Mummy’s Little Helper. Casey Watson
how’s she been managing to look after her little girl, then? You say there’s no family …’
‘Not much of anything or anyone, really, it seems to me. Certainly no care or support in place. She’s mentioned a neighbour, but we’ve already had a clear impression that in terms of who’s looked after whom, it’s been the other way around. Little Abby’s been her carer, pretty much.’
Which was a sobering thought, but still didn’t fully answer my question. ‘But why us?’ I asked again. ‘I mean, we’re obviously happy to step in, you know that. But if it’s only going to be temporary …’
‘It’s not going to be that temporary,’ John corrected me. ‘That’s what we’ve been thrashing out today. The medics have given Mum a less than good prognosis, and there’s no way in the world they’re ever going to discharge a sick patient back to the care of a nine-year-old girl. Bottom line is that even if they manage to get her stable and home, and a package of medical support put in place for her, she’s clearly not going to be in a position to care for her daughter, which leaves social services with no choice but to take responsibility for Abby, doesn’t it? That’s the truth of it. Now the genie’s out of the bottle, so to speak …’
And the cat out of the bag, come to that. John was right, of course. Now they knew about it, they couldn’t un-know it. Which left everyone concerned in the worst of all situations. ‘God,’ I said, as the enormity of it hit home for me. I tried to imagine being told I could no longer look after my own children. Having to watch them being taken away from me, when they needed me. It hardly bore thinking about. ‘Poor, poor woman,’ I said to John. ‘She must be beside herself …’
‘Completely distraught,’ John agreed. ‘As you can imagine. But not stupid. She knows there’s no other choice here.’
‘And the poor little girl … how on earth is she dealing with all this?’
‘Badly,’ John said. ‘Which is where you and Mike come in. Because now we’ve met her we don’t think she’s suitable for mainstream care, basically. We’ve had a long chat with Mum this afternoon, and she wants what’s best for her child, after all.’
‘Of course …’
‘And, well, we’re all of the opinion that Abby might be, well, how shall I put it? A little idiosyncratic. I must stress that this isn’t coming from Mum, before you ask. It’s just our assessment, based on what Bridget has seen, and from what we know of how the two of them have been living. I’m obviously not conversant with all the details, but the bottom line would seem to be that this particular nine-year-old is not like any normal nine-year-old. She’s been caring for her mum from a very young age, and has basically had no sort of childhood. I know it sounds daft and, yes, we could be over-dramatising this, but our feeling is that being with you and Mike, and doing the programme kind of back to front, if you like, would give her the best chance of getting back on track. You know, getting her used to living as a child again, basically.’
‘You’ve obviously met her,’ I said. ‘How did she seem to you?’
‘Odd, definitely. Twitchy. Has some pronounced – very obvious – tics. I think that’s how I’d describe it. Anxious. Incredibly anxious. Wound up about as tight as she can be, is my feeling. I mean she’s in a state of trauma right now, obviously, but, reading between the lines, there’s probably much more besides. So it seemed to us that the best thing would be to take this bull by the horns. Crazy to slot her into a mainstream placement only to have it break down again in a matter of days or weeks.’
‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, feeling that familiar surge of adrenalin that always accompanied the prospect of a new child. ‘Though I hope your faith in us isn’t going to be misplaced, John. We’re not psychiatrists …’
‘I know. Absolutely. And we’ll obviously be reviewing things as a matter of urgency. Counselling’s probably a must-do that needs flagging up right away. But I know you two can give her that something extra, in terms of structure, that she probably needs right now.’
‘I like to think so. We’ll certainly do our best. So. When do you want to schedule a meeting? Just name the day.’
‘Ah,’ said John. And it was a kind of ‘ah’ I’d heard from him before. ‘That’s the thing,’ he went on. ‘I was wondering if we could skip that part of the process.’
‘Ri-ight …’ I said.
‘Because I really think we need to bring her now.’
‘Ri-ight …’ I said again, waiting for the next part of this process. The one where not only did we skip an initial meeting, but also skipped the first ‘get to know you a little’ visit, which was included to be sure both parties felt happy to proceed. I was fairly confident about this because by now I knew John well.
And he didn’t let me down. ‘We were kind of hoping you’d agree to take her on right away. If you’re amenable, that is …’ he finished apologetically. ‘Are you? I know it’s a lot to ask.’
I smiled to myself, loving how John always observed all the little protocols, bless him. Because when you thought about it, it wasn’t a lot to ask, really, was it? It was the job we did and I couldn’t think of a single prior occasion when ‘the process’, as written in the foster carer’s bible, had ever actually happened by the book.
And who cared? Doing things by the book was boring anyway. ‘Of course we are,’ I reassured him. ‘Well, I am, at any rate, and so will Mike be, I’m sure, just as soon as I call and tell him. He’ll be glad, to be honest, because it’ll give me something else to think about besides all the home improvements he’s terrified I’m going to schedule for our already perfect house.’
John laughed. ‘So I’ve actually done him a favour then, have I? Okay, so, let me see … okay if we pitch up in something like an hour and a bit?’
I told him yes, and immediately mentally switched gears. Outside the sun was slinking away from overseeing another grey February day. But suddenly I couldn’t care less. I disconnected and immediately reconnected – this time to Mike. I couldn’t wait for him to get home. Our New Year had begun.
Mike was home just in time for us to belt to the local supermarket and stock up with a few supplies before John arrived with our new house guest. On a bit of a New Year health kick, I had little in the way of treats in, and the couple of Christmas biscuits I’d had left in the tin had been hoovered up by Jackson and Riley the day before. It would be a bit of a mad rush, but I was determined to get it done, as I had no idea how things would pan out when Abigail arrived, and wanted to be able to concentrate all my energies on her. On the way I briefed Mike about what I already knew.
‘What a dreadful situation,’ he said as we parked the car. ‘Really makes you count your blessings, doesn’t it?’ I nodded. ‘But, at the same time, it couldn’t be better timing for us, could it? Sounds like she’s going to be the opposite of Spencer, at least, bless him.’
He was certainly right there. Our last foster child, to use the parlance, had run us ragged. So much so that I think we’d both been holding our breath when we’d been given the all clear two weeks back. Up till then we’d been on standby and unable to take another child, just in case his new situation – back with Mum and Auntie, but not Dad – proved to be unworkable for keeps. He had become so dear to us, and I was looking forward to hearing how he was getting on, but there was no doubt a part of me was warming to the idea of having the novelty (which it would be) of a quiet and well-behaved little girl taking his place. A distressed and anxious one, clearly – and no wonder, given her circumstances – but one with a completely different set of challenges to be overcome.
I grabbed a basket and tried to compile a list in my head of the sort of goodies I thought Abigail might like, getting Mike – six foot three to my own five foot nothing