Mummy's Little Helper

by Casey Watson

  ‘All done?’ I asked, once it seemed she’d run out of things to add to it.

  She seemed happier now. ‘I think so. I’ve had to leave some of the food things. Do they have a list for the whole week on that menu card you told me about?’

  I tried to dredge up a memory of when I’d last seen one. It had been a very long time back. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I think it’s a new one for each day.’

  ‘That’s a bit silly,’ she said. ‘It would be much easier if they did it for the week, wouldn’t it? Then they’d know what to buy. Much more organised.’ She began scribbling something else.

  I could have given her five minutes’ worth of hospital catering arrangements, and how patients came and went and how it wouldn’t be practical, but as I didn’t think it would calm her down any I decided against it.

  ‘Speaking of being organised,’ I said instead. ‘It’s going to be half-term in a week or so. Is there anything special you’d like to do? Any outings we could go on? Anyone from school you might like to have round to play? Or come and see a film with us, perhaps? I’m sure there’ll be lots of things on.’

  Abby shook her head, making her bunches dance around. Her list complete, she was back absently chewing on her fingers. I wondered about drawing her attention to the fact, but decided against. ‘Hmm?’ I urged. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘I’m not sure we should arrange anything,’ she said, having given the matter her usual moment of thought. I had never seen a child so young be so measured in what she said. ‘If you don’t mind, that is,’ she added. ‘What if Mummy’s home?’ I was about to answer, but before I could formulate the most diplomatic reply she answered herself anyway. ‘And if she’s not, we’ll be going to visit her anyway, won’t we?’

  Which seemed to be the end of the matter for her. ‘Of course we will,’ I said. ‘But that won’t be all day every day, will it? I’m sure we can find one day to go out for a little treat. Maybe bowling. There’s a thought. My Kieron loves bowling. You’ll meet him soon … Yes, there’s a thought. Have you ever been bowling? For a friend’s birthday or something, maybe?’

  I was fishing, but she didn’t seem to notice. She took her fingers from her mouth and shook her head again dismissively. ‘I don’t really have time to go out to birthdays.’ She said the word birthday with a slight but discernible air of contempt.

  ‘What, never?’

  She shook her head again. But then her expression changed. ‘I could, if I wanted. I do get invited. But I don’t go. Everyone’s always so silly …’

  ‘Silly? How?’

  ‘Just …’ She sighed heavily. ‘Just so childish.’

  ‘But that’s okay, isn’t it? You know. When it’s a party, and you’re playing games and stuff?’

  Abby frowned again. ‘I mean just silly all the time. I mean the girls are. They just do silly things and talk about silly things. And boys … And I just never understand why they find it all so interesting …’

  Again, the word ‘interesting’ held that slight note of irritation, as if she found herself beached on the shores of a foreign country, and couldn’t seem to get her head around the crazy things the locals did. Which perhaps she couldn’t. And perhaps wouldn’t, given the few things she’d told me. Did she ever – had she ever – done any normal kids’ things?

  But Abby was spared the pain of any further Casey interrogations as the hospital buildings rose into a grey and brick bulk on the horizon and I became preoccupied, out of necessity, as I’d fully expected to, by the business of working out how and where to legally park the car. It wasn’t a hospital I knew well, but at least it had the usual array of enormous signs, all groaning under the weight of so much necessary information: outpatients, main hospital, accident and emergency, nurses’ accommodation, staff car park, X-ray, chapel, catering services and so on. Plus the reliably unhelpful list of named buildings, all given their titles in homage, no doubt, to various esteemed, long-dead medical notables. I scanned the visual overload and eventually found ‘visitor parking’, which, as I’d also expected, was about half a mile distant and, while bristling with warnings about the consequences of illegal parking, pretty thin on available parking spaces.

  We found one in the end, however, after a short bout of anxious circling, and I had just enough coins for the pay and display. I said as much to Abby, as I rummaged in my purse. ‘Next time,’ I said, almost as a mental note to self, ‘we must remember to bring enough change with us.’

  I heard the zip on the backpack being opened once again. ‘I’ll make a new list for that,’ Abby reassured me.

  I’m not sure what I had expected. Our stint of internet research had thrown up so many images, both mental and visual, that I realised I had no ready picture in my mind for Sarah, just a general expectation that she’d in some way ‘look’ ill.

  But she didn’t. Yes, she looked as if some movements were causing her pain – I noticed her wince as she waved a hand to greet us, for example – but if you gave her a cursory glance, you’d never think her ‘ill’. The only evidence that there was something serious going on – though I didn’t know what – was that there was a mound under the blanket, where her legs were, which I presumed was the outline of some sort of cage or box, keeping the covers from touching her.

  The ward the duty nurse had directed us to was a six-bedder, the last of several identical bays. There was only one other bed occupied in her section at present, it seemed: a sleeping middle-aged woman, the top of whose bedside cabinet was crammed with cards and flowers. It made the lack of either on Abby’s mum’s bed feel very stark and I cursed myself for not thinking to bring some.

  Sarah, who looked to be in her early thirties, was quite well built, which gave her a healthy sort of glow, though I noticed that her hair, which was a caramel to Abby’s blonde, was lank and looked as though it hadn’t been washed for a while. She had the same eyes as Abby, greyish green and deep set, and as we drew nearer I could see dark circles beneath them. I tried to imagine what it must be like to be her – to be so ill that you were separated from your only child in this fashion. And worse, to know she was being cared for by strangers. How did that feel? I really couldn’t imagine.

  I put a broad smile on my face, conscious of her silent inspection. That at least wouldn’t set any alarm bells ringing, I didn’t think. Though I knew how to discipline children of any age and size (it had been my job for so many years now that I had long since perfected ‘the look’) I was not an intimidating-looking character. At just five foot nothing, and in sweatshirt and leggings, plus comfy boots, mine was not the kind of look that would alarm anyone. And though I had more that once been called an ‘old witch’ (due to my black hair – teenagers could be so imaginative) by the odd miscreant who’d fallen foul of me in my days working at the local comprehensive, where adults were concerned my problem was more usually of being underestimated.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I said, beginning to extend a hand but, unsure if she’d want to shake it, transferred it to the pocket in my jumper instead. I knew from our recent research that MS sufferers could have pain in their hands. I looked at the cage again. And their legs too, I guessed.

  Abby had seen it too.

  ‘Mummy, what’s that?’ she asked, alarmed. ‘Why have you got a house on your leg?’

  ‘I broke my ankle, poppet,’ she explained. ‘When I fell. Didn’t they tell you that?’

  Abby shook her head. ‘No, they didn’t,’ she said indignantly.

  ‘Compound fracture, unfortunately,’ Sarah said, now looking at me. ‘Hence all this. Never rains but it pours, eh?’

  By now Abby had sped straight to the other side of the bed and placed a quick peck on her mother’s cheek. Now she grabbed her arm and began stroking it. It seemed an odd way to greet her – I’d have expected her to fling her arms around her. But then I realised that perhaps Sarah was in more pain than she was showing; the way Abby was so gentle and restrained in her movements made me wonder at a
long-standing unspoken agreement that she had to be careful how she touched her, for fear of hurting her.

  Abby seemed different – very matter-of-fact now she was with her mum, the two of them clearly slipping into long-established roles. While I exchanged pleasantries with Sarah – difficult to do in such circumstances but clearly something she was as keen to cling to as I was – Abby fussed around, plumping pillows and firing questions at her mother about when she’d been bed-bathed (she’d taken in what I’d said to her, clearly), what she’d eaten, whether she was all right for all her various medications, how she’d been sleeping and whether she had enough clothes. The notes she’d made in the car were ticked off as she did this, and I couldn’t help notice how clipped and precise her manner had become. It really was as if she’d morphed into a mini-professional carer. And, even more tellingly, how comfortable her mother seemed with this. I kept expecting Sarah to make her first enquiry about Abby’s day, but Abby had hardly paused to draw breath and, once again, Sarah seemed happy to let her continue.

  ‘Anyway,’ I finished, conscious that this was precious time for them to be together, ‘I’m going to go and grab myself a coffee and leave you two to it.’

  This seemed to galvanise Sarah. ‘Poppet,’ she said to Abby, who was now busy rootling in the bedside cabinet for a comb. ‘Up at the end of the ward – ask the nurse; she’ll direct you – there’s a little library of books. Do you want to choose one for us to read?’

  Abby popped her head up, and nodded. ‘What kind?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, you choose,’ said Sarah. ‘You know what we like.’

  Abby nodded again, and trotted back down the ward.

  Sarah turned to me. She had clearly been anxious that we speak alone. ‘Look,’ she said, as Abby disappeared from the bay, ‘I know what you’re probably thinking.’

  ‘I’m not –’ I began helplessly.

  ‘How it looks,’ she went on, as if I should have known. ‘I know, because the social worker’s told me. But you must understand –’ She really emphasised the ‘must’. She looked at me earnestly. ‘That, well, it’s not what it must look like. She’s honestly fine. Really. I don’t think they quite get it …’ She paused, and formed her mouth into a thin smile. ‘There is no one. There is really no one. So I have had to be single minded. Do you understand?’ Her eyes seemed to be willing me to say yes. Even though I wasn’t sure quite what I was supposed to be understanding.

  ‘I like to think I do …’ I began again. ‘I obviously have no personal experience of your situation, but –’

  ‘It was always just so important that I made her independent.’

  ‘She’s certainly that,’ I agreed, wondering whether to say any more. ‘Though –’

  Sarah’s eyes flashed and I sensed I was on tricky ground here. ‘She’s very capable,’ I went on. ‘I can see that. Though she does seem, well, a little over-anxious, understandably. Which is why they asked Mike and I …’

  ‘But that’s exactly what I mean,’ Sarah said. This conversation was becoming more confusing by the minute. If she had a point to make, it was a long time coming. ‘I’ve had to make her that way, for just this eventuality,’ she said. ‘I’ve relapsed before.’ She sighed heavily. ‘And once I’m over this, I don’t doubt, at some point, that I’ll relapse again. This is a bitch of a disease. You never know when it’s going to get you. And it’s always been my number one priority to be sure Abby can look after herself.’ She paused, and I could see she was becoming upset now. ‘The absolute last thing I ever wanted was to be a burden to Abby. It’s just us, you see …’ The wry smile flashed back. ‘Me and her against the world. What with her having no dad …’

  ‘He’s not contactable at all?’

  ‘No! No, not at all. Never been there. Not since before I even had her.’

  ‘But maybe …’

  ‘Really, don’t even go there. I told you. There’s no one.’ She looked past me, and then changed her expression completely. ‘Ah, poppet!’ she said brightly. ‘What have you found? So.’ She turned to me again. ‘How long do we have, Casey?’

  I turned around, to see Abby trotting up, clutching two big hardbacks. Chick-lit, by the looks of things. Obviously large print. Both pink. I checked the time on my mobile. ‘Say, forty-five minutes? Would that be okay?’

  ‘That’ll be perfect,’ Sarah gushed. ‘Abby is such a brilliant reader, aren’t you, poppet? Top of the class last term, weren’t you?’

  Abby nodded happily, pulling the visitor chair round, ready to commence her reading. Happily, but with that same air of brittleness. As if inhabiting a role.

  I left them to it and had the nurse direct me to the restaurant, a little puzzled by my short exchange with Sarah. She’d seemed so anxious to get through to me, but I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. One thing was clear, though. I felt she’d been misguided. From what little I’d seen so far – and, admittedly, it hadn’t been much – her determination not to be a burden on her daughter had been misplaced. In having Abby so independent that she could do everything for the pair of them hadn’t she actually created the situation she’d been so anxious to avoid? She had actually made herself a burden, both physically and emotionally. With Abby feeling it was her responsibility to be her mother’s sole carer, taking that responsibility away – as had now, in fact, happened – had left the poor child in a horrible, lonely limbo.

  Surely the thing to have done was to get every scrap of care that was available so that Abby could at least have a shot at a normal childhood? A chance to do all the normal childhood things? As it was, she was now a fish out of water socially, with no support network of friends to help her through. Let alone loved ones.

  What a grim thing, to have absolutely no family. And once again, I simply couldn’t quite imagine how that felt. But I berated myself as I queued for my coffee. It was none of my business. I was simply there to foster Abby, and do the best job I could in terms of minimising her emotional fall-out. Sorting everything else in their lives out was the remit of Sarah and Abby’s social workers, one of whom – from what Sarah had hinted anyway – had been busy trying to do just that. She clearly felt defensive about what had been said to her. But what was that? I felt an itch start – and itch that wanted scratching.

  No, I told myself. Casey, just leave it.

  Chapter 6

  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.