Mummy’s Little Helper. Casey Watson
Abigail. ‘And why don’t you and I take a look round my beautiful new garden? We’ve only just moved in here, and I’m so excited about it. And it’ll be dark soon …’ I held out my hand.
My hunch had been right. No sooner had Abigail seen it than she’d grabbed hold of it gratefully and, finally being persuaded to take off the backpack, she let me lead her from the room. It was if she’d been drowning and was desperate for a life-belt to cling on to; an escape from the turbulent waters of this surreal situation that she had suddenly, inexplicably found herself in.
I led her through the living room and pulled open the French doors that looked out onto the garden. ‘How about that, then?’ I asked her.
I watched her gaze go exactly where I’d imagined it would – to the enormous trampoline in the far corner. It had been something we’d inherited – literally – as we’d been told the previous tenants, who’d gone abroad, had had no time to dismantle it and sell it. So they’d simply left it for whoever moved into the house next, much to Levi and Jackson’s delight. ‘It’s a big one, isn’t it?’ I added, smiling down at Abby now.
She dutifully smiled back and stepped outside with me into the garden. ‘You know, I have two little grandsons, Abigail. There’s Levi, who’s three, and baby Jackson, who’s nearly one. If you like, when they come to play you could show them how to bounce on it.’
Abigail, who was still clutching my hand, looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she said, sounding almost painfully solemn. ‘But Mrs Watson? I think you need to put a net around it first. I’ve seen them on TV and you need those for very little people.’
Bless her, I thought, touched by her serious tone. ‘You know what?’ I said. ‘You’re right. And I never thought about that, love. I’ll have to mention it to Mike, won’t I? Good point. By the way, do you prefer to be called Abigail or Abby?’
Again, she seemed to need to think carefully before answering. ‘Well, my mummy calls me Abby, so I think I’d prefer that. Though my teachers call me Abigail, so I don’t suppose it matters. Whichever you want, really.’
She looked up at me, managed to find another half-smile from somewhere. ‘No contest, then,’ I said. ‘Abby it is.’
She didn’t seem to know what to do or say then, and seemed content to let me lead her on a short tour of the garden, while I did the bulk of the talking. Now clearly wasn’t the time to expect her to open up to me. She’d probably been bombarded with questions from the minute she’d been fetched from school and taken to the hospital. And I didn’t doubt her mind was very much still back there, with her poor mum. My heart went out to her. She must have felt as if she’d been abducted by aliens, which, in a practical sense, she sort of had. What I imagined she most needed was a distraction from the clamour of her fearful thoughts. ‘So,’ I told her, ‘I’m called Casey, okay? No “Mrs Watson”. And Mike, that great big man you just met in there? Well, he’s my husband. And what we do is look after children who, for whatever reason, can’t stay in their own homes for a bit. Did John explain all that to you? Why you’re here?’
Abigail nodded. It was growing dark now and I led us across to the bench seat on the patio. It was cold, but not wet, as it was partly sheltered by a fibre-glass lean-to. It was the only disappointment; a poor second to the wonderful conservatory we’d had in the last house. But it was functional, at least. And also temporary. Mike didn’t know it, but I fully intended to wait a few months, and then badger him mercilessly about getting us a new one. I patted the space beside me on the bench, and she obediently sat down, finally letting go of my hand.
‘So that’s what we’re going to do,’ I went on. ‘Take care of you. So you mustn’t worry about anything, okay? And the first thing we’re going to do is get things sorted so we can get you back to visit your mum as soon as possible –’
‘Tonight?’ she asked timidly. ‘I really need to make sure she’s okay.’
I shook my head. ‘Not tonight, I don’t think,’ I said gently. ‘But definitely this week. If not tomorrow, the next day. After school. We’ll make sure of that, don’t worry. We’ll fix it up with John and Bridget, before they go. And Mummy’ll be fine, you know. She’s in a safe place, and they’ll take really good care of her, just like we’re going to take really good care of you. Now then, how about that hot chocolate and a biscuit? They’ll be wondering where we’ve got to out here, won’t they? Hmm?’
I turned now, to look at her properly. The outside light had already picked out a shiny trail on her face, which marked where tears were slipping silently down her cheeks. The instinctive thing to do, as had been the case with holding out a hand to her, was to pull her towards me and hug her. It was as natural to me as breathing, as it would be to anyone. But with kids in care – particularly the long-term emotionally damaged kids we mostly dealt with – often that’s the last thing they need or want. Starved of normal human relationships, or, sometimes, all too familiar with dangerously inappropriate ones, they can find it almost impossible to empathise or be physical with the very people who most want to help them. But this was not that; this was a normal and clearly much-cherished little girl, who wanted nothing more keenly to be back with the mum who loved her. I scooped her into my arms and she sobbed hard against my chest, and as she did so I reflected that some good might come of this. Fingers crossed, they would soon sort out something workable for her mum’s care and, that done, she’d be able to enjoy at least some semblance of normality for what still remained of her childhood.
I had no reason to expect things to be otherwise at that point. Silly me. Is life ever that simple?
Abby seemed much better for a cry and a cuddle, and when we returned to the dining room she had got herself composed again, and settled down to a biscuit and her by now lukewarm hot chocolate, which she wouldn’t let Mike pop into the microwave for her. ‘It’s safer to drink it like this, anyway,’ she said quietly, before wrapping both her hands around the mug.
‘So,’ said John, once he’d confirmed details of the hospital visit and reassured Abby that she’d soon be able to see her mum again. ‘I think we’re about done here. And I expect this little lady needs to get to bed, eh?’ He looked at Abby, who was staring into her now empty mug as if it might hold the answer to how she had come to be here. She looked up at him, as if the word ‘bed’ was physically painful. All she wanted, I felt sure, was her own bed.
Mike and I exchanged glances while Bridget said her goodbyes. The mood was sombre now, Bridget having outlined, albeit in the gentlest of tones, that for the moment, at least, Abby would only be able to visit her mum a couple of times a week. Though I understood why – daily visits would be both impractical (the hospital was some distance away) and could potentially slow down the process of adjustment – I really felt for her. This was the mum she had seen every single day for her entire life. No wonder she looked so distraught.
And to really hammer home the drastic and abrupt nature of this disaster, here she was, being deposited with us – a pair of strangers. We were used to this, of course – this business of children who hardly knew us being delivered to our doorstep – but we really were strangers to Abby. No preliminary visits, no chance to get used to the idea; I kept reminding myself that she’d first clapped eyes on us less than an hour ago. I also tried to keep in mind that in the Second World War this was something that hundreds of thousands of kids had gone through, my own and Mike’s parents included. But that was a lifetime away, and knowing it would be of absolutely no comfort to this traumatised child. I stood up again and went round to her side of the table. ‘I thought we might have a little sit-down together before bed,’ I said, placing my hands on her shoulders and dipping my head close to hers. ‘Once we’ve shown you your bedroom and you’ve unpacked and we’ve had our tea, of course. And a rummage through my special bits and bobs box, as well. I had this idea. I thought it might be an idea to get a bit of a diary started. Even a scrapbook, perhaps, that we can stick pictures and special things into. So you