Mummy’s Little Helper. Casey Watson

in her section at present, it seemed: a sleeping middle-aged woman, the top of whose bedside cabinet was crammed with cards and flowers. It made the lack of either on Abby’s mum’s bed feel very stark and I cursed myself for not thinking to bring some.

      Sarah, who looked to be in her early thirties, was quite well built, which gave her a healthy sort of glow, though I noticed that her hair, which was a caramel to Abby’s blonde, was lank and looked as though it hadn’t been washed for a while. She had the same eyes as Abby, greyish green and deep set, and as we drew nearer I could see dark circles beneath them. I tried to imagine what it must be like to be her – to be so ill that you were separated from your only child in this fashion. And worse, to know she was being cared for by strangers. How did that feel? I really couldn’t imagine.

      I put a broad smile on my face, conscious of her silent inspection. That at least wouldn’t set any alarm bells ringing, I didn’t think. Though I knew how to discipline children of any age and size (it had been my job for so many years now that I had long since perfected ‘the look’) I was not an intimidating-looking character. At just five foot nothing, and in sweatshirt and leggings, plus comfy boots, mine was not the kind of look that would alarm anyone. And though I had more that once been called an ‘old witch’ (due to my black hair – teenagers could be so imaginative) by the odd miscreant who’d fallen foul of me in my days working at the local comprehensive, where adults were concerned my problem was more usually of being underestimated.

      ‘Nice to meet you,’ I said, beginning to extend a hand but, unsure if she’d want to shake it, transferred it to the pocket in my jumper instead. I knew from our recent research that MS sufferers could have pain in their hands. I looked at the cage again. And their legs too, I guessed.

      Abby had seen it too.

      ‘Mummy, what’s that?’ she asked, alarmed. ‘Why have you got a house on your leg?’

      ‘I broke my ankle, poppet,’ she explained. ‘When I fell. Didn’t they tell you that?’

      Abby shook her head. ‘No, they didn’t,’ she said indignantly.

      ‘Compound fracture, unfortunately,’ Sarah said, now looking at me. ‘Hence all this. Never rains but it pours, eh?’

      By now Abby had sped straight to the other side of the bed and placed a quick peck on her mother’s cheek. Now she grabbed her arm and began stroking it. It seemed an odd way to greet her – I’d have expected her to fling her arms around her. But then I realised that perhaps Sarah was in more pain than she was showing; the way Abby was so gentle and restrained in her movements made me wonder at a long-standing unspoken agreement that she had to be careful how she touched her, for fear of hurting her.

      Abby seemed different – very matter-of-fact now she was with her mum, the two of them clearly slipping into long-established roles. While I exchanged pleasantries with Sarah – difficult to do in such circumstances but clearly something she was as keen to cling to as I was – Abby fussed around, plumping pillows and firing questions at her mother about when she’d been bed-bathed (she’d taken in what I’d said to her, clearly), what she’d eaten, whether she was all right for all her various medications, how she’d been sleeping and whether she had enough clothes. The notes she’d made in the car were ticked off as she did this, and I couldn’t help notice how clipped and precise her manner had become. It really was as if she’d morphed into a mini-professional carer. And, even more tellingly, how comfortable her mother seemed with this. I kept expecting Sarah to make her first enquiry about Abby’s day, but Abby had hardly paused to draw breath and, once again, Sarah seemed happy to let her continue.

      ‘Anyway,’ I finished, conscious that this was precious time for them to be together, ‘I’m going to go and grab myself a coffee and leave you two to it.’

      This seemed to galvanise Sarah. ‘Poppet,’ she said to Abby, who was now busy rootling in the bedside cabinet for a comb. ‘Up at the end of the ward – ask the nurse; she’ll direct you – there’s a little library of books. Do you want to choose one for us to read?’

      Abby popped her head up, and nodded. ‘What kind?’ she asked.

      ‘Oh, you choose,’ said Sarah. ‘You know what we like.’

      Abby nodded again, and trotted back down the ward.

      Sarah turned to me. She had clearly been anxious that we speak alone. ‘Look,’ she said, as Abby disappeared from the bay, ‘I know what you’re probably thinking.’

      ‘I’m not –’ I began helplessly.

      ‘How it looks,’ she went on, as if I should have known. ‘I know, because the social worker’s told me. But you must understand –’ She really emphasised the ‘must’. She looked at me earnestly. ‘That, well, it’s not what it must look like. She’s honestly fine. Really. I don’t think they quite get it …’ She paused, and formed her mouth into a thin smile. ‘There is no one. There is really no one. So I have had to be single minded. Do you understand?’ Her eyes seemed to be willing me to say yes. Even though I wasn’t sure quite what I was supposed to be understanding.

      ‘I like to think I do …’ I began again. ‘I obviously have no personal experience of your situation, but –’

      ‘It was always just so important that I made her independent.’

      ‘She’s certainly that,’ I agreed, wondering whether to say any more. ‘Though –’

      Sarah’s eyes flashed and I sensed I was on tricky ground here. ‘She’s very capable,’ I went on. ‘I can see that. Though she does seem, well, a little over-anxious, understandably. Which is why they asked Mike and I …’

      ‘But that’s exactly what I mean,’ Sarah said. This conversation was becoming more confusing by the minute. If she had a point to make, it was a long time coming. ‘I’ve had to make her that way, for just this eventuality,’ she said. ‘I’ve relapsed before.’ She sighed heavily. ‘And once I’m over this, I don’t doubt, at some point, that I’ll relapse again. This is a bitch of a disease. You never know when it’s going to get you. And it’s always been my number one priority to be sure Abby can look after herself.’ She paused, and I could see she was becoming upset now. ‘The absolute last thing I ever wanted was to be a burden to Abby. It’s just us, you see …’ The wry smile flashed back. ‘Me and her against the world. What with her having no dad …’

      ‘He’s not contactable at all?’

      ‘No! No, not at all. Never been there. Not since before I even had her.’

      ‘But maybe …’

      ‘Really, don’t even go there. I told you. There’s no one.’ She looked past me, and then changed her expression completely. ‘Ah, poppet!’ she said brightly. ‘What have you found? So.’ She turned to me again. ‘How long do we have, Casey?’

      I turned around, to see Abby trotting up, clutching two big hardbacks. Chick-lit, by the looks of things. Obviously large print. Both pink. I checked the time on my mobile. ‘Say, forty-five minutes? Would that be okay?’

      ‘That’ll be perfect,’ Sarah gushed. ‘Abby is such a brilliant reader, aren’t you, poppet? Top of the class last term, weren’t you?’

      Abby nodded happily, pulling the visitor chair round, ready to commence her reading. Happily, but with that same air of brittleness. As if inhabiting a role.

      I left them to it and had the nurse direct me to the restaurant, a little puzzled by my short exchange with Sarah. She’d seemed so anxious to get through to me, but I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. One thing was clear, though. I felt she’d been misguided. From what little I’d seen so far – and, admittedly, it hadn’t been much – her determination not to be a burden on her daughter had been misplaced. In having Abby so independent that she could do everything for the pair of them hadn’t she actually created the situation she’d been so anxious to avoid? She had actually