Authors: Trisha Merry
‘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!
F
or 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 her 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.
‘W
e’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.
I passed round some home-made cookies and went through the paperwork with Kevin’s social worker, while Kevin himself looked around the kitchen. Suddenly he spotted a photo of an aeroplane
that Mike brought home once from his engineering works.
Kevin took another cookie and went over to have a closer look at the picture.
‘Do you know what kind of plane it is?’ I asked.
He reeled off the answer in so much detail that I was none the wiser, and still can’t remember it now. He used a string of letters and numbers in his answer, then started to recite all the
features of this particular model. I was astonished.
‘You obviously know your aeroplanes, Kevin,’ I said, in genuine admiration.
‘Yes, I’m an expert on planes. It’s my obsession.’
‘You’ll have to have a chat with my husband Mike later, when he comes home. He designed a part of that plane.’