Mummy's Little Helper (13 page)

‘The what?’ I asked. ‘The Cupathon? What’s a cupathon?’

‘Cup
cake
athon,’ Kieron corrected. ‘At Auntie Donna’s. Mum, you
know
.’

Kerplunk. The penny dropped. I pulled a bag of potatoes from my veg rack. Abby was already bustling around, washing her hands again and donning her little pinny. I noticed she marched around like a surgeon scrubbed up for an operation when Bob was around. Elbows up, out of licking range. ‘I’ll do those,’ she said, as I plonked the potatoes on the worktop. She loved humdrum domestic tasks the same way other girls loved Justin Beiber, and now I was seeing things with more clinical eyes I realised that they were perhaps a coping mechanism of their own.

‘Of course,’ I said to Kieron. ‘You know, I’d forgotten all about that. It’s next weekend, then, is it? God, that seems to have come around fast.’

It had too. My own life having been so full on just recently – what with moving house after so long, saying goodbye to Spencer and getting Abby – I’d had little time, since the Christmas celebrations, for extended family. But in the meantime my younger sister, Donna, had had something of a life-change herself. Like our parents, she’d started out in the catering business, but after a gap for children, and some less full-on 9 to 5 employment over in Ireland, where my brother-in-law was from, she’d got the bug again to run her own business. Last summer she’d bought the lease on a little café close to the town centre, which she’d styled to look like a Victorian tearoom. She was an expert, of course – her previous place had thrived – and it was already doing far better than even she had imagined. It was all pretty, mismatched floral china, lace doilies and crisp tablecloths – and, as far as fashion went, right on the button.

It wasn’t Kieron’s natural habitat – the very opposite of it, really (Kieron didn’t like mismatched anything), but while he was doing his training as a youth worker he was chronically short of cash, having just his bits of DJing to support him. So it suited them both for him to do a few hours down there every week – Donna because it was always nice to have family in family businesses, and Kieron because it meant he didn’t starve.

It had been Kieron’s idea to put on an event there to raise money for Sport Relief as well. With football being his passion, he always tried to support it, hence the big bakeathon – or ‘cupcakeathon’ – the following weekend, where they’d be having a bit of a party and a bake-off competition, and selling masses of ‘designer’ cupcakes, at a premium, to support the cause. He was even missing playing his beloved Saturday match for it – a sure mark of his commitment to it, bless him.

‘Yes, it has,’ he said, ‘and I’ve got to publicise it – hence the flyers. I’ve also given a bunch to Riley, but perhaps you could hand a few out as well for me?’

‘Sure I can,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could even take some to school, Abby.’

Abby nodded. She’d got some colour back in her cheeks now and looked altogether happier.

‘And we’re going to be grateful,’ added Kieron, ‘for all offers of cupcake making, obviously. We’re going to need a LOT. And I’m a rubbish baker. So I told Auntie Donna that you’d help out – seeing as it’s for charity …’

‘Oh, you did, did you?’ I laughed.

‘I know how to make cupcakes,’ chimed in Abby. ‘I can make some.’

‘Excellent!’ said Kieron, beaming. ‘You are officially recruited, then. And you’re going to come, right? And bring Dad and that, and Riley …’

‘I’m sure Dad’ll come – though probably not before eleven, obviously, as he’ll be working.’ Though not a minute later, mind – Saturdays had been sacrosanct ever since Kieron had joined the local kids’ football league, aged twelve. In almost ten years Mike had hardly missed a match himself. ‘But we’ll definitely come down early and help you set things up, won’t we, Abby? And – Oh hell! Hang on …’ An alarm bell had started ringing. ‘What’s the date this Saturday?’ I glanced at the pile of flyers and groaned. ‘Damn it!’

‘What?’ said Kieron.

I went across to the wall calendar and confirmed it. I had a training session the following Saturday. Out of town. 8 a.m. sharp. These were something I only had to do a few times a year, so it tended to slip my mind. But the bell had rung for a reason. I knew there was something about that date. The next one was taking place the following weekend. ‘Attachment Theory’, the calendar said. And there was no way I could un-attach myself from it. ‘I’ve got my foster training this Saturday morning,’ I explained. ‘Typical! I mean I’ll be done by 3, so I could get there eventually, and show my face, but … actually, there’s a thought.’ I glanced at Abby. Saturday. No school. I’d need to find some respite care for her, too, at least till Mike got home.

That would be the usual way you’d do it, anyway, if you needed a babysitter for a foster child, but this was short notice, and for such a short period, it seemed hardly sensible. Plus I’d hate to have to drop her with a stranger. She was fragile enough right now. No, perhaps I’d ask Riley. I’d had both her and Kieron police-checked when we started fostering, and had them reassessed as family carers regularly. It made perfect sense, as it meant they could babysit if it was ever needed. And for them, too; since they both wanted to work in the sector eventually, it was one less thing to worry about later.

‘We’ll have to ask Riley if I can drop you off at hers, love,’ I explained to Abby. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Spend some time with the little ones? And you could obviously still pop along to the cupcakeathon with them …’

‘Hey, not so fast, pardner!’ Kieron interrupted. ‘If Abby’s free, why doesn’t she just come down and help
me
?’

He gave Abby a thumbs up and a wink. ‘Love,’ I started. ‘I think it would be better …’

‘No, I’d like that,’ said Abby shyly. ‘I could be your assistant, couldn’t I?’

‘And, hey,’ he said, pointing. ‘You even have your own pinny. And I know for a fact that you are an ace washer-upper. Do you take payment in cupcakes?’ Abby grinned. ‘Mum,’ he said, turning back to me now, ‘you know it makes sense.’

I thought for all of two seconds. Of
course
it made sense. She’d love it down there. And I knew Donna wouldn’t mind her coming along either. Abby wasn’t the sort of child who’d get under anyone’s feet, and I definitely knew she’d make herself useful. I smiled to myself. Yes, I thought. She’d
love
it. The mood right now suddenly seemed one hundred per cent lighter. ‘Okay, you’re on,’ I said grinning at them both. ‘Now come on, you two, let’s sort this tea.’

So we did. But once again I had no idea what I was dealing with. It was to be the calm before a very big storm.

Despite my spirits being lifted by the plan we’d hatched for the following weekend, by the time Abby and I climbed into the car for the hospital visit on Sunday morning I was back in sombre mood.

Friday evening had been great in the end, Kieron having stayed for a good couple of hours, and Abby had seemed genuinely excited about being my goofy son’s official helper, even to the extent of badgering him about what sort of cupcakes ‘we’ should bake for him, and poring over cupcake-decorating sites on the laptop.

Mike had been tickled too. ‘In my day they were still British and called fairy cakes,’ he pretended to huff at them. ‘Dainty little things – couple of mouthfuls. And they only came in two varieties – either iced with a little silver ball in the middle, or made into butterfly tops. None of this lurid-green butter-cream nonsense and cakes the actual
size
of a cup!’

Which, of course gave Kieron an excuse to rib him mercilessly, for knowing about cakes topped with butterflies. All good family fun and all heartening for Abby, but, at the same time, you were now never far from a reminder that poor little Abby was still struggling with her demons. Sitting at the dining table when Bob was around was a clear indication. He ambled past at one point and sniffed her knee with his wet nose, and if she could have got her legs up any higher they’d have been under her chin.

‘And why does she do that thing with the door frame?’ Kieron had whispered as I said goodbye to him on the doorstep. He’d noticed the things with Bob too. And also the fact that it was getting worse. ‘Did you see it? All that tapping her fingers on the frame before she goes into a room?’

‘She can’t help it, love,’ I’d whispered back. ‘It’s all a part of the anxiety problems she has to deal with. All to do with having been separated from her mother. It’s like a ritual she has to perform to keep herself calm.’ I pulled the door closer behind me. She’d gone up for her bath, but she might have popped down for something. ‘You might have come across it in your training, actually,’ I said. ‘From her symptoms, Dr Shackleton thinks she might be suffering from something called OCD.’

Which Kieron had apparently heard of, and could understand too. A need for ordering and controlling of your environment was a factor in Asperger’s. Though where, in Kieron’s case, it was just a part of his make-up – and something he had learned to manage – with OCD it was different. It was distressing, and obviously an escalating mental-health problem, which could be treated – and that’s what Abby badly needed. To my mind, anyway, but once again I had to rein myself in.

However much that bald patch, and everything else, played on my mind, it wasn’t my place to play professional here. I’d logged it all, and would now hand that responsibility over to Bridget, when she came to the house for our meeting on Thursday – where I’d urge her to get Abby to her GP. Right now, though, I was just happy that we were driving to the hospital and that Abby would have some time with Mum at last.

The weather was kinder – for the first time since we’d been there, it was sunny, rather than gloomy and raining. And, it being Sunday, and free of outpatient clinics, we didn’t have to park half a mile away, either.

But that was pretty much where the positives ended.

To be fair, Sarah did look pretty washed out. She no longer had the rigid frame over her legs, I noticed, just the bulk of a plaster, so I imagined they’d dealt with whatever post-operative things they’d had to do. But she was now connected to a drip, running from the back of her hand. It might have been a painkiller, I supposed, or perhaps a drug infusion of some sort. But, as I reminded myself again, not my business.

‘Poppet!’ she called to Abby, as we entered the little side room. The ward, too, was quiet. No sign of Chelsea. Just a couple of visitors and, once again, I couldn’t help but think surely there must be
someone
. Just someone who Abby could make a connection with, however small. Just so she didn’t feel quite so alone.

‘I’ll leave you two to it,’ I told Sarah, now I’d delivered her. ‘Pop back in half an hour or so, see how you’re both doing.’ I had my usual clutch of gossip mags, together with one I didn’t usually buy – one about baking, which had all sorts of elaborately decorated cupcakes on the cover. Might as well gen up, I’d thought, since Abby was clearly so enthused about it all; it was a great opportunity for us to do something positive together and take her mind off all the woe in her life.

And enthused she obviously was. When I returned to the pair of them, she’d told Sarah all about it.

‘I hear Abby’s going to be doing something for Sport Relief next weekend,’ she said to me. ‘With your son.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ I agreed. ‘My sister’s putting it on.’ I smiled at Abby. ‘We’re going to be doing some baking this week, aren’t we? Perhaps we could bring some cakes in for Mum next time …’

Abby nodded. ‘And the nurses,’ she said. ‘They’d probably like some cakes, too, wouldn’t they?’

I smiled. ‘I’ve never met a nurse who wasn’t grateful for a cupcake. Several cupcakes, in fact … So. Are you planning to do some reading? I’ve got to go and call Mike and check he’s put the joint in for dinner. Do you want a bit longer? There’s no real rush, really.’

Abby was perched on the bed, her mother’s free arm around her. She turned to her. ‘Shall I get a new book for you, Mummy? Or are you still on the last one?’ She seemed to think for a moment, her expression concerned. ‘Do they have anyone to read for you in here?’

Sarah shook her head. ‘It’s fine. I haven’t felt much up to stories this past week, to be honest. But now you’re here –’ she glanced at me now – ‘that would be
lovely
. I miss you reading to me, poppet, I really do. But, I tell you what. Why don’t you go down to the little library and see if there’s a book of short stories or something? That way we can read a whole one and I won’t have to worry about remembering the plot for next time. That sound like a plan?’

Abby nodded happily, got down from the bed and trotted off. I was about to do likewise when Sarah beckoned that I stay.

‘Is she okay?’ she remarked, as soon as Abby had disappeared down the ward corridor. ‘I mean, she seems bright enough, but … well, I can’t seem to get anything out of her. Not about school, what she’s been up to, about how she’s doing … it’s like she clams up.
Is
she doing okay at school? I worry about her constantly. And what’s with all this going off to the toilet every two minutes? Three times she’s been, since she got here. Has she had a tummy bug or something?’

Sarah was obviously concerned, but how much should I tell her? There was this voice in my head – it lived permanently on my shoulder – which said ‘do not discuss the child with the parents – not your job’. But this was an unusual situation, wasn’t it? Perhaps it would be helpful for all of us, if I shared my concerns. Perhaps she’d have some insights she could share with me about Abby. Maybe there was a background to her behaviours that could throw some useful light on how I could best manage her now. And in the light of what Abby had said to me about feeling so alone in the world, perhaps there was also someone Sarah could put me in touch with who, even if they weren’t in a position to take care of her, could at least help support her, even if it was just the odd walk in the park or trip to the shops. I decided to plunge in.

‘Not a bug, no,’ I told Sarah. ‘She has this thing about hand washing. She worries terribly about germs, as you probably already know, and it’s getting to be something of a concern, I’ll admit.’ I went on to detail, albeit as lightly as I could, a few of the concerns we’d been having and how I’d be talking it over with her social worker later in the week, so they could take a view about whether some counselling or CBT might be in order. Sarah’s expression, all the while, was growing increasingly concerned looking. But perhaps that was understandable. This was her little girl, after all. ‘And I do really worry about how isolated she is,’ I finished. ‘I keep trying to suggest she have someone over after school or something, but it’s like she doesn’t have a friend in the whole world.’ I frowned. ‘And she feels it. Feels it keenly, I know.

‘Which is why,’ I went on (in for a penny, in for a pound now), ‘I was wondering if there’s anyone – anyone at all … some family member, or close friend – just anyone who could perhaps spare some time for her. Not take care of her – we’re obviously aware of the situation in that regard. Just someone she knows well, who could give her a link to her own life, and –’

‘God,’ Sarah retorted, really shocking me. I had expected concern, yes, but not to be snapped at. But she was certainly snapping now. ‘You just don’t give up, do you?’ She exhaled angrily. ‘Look, she’s
always
been a quiet child,
okay
? She’s never much done friends. And believe me, I’m well aware of the part I’ve played in that.
Well
aware. So I don’t need it rubbing in. But when are you people going to give this up? I’ve told you, there isn’t
anyone
. Why d’you think I’m in this shitty bloody position?’

I blinked at the swearing. It was so sudden. And so vehement. ‘I’m sorry, I –’

‘There is
no one
,’ she snapped over me. ‘No parents, no grandparents, no knight in shining armour. What part of no one do you lot not understand?
God
. All I get is bloody social workers interrogating me!’

I didn’t know what to say. I was still open-mouthed by her outburst. So I said nothing. And in the silence she seemed to gather herself a little. Perhaps most of this was what she’d wanted to say to Bridget – or whoever her own social worker was. Had she even been appointed one yet? ‘Look,’ she said, less stridently, perhaps seeing how shocked I looked, ‘please can’t you see this from
my
position? I’m laid up here, in agony half the time, and I’m constantly stressed about my baby. As I’m sure
you
would be in my shoes –’

‘Of
course
I would.’

‘Exactly. So you know …’ Her voice was cracking now, her chin wobbling. ‘I
really
can’t be dealing with being told she’s bloody unravelling, okay?
You’re
the expert.
You’re
the one who’s supposed to be taking care of her, but now all I’m hearing is …
God
…’ She leaned across to try and pluck a tissue from her bedside cabinet. But she couldn’t reach it. So I grabbed the box and held it out to her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, snatching one out and quickly scouring her face with it. ‘God, Sarah, get yourself
together here, will you
?’ She looked up at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you. I know it’s not really your fault. It’s just that I am so sick of –’

She glanced past me then. We could both hear the squeak of Abby’s trainers returning.

‘I’m sorry, too,’ I said. ‘And look, well, I’m on top of things, okay?’

Sarah noisily blew her nose. ‘Ah!’ she said to Abby, who had indeed returned now. ‘Honestly!’ she said, screwing the tissue into her palm. ‘You come into hospital, and what do you get? A streaming flipping cold! Runny nose, runny eyes … Come on up, poppet.’ She patted the covers. ‘Let’s see what you’ve brought to read to me, eh?’

I left them to it, but not before meeting Sarah’s eye again. And feeling a profound sense of unease.