The Saddest Girl in the World. Cathy GlassЧитать онлайн книгу.
the matter is?’
She shook her head.
I hesitated, stopped stroking her head, and stood. ‘OK, love, you get off to sleep.’ I moved away, but as I went to the door I heard her voice, so faint I could have missed it.
‘Cath-ie,’ she said, pronouncing the two syllables separately. At last! I thought, and I could have jumped for joy.
I immediately returned to the bed. ‘Yes, love? What is it?’
‘I'm sorry, Cath-ie,’ she said in a small voice.
I knelt down again and stroked her forehead. ‘There is no need to be sorry, pet. All I want is for you to be happy. Will you try to talk to me tomorrow?’
She nodded.
‘And to Paula and Adrian? They would like that.’
She nodded again.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me now?’ She looked at me for the first time since arriving, her big brown eyes doleful and full of pain. She was an attractive girl, her light brown skin soft and flawless, but her pleasant features were dulled by her inner turmoil. ‘Yes?’ I encouraged.
‘It's my fault,’ she said quietly.
‘What is, sweet?’
‘It's my fault my brothers and me came into care.’
‘No, it's not, love,’ I said, gently but firmly. ‘Not at all. And being in care is not a punishment. It's to help your mum and give her a rest.’
‘Mum says it's my fault. She said I should have tried harder.’
‘Harder at what?’
‘Looking after the house, and Warren and Jason. I did my best, but it wasn't good enough. And Mary and Ray didn't want my help.’
I continued to stroke her forehead. ‘Donna, at your age, love, you should not be responsible for looking after the house or your younger brothers. That is the adult's responsibility. It was nice of you to help, but it was your mother's job to look after you, just as Mary and Ray are looking after your brothers now, and I will look after you. Do you understand?’
She nodded.
I paused. ‘Is that what's bothering you, or is there something else?’
She gave a slight shake of her head.
‘All right, love, we'll talk about this more tomorrow, but I'm very pleased you felt you could tell me.’ I smiled and she looked directly at me again and, although she didn't return my smile, I thought I saw a slight lifting of the dreadful melancholy that had frozen her expression into sadness.
‘Night then, love.’ I kissed her forehead.
‘Night, Cath-ie,’ she said, again separating the second syllable.
I came out and with huge relief went into Adrian's room to say goodnight.
‘Donna's talking,’ I said.
‘Cool. Now she can play with Paula.’ I wasn't sure if this was a comment on Donna's progress or that Paula had been taking up rather a lot of his time recently.
I said goodnight to Adrian and, with my usual warning about not reading until too late, came out and went downstairs. I went into the lounge, where I wrote up my log notes with considerable relief and some small satisfaction that I had got there in the end and Donna was finally talking.
That night I slept very well, after sleeping badly the previous two, and when I went downstairs it was just after 7.00 a.m. At the end of the hall, I was surprised to find the door to the kitchen slightly open — I usually made sure all the downstairs doors were shut before I went to bed. I tentatively pushed the door wider open and went in. As I did, I started and did a double take. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Donna was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor for all she was worth. She was using the rags that had been in the carrier bag in her bedroom.
Chapter Six Amateur Psychology
‘Whatever are you doing?’ I asked, amazed. Donna was in her nightdress, and the floor was awash with puddles of water and the sopping wet rags, which were dotted around her.
She didn't answer, but continued rubbing one of the rags back and forth across the floor.
‘Donna?’ I said again. I began walking across the wet and now slippery tiled floor, with my bare feet squishing on the tiles. ‘Donna?’ I went right up to her. She must have heard me, and seen me out of the corner of her eye, but she kept on scrubbing furiously. Both of her hands clutched the rag in front of her and she rubbed it backwards and forwards as though her very life depended on it. In different circumstances I might have seen the funny side of it — a child frantically mopping up a spillage before I could see it, with their well-meant intentions making it a lot worse. But not now. This was no spillage — there was too much water and Donna's work was all-consuming and frantic.
‘Donna?’ I said again, more firmly; then I placed my hand on her shoulder, hoping to break the motion. My hand jerked back and forth in time with her frenzied cleaning. ‘Donna, stop now,’ I said loudly. ‘You don't have to do this.’
‘I do,’ she said, and she continued, now pushing the cloth round and round. The water sprayed against my ankles. I thought she must have tipped the washing-up bowl full of water over the floor, for there was far too much water for it to have come from the wet rags alone. She must have left her bedroom and come downstairs very quietly, for normally I heard a child out of bed and on the landing.
‘Donna, I want you to stop. Now!’ I said, and again I touched her shoulder.
‘No! I must clean,’ she said, her voice rising in panic. ‘I must! I must! I have to clean the kitchen floor.’
‘No,’ I said, raising my voice above hers. ‘You don't have to. Stop it, now! And you are not supposed to be in the kitchen. It isn't allowed.’ Which was true: it was a house rule that I didn't have young children in the kitchen, for safety reasons, but I hadn't yet explained the house rules to Donna.
Gradually the frantic scrubbing grew less frenzied, and then came to a halt. Her hands on the rag became still, but she remained on all fours, bent over the rags. ‘Don't hit me,’ she said. ‘I've done my best.’
I stared at her, horrified. ‘Of course I'm not going to hit you. I don't hit anyone, and certainly not a child.’ I continued to look at her, as I tried to understand what was happening. Keeping my voice even, I said, ‘Donna, I want you to stand up, and dry yourself. We need to talk.’ My firmness masked my anxiety, as I continued to search for a reason that could have brought Donna down here in the early hours to do this.
I took the hand towel from the rail by the sink and held it out. ‘Now please, Donna, stand up and dry your hands and legs. You're soaking.’ The front of her nightdress was sopping wet where it had trailed in the water; it dripped as she stood. I passed her the towel and she slowly wiped her hands, then bent down and wiped her knees. I watched her: the frenzied movements of her scrubbing had vanished and she had once more resumed her slow lethargic manner. She finished wiping off the excess water from her legs and handed back the towel. Although her legs and hands were dry, her nightdress was still dripping. ‘I think we had better get you changed first before we talk,’ I said.
She shrugged.
I reached out and took her hand, and she allowed me to lead her from the wet and slippery floor of the kitchen, across the carpet of the annexe and into the hall. I let go of her hand as I led the way upstairs. Adrian and Paula were still asleep — it was just before 7.30 a.m. I went into Donna's bedroom, took a set of clean clothes and underwear from her wardrobe and laid them on the bed. ‘Get dressed, please,’ I said. ‘I'll be back in a minute. Leave your nightdress in the laundry basket on the landing.’
Donna