by Trisha Merry
At home, our children were getting older but not necessarily wiser. We used to give them a bit of pocket-money every week, according to their ages. But one autumn day, Paul wanted to earn some extra money. I don’t think he knew what he wanted to do for it, but he was saving up to buy something for his bike. We used to have a chart in the house for earning extra pocket-money. It was 20p in ‘new money’ for washing up or sweeping the kitchen or for sorting and taking out the rubbish, 25p for pulling up fifty weeds, 50p for washing the car or van, and so on. It would be more now of course.
Paul didn’t want to do anything on the chart that needed doing.
‘So, what do you want to do?’ I asked him.
‘I’m going to sweep the yard,’ he said.
Behind our large Victorian semi, we had a garden that went back a long way, and at the side we had a sizeable, blue-bricked yard, where the kids used to ride their bikes or roller-skate, or whatever.
‘OK, Paul. So what exactly are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to sweep the yard and get rid of the leaves.’
‘And the path?’
‘Yes, and I’ll sweep that as well.’
‘Right then. You’ll have to get the yard brush out of the shed and you’ll need some old potato sacks from the back of the garage to sweep all the leaves and the rubbish into.’
‘OK.’ He looked a bit uncertain. ‘How much will you pay?’
‘Well, let’s see how well you do it, but it’s going to be quite hard work, so if you do a brilliant job of it, I could give you two pounds. How does that sound?’
‘Good,’ he said, with a smile. Two pounds went a long way in the 1970s.
I watched him from the kitchen window, as he got the brush and started at the far end of the yard, sweeping away energetically. There were mounds of leaves in some places, and with his rough and ready sweeping, they were going all over the place. I had to smile. It was typical of Paul. With his ginger hair and fair skin, he was going red in the face from all the effort. I saw him make a big pile of all the leaves he’d swept up so far.
Then I had to go and do something else, so I didn’t see him doing any of the rest of the work.
After a couple of hours, he came back in to find me, his face covered in specks that had blown off the leaves, and a smear across his forehead, from the dirt.
‘I’ve swept it all up.’
‘That was quick.’
‘It’s bootiful.’ He beamed with pride.
‘Bootiful, eh?’ We laughed, remembering how we all used to say that when we had Baby Boots staying with us.
‘Come and see,’ he said.
I called the others to join us, picked up toddler Lulu and we all trooped outside to inspect his handiwork.
‘Oh, this is lovely,’ I said. ‘Well done.’
‘Fab,’ said Sheena, echoing an old 1960s expression that Mike and I often used.
‘Mega fab,’ chorused Ronnie and AJ.
‘It looks much better,’ agreed Mandy.
Daisy didn’t look so sure, as she inspected her brother’s handiwork. ‘It’s quite good . . . but you’ve missed a bit here,’ she said, pointing at the paving behind one of the sheds.
‘Oh,’ said Paul. ‘I forgot about that bit.’
‘Never mind,’ I reassured him. ‘You’ve made a grand job of it – a good morning’s work.’ I gave him his two pounds and thought nothing more about it until a couple of days later, when Ed, who was doing some maintenance work on our house, came to tell me how he was getting on.
‘You ain’t half going to have a lot of damp there, love,’ he said, in the tone builders usually use when they’re about to tell you some extra work is needed that’s going to cost an arm and a leg.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘You’re going to have a lot of damp,’ he repeated.
‘Sorry, Ed, you’ve lost me. What are you talking about?’
‘Well, look out here.’ He led the way outside the house and pointed at our coal-chute. We had this metal coal-chute contraption that you could open out and the coal would go down into the cellar, for the servants to collect and lay the fires with . . . some hope! We only had one servant, and that was me. But that’s what they used the coal-chute for in Victorian times.
‘I was just cleaning up this chute,’ he explained, lifting his cap and scratching his head. ‘And I found all this mess. Look.’
So I looked. What a mess it was. It was jammed with leaves, balls, skipping ropes, even a roller-skate – everything, all down the coal-chute. And because there was no window in the cellar, this was the only way for the air to get in. But now it was completely blocked. I was horrified.
‘I think we’d better go down and look in the cellar,’ suggested Ed.
So we went back into the house and unlocked the door to the cellar. We hardly ever used it so the stone staircase down and the wooden underside of the stairs above were covered in dust, cobwebs and grime. Here was another job for a couple of the children to do, I thought, if they were really keen to increase their pocket-money.
With the dim light on, we could just about see that the whole floor of that section of the cellar was filled with a huge mound of the rubbish that had come down the chute, before it became jammed. The smell was horrible, all musty and mouldy.
‘Well,’ I said to Paul later. ‘That wasn’t very good. Not at all bootiful down the coal chute and in the cellar,’ I said. Come and see what you’ve done.’ He reluctantly followed me down the stone stairs.
‘Sorry,’ he said when he saw the state of everything. ‘I didn’t think anyone would notice.’ He looked so crestfallen and was so honest in accepting the blame that I almost felt sorry for him.
But I had to be firm. ‘You’re not going to have any more money from me if you’re going to cut corners like that. A job has to be completed properly. This was the lazy way. If you agree to do the job a certain way, that’s what you should do, right to the end.’
He tucked his head down and said nothing.
‘You should have got those potato sacks, like we said. And you should have picked out the skates and ropes and balls before you bagged up the leaves and the real rubbish and put them at the bottom of the garden to compost for next year.’
‘But that would have taken too long,’ he muttered, in protest.
As I went in to prepare lunch, he stomped off down the garden. I looked out at him and I could tell he was having a big temper tantrum, probably calling me all sorts of names. It made me laugh, the way his thinking went . . . oh dear!
23
Mystery Illness
For a couple of weeks, twelve-year-old Daisy had not been well. At that time, if a foster child was ill, the doctor would come out to visit them at home. It was the same for all foster children, in our local authority at least. So we had called the doctor out a couple of times, but she could find nothing wrong with Daisy.
The symptoms were fairly minor at first – general fatigue, lack of energy and appetite. She was so lethargic she couldn’t read more than a couple of pages at a time. Finally even that became too much and she developed a raging temperature, so we called the doctor out a third time. I think doctors, sometimes, seem to lack interest when you tell them the petty symptoms of something like flu or a stomach upset. But the minute I mentioned Daisy’s high temperature, the doctor’s voice suddenly sounded more alert.
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes, Mrs Merry.’
When she arrived, she took Daisy’s temperature, which she agreed was unusually high. She asked a few questions and took her pulse.
‘I’m concerned about Daisy’s high fever,’ she said. ‘Do your best to keep her cool. Keep a wet flannel and some cold water to cool her forehead, and take her blankets off. Just a sheet or a light cover will help her temperature come down during the day, and just one blanket at night. If her temperature goes any higher, or if she’s no better tomorrow, be sure to call me.’
I stripped Daisy’s bed down
to one thin cover and we put a folded flannel soaked in cold water across her forehead. I asked Sheena to pop up and see Daisy every now and then to re-wet the flannel and to keep her company when Daisy was up to it. I also went up to check on her at regular intervals.
That night, she slept fitfully, moving about quite a bit. I sat with her till late into the night, then Mike came up and took my place for a couple of hours, for me to get some sleep. Then I came back. In the early hours before dawn, she seemed a little calmer, but her temperature had barely dropped at all. What could be wrong with her? I wondered. Why doesn’t she seem to get any better?
Mike took over from me again for an hour, while I got the children’s breakfasts. When I came back up again, she was sitting up.
‘You look better, Daise,’ I said, cheerfully. ‘It’s good to see you sitting up.’
‘It’s only because I felt so dizzy lying down, so I sat up. But now I feel even dizzier.’
‘I think you’d better lie down again,’ I said, helping her with the pillows.
‘Why do I feel so tired? My head is thumping and I’m so hot. Why won’t this go away?’
I popped the thermometer under her tongue for a couple of minutes, then checked it. ‘About the same. At least it hasn’t gone up. Let’s see how you get on today.’
Daisy had started the day quite lucid, but gradually drifted downhill, and by the afternoon, she was delirious. I rang the doctor and John, her social worker. They both came straight away.
‘Daisy’s temperature has risen again,’ said the doctor, with an anxious expression. ‘She has a dangerously high fever and we must find out what is causing it. I will arrange for her to go into hospital for observation and tests. They should also be able to regulate her temperature.’
‘And I’ll need to give Daisy’s father a call to get his permission,’ said John. ‘It’s just a formality.’ He paused. ‘Where’s the nearest phone?’
‘In our bedroom, straight across the landing.’
So John dialled Rocky’s Swindon number and the doctor stood by, in case Rocky wanted to talk to her. Meanwile, I sat with Daisy, who was in and out of her delirium. All I could hear was this faint, one-sided conversation, so I turned my head away from Daisy, to listen through the open doorway.
‘Hello, Rocky,’ said John. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but Daisy has a dangerously high fever and we don’t know what’s causing it. The doctor needs to admit her to the hospital for tests and observation, so can we have your permission . . . Oh! He’s hung up.’
‘Oh dear. I wanted to explain . . .’ said the doctor
‘I don’t think he wanted to know.’
‘But you got his permission?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
There was some whispering between them, and a couple of minutes later, they both came back into the room. I was sitting by Daisy’s bed, holding her hand. As she lay still, with her eyes closed, they must have assumed Daisy wasn’t conscious enough to hear.
‘I told Rocky how ill Daisy is and asked his permission for the doctor to have her admitted to the hospital . . .’
‘What did he say?’ I asked.
‘He just said, “No, I’m working,” and put the phone down.’ John shrugged, with a look of disbelief. ‘He couldn’t have been clearer. No means no, I’m afraid, unless she becomes so dangerously ill that it can be classified as an emergency.’ John obviously knew the Social Services rules very well – too well, in my opinion.
I was appalled – what a callous response to his only daughter’s need.
I turned to the doctor. ‘So what happens now?’
‘I’m afraid she will have to stay here, with your loving care,’ she smiled with sympathy. But her eyes betrayed her anxiety.
‘I’ve got six other children to look after,’ I said, feeling slightly panicked.
John reassured me as much as he could. ‘I’ll arrange for a support worker with nursing training to come in and relieve you for some of the day, but I’m afraid it might not be possible to cover the nights as well.’
‘OK,’ I said, thinking how we could manage. ‘I’ll get Mike to take the next day or two off work, so that we can take half the night each. In fact, I could move Sheena out temporarily into Tracey’s old room, then one of us can sleep in here as well, if necessary.’
‘That sounds like a good arrangement for the time being. Hopefully it will not be for long.’ John looked at the doctor.
‘Yes.’ She seemed to have come to a decision. She took a hypodermic syringe out of her doctor’s bag. ‘I’m going to give Daisy a penicillin injection. It should act quite quickly to reduce her temperature for now.’ She paused and looked at Daisy for a moment, with a puzzled expression. ‘But I’m still very concerned about what is causing her to be so feverish that her own body can’t fight it off.’
I nodded.
‘I’ll come back tomorrow morning,’ she said, a little more brightly. ‘Let’s see how she is then.’
They both left and Mike sorted out all the kids, who knew their routines and were very cooperative because they were worried that Daisy was so ill.
Meanwhile, after John and the doctor had gone, Daisy regained consciousness for a few minutes.
‘Hello, Daise,’ I said with a sympathetic smile. ‘How are you feeling?’
She looked at me with tears in her eyes. ‘I heard,’ she said, with quivering lips. ‘I heard what Dad said.’ Now the tears came. ‘Doesn’t he care that I’m not well?’ she sobbed. ‘It’s like he’s abandoned me again.’
I stroked and cuddled her, trying my best to soothe her, but she was inconsolable. Absolutely heartbroken . . . until she finally fell into a restless sleep.
After lights out, Paul got out of bed, crept along the landing and appeared in his pyjamas in the doorway of Daisy’s room.
‘Hello Pauly,’ I said with a gentle voice. ‘Come closer and see Daisy. She’s sleeping at the moment. Sleeping will help her get better.’
This normally tough lad came to his sister’s bedside and leant into me for comfort. I put my arm round him.
‘Will she be all right?’ he asked, with anxiety all over his face.
‘I think so,’ I said, optimistically. ‘I will be sitting up with her to make sure she has the best care and she should be OK. The doctor gave her an injection and that has taken her temperature down a bit. Tomorrow morning the doctor will come back to see how she is – hopefully much better by then, if her temperature stays down.’
He nodded, and reached his hand out, laying it close to his sister’s. For a moment, I thought he was going to rest it on hers, but at the last minute he obviously remembered that he was a boy with an image that he wanted to keep, even in front of me.
As I lay in Sheena’s bed through that night, tired but too anxious to sleep, I kept thinking about Rocky’s response. I couldn’t believe that any father would say no to his daughter going into hospital if she needed to. He obviously put his work, or perhaps his wages, above his kids. But all he would have had to say was yes. It doesn’t take any longer to say yes. He had often let the children down, through all the time they’d been with us . . . but never as badly as this. I used to think he must care about them, in his own way. But maybe I was wrong. Why did he have to be so heartless?
The penicillin injection did have a miraculous effect. Daisy’s temperature continued to go down and by the morning she was well enough to sit up and read. However, it took a good two or three weeks before she was fully well again, and we never did discover the cause of Daisy’s mystery illness.
But it wasn’t just Daisy’s physical health that had suffered. There was another recovery she was unable to make – from her father’s callous response. She was tearful throughout most of her recuperation, and beyond. I think it had dawned on her that the only parent she knew was not reliable in any situation, even when she needed him most, just to say yes. She found it difficult to accept that he had refused to come to her aid that night, denying h
er the hospital treatment she needed.
‘Has Daddy rung you to see how I am?’ she asked me, almost every day. Her hopes dashed every time I had to shake my head. I wasn’t sure she would ever come to terms with that sense of rejection.
24
The Awful Smell
‘We’ve got an autistic teenaged boy who needs a good home,’ said the voice on the phone.
‘Why is that? Anything you can tell me about him?’
‘Not much. His name is Kevin, he’s thirteen, and his single mother can’t cope with him as well as his three younger siblings.’
I had a quick think. We had quite a stable group of children now, all of them with us a long time, except for baby Lulu, who was now a toddler. Hmm. An autistic teenager – how hard could that be? ‘Yes, all right. We’ll have him.’
The following day, Kevin’s social worker brought him to us in her little sports car. The boy was cajoled out of the car and slouched over to the front door. I welcomed him with my usual smile, but he kept his eyes down and didn’t make a sound. He reminded me of a frightened animal, like calves at a cattle auction. He did not want to be here, in a new place, meeting new people, especially so many of us.
‘Off you all go,’ I said to the children, who had gathered in the hall. ‘You can meet Kevin later. He needs some time to settle in with us first.’
We went through to the kitchen and I made us some tea. ‘What would you like to drink, Kevin?’ I asked him.
He mumbled something, but I didn’t catch it.
‘I think he said he’d like a Coke, if you have one, Trisha.’
‘Yes, I think I might just have one, hidden at the back of the fridge. Ah, here it is.’ I passed the can to him and he immediately pulled the tag and took a long gulp of the black liquid. For the first time, he held up his head as he was drinking and I could see his face. He was quite a good-looking lad, with straight dark hair and angular features. But his skin looked sallow, as if he hadn’t been outside much.