Читать книгу The Saddest Girl in the World - Cathy Glass, Cathy Glass - Страница 11

‘Whatever are you doing?’ I asked, amazed. Donna was in her nightdress, and the floor was awash with puddles of water and the sopping wet rags, which were dotted around her.

She didn't answer, but continued rubbing one of the rags back and forth across the floor.

‘Donna?’ I said again. I began walking across the wet and now slippery tiled floor, with my bare feet squishing on the tiles. ‘Donna?’ I went right up to her. She must have heard me, and seen me out of the corner of her eye, but she kept on scrubbing furiously. Both of her hands clutched the rag in front of her and she rubbed it backwards and forwards as though her very life depended on it. In different circumstances I might have seen the funny side of it — a child frantically mopping up a spillage before I could see it, with their well-meant intentions making it a lot worse. But not now. This was no spillage — there was too much water and Donna's work was all-consuming and frantic.

‘Donna?’ I said again, more firmly; then I placed my hand on her shoulder, hoping to break the motion. My hand jerked back and forth in time with her frenzied cleaning. ‘Donna, stop now,’ I said loudly. ‘You don't have to do this.’

‘I do,’ she said, and she continued, now pushing the cloth round and round. The water sprayed against my ankles. I thought she must have tipped the washing-up bowl full of water over the floor, for there was far too much water for it to have come from the wet rags alone. She must have left her bedroom and come downstairs very quietly, for normally I heard a child out of bed and on the landing.

‘Donna, I want you to stop. Now!’ I said, and again I touched her shoulder.

‘No! I must clean,’ she said, her voice rising in panic. ‘I must! I must! I have to clean the kitchen floor.’

‘No,’ I said, raising my voice above hers. ‘You don't have to. Stop it, now! And you are not supposed to be in the kitchen. It isn't allowed.’ Which was true: it was a house rule that I didn't have young children in the kitchen, for safety reasons, but I hadn't yet explained the house rules to Donna.

Gradually the frantic scrubbing grew less frenzied, and then came to a halt. Her hands on the rag became still, but she remained on all fours, bent over the rags. ‘Don't hit me,’ she said. ‘I've done my best.’

I stared at her, horrified. ‘Of course I'm not going to hit you. I don't hit anyone, and certainly not a child.’ I continued to look at her, as I tried to understand what was happening. Keeping my voice even, I said, ‘Donna, I want you to stand up, and dry yourself. We need to talk.’ My firmness masked my anxiety, as I continued to search for a reason that could have brought Donna down here in the early hours to do this.

I took the hand towel from the rail by the sink and held it out. ‘Now please, Donna, stand up and dry your hands and legs. You're soaking.’ The front of her nightdress was sopping wet where it had trailed in the water; it dripped as she stood. I passed her the towel and she slowly wiped her hands, then bent down and wiped her knees. I watched her: the frenzied movements of her scrubbing had vanished and she had once more resumed her slow lethargic manner. She finished wiping off the excess water from her legs and handed back the towel. Although her legs and hands were dry, her nightdress was still dripping. ‘I think we had better get you changed first before we talk,’ I said.

She shrugged.

I reached out and took her hand, and she allowed me to lead her from the wet and slippery floor of the kitchen, across the carpet of the annexe and into the hall. I let go of her hand as I led the way upstairs. Adrian and Paula were still asleep — it was just before 7.30 a.m. I went into Donna's bedroom, took a set of clean clothes and underwear from her wardrobe and laid them on the bed. ‘Get dressed, please,’ I said. ‘I'll be back in a minute. Leave your nightdress in the laundry basket on the landing.’

Donna didn't say anything but made a move towards the clothes. I came out, pulling the door to behind me. I went to my bedroom, where I quickly dressed and ran a brush through my hair. My morning routine having been disrupted, I would have to shower later, after I had spoken to Donna. What had been going through her head to make her rise at the crack of dawn and creep downstairs with her bag of rags and start the ritualised cleaning, I couldn't begin to guess. It hadn't been proper cleaning, as if she had wanted to make a difference; nor had it been a small task, as Adrian and Paula sometimes performed, which I would have to admire with great delight — ‘Look, Mum! We've tidied the toy box!’ No, Donna's work had been a frenzied attack, almost as if she was acting out something, which hadn't been aimed so much at accomplishing a task as releasing something in her. Edna's almost throwaway comment came back to me — ‘Mary thinks she might have OCD.’ I knew very little about OCD, other than that it was an obsessive need to do something over and over again; was this how it manifested itself ?

I went round the landing and knocked lightly on Donna's door. ‘Are you dressed?’ I asked quietly, not wanting to wake Adrian and Paula.

Donna's small voice came back. ‘Yes, Cath-ie.’

I went in. She was sitting on the bed, hunched forward, arms folded into her waist and head down. The colourful beads from her bracelet were now strewn across the floor.

‘Oh dear, have you broken your bracelet?’ I asked, wondering if this had anything to do with what had just happened in the kitchen.

She shook her head, and in that movement I saw a small guilt. I was almost certain that the two incidents were somehow connected, and that she had possibly broken the bracelet on purpose.

‘Donna,’ I said, sitting next to her on the bed, ‘can you please try to tell me what's going through your mind?’ It was at times like this that I really wished I was a psychiatrist, with a better understanding of what made children tick, rather than a mother and carer who had to rely on intuition, some training, and experience from looking after children.

Donna shrugged again.

‘When we were in the kitchen, why did you think I was going to hit you?’ I asked gently, taking her hand in mine. She didn't resist, and I stroked the back of her hand and waited.

She shrugged again.

‘Come on, love. I want so much to understand and help you. But I can't unless you try to tell me. Why were you cleaning? You didn't accidentally spill something, did you?’

She shook her head.

‘So why did you think I was going to hit you? That worries me.’

Her mouth opened and closed before she spoke; then eventually she said quietly, ‘My mum did. If I didn't clean well.’

‘Your mum hit you for not cleaning properly?’ I asked.

She nodded.

Good grief! I thought, but I kept my voice steady as I asked, ‘How often did that happen, Donna?’

She shrugged again, then after a moment said, ‘Lots. It was my job to clean the house for when Edna came. Mum said if I didn't keep the house clean Edna would take us away.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘Thank you for telling me.’ The logic of trying to clean the house before the social worker made her visit had a dismal ring of truth about it. Edna had said she thought Donna had felt responsible for them being taken into care, and Donna had admitted to me the night before that she blamed herself, but I doubted Edna knew the extent of Donna's sense of responsibility, or that her mother had made her clean, and had hit her for not doing the job properly. I would have to remember as much as possible of what Donna was telling me so that I could write it in my log notes, then tell Edna when I spoke to her. ‘Donna, when you say your mother hit you “lots”, what do you mean? Every month? Every week?’

‘Every day,’ she said in a small voice. ‘With a coat hanger.’

‘A coat hanger?’ I asked, horrified.

‘A wire one. She unbended it so it was long. It hurt.’

I inwardly cringed and gently rubbed the back of her hand. ‘I'm sure it did hurt, sweet. That was very, very wrong of your mother. No adult should ever hit a child. A mother shouldn't, and I certainly won't.’ Obvious, but not necessarily to Donna, who — from what she was telling me — had been beaten on a daily basis.

‘The boys used a skipping rope,’ she added matter-of-factly.

I stopped rubbing her hand. ‘Your brothers hit you too?’

She nodded. ‘With the skipping rope. It had a wooden end on it.’

I stared at her, aghast. ‘Why did they hit you?’

‘When I didn't do the cleaning as good as I should. Mum said they could. And they liked it.’ I felt such a surge of anger towards Warren and Jason at that moment that had they been in the room I would have given them a good telling-off, although in reality they were probably as much victims as Donna was, having learned their behaviour in a household that appeared to survive on perverted discipline.

‘Donna, love,’ I said, ‘that was so very wrong of them. People don't hit each other, and certainly not members of the same family. Brothers and sisters, mums and dads should take care of each other, not bully them and cause them pain. I will never hit you,’ I said, reinforcing what I had said before. ‘Neither will Adrian or Paula.’ The notion of which seemed slightly ludicrous, given that Adrian and Paula were much smaller than Donna, but then Warren and Jason were only six and seven.

Donna gave a faint nod, and I continued to look at her downcast profile. ‘What about Chelsea and your dad? Did they hit you?’

‘Chelsea did, but not Dad. I looked after him when he wasn't well. I tried to get him to take his tablets, so that he would be well. He was kind to me.’

Well, at least that was something, I thought. Donna had one ally in a house of abusers, as long as she reminded her schizophrenic father to take his medication. What a horrendous way to live! ‘Did your mother hit your brothers and Chelsea?’ I asked. All the information I gathered would help Edna, and ultimately the judge to decide the long-term care plans for the boys and Donna.

‘Sometimes Mum hit my brothers,’ Donna said softly. ‘But not often. Only when the boys were really getting on her nerves. Sometimes Chelsea and Mum had an argument and they hit each other.’

‘The boys didn't get hit for not doing things like cleaning?’ I asked.

Donna shook her head. ‘Mum only hit them when she had been drinking and they got on her nerves. She loves them.’

‘I'm sure your mum loves you too, sweet,’ I said, finding not for the first time since I'd been fostering that I had to separate parental love and the way the parent behaved, and also wanting to offer Donna something positive. ‘Mum has got a lot of problems and I don't suppose the drink helped.’

‘She always hit me more after drinking,’ Donna confirmed.

I nodded, and looked from Donna to the floor and all the little coloured beads from the bracelet, which were spread around her feet and into the far corners of the carpet. ‘Why did you break your bracelet?’ I asked gently. ‘I thought you liked it very much?’

She shrugged. I noticed a small muscle twitch nervously at the corner of her eye. ‘They wouldn't let me clean.’

I hesitated, trying desperately to piece together the few words she was offering and make sense of her actions. ‘You broke the bracelet because you remembered you weren't allowed to clean? What, at Mary and Ray's house?’

She nodded.

‘Did that make you angry?’

She nodded again.

‘What? Angry with Mary and Ray?’

Another nod.

‘You must have been up very early this morning. You were asleep when I looked in last night, and the bracelet wasn't broken then.’

‘I have to get up early to clean the house.’

‘Not here you don't,’ I said firmly. ‘I see to the cleaning here. You don't have to do it.’ I then realised I was taking the same route that Mary and Ray had probably taken in not letting her help at all. ‘Donna, you don't have to worry about the cleaning here, but you can help me. I am the adult, and housework is my responsibility, but I can certainly find you some jobs to do.’ I didn't know if I was handling this right, or simply repeating what Mary and Ray had said and thereby going down the same path and getting it wrong. ‘Is that what Mary said?’ I asked.

Donna nodded. ‘Well, she was right, in that respect. You don't have to clean now, and you certainly won't get hit for not doing it.’

‘I do,’ she suddenly blurted. ‘I do have to clean. I do!’ And again I thought of Edna's mention of OCD, for it seemed Donna was admitting to some form of obsession, though whether it was OCD or not I hadn't a clue.

‘OK, Donna,’ I said slowly. ‘If I understand you, you feel you need to clean, probably because of all the cleaning you had to do at home. I think this morning you needed to let something inside you come out. Some anger? And I think you broke the bracelet because you remembered that Mary wouldn't let you help, and you took your anger out on the bracelet. Is that right?’

Donna nodded, and then, unbelievably, she smiled, her whole face lighting up. ‘Can I help you clean here, Cathy?’ she asked.

‘Yes, of course you can. But I will find you some jobs to do. I don't want you getting up early and flooding the kitchen again.’ I smiled, and she actually managed a small laugh. I gave myself a mental pat on the back. I might not have been a psychiatrist, but I had managed to get it right this time.

‘And I can help you look after Adrian and Paula?’ she asked, still smiling.

‘Yes, of course you can, Donna. But remember you don't have to, and it wasn't your fault you and your brothers came into care.’

She leant towards me and planted a little kiss on my cheek. ‘Thank you for letting me help, Cathy. You're nice.’

I smiled again, and drawing her to me gave her a big hug. ‘So are you, love.’

What I didn't know was that my simplistic solution of agreeing to let Donna help had unleashed something which would quickly gather momentum and have far-reaching effects. It would be outside anything I had experience of, or knew how to deal with.