Casey Watson - Skin Deep

Flip’s smile became a pout. ‘S’not Philippa!’ she said crossly. ‘It’s Flip . With a “F”! Mummy, can we go now?’ she whined, turning to me. ‘I’m bored an’ I wanna go to school.’

Dr Shakelton smiled again. ‘I do beg your pardon, Flip with a “F”. So, Casey? What do you think? You up for a bit of a medical trial?’

The answer was, of course, yes. Had to be, really. Dr Shakelton had been our family GP for many years. He didn’t just know the job I did, and the kinds of kids I tended to look after – he’d been pretty active in supporting us in doing so. If he was suggesting something, I trusted him enough to know that he was acting in Flip’s best interest. ‘I guess we can do that,’ I said, mentally crossing my fingers that the ‘trial’ went the way we both hoped. ‘How long before we see any results, do you think?’

‘We might not see any results,’ he said, ‘but then again, if she was misdiagnosed by any chance – and it can happen – we just might. Either way, I’d say to give it at least a month, and if things worsen in that time we can always try putting her back on it again.’

Flip was already up on her feet, clutching my hand and hopping from one to the other impatiently. I stood up as well. ‘Right then, kiddo, let’s go see what school has to say, then, shall we?’

Flip grinned and pulled at me. ‘Yes, come on ! I promised the brothers we wouldn’t be late!’ She then seemed to remember something. ‘Mummy, could you ask the doctor man if I can have a poo in his toilet first? I don’t wanna have no accidents, do I?’

This was fast becoming something of a thing with Flip. We’d all banged on so much about the importance of recognising you needed the toilet in good time to actually get to a toilet that we’d arrived at a place where Flip wanted the opportunity to use any toilet, anywhere, whether she needed to or not. There were points involved for using a toilet, after all. It had almost become something of a game to her.

‘Do you really need to go?’ I asked her, just as Dr Shakelton was raising a finger to point us in the direction of his. ‘Could you wait five minutes till we get home, do you think? You’ll still get a star on your chart.’ It really was like dealing with a pre-schooler.

Happy now, she assured me she could wait and we hurried home – her chattering away in her usual manner about the first thing that caught her attention, and with me wondering what line the school might take when I told them she wouldn’t be getting any medication for the foreseeable future. Which I absolutely had to do, even if it was tempting not to.

And Flip clearly did need to use the toilet. She was halfway up the stairs before I’d even closed the front door.

‘Hang on, why don’t you use the downst—’ I began.

‘Can’t!’ she said. ‘It’s already coming out!’ Then she disappeared round the corner of the landing.

I shook my head as I went to find my car keys, ready to drive to school. That made no sense either, but the main thing was that I would need to have a word with her about her tendency towards the descriptive when it came to bodily functions; a social nicety that would be second nature to an average eight-year-old and the sort of lapse that would mark her out as odd. And I had no doubt she’d probably been a much-bullied child. I found the keys, then went to grab a couple of shopping bags to take with me, so I could pop to the supermarket as soon as we’d finished up in school – well, assuming they allowed her to stay. I had also promised Kieron that I’d drop in on Lauren – she’d been feeling under the weather since getting back from holiday and was taking a few days off work. I decided I’d get a few extra bits and drop them off for her. I’d just stuffed the bags into my handbag when Flip appeared again on the landing – this time with Pink Barbie in her hand. So that was why she was keen to use the upstairs bathroom.

‘Uh-oh,’ she said, her face taking on the expression of an exasperated mother as she came back down the stairs. ‘Looks like this little princess doesn’t know her manners. She was meant to wipe my bum for me, and she managed to leave the poo on my new knickers.’ She frowned at the doll and then at me. ‘She left skidders , Mummy!’

‘Oh, Flip !’ I said, dropping the car keys and my bag onto the hall table. ‘Are you serious? Truth, now. Did you poo in the toilet or in your pants?’ I turned her around and started walking her back up the stairs. ‘Come on, back to the bathroom. Let’s get you sorted out.’

‘I told you! It was this little madam!’ she cried indignantly. ‘I wouldn’t mess in my new school knickers! Not never!’

Though of course she had. And it wasn’t just the underwear. It was down the back of her legs, the lovely white school socks, and also smeared down the back of her cute pinafore dress. I could have cried. She’d looked so pretty a couple of hours ago, when I’d taken the obligatory first-day-at-school photo that I’d done with my own children, and every foster child since.

I’d been reading up on soiling and, with such a plethora of information on the subject (good old Google …), I felt no better informed about what might be at the root of Flip’s behaviour than I had when I’d started. There just seemed to be so many factors that might be involved. It was clearly something that needed more professional intervention, and as a priority, because I couldn’t really see much progress being made on the ‘socialising’ front till it was dealt with.

But it wasn’t her fault, and I knew I had to keep that uppermost in mind while, nose wrinkling, I stripped her down and cleaned her up, ready to change into another set of clothes. I thanked the lord that I’d had the foresight to buy four of everything. If things went on like this, I’d struggle to keep up.

Fifteen minutes later – and ten minutes late for our appointment – we were sitting in the headmaster’s office. Mr Stancliffe, the headteacher, had already introduced himself and was now introducing the friendly-looking woman who had also joined us.

‘Selina Carter,’ he said as I leaned over to shake hands with her. ‘Selina runs our nurture group.’

I’d not heard of them having a nurture group, and it must have shown on my face, because Miss Carter was quick to explain. It was a new class, apparently, born out of the previous learning support group, and simply renamed to differentiate it. She smiled at Flip, who reciprocated. I had a hunch she was going to like Miss Carter. ‘We decided that, while Flip gets used to her new surroundings, and we work out which groups she needs to be in,’ she went on, ‘she’ll spend her first couple of weeks here in my class. It’s just a small group – six other children or so, generally no more than that – and she’ll be doing the curriculum, just the same as everyone else. Just in a less stressful environment, you know –’ she smiled at Flip again – ‘to help get her settled in.’

Flip didn’t return the second smile. In fact, she immediately gripped my hand and wriggled herself closer to me. ‘What about the brothers ?’ she whispered, as if discussing some obscure religious sect. ‘Ask her, Mummy. Are the brothers going to be in my class?’ She squeezed my hand tighter, her voice tight, and I feared the imminent arrival of tears followed by a meltdown.

‘Sweetie,’ I said, leaning towards her, hoping I could prevent it. ‘No they won’t, but that’s because this is a special, special class, for very special little girls. It’s because you’re such a special little girl that you’ve been picked – you have been hand -picked – to go in with Miss Carter, just for a little bit. Because you’re special. And I’m sure it’s going to be lots and lots of fun.’ I glanced meaningfully at the two teachers who were watching our exchange, and thankfully Mr Stancliffe seemed to know what to do.