Cathy Glass - Can I Let You Go?

‘Twenty minutes was only an estimate,’ I said, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘It has taken us five minutes to come down in the elevator and get in the car.’

‘Our home is twenty minutes from now,’ Paula said. ‘So we’ll arrive at about ten minutes to three.’

Faye studied her watch and then looked out of her side window. There was a silence for a while and then Lucy asked Faye, ‘What sort of things do you like to do in your spare time?’

‘Watch television,’ Faye said.

‘Me too,’ Lucy agreed. ‘What programmes do you like?’

‘I like Coronation Street , EastEnders and Emmerdale , the same as Gran.’

‘You’re in good company then,’ I said. ‘Lucy loves the soaps.’

Lucy then talked to Faye about what was happening in these series, and Paula and Faye joined in. Paula watched soaps sometimes, but not as much as Lucy, who updated herself from the internet if she missed an episode. I’m not a great soap fan.

After a while I said, ‘Faye likes being at the stables too.’

‘I love the horses,’ Faye said. ‘More than I love Gary in EastEnders .’ Which made us all laugh.

‘So what do you do at the stables?’ Paula asked. ‘Do you ride the horses?’

‘Sometimes, but I also help muck them out.’

‘Yuck, what does that mean?’ Lucy asked. Considering she worked with children, she was rather delicate in these matters.

‘It means we have to shovel up their poo and put it in a wheelbarrow,’ Faye said.

‘Gross,’ Lucy said.

‘Gross,’ Faye repeated. ‘It’s very smelly.’

‘I don’t mind it,’ Paula said. ‘I go riding sometimes. Do you have a favourite horse?’

I could see that Paula and Lucy, like me, were working out where to pitch the conversation with Faye, and I thought they were doing well.

‘Whisper is my favourite,’ Faye said. ‘She is a Shetland cross and is eleven hands high. You measure horses and ponies in hands. My next favourite is Misty. He is a black gelding and is twelve hands high. I only ride those two because they are very gentle. But I help look after the others and stroke them.’

‘That’s fantastic,’ I said, glancing at her in the interior mirror. ‘You know a lot about horses.’

I saw her smile. ‘Some of the kids from the flats call me stupid,’ she said. ‘But Grandpa tells me to ignore them. He says I’m not stupid, I know more than them about horses.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Your grandpa is a very wise man. It’s stupid to call people names.’

The thought of anyone calling Faye names or being unkind to her was enough to make me tear up. Gentle, kind Faye. But I could see how vulnerable she was, and I fully understood why her grandparents had become overprotective.

Although Faye had seen photographs of my house, I still showed her around when we first arrived. As we entered each room she said politely, ‘This is a nice room. Thank you for showing me.’ This was all rather formal, so I told her to treat the place like home as she would her flat. I introduced her to Sammy who, realizing there was someone new in the house, had shot in through the cat flap to see what was going on. He was usually standoffish when it came to meeting new people and would turn his back and walk away or flee outside, but not with Faye. He came straight up to her, rubbed around her legs, let her stroke him and then rolled over onto his back so she could rub his tummy.

‘I think he likes me,’ Faye said, pleased, and she knelt to pet him.

‘He certainly does,’ I said. ‘But remember to wash your hands when you’ve finished stroking him.’ It was basic hygiene, but even more important for an expectant mother, as disease could cross the placenta and affect the baby.

When Sammy had had his fill of being petted he went outside again. Faye washed her hands at the kitchen sink and then, examining her watch, said that her gran and grandpa had a cup of tea and a biscuit at home around this time – 3.30 p.m.

‘Would you like tea and biscuits now?’ I asked, assuming this was part of her routine.

‘Yes, please.’

I smiled. ‘You must tell me what you have at home so you can have it here. I want you to feel at home.’

‘Gran says I mustn’t be any trouble.’

‘You certainly won’t be that,’ I said. I filled the kettle. ‘But it will help me if you tell me what you want, OK?’ Faye was so self-effacing that it concerned me she might not like to say.

She gave a small nod and stayed with me in the kitchen, watching me as I took down the mugs.

‘I can make tea,’ she said after a moment. ‘I make it for Gran and Grandpa.’

‘That’s good. You can make it here too if you like. But it’s nice to have it made for you sometimes, isn’t it?’

She nodded accommodatingly. ‘Gran and Grandpa can’t walk very far so I help them,’ she said. ‘It was scary when Grandpa had his stroke. We had to call an ambulance. He’s slowly getting better. But he says he won’t ever be perfect.’

‘He’s doing very well,’ I said. ‘Strokes can take a long time to recover from. It’s good you can help him.’

‘That’s what he says. I love my grandpa. I hope he doesn’t die.’

‘He’s getting better,’ I reassured her. But I thought it must be a worry for Wilma and Stan, and for any parents with a disabled child, as to who would look after Faye when they did eventually die. I supposed she’d have to go into supported lodgings, as there were no close relatives she could live with.

Once the tea was made we took it into the living room where Lucy and Paula were waiting. I liked them to be sociable when a new child or young person arrived. They hadn’t wanted tea but had poured themselves a glass of water each. To start the conversation I said that Faye usually had tea and biscuits around this time at home, and we talked a bit about different families having different routines. Faye talked unselfconsciously, although it was more like an elderly person talking – measured and slow – than a young person in their twenties. How much of this was because of her learning disabilities or from spending so much time with her grandparents I didn’t know. But I guessed from what she said that she hadn’t spent much time in other people’s homes. It appeared that as a child (attending a special school) she hadn’t gone to friends’ homes to play, nor had she had them home. Now, she only saw her friend Emma at the day centre. She said she went into her neighbour’s flat with her grandparents for a cup of tea sometimes, although they were nearer her grandparents’ age than hers. But Faye seemed content and accepting of people and situations, which is an admirable quality in anyone.

Once we’d finished our tea I suggested to Faye that we unpack her suitcase. She came with me upstairs while Lucy and Paula went off to do their own thing. Snuggles, who’d been her constant companion, being either held or tucked under her arm, came with us and Faye sat him on the bed. She unzipped her suitcase and on top was the maternity folder, which she passed to me. Together we unpacked her case, folding and hanging the garments into the drawers and wardrobe. As her gran had said, there wasn’t an awful lot: two pairs of elasticated-waist trousers in dark green and brown, the same style her gran wore and Faye had on now; two large wash-worn jerseys in grey and beige, which I guessed had also been Wilma’s; a dressing gown and duffel coat, which were Faye’s but she couldn’t possibly do up over her baby bump; a pair of furry slippers; a pair of pyjamas; a vest, bra and pants; a towel and a brand-new wash bag.

‘I got that new for coming here,’ Faye announced proudly as she took the wash bag from the case.