Casey Watson - Mummy’s Little Helper

‘About the rota for the beans ! And I said I was sorry!’

I had no idea what she was talking about, and gently said so. Upon which she explained, juddering, through both tissue and tears now, that she’d been supposed to be the one watering some bean seeds her group had been growing for an experiment, and how she’d come into school late and forgotten and she’d already been told off, but how someone’s bean had died now and they were all saying it was her fault and someone had been really nasty and called her names and how everybody hated her. And so on. This had been on Monday – so before everything had happened with her mum – but the girl, who was apparently called Hayley (I made a mental note: not one for the party list, then), had got everyone to gang up on her and how it was just horrible .

‘But I couldn’t help it!’ she said again, distress morphing into indignation. ‘I have to go to the post office on Monday!’ she sobbed. ‘To get mummy’s money. And they don’t open till nearly school time and if there’s a queue I have to wait!’

‘You do this every week?’ I asked her.

She looked surprised at the question. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Monday is money day. If I didn’t, we wouldn’t have anything to eat, would we?’

Which was a valid enough point. And there was no point in my asking if the teachers knew about this, because I already knew the answer to that one.

‘And I just get so tired ,’ she said, her shoulders slumping. She began turning the half-empty chocolate mug around in her hands. Round and round it went, in slow, precise circles. ‘That’s why I forget things,’ she explained. ‘I didn’t mean to forget. I just get so tired when I’m in school.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ I said. ‘What with all the things you do for Mummy. I’d be tired too. And forgetful. But that’s one of the reasons I needed to speak to Mr Elliot,’ I added slowly, keeping an eye on her expression, in case something I said unleashed another flood. ‘Because if they know, they can help you better, and make sure the other children –’

‘How can they help me?’ she wanted to know. ‘I shouldn’t be made to go to school, even. Least, not that much. I have too many more important things to do at home. And what if Mummy falls over? She falls over and she can’t get back up again. What if that happens when I’m at school? An’ she can’t get to the toilet, or anything?’

There was something about the way she said this that made me prick up my ears. ‘ Has that happened, Abby?’

I could see her chin dimpling and her eyes filling up again. She didn’t answer. Which I took to mean yes. On both counts. What an image. How on earth did she deal with something like that? She was so slight, for one thing, so, physically, it would be a struggle. And what about psychologically? And there being no one to tell. No one to share it with. How could any mother consider that an acceptable state of affairs? I got out of my seat and squatted down beside Abby’s. Unlike many of the kids I dealt with, she didn’t seem to have any attachment issues, at least; as before, she seemed happy enough to let me pull her into my arms. I could feel her sobs against my chest. ‘I just want Mummy back,’ she mumbled brokenly into my sweatshirt. ‘I just want my mummy back. I want to go home . Please . When can I go HOME ?’

‘I know, my love.’ I said, rubbing her back and hugging her. ‘I know.’

I just didn’t know when I could give her an answer.

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