Cut (7 page)

I considered this. I thought about Dawn going to Adrian’s cot. John and I had handled Dawn correctly in sending her back to bed, but according to the book I should have calmly talked to her and said things like: ‘It’s OK, Dawn, Adrian is fine. You have given him a cuddle and now you can go back to bed.’ Would it work? Was it worth a try, instead of locking Dawn out of our bedroom, in the hope she wouldn’t sleepwalk again? The book didn’t say if talking a sleepwalker through an action and out of it stopped it from happening again, and this would have been difficult for us as we didn’t actually know what Dawn was trying to do.

Interestingly, I read that because sleepwalkers were unaware of their surroundings they were more likely ‘to divulge information that they wouldn’t otherwise give’. They could also exhibit behaviour that could be very embarrassing if they knew about it, like urinating in inappropriate places or having sex. I breathed a sigh of relief that Dawn’s behaviour was pretty mild compared to what some sleepwalkers did. The general consensus of the advice was that there was no point in telling the sleepwalker of their behaviour, as they had no control over it, and being told was likely to make them very embarrassed and more anxious. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for getting that right. I finished by reading that episodes of sleepwalking could last anything from a few seconds to hours, and that usually the child grew out of it. In cases where it was prolonged, medical advice should be sought, as psychological factors or a personality disorder could be involved.

Setting this book to one side, I quickly flipped through the second, which seemed to contain similar information and advice; I would look at it again later. I had been reading for over an hour and a half, and I had mixed feelings. I was reassured to know that John and I had instinctively been handling Dawn’s sleepwalking correctly by directing her back to bed, but I was concerned that sleepwalkers could harm themselves, and others, and that the causes were generally unknown and the condition untreatable.

That afternoon I took Adrian to the baby clinic to be weighed, and found he had put on another 6oz and now weighed 14lbs 1oz. I hadn’t received a phone call from the secretary at Dawn’s school that morning, so I knew Dawn had arrived. But my thoughts kept returning to her during the day and I fervently hoped and worried that she was getting on all right.

When she came home at 3.45 p.m., I could tell immediately that she’d had a really good day. She was smiling, her voice was light and she talked non-stop about Natasha – how she had sat next to her in lessons, taken her to the school canteen, and generally looked after her and helped her settle in. To say I was relieved was an understatement. I thought I would give Jane Matthews, the Head of Year, a ring the following day to thank her – her strategy really had worked wonders.

Dawn had an English essay to write for homework, and also some dates to learn for a history test the following day. She got down to her homework as soon as she’d had a drink and a snack on coming in. When John came home from work we ate dinner together, and then afterwards Dawn asked me if I could check her English essay for spelling and grammar.

We sat together on the sofa as I read the essay; it was a piece of creative writing entitled ‘Five Again’. The class had been asked to write from the perspective of being five years old. They could use their own experiences of childhood or make it up if they preferred. I smiled as I read the idyllic world Dawn’s five-year-old had inhabited, where she played endlessly in ‘green parks’ with ‘bright yellow daffodils’, and had ‘red jelly and strawberry ice-cream’ for tea every evening, and where there were no worries beyond that of choosing which sweets she would buy with her pocket money. Considering Dawn had missed a lot of schooling, her essay was pretty good. She had used plenty of adjectives, as her teacher had told the class they should, and there weren’t that many spelling mistakes. Dawn made the necessary corrections as we went along and I continually praised her essay.

When I came to the end, I said, ‘That’s excellent, Dawn, really good. It sounds as though you had a great time when you were five years old.’

‘I made it all up,’ she said dismissively. ‘I can’t remember when I was five.’

I smiled. ‘Well, it’s very good. You’ve got a good imagination, but I’m sure if you thought carefully you could remember some things from when you were five. I can, and I’m a lot older than you.’

‘No,’ she said adamantly. ‘Not a thing. I did try and think back, because it would have been easier than making it up. But my first memory is when I was eight and I started school.’

I looked at her, puzzled. ‘You would have started school three years before then,’ I said. ‘That memory must have been from when you changed schools, which can be very traumatic.’

She shook her head. ‘No, it was my very first day at school, and I was eight. I remember how scared I was, and I can’t remember anything before then.’

I let the subject drop, for clearly Dawn was mistaken. She must have started school by the time she was five years old: it was a legal requirement. I decided she was confusing being five with being eight and it didn’t really matter. John and I were meeting her mother and social worker the following evening, when hopefully the conversation would turn to Dawn’s past. It would be helpful for me to have some background information and it would also probably jog Dawn’s memory.

‘Well, Dawn, made up or not, it’s very good,’ I finished by saying. ‘I’m sure your teacher will be very pleased. I am.’

She glowed from the praise, and carefully folding the A4 sheets of writing paper, placed them in her school bag, ready for the following day. She then set about learning the dates for history, and I tested her on them. Later that evening, as John and I sat in the lounge, Dawn went to get ready for bed.

She came downstairs again almost immediately, and standing in the hall outside the lounge, called me quietly. ‘Cathy, can I speak to you in private?’

Exchanging a quizzical glance with John, I left him with Adrian and went into the hall. Dawn was only half changed, with her pyjama top on but still in her joggers. ‘Cathy,’ she whispered, glancing anxiously at the open lounge door. ‘I’ve started my first period. I haven’t got any sanitary towels.’

‘Oh, right, love,’ I said, understanding her need for privacy. ‘Don’t worry. Come with me. I’ll get you some of mine.’

I took Dawn upstairs, gave her a pack of sanitary towels and then waited while she finished in the toilet. When she came out she gave me her stained clothes, and I reassured her that it wasn’t a problem and I would put them in the wash. I felt I should talk to Dawn about periods as a mother would do, and as my mother had done with me. We went into her bedroom and sat side by side on the bed, where I explained what was happening to her body, and reassured her that the stomach cramps she was experiencing were quite normal, and that I could give her some pain relief if necessary. I told her about the need for good hygiene at this time, that she must change her sanitary towel regularly and how to dispose of them – at home and at school. She nodded as I spoke, and when I came to the end I asked her if she had any questions.

‘Does it mean I can have a baby now?’ she said.

‘In theory your body is able to, yes. But you wouldn’t, not at your age, and without a partner.’ I hesitated, and wondered if I should talk to her about relationships and boys, as a mother would. ‘Dawn, do you know anything about boys and sex?’

She grinned. ‘Yes, of course. I’m thirteen.’

‘Is there anything you want to ask me?’ I didn’t want to embarrass her, but possibly I was the only one Dawn could ask.

‘What age can you do it?’

‘What, have sexual intercourse, you mean?’ She nodded. ‘Legally not until you are sixteen, but you wouldn’t want to unless you were in a committed relationship anyway. I think that sexual intercourse, or making love as it’s sometimes called, should be part of a loving relationship, don’t you? I mean it’s easy enough to have sex, and boys will want you to, but it’s so much nicer to wait until you have found someone you love.’ I thought I was sounding like my own mother, although attitudes had changed a lot in the intervening years. My mother’s advice (read warning) had been ‘don’t until you are married.’ I recognised that for most people that view was now very dated, and felt my save-it-until-you-are-in-love was more appropriate, and indeed what I had done.

‘Cathy,’ Dawn said looking worried. ‘You won’t tell John, will you?’

‘That you have started your periods?’ She nodded. ‘No love.’

I smiled as I remembered asking my mother the same question about my father when I had started my periods, and she had given me the same reply. It had been embarrassing enough that my body was being subjected to this monthly intimate indignity, without my father (and brother) being made aware of it.

After I had kissed Dawn goodnight, and loaded her washing into the machine, I returned to the lounge. ‘Is everything all right?’ John asked, concerned. I had been upstairs with Dawn for over half an hour.

‘Yes, fine,’ I said. ‘I’ve just had a little chat with Dawn. About women’s matters,’ I added pointedly.

He nodded, guessing. ‘Oh, I see. I’ve been looking at these books,’ he said, referring to the library books on sleepwalking. ‘I found them behind the cushion on the sofa.’

I laughed. ‘Yes, Dawn came in with her homework while I was reading them. I thought it was better she didn’t see them.’

I sat on the sofa beside John and I told him what I had learned from my reading. I mentioned the author’s suggestion of talking the sleepwalker through their activity. But as John pointed out, this would necessitate us leaving our bedroom door unlocked, then spending every night listening for Dawn until she did it again, with the worry that we might fall asleep and not hear her. We decided to leave trying that strategy for now in the hope that if the next time Dawn sleepwalked she found our bedroom door locked she might not bother again, and stop sleepwalking completely.

It was a hope that was soon to be dashed.

Chapter Nine

Cutter

T
he teenage unit was a large rambling Victorian house, converted and modernised to accommodate eight teenagers and two staff. The large oak door was ajar. Dawn pushed it fully open and we went into the poorly lit but very large reception hall. A couple of girls were going up the stairs leading off to the right.

‘Hi,’ Dawn called. They paused and looked back, gave a little wave and continued. ‘They’re sisters,’ Dawn said to John and me. ‘They were here when I was.’

I nodded, more intent on Adrian, who was in my arms and, having had his usual evening routine disrupted for this meeting, was now becoming slightly fractious.

‘Shall I take him?’ Dawn asked, always eager to help me with Adrian.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘He’ll be OK. He’s just wondering where we are.’

We were hovering in the hall with no idea where we should go, and expecting someone to come and greet us. Other than the fact that we were meeting Dawn’s social worker and mother here at 7.00 p.m., I had received no details from Ruth. John had left work early to attend the meeting, and was still in his suit, having only had time to eat dinner, but not change, before we’d left the house.

‘Is there an office?’ John asked Dawn.

‘Sort of,’ she said. ‘It’s one of the bedrooms upstairs.’ The three of us looked at the old Victorian winding staircase, which still retained the original wooden balustrades and dado rail on the wall. ‘Shall I go up and find someone?’ Dawn asked helpfully.

‘It might be a good idea,’ John said, and I nodded.

Dawn disappeared up the staircase while John and I waited in the hall. The hall was cold; the single radiator was no match for the draught coming from the ill-fitting front door. I moved Adrian from one arm to the other and then John took him. Presently we heard footsteps at the top of the stairs and we both looked up. A lad of about fifteen, dressed in jeans, caterpillar boots and a denim jacket clumped down the uncarpeted stairs, passed us with a nod, and then went out of the front door.

Another five minutes went by, during which John pacified Adrian by rocking him over his shoulder. It wasn’t the best time for a meeting – I should have been bathing Adrian, and John would have preferred to be at home, unwinding after a day’s work. Eventually more footsteps sounded from the top of the stairs and John and I again looked up. Dawn appeared first, followed by Ruth, dressed in jeans and a large baggy jumper, and another woman whom I took to be Dawn’s mother. They reached the bottom of the stairs before anyone spoke.

‘We’ve been trying to find a room for us to use,’ Ruth said, unapologetically. ‘This is Barbara, Dawn’s mother. Barbara, this is John and Cathy.’ I smiled at Barbara and she returned a small half smile. She was a petite woman, neatly dressed in a skirt and blouse, with bobbed fair hair, and I could see a strong resemblance to Dawn. I guessed Barbara was only in her mid-thirties, so she must have had Dawn quite young. John stepped forward and offered his hand for shaking, and Barbara looked most embarrassed as she took it.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ John said. Barbara smiled.

‘Dawn’s father won’t be coming,’ Ruth said. I nodded, although I hadn’t been aware he was even expected. ‘We can use the sitting room,’ she continued. ‘There are only two girls in the house tonight and they’re in their bedrooms.’

Ruth led the way through a heavily panelled fire door at the end of the reception hall, and along a wide corridor. Our shoes clipped noisily over the tiled Victorian floor. The hall still had the original Anaglypta wallpaper below the dado rail, but the gloss grey paintwork was badly scarred and could have done with redecorating.

We turned right into a room which, while warmer than the hall, was as dingy and uninviting, and reeked of stale cigarette smoke. The pale lilac painted walls were grubby, chipped, and graffitied with coloured felt tips. Most of the comments were unintelligible, apart from
shit
and
dick
head
, together with a few vague attempts at drawing cartoon characters. In the centre of the room were two badly stained and faded red sofas opposite each other, either side of a long low coffee table, which was in no better condition than the sofas. At one end of the table was an overflowing ashtray and a couple of mugs containing the remnants of cold congealed coffee. There was no carpet on the floor and no curtains at the windows. Discarded crisp packets and biscuit wrappers littered the badly worn linoleum. The room was disgusting and while I recognised it was probably the teenager residents who were responsible for the state of it I thought that the staff could have at least organised a cleaning party.

Dawn immediately flopped on to one of the sofas and put her feet up on the coffee table, seeming quite at home. John and I glanced at each other and then at Dawn’s mother. Dawn wouldn’t have been allowed to put her feet on our coffee table at home; indeed I doubt it would have crossed her mind to do so. Barbara didn’t say anything and I felt uncomfortable about telling Dawn to put her feet down with her mother present. Barbara didn’t sit next to her daughter but perched tentatively on the sofa opposite. Ruth had crossed to the windows and was now struggling to lower one of the upper sashes.

‘Here, let me,’ John said, passing Adrian to me and going to her assistance. He gave the window a good wrench and it graunched down an inch. Although the night air was cold, the draft was preferable to the stench of stale smoke, and a damn site healthier for Adrian, I thought.

Ruth took the full ashtray and placed it on the floor by the door. John and I sat on the sofa next to Dawn, and Ruth sat next to Barbara. I felt it was odd that Barbara hadn’t wanted to sit next to her daughter, given that she hadn’t seen her for over a month. I also felt that the seating arrangement, with us on opposite sides of the coffee table, was almost confrontational.

‘Barbara wanted to meet you,’ Ruth began. I nodded and smiled at Barbara. ‘She was very concerned that Dawn arrived on her doorstep last week when she should have been in school.’ The smile faded from my lips.

‘Did she?’ I asked, dumbfounded. John glanced at me. I looked from Barbara to Dawn. ‘Did you?’ I asked Dawn.

‘I’m not making it up,’ Barbara said evenly.

‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m not for one moment suggesting you are. I’m surprised – shocked really. I knew that Dawn hadn’t been in school and I’ve dealt with it. But Dawn didn’t say she had been to your house.’ We were all looking at Dawn now. She still had her feet on the table and was leaning back on the sofa with her arms folded into her chest with an almost bemused smile on her face. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Dawn?’ I said. ‘I asked you where you’d been.’

‘You surely didn’t think she was going to tell you?’ Barbara asked sceptically. ‘She never used to tell me where she was or what she had been up to, and I’m her mother.’ Barbara spoke calmly and rationally, and I felt stupid that I had been unaware of where Dawn had been. ‘All those days and weeks,’ Barbara continued, ‘when I sent her to school and she never arrived. I didn’t ever know where she was. And when she was out all evening and didn’t come home until the early hours, sometimes not until the following morning; she never once told me where she was. I have to work; I can’t be her keeper.’ I glanced from Barbara to Dawn as Barbara spoke. Dawn remained passive and apparently unperturbed. ‘The police and school blamed me,’ Barbara said. ‘But what was I supposed to do? I mean I can’t physically make her go to school, or prevent her from leaving the house in the evening, can I?’ She stopped.

John and I looked at each other, amazed by the picture Barbara had just painted of her daughter. ‘But Dawn has never even asked to go out since she has been with us,’ I said, at a complete loss. ‘Let alone stayed out all night.’

There was silence, and I saw Dawn, Barbara and Ruth exchange what I took to be a pointed glance, as though there was something John and I didn’t know.

‘Going out is something we need to discuss,’ Ruth said tersely. ‘Dawn wants to go out but hasn’t liked to ask you.’

I looked again at Dawn and wondered why she hadn’t asked me. She had been relaxed enough in my company to tell me when she had started her periods; surely she could have asked about going out? It made John and me appear like ogres.

‘Going out, and coming-in times are things we can include in the contract of good behaviour,’ Ruth said. ‘And a clothing allowance. Dawn would like a clothing allowance, and I think at her age it is appropriate.’

I felt John shift uncomfortably on the sofa beside me and I guessed he was thinking the same as me: that this meeting appeared to be a forum in which to air Barbara’s and Dawn’s grievances. Dawn had said nothing to us about a clothing allowance, but clearly she had raised it at some point with her mother or social worker. Although where this ‘clothing allowance’ was supposed to come from I didn’t know.

‘I’ve been giving Dawn pocket money,’ I said looking at Ruth. ‘A little each day, as you suggested. And I’ve bought Dawn new clothes.’

Ruth nodded. ‘In your fostering allowance is an amount for clothing. A child of Dawn’s age would normally be given the money to choose her own clothes. Although I appreciate the allowance isn’t much and you will have to add to it.’ Which I thought was choice.

‘We haven’t had an allowance at all yet,’ I said bluntly. I didn’t want to discuss money in front of Dawn, but as Ruth had raised the matter I felt it was appropriate to set the record straight.

‘No,’ Ruth agreed. ‘It takes a few months to go on the system before it’s paid. But you will get it, and Dawn would appreciate having it to buy her own clothes.’

‘As long as it doesn’t go on drink or fags,’ Barbara added.

Again, John and I stared in amazement at Barbara and her portrayal of Dawn. ‘She got in with a bad lot before,’ Barbara qualified. ‘Older kids who showed Dawn all kinds of new tricks.’

I glanced sideways at Dawn, who remained impassive: arms folded, feet up and, if I was being unkind, almost revelling in her dubious achievements and being the centre of attention.

‘I’m sure she won’t now,’ I said, feeling the need to say something positive. ‘Dawn’s made a nice new friend at school – Natasha. She’s just started at the school and Dawn has been looking after her and helping her to settle in.’

Dawn nodded. Ruth and Barbara looked at Dawn but didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to make of Barbara. At one level she was sensible and level headed, not aggressive or loud. But she was quick to point out Dawn’s wrongdoings, and there appeared to be an emotional distance between her and her daughter – a void, even – and little warmth or respect between them.

There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence before John spoke. ‘Barbara, is there anything you can tell us about Dawn that would help us to look after her? I think that would be useful.’

Barbara looked sideways at Ruth and then at us. ‘I’m not sure what else I can tell you. I tried with Dawn but I don’t understand her. If you can get her to go to school and come home on time, that would be something. And keep her away from the knives. She’s a cutter, you know.’

‘A cutter?’ I asked. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand; what do you mean.’

‘She cuts herself,’ Barbara said, again glancing pointedly at Ruth. ‘Haven’t you seen the scars on her arms?’

I stared at Barbara, amazed. John was staring too. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I haven’t. What scars?’

‘Show her what you’ve done, Dawn,’ Barbara said.

The three of us looked at Dawn as she slowly unfolded her arms and then pulled up the sleeve of the jumper on her left arm. I gasped. There were a dozen or so pink scar lines, an inch or more long, evenly spaced and running from her wrist to her elbow on the upper side of her arm. Some were more recent than others.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t seen them,’ Barbara said, as John and I continued to stare, horrified, at Dawn’s arm, struggling to understand what we were being told.

‘Did you do that to yourself, Dawn?’ I asked after a moment. She nodded. ‘With what?’

‘Kitchen knives, pen knives, broken bottles,’ Barbara said. ‘Anything she can get her hands on.’

I felt my pulse rise and my stomach churn as my gaze remained on Dawn’s scarred arm. ‘But why?’ I asked at length. ‘Why do you want to hurt yourself, love?’

Dawn shrugged, and then began running her forefinger along the scar lines, toying with and examining them.

‘There’s research going on in the field of self-harm,’ Ruth said, quite matter-of-factly. ‘There are different theories but no one knows for sure. One line of thought says it could be attention seeking. It rarely leads to suicide.’

Dawn pulled her sleeve down to cover her arm and I looked at John, who was clearly as shaken as I was. It was a bit of a drastic way to gain attention, I thought.

‘I take it she hasn’t done it with you yet?’ Barbara said.

‘No, she hasn’t,’ I said adamantly.

‘We would have known, obviously,’ John added.

‘Not necessarily,’ Barbara said. ‘Cutters can be very good at hiding it, and you hadn’t seen the scars, had you?’

Which was true, and I then realised that I hadn’t seen the scars was because I had never seen Dawn’s arms. Obviously at her age she bathed and changed in private, and with it being winter she was in long-sleeved day clothes and nightclothes.

‘That’s why she doesn’t do PE at school,’ Barbara said. And I remembered that Dawn hadn’t done PE the previous week because it was timetabled on one of the days she had played truant. ‘Her school know about her cutting,’ Barbara added. ‘Her dad phoned and told them.’

Dawn pulled a face.

Clearly Ruth was aware of all this and I thought that she should have told us. If I had discovered the scars or, heaven forbid, had walked in on Dawn cutting herself, I would have been horrified, and probably would have panicked. Now I knew, although I really couldn’t get my mind round anyone deliberately harming themselves, I would obviously be careful that Dawn didn’t have access to anything sharp, and I would also try to talk to her – something must be making her want to hurt herself so badly, and I doubted she was doing it purely for attention. Then with a jolt I remembered the chopping motion that Dawn had made on her arm while sleepwalking. Could Dawn have been re-enacting her self-harming while sleepwalking? Following the advice in the books – that it would make the person more anxious to be told of their sleepwalking – John and I had decided not to mention Dawn’s sleepwalking at the meeting unless Barbara or Ruth did, so I didn’t say anything; and in the light of what we had just learned, Dawn’s sleepwalking seemed the least of our worries.