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

‘You’ve obviously met her,’ I said. ‘How did she seem to you?’

‘Odd, definitely. Twitchy. Has some pronounced – very obvious – tics. I think that’s how I’d describe it. Anxious. Incredibly anxious. Wound up about as tight as she can be, is my feeling. I mean she’s in a state of trauma right now, obviously, but, reading between the lines, there’s probably much more besides. So it seemed to us that the best thing would be to take this bull by the horns. Crazy to slot her into a mainstream placement only to have it break down again in a matter of days or weeks.’

‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, feeling that familiar surge of adrenalin that always accompanied the prospect of a new child. ‘Though I hope your faith in us isn’t going to be misplaced, John. We’re not psychiatrists …’

‘I know. Absolutely. And we’ll obviously be reviewing things as a matter of urgency. Counselling’s probably a must-do that needs flagging up right away. But I know you two can give her that something extra, in terms of structure, that she probably needs right now.’

‘I like to think so. We’ll certainly do our best. So. When do you want to schedule a meeting? Just name the day.’

‘Ah,’ said John. And it was a kind of ‘ah’ I’d heard from him before. ‘That’s the thing,’ he went on. ‘I was wondering if we could skip that part of the process.’

‘Ri-ight …’ I said.

‘Because I really think we need to bring her now.’

‘Ri-ight …’ I said again, waiting for the next part of this process. The one where not only did we skip an initial meeting, but also skipped the first ‘get to know you a little’ visit, which was included to be sure both parties felt happy to proceed. I was fairly confident about this because by now I knew John well.

And he didn’t let me down. ‘We were kind of hoping you’d agree to take her on right away. If you’re amenable, that is …’ he finished apologetically. ‘Are you? I know it’s a lot to ask.’

I smiled to myself, loving how John always observed all the little protocols, bless him. Because when you thought about it, it wasn’t a lot to ask, really, was it? It was the job we did and I couldn’t think of a single prior occasion when ‘the process’, as written in the foster carer’s bible, had ever actually happened by the book.

And who cared? Doing things by the book was boring anyway. ‘Of course we are,’ I reassured him. ‘Well, I am, at any rate, and so will Mike be, I’m sure, just as soon as I call and tell him. He’ll be glad, to be honest, because it’ll give me something else to think about besides all the home improvements he’s terrified I’m going to schedule for our already perfect house.’

John laughed. ‘So I’ve actually done him a favour then, have I? Okay, so, let me see … okay if we pitch up in something like an hour and a bit?’

I told him yes, and immediately mentally switched gears. Outside the sun was slinking away from overseeing another grey February day. But suddenly I couldn’t care less. I disconnected and immediately reconnected – this time to Mike. I couldn’t wait for him to get home. Our New Year had begun.

Mike was home just in time for us to belt to the local supermarket and stock up with a few supplies before John arrived with our new house guest. On a bit of a New Year health kick, I had little in the way of treats in, and the couple of Christmas biscuits I’d had left in the tin had been hoovered up by Jackson and Riley the day before. It would be a bit of a mad rush, but I was determined to get it done, as I had no idea how things would pan out when Abigail arrived, and wanted to be able to concentrate all my energies on her. On the way I briefed Mike about what I already knew.

‘What a dreadful situation,’ he said as we parked the car. ‘Really makes you count your blessings, doesn’t it?’ I nodded. ‘But, at the same time, it couldn’t be better timing for us, could it? Sounds like she’s going to be the opposite of Spencer, at least, bless him.’

He was certainly right there. Our last foster child, to use the parlance, had run us ragged. So much so that I think we’d both been holding our breath when we’d been given the all clear two weeks back. Up till then we’d been on standby and unable to take another child, just in case his new situation – back with Mum and Auntie, but not Dad – proved to be unworkable for keeps. He had become so dear to us, and I was looking forward to hearing how he was getting on, but there was no doubt a part of me was warming to the idea of having the novelty (which it would be) of a quiet and well-behaved little girl taking his place. A distressed and anxious one, clearly – and no wonder, given her circumstances – but one with a completely different set of challenges to be overcome.

I grabbed a basket and tried to compile a list in my head of the sort of goodies I thought Abigail might like, getting Mike – six foot three to my own five foot nothing – to reach the items I couldn’t. Things didn’t normally involve so much guesswork, of course. The usual procedure, as well as those all-important meetings we weren’t having, involved the child filling in a short questionnaire we’d devised, in which they could tell us about all their likes and dislikes. It was just one of the ways we could help them feel settled at what was inevitably a stressful and unhappy time in their lives. With everything new and different it could be a comfort for a child to have some constants still in place – be it a favourite snack or special meal, or a much-loved TV programme not missed; such details could make all the difference to a child in distress.

With Abigail, however, we were going in blind, so I just used my judgement to throw in what occurred to me, while Mike lugged the increasingly heavy basket. ‘And at least we have some girl’s toys tucked away,’ I said, remembering our last little girl, Olivia, who’d come to us from a home of appalling neglect, and owned nothing bar one filthy, balding doll. I’d had something of a field day down at the charity shops for Olivia, and still had a good supply of soft toys and doll’s clothes, even if at nine Abigail might be too old for the enormous plastic play kitchen which had been my best-ever find to date.

Mike frowned, though. ‘I imagine playing’s going to be the last thing on her mind, love,’ he pointed out. ‘For the moment, at least. Poor kid. She must be reeling.’

He was right, of course. This was a uniquely sad and strange scenario – and for all of us. One step at a time. We quickly paid and hurried home.

We’d just finished putting things away and boiling the kettle when John’s car pulled up outside. I loved that this new house gave me a window onto the world. My kitchen was at the front of the house this time, and as it was where I spent most of my time it enabled me to indulge in my secret desire to be a ‘nosey neighbour’. I also liked the fact that we only had a small front garden. One, better still, that was covered with pebbles, so I wouldn’t have to spend much time on maintenance. The other positive was that just across the small road beyond our garden there was a nice grassy area with a children’s play section. That was enough to quell any guilt I had about my small but beautifully kept courtyard; that and the fact that we had a rather large back garden that I intended to fill with child-friendly play things for both the grandchildren and the children we’d be fostering.

Abigail looked dwarfed as she walked up the path in between John and her social worker. Still in her green-and-black school uniform, she stole a quick glance at me and Mike as we opened the front door. She was a pretty little girl, slim and petite, with her long fair hair held in two bunches which were neatly tied with matching green ribbon.