Читать книгу Can I Let You Go? - Cathy Glass, Cathy Glass - Страница 10

Although Faye had seen photographs of my house, I still showed her around when we first arrived. As we entered each room she said politely, ‘This is a nice room. Thank you for showing me.’ This was all rather formal, so I told her to treat the place like home as she would her flat. I introduced her to Sammy who, realizing there was someone new in the house, had shot in through the cat flap to see what was going on. He was usually standoffish when it came to meeting new people and would turn his back and walk away or flee outside, but not with Faye. He came straight up to her, rubbed around her legs, let her stroke him and then rolled over onto his back so she could rub his tummy.

‘I think he likes me,’ Faye said, pleased, and she knelt to pet him.

‘He certainly does,’ I said. ‘But remember to wash your hands when you’ve finished stroking him.’ It was basic hygiene, but even more important for an expectant mother, as disease could cross the placenta and affect the baby.

When Sammy had had his fill of being petted he went outside again. Faye washed her hands at the kitchen sink and then, examining her watch, said that her gran and grandpa had a cup of tea and a biscuit at home around this time – 3.30 p.m.

‘Would you like tea and biscuits now?’ I asked, assuming this was part of her routine.

‘Yes, please.’

I smiled. ‘You must tell me what you have at home so you can have it here. I want you to feel at home.’

‘Gran says I mustn’t be any trouble.’

‘You certainly won’t be that,’ I said. I filled the kettle. ‘But it will help me if you tell me what you want, OK?’ Faye was so self-effacing that it concerned me she might not like to say.

She gave a small nod and stayed with me in the kitchen, watching me as I took down the mugs.

‘I can make tea,’ she said after a moment. ‘I make it for Gran and Grandpa.’

‘That’s good. You can make it here too if you like. But it’s nice to have it made for you sometimes, isn’t it?’

She nodded accommodatingly. ‘Gran and Grandpa can’t walk very far so I help them,’ she said. ‘It was scary when Grandpa had his stroke. We had to call an ambulance. He’s slowly getting better. But he says he won’t ever be perfect.’

‘He’s doing very well,’ I said. ‘Strokes can take a long time to recover from. It’s good you can help him.’

‘That’s what he says. I love my grandpa. I hope he doesn’t die.’

‘He’s getting better,’ I reassured her. But I thought it must be a worry for Wilma and Stan, and for any parents with a disabled child, as to who would look after Faye when they did eventually die. I supposed she’d have to go into supported lodgings, as there were no close relatives she could live with.

Once the tea was made we took it into the living room where Lucy and Paula were waiting. I liked them to be sociable when a new child or young person arrived. They hadn’t wanted tea but had poured themselves a glass of water each. To start the conversation I said that Faye usually had tea and biscuits around this time at home, and we talked a bit about different families having different routines. Faye talked unselfconsciously, although it was more like an elderly person talking – measured and slow – than a young person in their twenties. How much of this was because of her learning disabilities or from spending so much time with her grandparents I didn’t know. But I guessed from what she said that she hadn’t spent much time in other people’s homes. It appeared that as a child (attending a special school) she hadn’t gone to friends’ homes to play, nor had she had them home. Now, she only saw her friend Emma at the day centre. She said she went into her neighbour’s flat with her grandparents for a cup of tea sometimes, although they were nearer her grandparents’ age than hers. But Faye seemed content and accepting of people and situations, which is an admirable quality in anyone.

Once we’d finished our tea I suggested to Faye that we unpack her suitcase. She came with me upstairs while Lucy and Paula went off to do their own thing. Snuggles, who’d been her constant companion, being either held or tucked under her arm, came with us and Faye sat him on the bed. She unzipped her suitcase and on top was the maternity folder, which she passed to me. Together we unpacked her case, folding and hanging the garments into the drawers and wardrobe. As her gran had said, there wasn’t an awful lot: two pairs of elasticated-waist trousers in dark green and brown, the same style her gran wore and Faye had on now; two large wash-worn jerseys in grey and beige, which I guessed had also been Wilma’s; a dressing gown and duffel coat, which were Faye’s but she couldn’t possibly do up over her baby bump; a pair of furry slippers; a pair of pyjamas; a vest, bra and pants; a towel and a brand-new wash bag.

‘I got that new for coming here,’ Faye announced proudly as she took the wash bag from the case.

‘It’s very pretty,’ I said. With a satin finish and a colourful flowery pattern, it was a welcome contrast to the drabness of her clothes.

‘I didn’t have a wash bag,’ Faye said. ‘So Grandpa asked our neighbour to buy one for me when she went shopping. He gave her the money. That’s was kind of him, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, it was. It’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘Lucky girl.’

She beamed and her whole face lit up.

Once the case was empty I stowed it on top of her wardrobe so it was out of the way. Then she took her towel and wash bag to the bathroom and I showed her where to put them: her towel on the rail next to ours and her wash bag on the shelf, ready for later. We returned to her room and unpacked her shoulder bag. It just contained her mobile phone, some well-thumbed women’s magazines, which Faye said were her gran’s, her hairbrush, some sweets and a small framed photograph of her grandparents which we placed on top of the chest of drawers. This photograph was the only object she’d brought with her that could personalize her room and I suggested that when we went shopping the following day she could choose some posters to put on the walls to make the room look more comfortable. I’d noticed she had some pictures of the Flower Fairies on her bedroom walls at home. Faye liked the idea and, giving me a hug, thanked me. It seemed a big treat for her.

I now suggested we went downstairs and looked through her maternity folder together. I needed to know how Faye was doing with her antenatal care and when her next appointments were, and it would be a reminder for her. I hoped it might also be a starting point for discussion about her baby. So far she hadn’t mentioned it and continued to behave as though it wasn’t there. She was happy to let me take the folder and we went downstairs where we settled side by side on the sofa with the folder open on my lap. The first few pages contained standard introductory information on the purpose and use of the folder, with emphasis on it needing to be kept with the patient and taken to all antenatal appointments. This was followed by the patient’s details: Faye’s name, address and telephone number (I’d give them mine too at the next appointment), date of birth, age, her doctor’s details and the date the baby was expected – 14 December. I’d thought it must be close to Christmas, but seeing it in print gave me a jolt. Faye would be giving birth and then parting with her baby only two weeks before Christmas, possibly closer if she overran her delivery date. The only consolation was that at least she would be home with her grandparents for Christmas.

I continued to the next page, explaining as I went. The results of Faye’s two ultrasound scans were included and they were normal. At the time of the second scan the sex of the baby can be ascertained with a reasonable degree of accuracy, and the parent(s) has the right to know if they wish. A note had been made by the nurse that Faye didn’t want to know the sex of her baby, which was obviously her decision and perhaps understandable, as she wouldn’t be playing any part in its life. While I’d been talking through the notes I’d noticed that Faye had been looking around the room, largely indifferent to the information, much of which was interesting and illustrated with diagrams. I’d been expecting her to ask questions or make comments as she had been doing about other things, for she didn’t appear shy any more.

‘So you’ve had two scans and everything is fine,’ I said, trying to engage her.

She shrugged, and I wondered if she hadn’t understood what a scan was or didn’t remember having the scans. ‘You know when you went to the hospital and the nurse put cold gel on your tummy, and there was a picture on the screen? It says here Gran was with you.’

Faye gave a half-hearted nod and continued to gaze around the room. I returned to the folder. I read that Faye was going to give birth in the hospital rather than the birthing centre, but there was no mention of a birthing partner.

‘Is Gran going to be your birthing partner?’ I asked, for clearly she needed someone there.

Faye shrugged again, so I wondered if she hadn’t understood. ‘A birthing partner is someone close to you, who stays with you while you are in labour. They help and support you. Will Gran be with you when you have your baby?’ I tried again, rephrasing it.

For the first time since I’d met Faye her face set. Losing her open, happy disposition, she now looked grumpy. ‘Don’t say that word,’ she said, frowning.

‘What? Baby?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘Yes. We don’t talk about that.’

I looked at her carefully. ‘Faye, love, we are going to have to talk about it. You are having a baby and I need to help you prepare for that.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said again. ‘Gran knows that. You have to be like Gran.’

This completely threw me. How was I going to help prepare her for what was to come, which was part of my role, if she refused to talk about it? If she wasn’t prepared, labour was going to be a very frightening experience for her.

‘You can read it,’ she said. ‘But don’t talk to me about it. That’s what Gran does.’

‘OK.’ I’d wait until she’d been with me longer and I’d had a chance to speak to her social worker, Becky, on Monday. I didn’t want to upset Faye, but on the other hand she needed to know how her pregnancy was progressing and how the baby would be born. Perhaps she already knew about childbirth, but it was possible she didn’t. If not, I had some literature that I used with children that would help explain the process.

I continued going through the folder, looking for the appointment schedule, without making any further comment while Faye gazed around the room. I found a note saying that Faye wouldn’t be attending the standard antenatal classes, nor the workshop on breastfeeding, as it wasn’t considered appropriate, but she would join the group for a tour of the maternity unit. I didn’t know if it wasn’t considered appropriate because of her learning difficulties or because she was giving up the baby. Becky had said that she hoped being away from her grandparents might encourage Faye to start opening up and maybe identify the baby’s father and the circumstances in which they’d met, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen while she denied the existence of a baby. However, it was still early days.

Once I’d found the list of appointments I closed the folder. ‘Good. Everything is going well,’ I said with a cheerful smile. ‘Do you have any questions?’

‘Not about that,’ she said, prodding the folder. ‘But can I play with Sammy?’

‘Yes, of course, if he’s in the house.’

‘I’ll go and look for him,’ she said. She stood and with childlike enthusiasm went off in search of Sammy. I heard her go upstairs and then Paula’s voice on the landing as they began a conversation. I put away the folder and went into the kitchen to begin the preparations for dinner. Sammy wasn’t in the house, but as soon as he heard me in the kitchen he shot in through the cat flap in search of his dinner.

Adrian texted to say he’d be having dinner with Kirsty and would see us later, so the girls and I ate together at around six o’clock. Faye had a good appetite but ate and drank using the same slow, measured movements with which she approached everything. When she’d finished she carefully set her knife and fork in the centre of her clean plate.

‘You’re a pleasure to cook for,’ I said.

‘It was nice,’ she said. ‘Better than we have at home.’

‘You shouldn’t say that,’ Lucy admonished with a laugh.

‘But it’s true!’ Faye protested. With her naïve approach to life and lack of inhibition, she said things as she saw them, unencumbered by tact or diplomacy.

‘Do you or your grandparents cook?’ I asked lightly, making conversation.

‘We all do it,’ she said. ‘But we have the food in plastic trays that you put in the microwave.’

‘Ready meals?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

I guessed that cooking, like many domestic tasks, would be difficult for her grandparents with their restricted mobility, so convenience meals were a practical option. ‘Would you like me to show you how to cook some easy meals?’ I offered. ‘The cheese and broccoli bake we just had is very quick and simple.’

‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘My grandpa will like that too. He doesn’t like plastic food. He says you can’t tell if you’re eating the container or the food.’ She chuckled, and I could see where she got her sense of humour.

After dinner everyone helped clear the table and then Faye said she wanted to watch television. Lucy went with her into the living room while Paula went upstairs to wash her hair. I took the opportunity to telephone Mum, using the phone in the hall. I always began by asking her how she was, and as usual she said, ‘I’m fine, dear, you mustn’t worry about me.’ Which didn’t really answer my question. Mum was of a generation who rarely shared their problems and just got on with life.

‘What have you been doing today?’ I asked, as I often did.

‘Oh, you know, this and that. Keeping busy. How has your day been? Is your young lady with you?’ Which of course directed the conversation away from her to me.

‘Yes, Faye’s here and settling in,’ I said. ‘She seems happy enough.’

‘Good. I’ll look forward to meeting her. I expect you’re busy with everyone, so don’t worry about me. Thanks for phoning, love.’ And so she wound up the conversation and a minute or so later we said goodbye. Mum never wanted to be any trouble, and while she always listened to any problems we might have, I had little idea of hers. I just hoped she was coping without Dad as she led us to believe, but it was difficult to tell.

Faye watched television for the rest of the evening, and I realized she had an even greater capacity for the soaps than Lucy, who was texting as she watched. I joined them for a short while. Paula was in her bedroom listening to music as she dried her hair. At nine o’clock, as the soaps finished, Faye said it was her bedtime. Obviously this was early for a twenty-four-year-old, but being pregnant could have made her tire more easily, and also it wasn’t for me to disrupt her usual routine. I asked her if she normally had a hot drink before she went to bed and she said no, just a glass of water. She came with me into the kitchen and I showed her where the glasses were, and then I waited while she filled one from the cold tap. As it was her first night with us I said I’d go with her and make sure she had everything she needed. She said goodnight to Lucy as we passed the living room and then called goodnight to Paula through her bedroom door. ‘Goodnight, Faye,’ Paula sang out. Adrian wasn’t home yet.

Having checked that Faye had everything she needed, I waited on the landing while she was in the bathroom, changing, washing and getting ready for bed. She said she didn’t have a bath every night, as she had to take turns with her gran and grandpa, so it was every third night. I assumed that this was because her grandparents, with their disabilities, took a while to bath or shower, so they only had time for one per night. I told her she could have a bath or shower every night while she was staying with me, but she said it was OK, as she’d had a bath the night before. Again, I wasn’t about to disrupt her routine, but when she’d been with me longer I’d suggest she showered or bathed every day, as my family and I did.

Faye took a long time washing, changing and brushing her teeth, and when she came out of the bathroom she was in her pyjamas, the buttons on the jacket straining over her bump.

‘When we go shopping tomorrow,’ I said, ‘we can buy you some nice new pyjamas that aren’t so tight, or a nightdress. What do you think?’

‘Yes, please,’ she said, smiling. ‘Thank you. I’m looking forward to going shopping for new holiday clothes.’ She gave me another big hug. I didn’t correct her and say ‘maternity clothes’. I didn’t want to upset her.

I went with her to her bedroom and checked again that she had everything she needed. I told her there was a night-light on the landing that stayed on, so she would be able to see if she needed to go to the toilet. I reminded her where my bedroom was and that she should come and find me or call me if she needed anything in the night, but not to go wandering downstairs by herself in the dark, just as I did with the children I fostered. She said she understood. I then asked her if she’d like her curtains closed or open (she said closed), the light on or off (she slept with it off, and the door closed). Small details, but they are important in helping a young person to settle in a strange room. Snuggles was already in bed and Faye climbed in and pulled the duvet up to her chin.

‘Comfortable?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Very comfortable,’ she said. Just her little face peeped over the duvet. She pressed Snuggles to her cheek and then kissed him. ‘Grandpa kisses Snuggles and me goodnight,’ she said. ‘Gran can’t bend down any more.’ She smiled.

‘Would you like me to kiss you goodnight?’ I asked. Some children want a goodnight kiss, others don’t, so I always ask, otherwise it’s an intrusion.

‘Yes.’ She held up Snuggles and I kissed his forehead, and then hers. ‘Night, love,’ I said. ‘See you in the morning. Remember to call me if you need me in the night.’

‘I will,’ she said.

Saying a final goodnight, I came out and closed her door. It felt a bit strange having an adult in the room instead of a child or teenager. Paula was on her way to the bathroom to shower and I said I’d come up later to say goodnight. Downstairs, Lucy was still in the living room with the television on low and texting. I sat beside her on the sofa.

‘How are you getting on with Faye?’ I asked.

‘She’s really sweet,’ Lucy said. ‘And very kind. I like her. I told her about when I was a child – you know, when I didn’t have a proper home – and she was really kind and sympathetic. But, Mum, does she know she’s pregnant?’ Lucy stopped texting and looked at me.

‘I’m not sure. Why do you ask?’

‘Well, she said how slim I was and I told her she would be slim again once she’d had the baby. She went quiet and then said I mustn’t say that, and that she was fat. I tried to tell her it was the baby, but she said no and changed the subject, so I didn’t say any more.’

‘Thanks for telling me. I’m going to speak to her social worker tomorrow and try to find out how much Faye understands, so we can help her.’

‘She’s nice, though, really nice. Such a pity she can’t keep the baby.’

‘Yes, it is,’ I agreed thoughtfully.

Adrian arrived home half an hour later, having had a good day out at a leisure park with Kirsty. We chatted for a while and then he went to bed, as he had to be up at six in the morning for an early shift at the supermarket. Lucy went up too and I followed at around 10.30. I never sleep well when there is someone new in the house; I’m half listening out in case they wake. I heard Faye get up at around 2.00 a.m. to go to the toilet and when she’d finished I went round the landing to make sure she was all right. She was, and I didn’t hear her again until after 8.00 a.m. when I was up and dressed and Adrian had left for work. He’d meet her that evening.

Faye appeared in the kitchen in her pyjamas and dressing gown and asked if she could make herself a cup of tea. I said of course she could and showed her where the tea, mugs and milk were. She said that at home she always made tea for herself and her grandparents while in her dressing gown, and they drank it in their bedrooms while they dressed. After that they had breakfast together – cereal and toast – at around ten o’clock.

‘I help Gran and Grandpa get dressed,’ Faye told me. ‘Grandpa needs help putting on his vest and doing up the buttons on his shirt. So he sits on the bed and I help him, then I put his socks on for him. Gran needs help with her bra and her socks.’

‘That’s kind of you, love,’ I said. ‘Who is helping them while you are not there, do you know?’

‘Our neighbour is going in.’

‘That’s good.’

It was important for Faye to feel at home and to maintain her independence, so I left her to make her tea in her own time. She offered to make me tea too, but I thanked her and said I’d already had a coffee. In keeping with her usual routine, Faye took her mug up to her bedroom and drank it while she dressed. Lucy was up and dressed, and left for work at 8.30, just as Paula was surfacing. She had to enrol at college today but not until eleven o’clock. Unsure of what she wanted to do, she’d opted for a business studies course at a local college, which would give her a good grounding for many careers.

Because Faye didn’t have to help her grandparents this morning, she was ready earlier than usual and came downstairs well before ten o’clock. This threw her and she was undecided if she should have breakfast now or wait until ten.

‘Are you hungry?’ I asked her. She nodded. ‘So have your breakfast now then. It’s important you eat and drink regularly.’ I was going to add ‘for you and your baby’, but stopped. I’d wait until I’d spoken to Becky before I talked to Faye again about her baby. She poured herself some cereal – cornflakes – while I made some toast. Paula joined us with her breakfast, and at 9.30 I left them at the table while I went into the living room to telephone Becky. I wanted to catch her before we went shopping.

She was at her desk, and when she heard my voice she was immediately concerned. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked. A carer phoning the social worker first thing on a Monday morning usually meant they’d had a difficult weekend.

‘We’re all fine,’ I quickly reassured her. ‘I collected Faye as arranged yesterday and she is settling in. But I need to ask you something.’

‘Sure. Go ahead. I’m hoping to visit you both later in the week.’

I could hear Paula and Faye talking at the table. The doors were slightly open, so I kept my voice low.

‘You know you said that Faye appears to be coping well with the pregnancy and isn’t distressed at the thought of giving up her baby?’

‘Well, yes. It’s hardly mentioned.’

‘Is it possible she doesn’t really understand that she is having a baby, or is in denial?’

Becky paused. ‘I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose, although I spoke to her at length when we first found out she was pregnant. What makes you ask?’

‘She completely ignores all aspects of her pregnancy, and yesterday afternoon I went through her maternity folder with her, but she told me not to talk about it. There’s no mention of a birthing partner. Will it be Wilma? Then later she told my daughter Lucy that she was getting fat. When Lucy said it was because she was expecting a baby she became withdrawn and changed the subject. We’re going shopping today for maternity clothes, but she’s calling them holiday clothes.’

‘Stan put that idea in her head,’ Becky said.

‘Yes, I know. But Faye acts as though she isn’t pregnant. She hasn’t mentioned it and won’t talk about it. I think it’ll make her upset if I push it.’

There was another silence. ‘Let me have a chat with her and we’ll take it from there. Are you in on Friday afternoon, around two o’clock?’

‘Yes. Faye has an antenatal appointment in the morning, but we’ll be here in the afternoon.’

‘Good. I’ll come to see you both then. We’ll have a good chat with her. Apart from that, she’s all right?’

‘Yes, she’s delightful.’

‘And, Cathy, on the matter of a birthing partner, Wilma’s already said she’s not up to it, so I was hoping you’d do it.’