by Cathy Glass
Any residue of the relaxing week’s holiday had vanished by the following morning. We were up most of the night with Dawn. She didn’t actually sleepwalk but she kept shouting out in her sleep. We took it in turns to go in and settle her and each time we found her sitting up in bed, eyes open and staring straight ahead, as though in the grip of a repeating nightmare. ‘It wasn’t me!’ she cried out. ‘You must believe me! I wouldn’t do that. I like babies. I was there, but I didn’t do it!’ All the time she was oblivious to our presence and remained asleep.
We assumed her conscience had got the better of her and the reference to babies was to do with Adrian’s moneybox. And her hysterical assertion ‘I was there but I didn’t do it’ suggested she had been an accomplice – perhaps an unwilling one – but now regretted her actions. Her sleeptalking admission left John and me in the unenviable position of knowing Dawn’s guilt without her having told us. Apart from feeling badly let down, we didn’t know what we could or should do with this information. We decided to do nothing. Such a confession was hardly admissible evidence, and we wouldn’t have felt comfortable by adding to Dawn’s troubles by telling the police.
John left for work the following morning absolutely exhausted after the broken night. I felt pretty rough too, and it took me ages to wake Dawn for school. The only person who hadn’t been up most of the night was Adrian, and he was his usual chirpy self. Dawn hugged and petted him during breakfast, although she’d seen him the evening before.
‘I missed him while you were away,’ she said, chucking his chin.
‘You could have come with us, Dawn,’ I reminded her.
‘I know. Maybe I should have done. It would have kept me out of trouble.’ So I was all the more convinced she had been party to the break-in but now regretted what had happened.
And as if to prove her regret, she had a very good week. She went to school each day, arrived home on time, and then set about revising for the end-of-year exams. On Friday evening she went out and was home on time. On Saturday she was half an hour late, and although she wasn’t drunk, she had clearly been drinking and smoking, for we could smell alcohol and smoke on her breath. John and I lectured her about the effects of both on her health, adding that it was illegal for someone of her age to drink or smoke.
Nevertheless when Ruth phoned on Monday to ask if Dawn had settled in again with us, I was able to say a positive yes. I told her about the burglary and that Dawn had been interviewed by the police with us present, for I thought that as her social worker she should know. Ruth didn’t comment but said that she was pleased we were back and Dawn had resettled and was going to school. Apparently Dawn had only been to school one day the week we had been away, and the school secretary, unable to reach Barbara, had phoned Ruth each morning when Dawn hadn’t appeared.
‘I don’t know what she expected me to do about it,’ Ruth said dryly.
Very little, I thought, but didn’t say.
There were three weeks until the end of term and school broke up for the long summer holidays. Out of the fifteen school days Dawn managed to go to school on ten of them, which included some, but not all, of her exams. Having had to lower my expectations in respect of Dawn’s progress, I accepted that on the scale of things this wasn’t too bad. She had come home drunk twice during that period, and I’d had to report her missing one Saturday evening, although she’d reappeared before the police arrived, so I cancelled the missing persons. Dawn went to her mother’s on all three Sunday evenings, although Barbara was only in for two of them, and then only for an hour each time.
Dawn remained pleasant and co-operative while she was in the house, although I’d no idea what she was getting up to while out. This had become the pattern of our life with Dawn, and together with her sleepwalking it made for a very rocky ride. But John and I were determined to stand by Dawn, believing that at some point we must turn a corner and things would start to improve. We didn’t hear any more from the police about the break-in, and John bought and fitted a new back door, rather than just removing and boarding up the cat flap.
The six weeks of summer holidays were upon us and Dawn wanted to go out and meet up with her friends during the day, which seemed reasonable at one level – that’s what young people did in the summer holidays – but it clearly increased her potential for getting into trouble.
‘Which friends?’ I asked. I was only aware of Natasha.
‘My friends from school,’ she said non-commitally.
‘Not the Bates lad and the Melson twins?’ I thought I was starting to sound like the police officer.
‘No,’ Dawn said. ‘They only come out at night.’
‘What, like vampires?’
She laughed.
‘All right, but not every day,’ I said. ‘I want us to go out together some days. Also I want to know who you are meeting and where.’
Dawn agreed to this, but then Dawn had a habit of agreeing to everything I said and then going off and doing something completely different.
On 1 August I reminded Dawn that her appointment to see the psychiatrist was in two days’ time. I told her that I had asked my neighbour to look after Adrian so that I could go with her to the hospital. I knew it was asking too much of Adrian to sit still through an hour-long appointment.
‘Don’t worry,’ Dawn said. ‘I can go alone.’
‘It’s no bother,’ I said. ‘I’d like to come.’ Then I wondered if she didn’t want me in the consulting room and party to anything she might confide in the psychiatrist. ‘I’ll wait outside while you go in and see the doctor,’ I said. ‘But it’s nice to have some support and company.’
‘No, really, I’ll be fine,’ she insisted. ‘I’d rather catch the bus. Thanks anyway.’
Clearly I couldn’t force my presence on Dawn, so having asked her again on the morning of the third if she wanted me to go with her, and received the same reply, I gave her the appointment card and money for the bus fare, and explained where the outpatients department was.
‘Good luck,’ I called from the front door step as she left, and she gave me a little wave.
Dawn didn’t arrive.
At 11.30 a.m., half an hour after the consultation should have started, the psychiatrist’s secretary phoned and asked to speak to Mrs Jennings.
‘It’s Mrs Glass,’ I said. ‘Dawn’s foster carer.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, we were expecting Dawn for an eleven o’clock appointment. She’s very late.’
‘She left over an hour ago,’ I said, ‘in plenty of time. I’m sorry – perhaps she’ll arrive soon.’
The secretary explained that Mr Gibbons, the psychiatrist, had another appointment booked for 12.00 p.m, but she added that he could give Dawn whatever time was left of her hour’s appointment when she arrived. I thanked her, apologised again and asked if she would call me when Dawn arrived.
She didn’t call back and at twelve ten I phoned the secretary to be told that Dawn hadn’t appeared. I apologised again, and said that I didn’t know what had happened, for Dawn knew how important the appointment was. The secretary was quite understanding, considering Dawn had wasted an hour of the psychiatrist’s time when he could have seen another patient. She asked me if I wanted to book another appointment, which wouldn’t be for another three months. I said I’d speak to Dawn first, as clearly there was no point if she wasn’t going to attend.
I was worried as to where Dawn could have got to, although not as worried as I would have been with another child who didn’t have a reputation for going missing. I was also frustrated and disappointed, for we had all viewed Dawn going into therapy as a turning point, when she would be able to share her problems and hopefully alter course towards a better future. I was also somewhat annoyed with Dawn – she had gone off with the bus fare and, without saying a word to me, simply decided not to attend the appointment, unless of course there was a very good reason for her not arriving.
‘The bus broke down,’ she said, when she finally appeared two hours
later. ‘By the time they sent another bus to pick us up it was too late to go to the hospital, so I walked home.’
It was plausible; the buses did have a reputation for breaking down in the country lanes, particularly the one that led to the hospital, which had a steep gradient. And Dawn had offered the excuse with enough sincerity that I could believe her, just.
‘Next time I’ll take you in the car,’ I said. ‘And I’ll drop you off. I won’t come into the hospital if you don’t want me to, but at least I’ll know you have arrived safely.’
‘Oh,’ Dawn said, her thoughts clearly racing ten to the dozen. ‘Oh, OK. When is it?’
‘Not for another three months.’ I looked at her carefully. We had walked through to the lounge where Adrian was, and we were now standing facing each other. ‘Dawn, love, it is important you see the psychiatrist. You’re not talking to me about your problems, and as far as I’m aware you’ve not talking to anyone else either. What you tell the psychiatrist is confidential. Dr Gibbons won’t tell anyone – not me, your mother, or your social worker. But it’s important you share your burden with someone.’
‘What about the police?’ Dawn asked, squatting on the floor beside Adrian. ‘If the police went to see the psychiatrist and asked him to tell them what I’d said, would he?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. The psychiatrist is bound by confidentiality like a doctor. What you tell him is just between the two of you.’ I hesitated. ‘Dawn, is there something badly worrying you that you need to share? Something that caused you to harm yourself, and attempt suicide? If so, rather than wait another three months, couldn’t you tell me? I’m a good listener and it wouldn’t go any further. I promise.’
I watched her as she concentrated on Adrian. Then she said quietly without looking at me, ‘If only I could tell you, Cathy. But I’ll have to wait until I see Dr Gibbons.’
And I knew at that moment that the bus hadn’t broken down, and that Dawn had missed her appointment because she had been worried that what she told the psychiatrist could be accessed by the police. What her burden was I didn’t know, but I bitterly regretted not telling her the consultation was confidential before she went, and also that I hadn’t taken her to the hospital in the car. But at least she’d had enough trust in me to confide that there was something badly worrying her; I viewed this as a huge step forward, and hoped we could build on it in the future.
That afternoon I telephoned Dr Gibbons’ secretary and, apologising again for Dawn’s non-attendance, told her the bus had broken down. Then I booked the next available appointment, which wasn’t until 4 November.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Lifeline Vanishes
I negotiated with Dawn that while she was on holiday from school she could go out with her friends during the day on Tuesdays and Thursdays, in addition to her usual Friday and Saturday evenings. Dawn cannily suggested that if she went out during the day on Friday instead of Thursday it would save me the bus fare, as she could stay out all day and continue into the evening.
‘I can afford the bus fare, Dawn,’ I said. ‘And I wouldn’t want you out from ten o’clock in the morning until nine thirty at night. I want to see more of you, not less.’ Which was true, in addition to feeling that the less time Dawn spent out of the house the less opportunity there was for trouble to present itself to Dawn and be accepted.
The six-week break from school fell into something of a routine. Dawn met her friends – who she assured me were school friends and not the ‘old lot’ – between ten o’clock and four o’clock on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and spent Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays with Adrian and me. I took Dawn on outings. She seemed more comfortable going out when there was just her, Adrian and me, rather than family outings at weekends, which were still being curtailed because of Dawn’s refusal to join in. I didn’t know why, because she got on very well with John; perhaps it had something to do with appearing in public as a family group and loyalty to her own father. We went to museums, a theme park, swimming, ice-skating and for walks in the country. Dawn appeared to enjoy herself and most of the experiences were new to her, as she had missed out on such things as a child. I also drove us to the coast for the day – leaving at 8.00 a.m. with a picnic and returning in the late evening. Dawn was as excited as Adrian to see the sea, and to my amazement she told me it was only the second time she had been to the seaside, although we were only forty miles from the coast. Her first visit was a vague memory of a family holiday before her parents had divorced.
Dawn’s Friday and Saturday evenings followed the same pattern as they had during term time, with her arriving home at 9.30 p.m. on Friday and late (and often drunk) on Saturday. She wasn’t daft, and knew that if she was late on a Friday she wouldn’t be allowed out on the Saturday. Clearly we couldn’t stop her going to her mother’s on Sundays as a sanction, so eventually I said if she wasn’t home on time (and sober) on Saturdays she wouldn’t be meeting up with her friends the following Tuesday. This had the desired effect for one week before she forgot again the next week. Not wishing to be locked in a continuous battle with Dawn, John and I decided we had to give her some leeway and accept that she pushed the limits. If we had been too strict and grounded her every time she hadn’t adhered to the rules, then it could have easily tipped her into rebelling completely. At least, with some flexibility on our part and by overlooking some of her behaviour, we had Dawn’s co-operation most of the time.
But during the summer holidays something strange happened. It was in relation to Dawn’s attitude to Adrian, and I couldn’t understand why. Whereas before she had been all over Adrian and couldn’t get enough of him (or babies in general), she became guarded in approaching him and seemed to back off. It suddenly became apparent that not only did she now spend very little time fussing over Adrian, picking him up and playing with him, but she seemed to be actively avoiding him. Adrian was on his feet most of the time now, staggering around, and into everything. I sometimes asked Dawn if she would keep an eye on him, while I popped into another room, or answered the phone or door bell, or went upstairs to the toilet. And whereas before she would have not only have kept watch on him but played with him, she now said, ‘Can’t he go with you?’
‘I’ll only be a minute,’ I would say.
But as I left the room Adrian invariably followed with Dawn steering him towards me. ‘He wants you,’ she would say.
If I asked her to hold him for a moment, or take his hand, she now refused. ‘I might hurt him,’ she said. ‘He’s very little.’ Which didn’t add up. Adrian would be a year old in seven weeks’ time and was now a strong robust little chap. He had been far smaller and more vulnerable when Dawn had first arrived and then she’d been only too keen to hold him.
I reassured Dawn that she wouldn’t hurt him, and I wondered if her sudden distrust of her competence had anything to do with Adrian’s moneybox. Was she feeling guilty that she had been party to taking his savings, as John and I now believed she had? Perhaps, with a heavy conscience, she felt she didn’t have the right to pet and cuddle him. While the whole incident of the break-in was unfortunate, to say the least, I didn’t want Dawn bearing a heavy burden of guilt. She had enough to contend with without adding to her problems, and I wanted her to know that I had forgiven her.
While we were feeding the ducks in the park one sunny afternoon, I casually remarked, ‘You know, Dawn, we all make mistakes and errors of judgement. Things that we regret afterwards, and would have done differently, or not done at all, if we had the chance over again. No one is perfect. But we can learn from our mistakes, and then we must forgive ourselves and move on. We can’t punish ourselves for ever.’
Dawn went very quiet and, breaking off another piece of bread from the slice I had given her, absently threw it into the pond. I was helping Adrian tear up his slice of bread and feed the ducks rather than himself.
‘You can’t forgive yourself if you’ve done something really bad,�
� she said quietly, not looking at me. ‘It stays with you.’
‘Well, yes, I know it can play on your conscience, and make you angry that you did it in the first place. But there still comes a point when you have to forgive yourself. Otherwise the guilt eats away and can make you very unhappy, and even depressed.’
There was another pause. ‘Even if it’s something really wicked?’ she asked. ‘Something so bad that if you told someone they would hate you?’ She was concentrating on the bread, holding the slice, but not tearing off the next piece.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think for one moment that anything you have done could be that bad. Although it might seem like it at your age.’
‘It is,’ she said, without looking up. ‘You wouldn’t know because you and John are nice. You wouldn’t do really horrible things.’
Whatever Dawn had done in the past, I didn’t think that it deserved the guilt she seemed now to be inflicting on herself. Children and teenagers can easily let worries build up and get out of perspective.
‘I’ve said and done things which seemed dreadful and unforgivable at the time, Dawn.’
‘But not evil wicked things,’ she persisted.
‘No. And I’m sure you haven’t either.’
Without saying anything further she tore of another piece of bread and threw it into the pond.
I half expected that now we had broached the subject, she would revisit it at some point and hopefully tell me what was causing her so much anxiety. But she didn’t. And her attitude to Adrian continued to be removed and almost cold, as if by putting distance between them she was protecting Adrian from herself.
John, too, had noticed the change in Dawn’s attitude, and was convinced, as I was, that it was the result of having plundered Adrian’s moneybox. But he was philosophical: ‘If her guilty conscience stops her getting herself into more trouble, that’s no bad thing,’ he said.
