by Casey Watson
‘God, though,’ I railed, mopping my tears with a piece of kitchen roll. ‘You know what this makes me think? It makes me think – to hell with bloody fostering! Let them get on with it! I quit! Perhaps I’m getting burnt out. No, there’s no “perhaps” about it. How dare she complain about me! God, I’m so cross! Do I need all this bloody hassle in my life?’
It was a rhetorical question and Mike knew better than to answer it. He knew as well as I did that I just needed to let off steam. So he just chuntered out a couple more platitudes, promising we’d talk properly about it later; it was pointless trying to get a proper conversation out of him when he was at work, in any case – he was a stickler for company policy and even my ‘crisis of faith’ wasn’t sufficient to make him bend the rules.
I rattled the phone back into its dock and felt some spirit returning. Enough of wailing about injustice. I was just plain old angry now. Great! I thought, as I stomped back into the kitchen. This was all I needed. I had a party to help organise, a stressed-out foster child to look after and, on that note, not only did I have to break the news to Abby that she couldn’t go off with Kieron this afternoon, I also had to tell her it would now be Bridget taking her to hospital, and do it all without letting my special patented ‘mask of calm serenity’ slip from my face, while inside I mostly felt like screaming.
And I wasn’t at all happy about any of it. I couldn’t tell her the truth – either about why she couldn’t go to Donna’s or why Bridget would now take her on her visits – so I would obviously have to come across as the bad guy and feed her a load of nonsense about all of it. Well, thanks a bunch, everyone. Thanks a lot.
As it turned out, it was something I was going to have to do sooner rather than later, as well. The phone had rung again, about an hour after I’d spoken to Mike, and this time it was Bridget herself. Only this time I did miss it. The sun was out, and I’d decided to take my upset out on the trampoline – since Jackson and Abby’s party was to be at our house, I might as well get it scrubbed up a bit, ready. There was, after all, a small chance that it would be fine enough for them to play outside. If Abby could bear to let them, that was.
I hadn’t even heard the phone ring. When I went back in all I saw was the answerphone light blinking, and thankfully – since I really didn’t want to speak to Bridget right now anyway – she’d left a garbled message to tell me that, if it wasn’t too much bother, Sarah was up for seeing Abby after school. Well, well, I thought. There’s a turnaround. But I didn’t think any further. I was just glad that some benevolent celestial hand had stepped in and provided a reason why Abby couldn’t go with Kieron.
I called Bridget back – I had no choice, really – but happily she was in one of her meetings. So I left my own message, confirming that that would be fine, and that she could pick Abby up just after four.
Abby wasn’t quite as thrilled to be going back to the hospital as I’d expected. ‘But I’ve just been,’ she said. ‘Why am I going back again so soon?’ I blinked at her, surprised.
‘But I thought you’d be pleased!’
‘I am,’ she quickly answered, presumably feeling disloyal now. ‘I mean it’ll be lovely to see Mummy, but what about my job at the café? Kieron will be expecting me.’
I winced at the word ‘job’, imagining how she must have described things to Sarah. I reflected that the truism was true – children are enormously adaptable. And it was actually a very positive development that she felt this way. It meant she’d adapted so well that spending a couple of hours with Kieron was suddenly her number one priority. I even felt guilty when I turned on the emotional tap.
‘Kieron will manage fine,’ I reassured her. ‘And think about Mummy. She’s so looking forward to seeing you now she’s feeling a bit brighter …’
I let it hang.
‘I suppose,’ Abby conceded.
‘So,’ I said, ‘better scoot up and change out of your uniform. Bridget’s taking you today, by the way, and she’ll be here in fifteen minutes.’
If I’d thought I could just slip that in without much trouble, however, I’d have been kidding myself. So I hadn’t. ‘Bridget?’ Abby asked. ‘Why’s Bridget taking me?’
‘Only because I’m so busy,’ I lied. ‘It was all a bit short notice, and I’d already arranged to go and look after Levi and Jackson for Riley for a bit. She’s got to go out and … erm … buy presents for both of you and, um, party food and so on …’
But Abby wouldn’t let it go. ‘But I don’t know Bridget,’ she whined plaintively. ‘I won’t know what to say to her. Can’t you take me, Casey? I don’t want to go with her.’
‘Sweetheart, I can’t. Everything’s organised now. And Bridget’s nice. You’ll get on fine with her.’
Abby stuck her bottom lip out. ‘But I don’t like her! I don’t want to go with her! It’s not fair!’
I bent down and pulled her in for a hug. ‘I know, love. I understand. But life isn’t always fair, is it? Just one of those things. You’ll be there before you know it …’
And going with Bridget for the foreseeable future, I thought, but didn’t say. We’d cross that particular bridge when we came to it.
Bridget didn’t hang around when she picked a distinctly disgruntled Abby up. There was nothing useful we could say to one another while Abby was there anyway, and I suspected she was looking forward to having to deal with Sarah about as much as I was looking forward to my ‘supervision meeting’. And no one’s mood had improved any when, three hours later, they returned and Abby marched straight off up the stairs.
Bridget stood on the doorstep and sighed.
‘I take it it didn’t go well, then?’ I asked her. She pulled a face that confirmed it, and I opened the door a little wider. There was nothing to be gained in being inhospitable. I felt sure Bridget felt I’d heaped a load of hassle on her shoulders, but even so we were both playing for the same team. ‘D’you want to come in for a coffee before heading home?’ I asked her.
But she shook her head. ‘I need to get back. Long old round trip, isn’t it? And, of course, it’s the rush hour. And no, it wasn’t the most edifying hour of my life. Abby was not happy – well, you can see that – and she’s not stupid, either. Whatever you told her, she didn’t believe you. Marched straight up to Sarah and demanded to know why you weren’t allowed to bring her any more. Which was … awkward …’
‘I can imagine. What did Sarah say?’ I asked her, but then checked myself. Was Bridget even allowed to answer that, or was I now officially out of the loop? It was a wonder, I thought, that Sarah hadn’t gone the whole hog, come to think of it, and demanded Abby be placed with different carers. In fact, why hadn’t she done that?
‘Not a lot,’ Bridget answered. ‘Just told her it was nothing for her to concern herself with and that you couldn’t always be the one to bring her, but she’s a bright girl – and an intuitive one, too. She picked up on the atmosphere. I think she knew full well that she was being fed a line. Anyway,’ she finished, ‘I’d better get going. I’m not sure when the next visit’s going to be scheduled. I’m not free on Sunday … So I’ll, er, call and let you know, if that’s okay. Oh, and just so you know, I’ll also be taking her to see her GP. I believe someone’s trying to get her an appointment as we speak, but you know what it’s like …’ She gave a hollow tinkling laugh.
As I watched Bridget drive off, I tried to feel a sense of camaraderie, of kinship. But I couldn’t. I tried, but I couldn’t. It also occurred to me that the whole taxi to school business was to do with this as well. It seemed so obvious now. Sarah wouldn’t have wanted a foster carer taking her, just in case they – i.e. me – got too pally with the other parents at the school gates. And started telling them things she didn’t want them to know …
Grr, I thought. And because of it – whatever ‘it’ was – I’d been dumped in all this trouble. All I could think about was that blasted upcoming supervision meeting, and those damning words ‘official complaint’. I pushed my sleeves up to my elb
ows and ticked myself off. Casey, I told myself, this is not about you. This is about Abby. Then I marched up the stairs. Mike was at the football league AGM, so he was out of the way. And what we both needed was a bout of serious cleaning action.
‘Right,’ I said when I went into Abby’s bedroom. She was sitting on her bed, writing something in her scrapbook. Her bunches were still in place, too, I noted. Good. She put her pen back into her pink fluffy pencil case and looked up enquiringly. ‘Casserole,’ I said, ‘will be ready at eight. And it’s now seven. Which I think just about gives us time to clear out the cupboard under the stairs. It’s complete chaos. Full of old toys and all sorts of rubbish. It was just our “sling it in if it’s got no other home” location when we moved in, and it needs the attention of the sort of girls who mean business. If we’re going to have a bunch of toddlers here on Friday, it makes sense to sort some toys they can actually play with.’ I grinned at her. ‘You up for that?’
Abby was already rolling her sleeves up before she’d even got up off her bed.
‘Can I be in charge?’ she asked, once we’d got downstairs and opened it. ‘You know, decide where everything needs to go?’
‘Be my guest,’ I said.
Abby smiled beatifically. ‘Then I’d better go and get my notepad.’
I had probably taken my eye off the ball. That must have been it – I’d got so wrapped up in trying to unravel Sarah’s family tree that I’d lost that extra edge where Abby’s ongoing problems were concerned. Our cleaning-out bout had done us both good – no doubt about it. And by the time we sat down to eat I think we both felt calmer.
But the following morning, when Riley came over with Jackson for coffee, I was to realise that my eye had been so far off the ball that you could have put a dozen goals past me.
She’d come over – Levi was now back in nursery, the MRSA crisis over – to find out a bit more about the complaint. Kieron had passed the news on, when I’d called him to tell him not to collect Abby, and she was typically furious about it all.
But we’d barely poured our coffees before it was to become evident that there were other, more pressing things that needed dealing with. I’d just made a jug of coffee – like mother, like daughter – and realised the sugar bowl needed filling. I reached into the cupboard for the half-bag I knew was in there, but it wasn’t.
‘That’s funny,’ I said, half to myself. ‘Where’s the sugar gone?’ I rummaged further. ‘Well, that’s strange. I’m almost sure there was some in there.’
Riley came up and peered over my shoulder. ‘Look,’ she said, pointing. ‘What’s that?’ She pointed. ‘That bag there – that says “sugar”. Is it an age thing, d’you think? Should have gone to Specsavers!’
I tutted. ‘I can see that. I mean the open one. The one I only opened yesterday.’
‘Maybe you used it up,’ said Riley.
‘No, I remember putting it back. I definitely put it back …’ I reached for the new pack in any case. And that’s when it hit me. The cupboards no longer looked like my cupboards. There wasn’t a single opened pack in there at all.
‘Now that is strange,’ I said. ‘I wonder if Dad’s done this?’
Riley laughed. ‘What, messed up your cupboards? When would that have been? Right after he embroidered you a tablecloth? Anyway, done what? What are you on about?’
And then of course it hit me again. It was obvious who must have done it. Abby. ‘Take a look,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing open. They’ve all gone. Flour, rice, pasta, currants … you name it.’
‘So you’ve obviously had a clear-out and forgotten about it. Mum, I’m worried now. That is an age thing.’
‘Hey, less of the old lady stuff, madam! No, this is Abby.’
‘Abby did this? Well, I must say I’m impressed. You’ve got her cleaning out your cupboards for you? Child labour, is it?’
I turned around. ‘Don’t joke, love – that’s one of the things her mother’s accused me of.’
Riley’s eyes widened. ‘What? You have to be kidding me! Accusing you of something like that when she’s had her own little Miss OCD waiting hand and foot on her for all these years? The cheek of it!’
‘Riley, don’t say that. She’s ill.’ I peered back into the cupboard. ‘And so’s poor Abby.’
But Riley was having none of my extenuating circumstances. ‘I don’t care if she’s ill. The mother, that is. That’s no excuse. And it’s so rich. While you’re looking after her daughter! What’s she playing at? And what exactly did she think would happen to her precious daughter if there weren’t people like you and Dad around, huh? Talk about biting the hand that feeds you!’
It took me a while to calm Riley down about it all, especially when I explained all the details she hadn’t known yet. I could tell how angry she was, too, because when I questioned the idea of continuing with fostering she didn’t even try to talk me out of it. Every other time I’d had a wobble she’d been positivity personified. But this time I could see she was really upset for me. ‘Look, Mum,’ she said. ‘Seriously, Kieron and I think it’s really great what you do – you don’t need me to tell you that. But, you know, we’ve only just been here.’
‘Been here?’
‘You. Having a lorry load of grief! Remember Spencer? Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten why you had to move house in the first place? I mean, it’s turned out brilliantly, but just remember what led up to it.’
‘I know, love. I do …’ I remembered it all too well. The terrible shame of our last landlord paying us a visit that day. He had brought round a petition that most of our old neighbours had signed, demanding that something be done about ‘the type’ of children we had living at our house. They’d been referring to Spencer, of course, who had caused no end of grief around the neighbourhood. House breaking, fire starting and fighting were just a few of his misdemeanours. No, I certainly hadn’t forgotten why we’d moved.
‘Well, exactly,’ huffed Riley. ‘Why the hell should you be made to feel like this all the time? Everything you do – everything – you do because you care about the kids you get, and if they can’t see that –’
‘John can see that, love. He one hundred per cent can.’
‘Yeah, but what about the rest of them? Honest, Mum. This is a load of trumped-up nonsense, and I’ll bet there’s something going on with that woman that you don’t even know about. Don’t let them give you trouble, okay? You just stand up for yourself. And then when you’ve done that, if you want to tell them all to stuff it, you do that. Who could blame you? The cheek of it!’
I felt tears prickling in my eyes watching my daughter so animated and upset on my behalf. And I also knew it was because she could see my own resilience weakening, which wasn’t like me. Casey, you need to man up, I told myself.
‘Oh, I’m not at that stage yet,’ I told Riley firmly. ‘It’ll get sorted. I know it will, and I refuse to waste another moment worrying about it. Far more important things to do, frankly. We have a party to plan.’
And so we did. Though the business with all my cupboard contents still niggled at me, I resolved to put it to one side and concentrate on my own family, because that, in the end, was what mattered most. And Riley and I, list-makers par excellence, went into party planning overdrive, committing everything – from the invitations to the music, the food, the decorations, the contents of the party bags – onto our usual array of carefully scribbled lists. Within the hour we had it all organised, written on our matching sheets of paper, which were then carefully stowed into our respective handbags. Roll on the weekend, I thought, as I cast my eye over our expanding guest list, and having my house full of friends and family.
However, it was difficult to stop my thoughts straying back to Abby and how, in terms of her OCD behaviour, there seemed to be something of a backward slide. And that was another thing, I huffed to myself. Where was everyone’s sense of urgency? They (whoever ‘they’ were – both social services and Sarah felt like they were on my
case right now) seemed much more interested in my perceived transgressions against everyone than in the business of dealing with this little girl’s mental state. Which, as Wednesday became Thursday, was giving me real cause for concern.
I’d got up early – having decided to cram my shower in before either Mike or Abby – and tiptoed across the landing to the airing cupboard to get myself a towel. I opened the door and just stood there in amazement. Normally I just took clean towels out of the tumble dryer, folded them into quarters and returned them to the cupboard. But it was as if the fairies had been and visited overnight. The shelf had now been reorganised into four distinct sections. Each section was devoted to towels of similar colours, and the towels were no longer crudely folded into fours. Instead, each had been folded once lengthways and then tightly rolled and stacked, end facing outwards. They reminded me of those liquorice rolls you used to get as children, all wound up like a pin wheel, with a coloured centre. I carefully extracted one, being careful not to disturb any of the others. The work, clearly, of a fairy called Abby.
When she came down to breakfast I decided to be direct. I was still acutely aware of monitoring the bald patch she’d created, and as I put her cereal down in front of her I stroked her head, exposing it. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to be getting any worse.
‘Well, now,’ I said, picking up the milk carton and pouring some over her puffed wheat. ‘What a neat job you’ve made of my airing cupboard, sweetie. Where on earth did you find the time to do all that?’
She looked up at me nervously. ‘Am I in trouble?’ But when she saw I was still smiling, she gave me a rueful one of her own. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night. Not at all. So I thought I’d be useful. So I got up and did some more sorting out for you. Is that okay?’
I sat down across the table from her. ‘It’s fine, love. Of course it is. But, you know, you need your sleep. The middle of the night’s not the time to be doing housework, is it? Especially on school nights.’
‘I know. I’m sorry,’ she mumbled.
