Mummy’s Little Helper. Casey Watson

mind, bless him. There was a David Attenborough wildlife programme coming on shortly, which we’d both been keen to see, and which Abby had expressed interest in watching too. Her mum, she explained, had really liked the series about the sea – when ‘she could still actually see the telly,’ she’d added sadly.

      She turned to Mike now. ‘I don’t really have many friends,’ she told him, one hand twiddling a few strands of her hair round and round. ‘I don’t have much time for things like that.’

      Mike raised his eyebrows. ‘What, none?’ he asked, mock-incredulously. ‘Not even one special best friend for ever? A BFF – isn’t that what they call them these days?’

      Abby shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she repeated, with a shrug. I watched her carefully, but she didn’t seem to be distressed making this admission – simply stating a fact. ‘I don’t need friends anyway,’ she added quietly. ‘I have Mummy.’

      ‘And a very busy life, by the sound of it,’ I said quickly, anxious that she didn’t get upset again. Which she clearly was. She was twiddling her hair even faster, though she didn’t seem conscious of the fact. ‘Oh, and look, the programme’s starting,’ I said, glad of a distraction for the poor child. ‘We’ve been looking forward to seeing this all week.’

      And it was good, too, except I kept getting distracted by Abby who, though her eyes were on the television, seemed in some sort of trance, and continued to play constantly with her hair. As I kept glancing at her, I realised she was no longer playing with a lock of hair, but with single strands, which she’d carefully separate out, using both hands, then wind around her index finger, as you might roll cotton around a pencil, then, with a tiny jerk, pull from her head.

      Again and again this would happen – it was almost ceaseless. She’d get hold of a strand of hair, spool it slowly up, then – tug – she’d have freed it, whereupon she’d uncoil it and then let it spring free from her finger. Even at a distance of several feet across the room, I could see a tiny nest of hairs growing on the chair arm. And even with the experience of many deeply distressed children, I could see I was dealing with something different here. John had alluded to ‘behaviours’, but this was new territory. I would definitely have to read up on what we might potentially be dealing with. And definitely not forget about that sandwich.

Chapter 4

      John called at nine, as he’d promised he would the night before, for an update on how things had gone. But it was John, not me, who had the most to say in terms of updating, having just returned to his office from a further trip to Abby’s home.

      In the next few days, assuming Abby’s mum remained in hospital, she’d be allocated to a health-care team, who’d take charge of things at home for her, but as a stop-gap it had fallen to Bridget. So John had gone and met her there first thing. Abby’s mum, who was apparently called Sarah, had been anxious about the place being empty, and had requested that she go back to check things, make sure the heating had been set to low, and that the windows were all locked, as well as to collect a list of further items for Abby – school books and footwear and her winter coat and so on – none of which, in the rush, she’d had time to take with her, and about which both mother and daughter had been fretting.

      ‘So it made sense for me to take them,’ John explained. ‘Since I’d be the next one stopping by at yours. So I’ll bring them up when I come to you next week. And I am so glad I did go, I can tell you, because it’s given me a really useful insight. Just incredible. You’d have to see it to believe it, trust me. It’s told us volumes in terms of how these two have been living. It’s no wonder they were under the radar. Honestly, Casey, if an alien came to earth on a reconnaissance mission, they’d have everything they needed in that one house alone. There is an instruction for absolutely everything. Anyway, first up, how has Abby been overnight? Okay?’

      I told him about the hair pulling, and that it was something I’d keep an eye on, but reassured him that, all things considered, she’d been fine. She’d been fast asleep the couple of times I’d gone in and checked on her, and had woken looking marginally less traumatised at least. Though not for long – not once she’d remembered about school.

      A taxi had been organised the day before, to take her, and had arrived promptly at eight, its exhaust billowing white in the cold air. It had struck me as a little odd that she’d be going to school at all, but, as Bridget had pointed out, it was important that Abby had at least some normality to cling on to. Besides, it was a special day – it was Abby’s class assembly, which was as good a reason as any not to miss it.

      But, despite apparently accepting this at the hospital the day before, she’d been upset by its arrival, when the reality of actually going to school sunk in. Not because she was anxious about being there, particularly, but because she was so anxious about her mother’s welfare. ‘But what about Mummy’s breakfast?’ she’d asked me, her chin wobbling, as I’d tried to coax her into eating some of her own. I’d gently reminded her that the nurses would have seen to it she had breakfast. ‘But what if they don’t?’ she persisted. ‘Or what if they don’t know what she likes?’

      I’d sat down and explained about the little menu cards for meals they had in hospitals and how patients could tick boxes to say what they wanted, be it porridge, Weetabix or toast and marmalade and so on. But this just threw up another whole set of problems. ‘But she won’t be able to read it. Will they realise that?’ she asked plaintively. ‘Will they just think she can and then get cross when she hasn’t ticked things?’

      I told her no, they certainly wouldn’t get cross about anything. And that they knew about her mum’s MS and how reading was a bit difficult, and reassured her that someone would go through the list with her. Which, along with my promise to ring the hospital while she was at school, seemed to settle her enough for her to sit at the kitchen table, at least.

      ‘But then there were the bins,’ I explained to John now.

      ‘The bins?’ he asked. ‘What bins?’

      ‘The bins at her house. Wednesday is dustbin day where they live, apparently. And she was really worried about who would take the bins out for them.’

      ‘Ah,’ John said. ‘Well, you can certainly reassure her on that point. We’ve seen the next-door neighbours – the ones on the right, anyway. The house the other side is currently empty – and they’ve given us a number, in case we need to get in touch with them. I’m hoping that when we next have contact with Sarah we’ll be able to persuade her to give them a key as well. I’ll ring them if you like; ask them to deal with the bins. That way you can at least put the poor girl’s mind at rest.’

      ‘That would be good, John. Because you know what she did, before she left for school?’

      ‘Tell me.’

      ‘She was just about to get into the taxi when she turned around and ran back – I actually thought she’d decided she wasn’t going at this point, of course – but, no. She grabbed our wheelie bin and dragged it to the pavement.’

      ‘Your wheelie bin? Why would she put out your wheelie bin?’

      ‘I know. And I’d already told her it wasn’t our bin day. But then I realised she probably just had to do it, didn’t she? She just couldn’t bear to get in that taxi without doing it. Would probably have fretted about it all day.’

      ‘Bless her,’ said John. ‘That’s exactly the kind of thing we thought might be a problem. And it’s no surprise, frankly, given what Bridget and I have seen this morning. Really brings it home to you how things have been for the poor girl.’

      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