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 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
