Mummy’s Little Helper: The heartrending true story of a young girl secretly caring for her severely disabled mother. Casey Watson

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СКАЧАТЬ I said. ‘Promise. They check every patient regularly. There will be a nurse nearby every single hour of every day.’ I pulled the bedroom door open wider. ‘Now, then, how about we go down and get that box out, and see what we’ve got? I was thinking that perhaps we could go on the internet and find some pictures to print out. You could have the cast of Glee on the cover of it, perhaps. Something like that.’

      Abby nodded, seemingly mollified, and produced a small smile which I hope betrayed at least a spark of enthusiasm. ‘Okay,’ she said, as I turned to lead the way back downstairs.

      Before following me, however, she crossed the bedroom and carefully turned off the bedside lamp, then reached up and flipped the switch for the main light, as well. And then, as we crossed it, she turned off the landing light too. Then on again, as if undecided, and then off again. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I began as we were plunged back into near blackness. ‘We usually leave that one till we’ve gone up to bed.’

      She turned to face me, her expression one of complete consternation.

      ‘But what about the bills?’ she asked incredulously.

      It seemed that bills, and the worry of them, not to mention that of timetables for everything from laundry to medication, were what took up most of this small girl’s time. After we’d spent a focused half-hour gathering the raw materials for her new scrapbook, I suggested she go up and change into her pyjamas and that we could then watch some TV before she went to bed. We’d abandoned hope of having our usual meal and Mike contented himself with a couple of extra biscuits, the plan being, since Abby still had no interest in dinner, that we’d order in a take-away to eat once she’d gone to bed. It wasn’t the usual thing we’d do on a random Tuesday evening, but this, of course, wasn’t a usual sort of day.

      She’d come back down now and we’d tried to find out a little more about her. There was no point in setting up a tailored behaviour modification programme till we had more idea both about the small person for whom we’d tailor it and the behaviours which most needed modifying.

      And it soon became clear – just as John had warned us – that whatever behaviours were worrying social services, they were the result of a life dominated by caring for her mother.

      ‘So what sort of things do you and your friends like doing?’ Mike asked her, as we settled in the living room. Abby had gone straight to the big new recliner armchair by the fireplace. It had been a moving-in extravagance, and was already Mike’s favourite – but tonight he’d had to come and join me on the sofa. Not that he didn’t often, but I smiled even so. After a long day at the warehouse he liked nothing better than to press the button that made the footrest pop out, and more often than not declare, ‘Fit for a king, this!’

      But I knew he didn’t mind, bless him. There was a David Attenborough wildlife programme coming on shortly, which we’d both been keen to see, and which Abby had expressed interest in watching too. Her mum, she explained, had really liked the series about the sea – when ‘she could still actually see the telly,’ she’d added sadly.

      She turned to Mike now. ‘I don’t really have many friends,’ she told him, one hand twiddling a few strands of her hair round and round. ‘I don’t have much time for things like that.’

      Mike raised his eyebrows. ‘What, none?’ he asked, mock-incredulously. ‘Not even one special best friend for ever? A BFF – isn’t that what they call them these days?’

      Abby shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she repeated, with a shrug. I watched her carefully, but she didn’t seem to be distressed making this admission – simply stating a fact. ‘I don’t need friends anyway,’ she added quietly. ‘I have Mummy.’

      ‘And a very busy life, by the sound of it,’ I said quickly, anxious that she didn’t get upset again. Which she clearly was. She was twiddling her hair even faster, though she didn’t seem conscious of the fact. ‘Oh, and look, the programme’s starting,’ I said, glad of a distraction for the poor child. ‘We’ve been looking forward to seeing this all week.’

      And it was good, too, except I kept getting distracted by Abby who, though her eyes were on the television, seemed in some sort of trance, and continued to play constantly with her hair. As I kept glancing at her, I realised she was no longer playing with a lock of hair, but with single strands, which she’d carefully separate out, using both hands, then wind around her index finger, as you might roll cotton around a pencil, then, with a tiny jerk, pull from her head.

      Again and again this would happen – it was almost ceaseless. She’d get hold of a strand of hair, spool it slowly up, then – tug – she’d have freed it, whereupon she’d uncoil it and then let it spring free from her finger. Even at a distance of several feet across the room, I could see a tiny nest of hairs growing on the chair arm. And even with the experience of many deeply distressed children, I could see I was dealing with something different here. John had alluded to ‘behaviours’, but this was new territory. I would definitely have to read up on what we might potentially be dealing with. And definitely not forget about that sandwich.

Chapter 4

      John called at nine, as he’d promised he would the night before, for an update on how things had gone. But it was John, not me, who had the most to say in terms of updating, having just returned to his office from a further trip to Abby’s home.

      In the next few days, assuming Abby’s mum remained in hospital, she’d be allocated to a health-care team, who’d take charge of things at home for her, but as a stop-gap it had fallen to Bridget. So John had gone and met her there first thing. Abby’s mum, who was apparently called Sarah, had been anxious about the place being empty, and had requested that she go back to check things, make sure the heating had been set to low, and that the windows were all locked, as well as to collect a list of further items for Abby – school books and footwear and her winter coat and so on – none of which, in the rush, she’d had time to take with her, and about which both mother and daughter had been fretting.

      ‘So it made sense for me to take them,’ John explained. ‘Since I’d be the next one stopping by at yours. So I’ll bring them up when I come to you next week. And I am so glad I did go, I can tell you, because it’s given me a really useful insight. Just incredible. You’d have to see it to believe it, trust me. It’s told us volumes in terms of how these two have been living. It’s no wonder they were under the radar. Honestly, Casey, if an alien came to earth on a reconnaissance mission, they’d have everything they needed in that one house alone. There is an instruction for absolutely everything. Anyway, first up, how has Abby been overnight? Okay?’

      I told him about the hair pulling, and that it was something I’d keep an eye on, but reassured him that, all things considered, she’d been fine. She’d been fast asleep the couple of times I’d gone in and checked on her, and had woken looking marginally less traumatised at least. Though not for long – not once she’d remembered about school.

      A taxi had been organised the day before, to take her, and had arrived promptly at eight, its exhaust billowing white in the cold air. It had struck me as a little odd that she’d be going to school at all, but, as Bridget had pointed out, it was important that Abby had at least some normality to cling on to. Besides, it was a special day – it was Abby’s class assembly, which was as good a reason as any not to miss it.

      But, despite apparently accepting this at the hospital the day before, she’d been upset by its arrival, when the reality of actually going to school sunk in. Not because she was anxious about being there, particularly, but because she was so anxious about СКАЧАТЬ