably just had to do it, didn’t she? She just couldn’t bear to get in that taxi without doing it. Would probably have fretted about it all day.’

‘Bless her,’ said John. ‘That’s exactly the kind of thing we thought might be a problem. And it’s no surprise, frankly, given what Bridget and I have seen this morning. Really brings it home to you how things have been for the poor girl.’

John went on to describe what he’d found at the family home, which was as much of an eye-opener as he’d promised. The whole house, he explained, had been totally modified for a young child to do absolutely everything. There were sticky notes everywhere – some recent, some old and yellowing – on which were hand-written instructions for doing just about everything you could think of. How to operate the washing machine, how to set the timer and the thermostats for the heating and hot water, how to operate the cooker, the microwave and the grill. There were notes on what temperature setting to use for the fridge – summer and winter – and an inventory of the contents of all the drawers and the cupboards, including crockery and cutlery, pots, pans and bakeware, glasses and mugs, housewares and food. The kitchen also contained evidence of just how much routine there was here. There was a big wall chart, detailing what meals would be eaten and when, and a ring binder, chock full of simple recipes, many of which had been painstakingly written out in a child’s handwriting, while others had been torn from magazines.

Abigail also had her own little dedicated cleaning cupboard, where on the inside of the door was written a long list of chores and when to do them: polish wooden furniture and banisters Mondays, bleach in toilet daily, white wash on Thursday, and so on. The house was also liberally strewn with small coloured plastic steps, some of the type you’d use when toilet training a toddler, others larger – including one four-foot stepladder, even – to provide access to high-mounted cupboards.

‘Everything you could think of,’ John finished. ‘Simply everything. Right down to a light-bulb inventory and book of money-off coupons – all in sections – one for each supermarket nearby. If it needs organising, basically, it’s been organised into the ground. Never seen anything quite like it in my life. I suspect there’s not been a minute of a single day that doesn’t – well, didn’t – come with its own list of jobs. Boot camp. That’s the word. It’s just like boot camp. Quite remarkable.’

‘What was the mother thinking?’ I wondered, trying to put myself in her shoes. ‘Why on earth didn’t she get them some help?’

‘Exactly,’ John said. ‘That’s what Bridget and I were both stumped by. I mean, it’s hardly as if help for these sorts of things isn’t publicised, is it? Couple of clicks of a mouse would have her straight to the MS website, wouldn’t it?’

‘So did Bridget talk to her about that?’

‘A little, she says, though none of it was particularly enlightening. She just said they always managed by themselves, pretty much. Which I can sort of see, I suppose. If you’re fairly isolated, anyway. Because it’s obviously happened gradually – as has the progression of the disease, of course. So I suppose I can see how it’s just become their version of “normal”. And Abby will never have known any different, will she? Though, that said, she must surely have seen the way other families work, mustn’t she? When she’s gone to friends’ houses for tea and so on – something must have clicked.’

‘I’m not sure she’s done a great deal of that sort of thing,’ I told him. ‘According to her, she has no friends. Hasn’t got the time for them.’

‘Well, that does ring true,’ he said, ‘given what we’ve seen this morning. Anyway, we might find out a little more about all that later on today. Bridget wasn’t first on the scene, of course – it was the on-duty social worker … So she’s going to chase that up when whoever it was is back in the office later. See if she can find out any more about what’s been discussed. But it’s certainly odd, isn’t it? To cut yourself off from help in that way. Though right now the most pressing thing is to try to find some family. It seems incredible that there’s absolutely no one who could help.’

‘I’ll obviously see what I can find out from Abby, too,’ I said. ‘Maybe she can throw a bit more light on things.’

‘That would be helpful. Anyway, the main thing right now is for you to make sure she’s okay. From what I’ve seen this morning, it’s no wonder she has anxiety-related issues. Her whole life seems to have been one long to-do list, so some emotional fall-out’s going to be expected, isn’t it? She’s going to find the loss of control hard to adjust to, I’m sure.’

John was right, of course. Abby was dropped home from school and the very first thing she did when I opened the front door to her was to go ‘brrr’, and ask me where the central heating controls were. Mindful of my discussion with John earlier I simply took her upstairs and showed her, as she had such a pinched, anxious look on her face, that it was clear this was something that had been on her mind for a while.

‘Can I have a look?’ she asked me, once we were upstairs and peering into the airing cupboard. The controls were set high on the wall, and it was difficult for her to see them. She was a tiny little thing for her age – a good six inches shorter than Spencer, who’d just left us, even though she was a good year older than him.

‘Of course,’ I said, spreading my arms. ‘Shall I pick you up so you can see?’

She seemed to consider for a moment. As I’m sure I would have done, in her shoes. But her need to know soon seemed to triumph over her shyness. She raised her own arms so I could get my hands under her armpits and lift her up.

As soon as the control panel was at eye level I heard – and felt – her sigh. ‘You’ve got this set too late,’ she said, tapping the panel with a finger.

‘Have I?’ I asked her, as I let her back down to the floor. Despite the gravity of the situation, this was such a surreal moment that I struggled to keep the smile off my face.

Her own expression was deadly serious. ‘It’s winter,’ she pointed out. ‘So what I expect you’ve probably done is forget about the clocks having gone back, when you moved in. Did you check it? Because I think it’s set to come on an hour too late.’

I couldn’t help but be impressed by her logic. That and the fact that she’d remembered that we’d not long moved in. ‘Are you cold?’ I asked her, because despite that I wasn’t really sure why it was bothering her anyway. I certainly wasn’t cold. I rarely was. I went at my domestic chores with far too much energy to feel chilly.

Abby shook her head. ‘No, no, not me,’ she explained. ‘I’m at school all day, aren’t I? It’s you. This really needs to come on at around three o’clock.’

There wasn’t much to say to that really, other than that I wasn’t cold, and only tended to put the heating on before teatime if I had my little grandsons round and it was a particularly cold day. Which I did, but as soon as I’d done so, and explained that it was obviously different for her mum – she would feel the cold, of course – she seemed even more agitated than she’d been in the first place.

So when we came back downstairs – after she’d changed out of her uniform, and also changed her dolly – I decided I would just go with the flow. Which I’d clearly need to. As soon as I wondered out loud what we could have for tea, she was once again looking stressed and asking questions.

‘Don’t you know what you’re cooking tonight?’ she asked me. ‘Don’t you have a chart?’

‘No, sweetheart,’ I explained, remembering what John had told me earlier. ‘Not really. I mean, I do have a rough plan – some things to choose from. But I generally see what I’ve got in the fridge and cupboards, then just cook what we most fancy having.’

I was reminded then of Justin, our first foster child. Compared to Abby, his background couldn’t have been more different. A veteran – aged only eleven – of twenty failed placements (foster homes and children’s homes), he’d come to us in such a state of emotional distress and anger that there had been times when Mike and I had despaired of ever being able to even reach him, let alone do anything to help him.

Abby was so different, on so many levels, yet it seemed we had exactly the same issue in the kitchen; that, like Justin, she needed a very clear set of rules – to know, as he had, exactly what we were eating on which day, and when. So, in terms of strategy, perhaps they weren’t going to be so different after all. At least, not in this respect. I smiled at her.

‘But now you’re here,’ I said to her, ‘I’m happy to do things your way – it will be such a treat not to have to think what to cook, I can tell you. So. What would you like for tea?’

This seemed to be exactly the right thing to say because she immediately looked happier, putting a finger to her lips, and tapping them as she consulted the chart she obviously had in her head.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s Wednesday, which is normally scrambled eggs and beans on toast day. If … um … that’s all right with you,’ she added politely.

‘Of course it is,’ I told her. ‘I’ve got plenty of both.’ I was just about to add that she could help me make it if she liked when she rolled up the sleeves of the hoodie she’d changed into. ‘Right,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ll get started, then.’

Of course, one of the things I was aware was in our brief was to gently re-train her to accept that she was a child and, as such, needed to reclaim a childhood. Which obviously meant accepting the normal child–adult roles, which, on the evidence of her first twenty-four hours in our company, was going to be something of a challenge.

But it was early days, so I decided I would let her have a degree of autonomy. For today at least. I told her we would prepare everything and cook it together, ready for when Mike got home from work.

‘And you should have seen her,’ I told Mike, after we’d finished our tea and I had the chance of a quiet few minutes upstairs with him, while Abby sat and wrote in her new scrapbook. ‘There was nothing she couldn’t do. She knew how to crack the eggs, whisk them, open the bean tins, and use the correct bowl for them, work out the microwave – absolutely everything.’

Mike grinned. ‘And it tasted good too! Sounds like we’ve lucked out with this one,’ he joked. ‘A dream, by the sounds of it, certainly compared with young Spencer! More like a housekeeper than a foster child, given half a chance!’

It obviously was a joke, and she certainly wouldn’t be given that half a chance, but even so, I was struggling to see where the challenge in this challenging child lay. Yes, she would have all sorts to deal with in the coming weeks, but compared with the sort of kids we usually looked after, this just didn’t seem to be even on the same scale.

But as later that evening we sat and watched her pulling strands of hair out again, a part of me – the rational part – knew better. She was also, we noticed, clock watching – or watch-watching, more accurately. Checking the little pink watch on her wrist again and again and again; looking at it, tapping the face, then pulling her sleeve back over it, then looking and tapping and covering it again. What she was watching for, what precise timing was being monitored, we didn’t know: when I asked why – if there was something she needed to remember to do – she coloured. Yet she continued to do it, right until the time she went to bed.

No. I knew better. However benign, compared with other kids’, her problems seemed to me, she was with us for a reason, as John had pointed out.

And we’d find out the extent of it soon enough.