All the Good Things

by Clare Fisher

  Community Social Work Report 11.09.99 S. Miles

  This was my fifth attempt to visit Miss Joanna Mitchell (JM). Upon entering her residence it became obvious why she has been avoiding contact: the place is a health hazard. Entry to the sitting room was blocked by a detritus of old magazines, boxes, broken toys, gadgets, etc., etc. that teetered above our heads. Given CSWR S.P 95, this deterioration appears to have occurred rapidly and is a clear sign of psychological instability.

  JM became agitated when I brought up the state of the house. Having lost her job, she has now been unemployed for six months, yet claims not to have time for housework because ‘I waste most of my time on the bus to or from the Job Centre or queuing to speak to some idiot at the Job Centre or going to some idiot interview for some idiot job I’m never in a million years going to get.’ When I reminded her of the school’s concerns (see SGR 96 – pt2) and that this visit was a good opportunity to get the help she desperately needed, she raised her voice. How dare I call her desperate, she was managing very well thank you very much, and if I really wanted to help I could leave right now so she could get on with Bethany’s dinner. Bethany I only glimpsed as JM hustled me to the door; she was lying prostrate in front of what looked to be a quite unsuitable American soap opera.

  Recommendation: a minimum of five hours’ home help for JM to ensure the house reaches a habitable standard. I would also recommend an increased frequency of visits due to her obviously volatile emotional state.

  When I wasn’t at the doctor or the hospital or the scout hut, I was at the Job Centre. I was queuing up so some woman could hand me a form, then filling out the form, then queuing up so I could give it back to some other woman. All this so that I’d have enough money to keep us both alive.

  At my benefits appointment, I asked how long would it take for the benefits to come through?

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘But she’s going to come any minute. I can’t work.’

  ‘And why not?’

  I patted my belly. ‘Because of this. And . . . and plus, I owe some money. A lot of money.’

  The woman made a face like she’d heard this story too many times before. ‘Did you take out one of those ridiculous loans? That’s your business.’

  ‘But when the social . . .’ The blood rushed to my cheeks. I hated telling people. Hated them feeling sorry for me. Or scared of me. Or something. ‘They said there’d be help. Because I’d been in care and that.’

  ‘When did you come out of care?’

  ‘Ummm . . .’

  She flicked through my file. ‘Ah, I see, fourteen months ago. Well, it’s too late. There are benefits you can apply for in the first nine months.’

  ‘No one told me.’

  ‘You’ll have been told. And it’s in the leaflets. I’m sorry but your appointment is now running over so if you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘What about school?’

  Her eyes flickered behind me – a reminder of how many people were waiting. Then she opened a drawer and handed me a booklet. Further Education Opportunities in South London.

  ‘Take this. Then, when you’ve had the child, when you’re ready, make a careers adviser appointment – this will have to be separate from your benefit ones – and we’ll see what we can do. But I’ll warn you – that booklet is a bit out of date. Some of those courses have stopped now.’

  I can guarantee that I was the only person to leave that Job Centre with a smile. The money thing – that would work out. I didn’t know how, but it would. The further education booklet was brick-like – a brick I’d build a house with. Our house. Our life. I’d work in the morning, study in the afternoon, look after you in the evening. It would be hard and we wouldn’t be rich, we wouldn’t even be able to afford Nando’s or anything like that, but we’d have fun, and when I got my A-levels or my Foundation Degree or whatever, I’d get a good job, a job with hours and pay and holiday and sick leave you could count on, and everything would be good. My mum was out there, living, breathing, somehow knowing – and proud. She was 100% proud.

  Memo for S. Miles 21/10/99

  Received tearful call from Home Assist employee Angelina B saying JM ‘much angry’ and ‘do scary acts’ (Angelina’s own words).

  Memo for S. Miles 10/11/99

  Received angry call from Home Assist employee Monicka S saying JM was ‘a mental stuck-up bitch what didn’t deserve no help, she just had a go whenever I tried to clear up her crap’.

  ‘Everything’s as it should be, Miss Mitchell. Now, the question is, have you packed your hospital bag?’

  Everyone went on about the hospital bag: the doctor, Gloria, the other almost-mums at the antenatal class, everyone. It wasn’t until I got to the worst part of the case files, until I was so big that even walking to the shops tired me out, until the days since my last shift at the Odeon turned into weeks – weeks in which I saw no one but doctors, benefits advisers, nurses, library assistants, strangers – and it was 100% clear that Chantelle wasn’t going to get back in touch, that I got why.

  Dressing gown. Slippers. Flannels. Eye mask. Water bottle. Book. Nightie. Face wipes. Just writing a list of the things you’d need, the things you’d need so you could turn from an almost-mum to an actual mum and still be OK, it made things feel better. Smaller, calmer, neater. Even if you couldn’t afford these things. Even if you woke up a few hours later and scribbled half of it out and started again.

  The list made it easier to nod and smile yes, you were OK, yes you felt 100% positive, no you didn’t need extra support. True, you weren’t in touch with the father, but you had plenty of other support, you had your finances and everything else in hand. You had your list. Your dressing gown. Your slippers. Your eye mask.

  Urgent message for CYPMH Head Social Worker 18/11/99

  Call from Beechdale Primary concerning Bethany Mitchell (see file YS23705). Teacher Miss Isabelle Massfield (? line fuzzy) concerned that social worker S. Miles not returning calls. Appears to have been miscommunication re. S. Miles’ sick leave (on-going). Teacher indulged in anti-bureaucratic rant; I explained lack of resources, increasing incidence of severe social problems, etc., etc. She then admitted to new and alarming concerns vis. Bethany’s physical and mental state, vis. loss of weight, aggressive behaviour towards other children, falling asleep in class. Although finding teacher Isabelle Massfield’s self-righteous attitude distasteful, I am inclined to think she is right. I hereby recommend an emergency visit ASAP.

  EMERGENCY POLICE REPORT 27/11/99, DC Ahmed

  Miss Joanna Mitchell found wandering streets c. 2 a.m. in agitated state (poss. psychotic). Physical appearance v. bad: scratches on face, inadequately dressed given the time of year, shivering and a bit blue. When PC James and PC Khan asked her what she was doing, she swore and ‘lunged for a brick like she was going to chuck it at us’ (PC Khan) meaning that ‘we had no choice but to restrain her’ (PC James). She claimed we had been sent by ‘Them’. When PC Khan asked if she had anyone waiting for her at home, she began to hyperventilate and said, over and over: ‘They’re going to take Bethany. I knew it, I always knew it. I knew They’d never let me keep her!’ Paramedics agreed with PC Khan and PC James’s assessment that Miss Joanna Mitchell was suffering from severe psychotic symptoms and should be detained under the MH Act as she was clearly a danger to both herself and others. Paramedics sedated Miss Joanna Mitchell soon after and PCs were then able to extract her personal documents from her clothing, which is how her home address was discovered.

  I read the hard bits in the library, in a big squashy seat at the end of the Art and Crafts aisle. I tried to balance the papers on my belly but they fell off so I wedged them between me and the seat. The seat smelt of old people but I didn’t mind; I wanted to be as close to as many different stories as possible. I wanted us both to believe that the one we were about to finish reading was only the start of a new and better o
ne.

  EMERGENCY ON-CALL SOCIAL WORKER REPORT 28/11/99

  House door open. Unpleasant stench of damp, refuse, etc. I didn’t believe the house was still inhabited, but after clambering over bin liners, old toys, etc., I found the child curled up inside a nest – composed of scarves, towels, etc. – on the floor. She awoke at the sound of my footsteps. When she saw my face, she asked what I’d done with her mum. I said I was here to help. She moved aside her towels and ran her finger over what I saw was a thick covering of paper and card, on which she’d drawn . . . Well, it was hard to tell what it was, but it evidently meant a lot to her. I asked where her mum was and she said that she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. I reassured her that telling me might help her get back her mum. At this point she sat up, faced me and said that her ‘inside mum’ went away a long time ago but that it wasn’t until recently that ‘her body’ disappeared, too. ‘She tells me to go to sleep and that she’ll be back before I wake up but sometimes she isn’t and anyway I get scared in the house by myself.’ Where did her mum go? ‘To where the baddies are.’ Had she ever seen these baddies? Slowly, the child shook her head. ‘Sometimes, I think they don’t exist. But when I asked Mum if they were real, she got angry. And when she gets angry, I get scared. I don’t like being scared.’

  London Borough of Lambeth vs. Miss Joanna Mitchell 04.05.00

  Miss Joanna Mitchell – STATEMENT

  I can’t believe this is happening. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. I know I’ve been bad but that’s only because you took Beth away from me. She was . . . OK. Let’s go back a bit. Before Beth, I wasn’t. I didn’t feel. Like a real person. I . . . [Judge asks about her history of mental illness.]

  I knew I shouldn’t have started on this! Yes. Yes, I’ve had episodes. But they’re just episodes. There have been long stretches between when things have been fine. And it only started because . . . because of what happened.

  [Judge asks JM again to elucidate.]

  This isn’t the sort of thing it’s easy to say. Not to a person you trust. Definitely not to a room full of people you barely know. People who are here to judge you. It’s . . .

  [Judge tells her she can take her time. She sobs for a period then continues.]

  It started at Uni. I had a lot of time to myself and things started to get . . . weird. Everywhere I looked there was a pattern. If I stared at the pattern long enough, I’d find out this big secret – one no one else knew. I’d read and read and write and write, convinced I was nearing the secret, but when I handed it in the tutors said it made no sense and then, then, I’d fall into this . . . It was like a hole. I’d just feel dead. I’d stay in bed waiting for the magic feeling, the feeling like everything was in a pattern, to come back. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t. Other times it was replaced by this other feeling . . . I guess it was the opposite of a pattern. Like nothing made sense. I wasn’t handing in essays or going to tutorials but I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. I pretty much stopped eating, sleeping, studying, everything. Eventually I figured out that if I sunk low enough, the patterns would creep back, and I’d feel like doing things again. When I went home for the holidays, my step-mum was shocked. What was I playing at, taking dieting so far? I explained it wasn’t a diet. The problem was, I couldn’t explain what it was. They kept trying to make me eat doughnuts. I wouldn’t; they weren’t part of the pattern. Soon after that, Dad got diagnosed with cancer. Of course, I got blamed for that. Never mind he’d chain-smoked for decades. After he died, I was glad not to have to keep seeing my step-mum.

  [Judge asks Miss Mitchell to return to the issue in hand.]

  So much for, ‘take your time Miss Mitchell!’ God, there’s really no point, is there? You’ve already decided. Already got me marked as a crazy. Beyond hope. Never mind that I managed perfectly well for years. I mean, look at me now. I’m not hearing voices, am I? No, of course you’d have no way to know that. But I’ll assure you, I’m not. Things . . . Well, that job, it may seem like a silly little thing to you, but to me it was – well, getting that job for Spark Arts, it was the first time I realized I might have a hope of life. Of being something other than this girl who’d gone a bit mad, dropped out of Uni, then used what little bit of money she’d got from her Dad’s death to set up some attempt at life in London. I belonged there, you know? I know I burned my bridges in many ways. I thought . . . Well, it’s just, things, they got the better of me. It felt like the world was against me, blah blah. I pushed away anyone who suggested I had a problem because I didn’t WANT to have one. But I recognize now that I do. But you know what’ll get me better? It’s getting Bethany back. I’ll look after her, I’ll do it right this time, I promise, I promise . . .

  [JM breaks down in sobs and is excused and declines to continue her statement at next session.]

  Case Worker’s Statement – Mr B. Johnson 17.03.00

  Bethany was found in a state of physical and mental neglect when removed from her mother’s care under an emergency care order. After spending some months in temporary foster care, she is now in a long-term placement with Paul and Susannah Jones. Since settling with the Jones, she has flourished both physically and mentally; school teachers report a huge improvement in her behaviour and attitude. Although claiming a wish to return to her mother at every available opportunity, she also exhibits strong affection for the Jones and for her new friends at school. The Jones report that she at first used to hide food under her bed in case ‘things went bad and it ran out’. Given this evidence and in light of the doctor’s report concerning her physical state and Miss Mitchell’s on-going in-patient treatment for a diagnosis of Bi Polar Disorder and Borderline Personality Disorder with Pyschotic Tendencies, I strongly recommend she be placed under a permanent care order and that the local authority put her up for adoption as soon as possible. She is still young and her chances of being placed with a family are high.

  Permanent Care Order 04.05.00

  Bethany Mitchell to be placed under the care of the Permanent Authority with a view to long-term foster placement (with Mr and Mrs Jones in the first instance) and adoption. Contact with mother every 12 weeks (to be reviewed quarterly).

  Please stop, I told the memories. Please just stop for now.

  ‘How can I help you?’ asked the Customer Care Adviser. I was at the Council help desk. Something to do with Council tax. Only I couldn’t remember what it was I needed help with because all I could see was my mum, sitting in a pile of old newspapers, and when I asked her was she going to make dinner, she yelled that she had more important things to do than make dinner, this was a crucial moment, she almost had it, everything was lining up, it was all making sense now, it was going to be perfect.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I bumped into people. I would’ve left my handbag on the bus if a kind woman hadn’t run after me. I’d get off the bus at the wrong stop or even if I got off at the right one it would take me a minute to remember which way to go. Because everything was new; every inch of now was littered with the past and it was hard to work out who or what or where I was.

  It had been the same at school, after my mum got bad. My mum said she didn’t need food and when I asked her for it she would start to cry and so I stopped. I ate all the biscuits. I ate all the crisps. Then I noticed that if I drew or wrote, I didn’t feel so hungry. I didn’t feel so angry or scared. My scribbles would turn into a toucan, a parrot, a lion, a tiger, a jungle. If I made a drawing that was big enough, beautiful enough, interesting enough, I’d remind my mum how to be properly alive; she’d see what I’d made and she’d remember that the things we used to do, like doing impressions of people while eating our dinner at the table, or watching silly films, or playing cards, or talking to Nina, or drawing, or reading stories, or running around, or going to the park, were really, really good.

  ‘My mum says your mum’s weird.’

  ‘Your mum looks like Skeletor.’

  ‘Why do you smell like that?’
r />   ‘How come you’re stealing Jason’s lunch?’

  ‘Why are you always doing those weird scary drawings when you should be doing your work?’

  If I kept drawing, my mum – the real one, not the strange, bony ghost she’d become – would return. I shouted or spat at or kicked whoever questioned this, or, worse, said or did things to make me question it; no way could I consider that she might not come back. Or that by the time she did, it would be too late. Far too late.

  All this rattled around my head while, with another loan – the benefits were taking forever to come through and somehow I still believed that as soon as you were born, your dad would change his mind when he saw how cute you were and how much you looked like him, he’d pay up – I bought Babygros and baby bibs and bottles and nappies and a sling and a crib and one of those prams that look like 4x4s. I bought things for me, too, things for my hospital bag: a dressing gown and slippers and an eye mask and a new towel. And, of course, the bag itself.

  The more time I spent in Mothercare, the more I missed her. Missed how, if she were here, we’d laugh at baby rugs shaped like octopuses and buggies shaped like spaceships and Babygros that said things like ‘I’m with stupid’ and ‘I’m THE DUDE’.

  Missed the good and the bad and the in-between times. Missed her kissing my forehead before I went to sleep every night, her breath soupy with wine and toothpaste. Missed the way her eyes would widen when she was having the most amazing idea. Missed the way she’d smile when I started to tell her a story. Missed seeing her at the school gates. Missed the way she cried. The way she laughed. Missed our little house, its big mess. I even missed the way she disappeared.

  For the first time in a really, really long time, I cried. I cried for her. Cried for me. Cried for the help we didn’t get, and the life we could’ve led if she had. Sure, it wouldn’t have been a ‘normal’ life; it wouldn’t have been spiky in the middle and rough round the edges. She’d have had down-times and up-times and I, as I grew older and wiser to the truths and lies of the way she was, would have got angry. When friends came round and she was ‘off on one’, I’d have got embarrassed. Maybe I’d have stopped inviting them round altogether; maybe she’d notice and maybe she wouldn’t; maybe we’d have a massive argument, or maybe it would be one more thing we wouldn’t talk about. But we’d have held on, the both of us, just about. And now, I’d be coming home from Uni with a bagful of dirty washing and a mouthful of dirty stories which we could share like the friends/sisters/mum-and-daughter we’d become.