Casey Watson - Mummy’s Little Helper

John went on to describe what he’d found at the family home, which was as much of an eye-opener as he’d promised. The whole house, he explained, had been totally modified for a young child to do absolutely everything. There were sticky notes everywhere – some recent, some old and yellowing – on which were hand-written instructions for doing just about everything you could think of. How to operate the washing machine, how to set the timer and the thermostats for the heating and hot water, how to operate the cooker, the microwave and the grill. There were notes on what temperature setting to use for the fridge – summer and winter – and an inventory of the contents of all the drawers and the cupboards, including crockery and cutlery, pots, pans and bakeware, glasses and mugs, housewares and food. The kitchen also contained evidence of just how much routine there was here. There was a big wall chart, detailing what meals would be eaten and when, and a ring binder, chock full of simple recipes, many of which had been painstakingly written out in a child’s handwriting, while others had been torn from magazines.

Abigail also had her own little dedicated cleaning cupboard, where on the inside of the door was written a long list of chores and when to do them: polish wooden furniture and banisters Mondays, bleach in toilet daily, white wash on Thursday, and so on. The house was also liberally strewn with small coloured plastic steps, some of the type you’d use when toilet training a toddler, others larger – including one four-foot stepladder, even – to provide access to high-mounted cupboards.

‘Everything you could think of,’ John finished. ‘Simply everything. Right down to a light-bulb inventory and book of money-off coupons – all in sections – one for each supermarket nearby. If it needs organising, basically, it’s been organised into the ground. Never seen anything quite like it in my life. I suspect there’s not been a minute of a single day that doesn’t – well, didn’t – come with its own list of jobs. Boot camp. That’s the word. It’s just like boot camp. Quite remarkable.’

‘What was the mother thinking?’ I wondered, trying to put myself in her shoes. ‘Why on earth didn’t she get them some help?’

‘Exactly,’ John said. ‘That’s what Bridget and I were both stumped by. I mean, it’s hardly as if help for these sorts of things isn’t publicised, is it? Couple of clicks of a mouse would have her straight to the MS website, wouldn’t it?’

‘So did Bridget talk to her about that?’

‘A little, she says, though none of it was particularly enlightening. She just said they always managed by themselves, pretty much. Which I can sort of see, I suppose. If you’re fairly isolated, anyway. Because it’s obviously happened gradually – as has the progression of the disease, of course. So I suppose I can see how it’s just become their version of “normal”. And Abby will never have known any different, will she? Though, that said, she must surely have seen the way other families work, mustn’t she? When she’s gone to friends’ houses for tea and so on – something must have clicked.’

‘I’m not sure she’s done a great deal of that sort of thing,’ I told him. ‘According to her, she has no friends. Hasn’t got the time for them.’

‘Well, that does ring true,’ he said, ‘given what we’ve seen this morning. Anyway, we might find out a little more about all that later on today. Bridget wasn’t first on the scene, of course – it was the on-duty social worker … So she’s going to chase that up when whoever it was is back in the office later. See if she can find out any more about what’s been discussed. But it’s certainly odd, isn’t it? To cut yourself off from help in that way. Though right now the most pressing thing is to try to find some family. It seems incredible that there’s absolutely no one who could help.’

‘I’ll obviously see what I can find out from Abby, too,’ I said. ‘Maybe she can throw a bit more light on things.’

‘That would be helpful. Anyway, the main thing right now is for you to make sure she’s okay. From what I’ve seen this morning, it’s no wonder she has anxiety-related issues. Her whole life seems to have been one long to-do list, so some emotional fall-out’s going to be expected, isn’t it? She’s going to find the loss of control hard to adjust to, I’m sure.’

John was right, of course. Abby was dropped home from school and the very first thing she did when I opened the front door to her was to go ‘brrr’, and ask me where the central heating controls were. Mindful of my discussion with John earlier I simply took her upstairs and showed her, as she had such a pinched, anxious look on her face, that it was clear this was something that had been on her mind for a while.

‘Can I have a look?’ she asked me, once we were upstairs and peering into the airing cupboard. The controls were set high on the wall, and it was difficult for her to see them. She was a tiny little thing for her age – a good six inches shorter than Spencer, who’d just left us, even though she was a good year older than him.

‘Of course,’ I said, spreading my arms. ‘Shall I pick you up so you can see?’

She seemed to consider for a moment. As I’m sure I would have done, in her shoes. But her need to know soon seemed to triumph over her shyness. She raised her own arms so I could get my hands under her armpits and lift her up.

As soon as the control panel was at eye level I heard – and felt – her sigh. ‘You’ve got this set too late,’ she said, tapping the panel with a finger.

‘Have I?’ I asked her, as I let her back down to the floor. Despite the gravity of the situation, this was such a surreal moment that I struggled to keep the smile off my face.

Her own expression was deadly serious. ‘It’s winter,’ she pointed out. ‘So what I expect you’ve probably done is forget about the clocks having gone back, when you moved in. Did you check it? Because I think it’s set to come on an hour too late.’

I couldn’t help but be impressed by her logic. That and the fact that she’d remembered that we’d not long moved in. ‘Are you cold?’ I asked her, because despite that I wasn’t really sure why it was bothering her anyway. I certainly wasn’t cold. I rarely was. I went at my domestic chores with far too much energy to feel chilly.

Abby shook her head. ‘No, no, not me,’ she explained. ‘I’m at school all day, aren’t I? It’s you . This really needs to come on at around three o’clock.’

There wasn’t much to say to that really, other than that I wasn’t cold, and only tended to put the heating on before teatime if I had my little grandsons round and it was a particularly cold day. Which I did, but as soon as I’d done so, and explained that it was obviously different for her mum – she would feel the cold, of course – she seemed even more agitated than she’d been in the first place.

So when we came back downstairs – after she’d changed out of her uniform, and also changed her dolly – I decided I would just go with the flow. Which I’d clearly need to. As soon as I wondered out loud what we could have for tea, she was once again looking stressed and asking questions.

‘Don’t you know what you’re cooking tonight?’ she asked me. ‘Don’t you have a chart?’

‘No, sweetheart,’ I explained, remembering what John had told me earlier. ‘Not really. I mean, I do have a rough plan – some things to choose from. But I generally see what I’ve got in the fridge and cupboards, then just cook what we most fancy having.’

I was reminded then of Justin, our first foster child. Compared to Abby, his background couldn’t have been more different. A veteran – aged only eleven – of twenty failed placements (foster homes and children’s homes), he’d come to us in such a state of emotional distress and anger that there had been times when Mike and I had despaired of ever being able to even reach him, let alone do anything to help him.