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

Poor Abby had had no such preparation. In less than a day her whole life had imploded. She’d gone to school this morning fully expecting to go home again and instead, she’d been picked up and told her mother was ill in hospital and that tonight she would have to sleep somewhere else. I was used to dealing with kids from bad family situations, but it still seemed inexplicable to me that this sweet little girl didn’t have a single other place she could go to. When my own two were her age it would have been unthinkable. Riley had her little gang of sleepover mates, most of whose mums were friends of mine too. All would have stepped in during a crisis like this one, just as I’d have stepped in had it been them.

My thoughts also naturally went to my Kieron, and how he would have fared in such a crisis. He was all grown up now – twenty-two – but he had Asperger’s Syndrome, a mild type of autism. He functioned well, had been to college and was doing well in life, but a change – any change – to his routine really stressed him. For someone like him, such a thing would be a major trauma. I’d thanked God many times for my network of friends and family, who knew his needs and idiosyncrasies and so could always help de-stress him. How would I have ever coped without them over the years?

Yet for this poor little girl there was no one. The social worker had already questioned both Abby and her mum about this, thinking, quite rightly, that if no family could be found at short notice, then a sleepover with a close pal would be the very next best thing. But no, it seemed the child didn’t have anywhere else to go. Unbelievable. And what on earth must have been going through her mind, knowing not only that complete strangers were rearranging her whole future, but that she had to go and live with some, too? I could only hope that the enormity of what might happen long term hadn’t yet impinged on her consciousness. As far as I was concerned, the best way to manage her in the short term would be to focus very much on the here and now.

I smiled my broadest smile as she hesitantly stepped into the hallway. Both her hands gripped the straps of the backpack she was carrying, and so tightly that the knuckles were white. I smiled as I recognised the logo on the backpack: ‘Glee’, accompanied by the all-singing, all-dancing cast publicity photo. Straight away I was thinking that if Abby liked all the latest stage-school TV programmes and paraphernalia, she would get along famously with Lauren. Lauren was Kieron’s girlfriend and was at performing arts college, and was used to me roping her in to help out with similarly minded foster children.

I also recognised the primary-school logo on Abby’s sweatshirt. Stanholme Primary, although the furthest away, was one of the better schools in the area, and also a feeder school for the big comprehensive I used to work at, and I’d known a couple of the teachers there. It was good to have a pre-existing connection with the place. It gave me a head start in that direction, at least.

‘Here she is. Here’s Abigail!’ John said, with a slightly forced brightness – he looked as worn out as he’d sounded on the phone. I ushered the trio into the dining room and Mike took their orders for hot drinks. Not that he had to go far to make them; like our last house, this too had an open-plan kitchen/dining set-up, the only difference being that the two were separated by a huge arch. Perfect, once again, for keeping an eye on kids.

Right now, of course, I had my eyes on Abigail. She’d hardly spoken – only mumbled an affirmative to a hot chocolate – and looked completely at sea, as if she might burst into tears or make a run for it at any moment. Again, this felt so different from what we’d seen before. We might be strangers – as might be John – but all our previous children had come to us with at least some sort of relationship, however slight, with the social worker assigned to them. As a result they usually clung to them, both physically and emotionally. But that was definitely not the case here.

Bridget Conley, a tall woman in her early forties, I guessed, filed in behind John. She looked nice enough, if a little detached, but it was so immediately obvious she and Abigail had barely met. It would have been so even if I hadn’t already known that. No one’s fault – all this had happened in less than a day, after all – though I couldn’t help feeling it a pity that they hadn’t managed to make some sort of connection. Bridget (whose face was vaguely familiar to me, nothing more) looked friendly and personable, but also as if she’d come from the sort of high-level meeting that she’d felt the need to power-dress for that morning. Where social workers normally dressed to suit the work they did – in comfortable, non-threatening, relaxed clothes, in my experience – Bridget looked more like a head teacher or a politician: all sharp angles, crisp creases and clacky shoes.

And I’d been right. ‘Apologies,’ she began as she started fishing in a laptop bag. ‘I’m not at all up on the paperwork, I’m afraid.’ She grimaced. ‘Been attending a case conference with my manager and her boss. Hence the suit and heels, I’m afraid.’ She grinned, somewhat sheepishly. ‘Why on earth do these things always get me so flustered? You’d think with twenty years in the job I’d be a little less bothered about dressing up for the upper echelons, wouldn’t you?’ She laughed then, and I found myself warming to her. A woman very much like myself, I thought.

John, too, was pulling the inevitable manila file from his briefcase, with such scant notes as he’d presumably been so far able to make. And looking at the tableau of officialdom in front of me made me have something of a ‘eureka!’ moment. While Mike clattered with cups and teaspoons, I looked straight at John. ‘I tell you what,’ I said to him. ‘How about you all take a breather for a moment and enjoy a cup of tea. Been quite a long and stressful day, eh?’ I said, turning my gaze now to 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?

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