7th October
Tonight, I lay sprawled on the battered old sofa in our little terraced house, staring up at the ceiling. Anxious thoughts chased sleep far away from mehow could I rest when my little one was ill yet again? I kept berating myself. Why did I send her back to nursery so soon? Maybe if we’d stayed home just a day or two longer, she wouldnt have caught this blasted cold.
My chest tightened as guilt gnawed at me, and I found it impossible to breathe with ease. Pushing myself up, I wandered over to the window and gazed out at the dull, cloud-heavy sky looming over our sleepy village in Kent. For the third day running, a dreary autumnal drizzle spattered against the glass.
A feeble cough drifted from the bedroom. My darling Lucy moaned in her feverish sleep, then began to cough desperately. Heart pounding, I hurried to her side, feeling her forehead, which was blazing hot. I didnt even need to check the thermometer to know her temperature had shot up again. Still, as quietly as I could, I flicked on the bedside lamp and slipped the thermometer under her arm.
“Forty!” I muttered, panicked. “Oh Lord, what now?”
Lucy blinked awake. “Mummy, Im so warm.”
“Hold on, sweetheart. I know, its just this rotten fever…”
The commotion roused Tom from his spot on the camp bed. He sat up, running a hand through his hair while I fumbled for more childrens paracetamol. But the fever just wouldnt abate. By the early hours, blue lights flashed across our front garden, and the ambulance took us both to St. Marys Hospital.
A kind nurse, seeing the pale terror on my face, squeezed my hand before expertly inserting a tiny cannula into Lucys trembling arm. “Try not to worry,” she reassured, “well get her sorted. Shell be on the mend before you know it.”
I could only sigh in response. After a while, Lucy seemed brighter and plucked at my sleeve, whispering for water. As I poured a glass, I realised that from the next bed, a pair of huge blue eyes were fixed on me. The girl watching us looked about six, thin and frail, hair knotted and fair, draped messily about her shoulders. She wore faded leggings with holes at the toes and an old grey T-shirt. Instead of slippers, battered trainers with blue hospital covers sat beneath her bed.
“Hello,” she ventured.
“Hello there. Did you arrive last night too?”
She shook her head. “No, you did. Whats your name?” she asked, shyly.
“My names Mrs Green, and this is Lucy. What about you?”
“Im Grace,” she replied. “Ive been here a whilethey say Ill go home on Friday.”
“But todays only Monday. Thats a bit of a wait.”
She nodded, then dropped her voice. “Do you have your mum here?”
She stared straight ahead. “No. My mum died when I was tiny. Dad well, he started drinking too much and ended up dying too. So I went into care.”
Her world-weary sigh broke my heart.
“I like it here better, really. They feed us properly and the older kids at the home cant pick on me.”
Swinging her legs over the side, she began pulling on her scuffed trainers. “Breakfast will be soon. Want me to bring you something?”
“No need, darling. I can get it myself,” I said gently.
As I watched that small, fragile back disappear down the corridor, sorrow clawed at my chest. The other mum on the ward shook her head softly and said, “Shes a sweet little soul, that one. Not had an easy go of it.”
Before I could reply, my mobile buzzed.
“Hello?”
“Libby, how are you? Hows Lucy?”
“Mum,” I stammered, “Were in hospital.”
“Oh love, whats happened?”
“Dont worry. Lucys temp spiked. They think its bronchitis. Shes sleeping now.”
My mum gasped, “Oh, my poor darling! Which hospital are you in? Ill come nowwhat shall I bring?”
“Mum, I forgot our slippers and Lucy could use her pink pyjamas. And Mum, theres a little girl here from a childrens home. Could you bring some shampoo, a bar of soap? And some of Sophies old thingsvests, a dressing gown, a couple of pairs of leggings. And, if you can manage, indoor slippersabout a six-year-olds size?”
“Of course, love.”
By morning, Lucys spirits lifted and she was giggling away with her new companion. I slipped out to find the nurse and quietly asked, “Does anyone come for Grace?”
The nurse shook her head. “No, love. Social services come for her on discharge, thats all.”
“Is she allowed to have a bath?”
“She needs one!” the nurse said wryly. “If only we had the time”
That night, Grace was radiant, scrubbed clean in a fresh pair of pyjamas and brand new pink slippers embroidered with silly dogsthanks to Mums shopping trip. She cherished the gifts, hiding her slippers under the mattress and folding the rest away.
“Grace, why are you hiding your things?” I asked, puzzled.
“So no one nicks them,” she whispered.
I felt ashamed of the world as I tucked Lucy in. As the lights dimmed, I caught a glimpse of Grace lying with eyes closed, her lips faintly movingperhaps dreaming she was walking down a sunlit village lane, one hand in Lucys, the other in mine. Maybe, in her head, she had a family tooa mum to tuck her in, a dad to toss her up to the ceiling while she shrieked with joy.
She must have wanted it so dearly; to be cuddled, kissed goodnight, bathed and dressed in a warm pyjamajust to be loved.
I thought back to her stories of the childrens home. She wasnt beaten, but the matron shouted, the other children teased and stole each others clothes. When Grace dropped her porridge in the kitchen, she was locked in a broom cupboard, sitting in the dark as Victor, the Homes bully, jeered, “Youll be with the rats now, you muppet.” She was terrified of rats and spent hours pressed against the door, shivering and sobbing. By nightfall, shed curled up on the bare floor and caught the cold that landed her here.
Remembering all that, her eyes filled and fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She sniffled, and then felt a gentle hand stroking her hair.
“Mrs Green”
“Shh, love. Dont cry. Itll get better, I promise”
I drew her close. For the first time, I felt something shift deep insidean urge, not from the head but from the heart.
“Mrs Green?”
“Yes, darling?”
“I wish you were my mum”
Tears flooded my eyes. The decision was made, quick and sure. If I did nothing, Id regret it forever. Now, I only had to persuade the family.
Mum understood at once, and so did Toms mothershed grown up an orphan herself. But Tom? Well, he balked.
“Have you lost your mind, Libby? Do you know this is for life?”
“I do. And Id never forgive myself if I didnt. Can you live with letting her go?”
He turned away, then finally muttered, “I want to meet her first.”
That evening, we all sat in the hospital corridor. Tom hoisted Lucy into his arms, kissed her and murmured, “Missed you, my little treasure,” before turning to me.
“Right then. Introduce us to Grace?”
She looked up at Tom with those vast blue eyes. “Hello, sir.”
He smiled, voice softened. “Hello, Grace. Pleased to meet you.”
“Me too,” she whispered, and something flickered across Toms face. He nodded slowly.
A couple of months later, the car pulled up in front of the childrens home. Faces pressed against the windows as Graces name was called.
“Grace! Grace! Your family’s come!”
Her feet barely touched the ground as she ran into our arms.
“Hello, Grace. Weve come for you. Ready to come home?”
Her little heart pounded as she beamed up at us, voice quivering with happiness:
“Yes, Mummy!”
