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‘We may as well take her back to bed,’ John whispered after a while.

I continued to look into Dawn’s unseeing eyes, waiting, almost willing her to hear me so I could help. Then I placed my hand lightly on top of hers.

‘Dawn?’ I tried again. ‘Can you tell me what’s worrying you, love? Can you show me, Dawn? Where do you want to go? Show me what you want to do, and perhaps I can help.’ The books said that sleepwalkers could talk and answer questions but there was no indication that Dawn could even hear me, let alone have a conversation. ‘Dawn?’ I said again, lightly encircling her hand in mine. ‘Show me what it is you want and I can help you find it.’

Suddenly she moved. I started and nearly fell back off my heels. Slowly taking her hands from her lap, she placed them either side of her on the stair, and pushed herself up into a standing position. I was also standing now, and John and I took a step back to give her room. She stood still for a few moments, her arms hanging loosely at her sides, as though she was getting her bearings. The staircase was behind her and she was staring straight in front. I think we both expected her to turn and go upstairs, for we were sure that Dawn’s ‘unfinished business’ or anxiety lay with Adrian, and that was where she would go. She remained impassive for a moment; then she took a step forward and slowly began to turn, but away from the stairs.

She was now facing the length of the hall, towards the back of the house. She took another faltering step, then another, and began walking slowly down the hall. John and I followed in absolute silence, the only sound coming from my thumping heart and the faint stir of the material of our nightclothes. Dawn reached the end of the hall, paused for a moment, then turned ninety degrees and went into the kitchen. It was dark in the kitchen – the light from the landing above didn’t reach this far. I didn’t want to put the kitchen light on for fear of startling her, but we needed to see what she was doing.

‘Can you put the lounge light on?’ I whispered to John, who was just behind me.

He went out of the kitchen and switched the lounge light on. With the lounge and kitchen doors open there was just enough glow to allow us to see. Dawn had come to a halt in the centre of the kitchen and was now standing, arms at her sides, staring straight ahead.

John returned to my side. ‘What does she want in here?’ he whispered, voicing my thoughts.

‘I hope she’s not planning on cooking a roast,’ I quipped with a small nervous laugh.

John smiled and touched my arm. ‘Try talking to her again. It might help.’

I quietly stepped forward, and lightly placed my hand on her arm. ‘Dawn, love, what do you want in the kitchen? Tell me and I’ll try to help you find it.’

It crossed my mind that perhaps she wanted to prepare a bottle of milk or some food for Adrian; perhaps her sleepwalking was caused by some anxiety that she needed to look after him and was in some way failing. ‘Adrian’s been fed. He’s not hungry,’ I said, following the book’s advice about reassuring the sleepwalker. ‘Are you looking for food for Adrian?’

There was a pause, and then Dawn answered. In a deep voice, heavy with sleep, she said, ‘No.’

I glanced at John. ‘What do you want then, love?’ I persisted quietly. ‘Tell me, and I can find it for you so that you can go back to bed.’

Dawn didn’t answer but moved slowly to the kitchen cabinets, and the drawers under the work surface. Stopping at one drawer, she pulled it open, and slowly lowered her head and looked down, as though she was actually seeing into the drawer. She stood still again; then her hands left the edge of the drawer and she began steadily searching the contents, as though she was looking for something specific. Her movements were slow and slightly cumbersome, and I wasn’t sure if she could actually see what she was doing or if she was using touch to guide her. The drawer contained an assortment of miscellaneous items, including clean tea towels, oven gloves, a packet of candles from when we’d had a series of electricity cuts and a large box of matches for lighting them.

I was so engrossed in watching Dawn in the half-light that it took me a moment to realise that I hadn’t removed the box of matches after Barbara’s warning, and that Dawn was now taking the box of matches from the drawer. Even when I realised, I was so mesmerised that I didn’t immediately stop her.

It was John who intervened. ‘You can’t have those,’ he said, stepping forward and taking the box of matches from her hand. ‘They’re dangerous.’

Dawn didn’t move. She remained where she was, statue-like, standing beside the open drawer, with her left hand cupped where the box of matches had been. Then slowly she raised her head, turned from the drawer, and moved to the centre of the room. Standing still again, with her feet slightly apart, quite bizarrely she began to mime opening the box of matches as though the box was still in her hand and taking one out. John and I watched, transfixed, as she closed the non-existent box, and then taking the imaginary match in her right hand began to strike it.

Chapter Eleven

Cry for Help

O
nce, twice – Dawn struck the ‘match’ on the side of the box and then appeared to watch it flare. Her eyes seemed to focus on the imaginary flame. Then her face began to crumple into a mixture of pain and fear, as though she was remembering something dreadful. She stared at the ‘match’ for a moment, and then suddenly flicked her wrist and ‘threw’ it away. I watched, horrified, as she buckled to the floor, clasped her knees and began rocking, back and forth. Her eyes were still and open and her face was steeped in pain; then she began to cry, and I couldn’t simply watch her any longer.

I went forward to comfort her, but as I did her expression suddenly changed from pain to anger, and I stopped. She threw out her left arm; then, yanking up the sleeve of her pyjama, and using the edge of her right hand, she began chopping along the scar lines.

‘You wicked, wicked, girl,’ she hissed under her breath. ‘You evil bitch! You’re not human! You’re evil. An evil, evil child.’ Her jaw was clamped and she gritted her teeth as she chopped at the scars. There was no doubt in my mind that Dawn was punishing herself – for what, I didn’t know.

I went over and squatted beside her and encircled her with my arms. ‘It’s all right, love,’ I soothed. ‘It’s OK. You’re all right now.’

Suddenly she stopped all movement and gave a small cry of alarm. ‘Cathy?’ she asked, raising her head to look at me. Her eyes focused on me and I knew she was awake and really seeing me. ‘Cathy? Where am I?’ She stared around, anxious and confused.

‘It’s all right, love. You’ve had a bad dream. Now let’s get you back to bed.’ I looked to John to help me, and he came over.

‘Cathy?’ she said again, searching my face, disorientated and anxious. ‘John?’ she said, gazing at him and around the kitchen.

‘Yes, we’re both here,’ I reassured her again. ‘You’ve had a bad dream. Let’s get you back to bed.’

John took one arm and I took the other, and together we helped Dawn to her feet. Although she was awake and no longer sleepwalking, she was so dazed and disorientated that it took both of us to steer her out of the kitchen and along the hall. I talked to her calmly as we went. ‘It’s all right now, love. There’s nothing for you to worry about. We’re taking you back to bed.’

At the foot of the stairs, John went up first, and Dawn followed, with me gently steering her from behind. She seemed less co-ordinated and less able to navigate things now that she had suddenly woken than she had been when sleepwalking. It was almost as if she was in a twilight world, somewhere between waking and sleeping, and her senses were caught between the two and not fully functioning. At the top of the stairs John led the way into her room and I steered her to the bed.

‘In you get, love,’ I said gently, holding back the duvet. She climbed in and lay down. ‘You go back to sleep now,’ I soothed. ‘Everything is fine.’ She didn’t speak, but turned on to her side and immediately closed her eyes.

John and I waited for a few minutes to make sure she was properly asleep, then came out and quietly closed her bedroom door. We hovered on the landing for a few moments, looking at each other, and I could see John was as shaken as I was. My heart was still pounding from the shock of it all and my knees felt weak. ‘I’m going back to bed,’ I said quietly. John nodded, switching off the landing light, and we returned to bed.

We lay side by side as our eyes adjusted to the dark and the small glow coming from the street lamp. It was some time before I felt my body slowly start to relax, and longer before either of us spoke.

‘Jesus!’ John sighed eventually. ‘Whatever was that all about?’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve no idea, but supposing we hadn’t woken and she had found the matches?’ My stomach churned at the very thought – Dawn playing with matches in the kitchen and possibly setting fire to the house while we slept on upstairs with Adrian in his cot. The implications were too horrendous to contemplate. ‘Do you think she wanted the match to light the hob and try to cook?’ I asked at length. ‘I mean, I know the burners light automatically but Dawn might not have realised that.’

‘It didn’t look like it to me,’ John said. ‘She was nowhere near the stove, and what about the expression on her face? You don’t normally show pain and anger when you are cooking. And why was she punishing herself? She was definitely trying to hurt herself for something she’d done.’

‘I know,’ I agreed reluctantly. ‘I know.’ I paused. ‘I was thinking I might go to the doctor tomorrow when Dawn is at school, and discuss her sleepwalking with him.’

‘Good idea,’ John said. ‘I also think we need to tell her social worker and ask her what she knows about it.’

‘And if Dawn remembers what happened tonight,’ I said, ‘which she might do, as she was awake, I could try to talk to her about it. At least it will be out in the open then, and it might help her.’

Utterly exhausted the following day, Monday, we hauled ourselves into the weekday routine. When I woke Dawn at 7.00 a.m. to tell her it was time to get ready for school, she was in a very deep sleep and it took me some time to raise her. When she finally came down to breakfast I had already eaten mine and was spoonfeeding Adrian his baby porridge. I watched Dawn as she took her place at the table. She was obviously very tired and looked almost hung over, with dark circles round her eyes, but she managed to say good morning and smile. I continued to watch her as she began eating her toast, half expecting her to say something about the previous night, but she didn’t. She carried on eating and sipping her juice; then she yawned, and I seized the opportunity.

‘Are you still tired, love?’ I asked, giving Adrian his last spoonful of porridge.

‘Yes,’ she said, and yawned again.

‘You didn’t sleep well. You had a really bad dream. Do you remember?’

Dawn looked at me puzzled and nearly yawned again. ‘Not really. Was I talking in my sleep?’

I nodded. ‘You seemed really worried about something. Don’t you remember John and me resettling you?’

She shook her head. ‘I hope I didn’t say anything rude or embarrassing.’ She gave a small nervous laugh.

‘No, nothing like that.’

She shrugged and returned to her toast. Despite waking from her sleepwalking, clearly Dawn had no idea what she had been doing. I saw no point in telling her – she couldn’t add anything if she didn’t remember, and being confronted by what she had done was likely to have caused her more anxiety. I lifted Adrian from his high chair, sat him on my lap and gave him a teaspoon to play with, which he tapped on the table.

‘Dawn,’ I said looking at her seriously. ‘Is there anything worrying you? You’ve had a few restless nights since you’ve been with us. Is there anything troubling you? If there is, maybe I can help.’

She briefly met my gaze and then looked away, and I knew in that look that there
was
something worrying her. I also knew that she wasn’t about to tell me. Her usual open expression closed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if I woke you. I’d better go and do my teeth now. I don’t want to be late for school.’ Quickly finishing the last of her juice, she left the table and went upstairs to get ready. Five minutes later she reappeared and I saw her off at the door.

As soon as she had gone, I changed Adrian’s nappy, made up a bottle of boiled water, put Adrian in his stroller and left the house. It was about a twenty-minute walk to the doctor’s surgery, on the High Street, and I was pleased to be walking; it was a lovely spring morning, and I hoped the air might clear my head, which was still thick from lack of sleep, despite two cups of strong coffee.

The front gardens of the houses I passed were all coming to life with green buds shooting from the brown twigs of the shrubs, and late spring flowers replacing the daffodils and tulips. Birds were nest building and singing in the trees and Adrian was joining in with a song of his own. The air smelt fresh and clean, and I had a certain optimism. Though it saddened me that Dawn didn’t feel able to confide in me, I was relieved that I had decided to unburden my worries about her to the doctor. As well as telling him that I thought Dawn was concealing big problems, and asking him if these could be responsible for her sleepwalking, I had approachable. I explained
thdecided I was also going to talk to him about her self-harming, for although she hadn’t actually done it since she’d been with us, she had re-enacted it three times now. After I had seen the doctor I intended to go to the library and see if I could find any books on self-harming. Looking after Dawn was proving to be something of an education, a sharp learning curve, but on subjects I would rather not have known about.

The doctor’s surgery was full with the accumulated ailments of the weekend. I gave my name to the receptionist and said I was happy to see any doctor – the one with the shortest queue; it didn’t have to be my own doctor. In the waiting room I took one of the last two empty seats, between a badly overweight woman on my left who wheezed and coughed continuously, and a child of about three on my right who was seated on his mother’s lap and also had a bad cough. I hoped Adrian wouldn’t catch anything. Fortunately Adrian was usually very healthy and we rarely came to the doctor’s.

By the time it was my turn, an hour had passed, and Adrian had drunk his bottle of boiled water and had exhausted playing with the contents of my large bag. I went through to ‘consulting room two,’ where Dr Roman waited. He was fairly new to the practice, which was probably the reason why his queue was the shortest – patients tend to opt for what had been tried and tested. I sat in the chair opposite his desk with Adrian on my lap. Dr Roman was quite young, and I thought it was likely he was only recently qualified, but he was very approachable. I explained that I had come not about me, but about the girl I was fostering, Dawn Jennings.

‘Have you registered her with this practice?’ he asked.

‘Yes, when she first arrived.’

‘Just a moment and I’ll send through for her notes. I only have yours here.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I should have explained at reception.’

He pressed the intercom button on his desk phone and asked the receptionist to bring through Dawn’s medical records. ‘You realise confidentiality stops me from disclosing what’s in her notes,’ he said to me. ‘But it might be useful for me to refer to them. What exactly is the matter with Dawn?’

Good question, I thought; I wish I knew. I began outlining Dawn’s behaviour.

His phone buzzed and he picked it up. ‘OK, thanks,’ he said, and replaced the receiver. ‘Dawn’s notes haven’t arrived yet, which is nothing unusual. It can take months to transfer them.’

I nodded, and continued with the résumé of Dawn’s background (what I knew of it), and then her sleepwalking and previous self-harming. I finished with a description of her behaviour in the kitchen the night before. ‘I am obviously very worried, Doctor,’ I said. ‘And really I don’t know what to do to help her.’

‘And she’s not telling you anything about her problems, or what could have caused this?’

‘No. Nothing. She’s always very polite and wants to please.’

He had listened carefully as I was speaking, occasionally nodding, and taking my concerns seriously. Now he sat back and thought for a moment before speaking.

‘Not knowing Dawn or having her medical records it is difficult for me to say. But in my opinion she is exhibiting signs of very disturbed behaviour, presumably as a result of something that has happened in her past. It sounds as though she’s had a very unsettled time between her parents, and you say that according to her social worker there is a gap in her history that no one can account for – indeed no one seems to know where she was?’

‘Yes, between the ages of five and nine.’

‘I’ll know more once I have her notes, but I think it would be my recommendation that she has counselling. I could make a referral under the NHS for her to see a psychologist. However, I would need to see Dawn in person – I can’t do anything unless she comes in and asks for help. I would also need the consent of either her parents or social worker before I made a referral, as she’s a minor.’

‘I see,’ I said reflectively. ‘I’m going to speak to her social worker later today. I’ll tell her what you said.’

Dr Roman nodded. ‘That would be the first step. In the meantime my advice is to try to talk to Dawn again; perhaps eventually she will start to confide in you. You’re handling her sleepwalking correctly, and sleepwalking is more common than you think, though not to this extent, I agree. I appreciate it can be very distressing to watch, but just keep her safe, and put anything she could use to harm herself with out of reach. If it was an adult who was sleepwalking regularly I might prescribe a sedative. I could for Dawn, but again I would need to see her first and obtain the permission of a parent or social worker.’

I realised that Dr Roman couldn’t add or do anything more without Dawn, and aware there was still a waiting room full of patients, I thanked him for his time and left the surgery. I didn’t feel it had been a waste of time – he had taken my concerns seriously, and his suggestion of counselling sounded a very positive one, although of course Dawn would have to be made aware of and recognise she had a problem first, which realistically meant me telling her.

In the library, I returned the two books on sleep disturbances, and then scanned the non-fiction section for books on self-harming. I was no more adept at navigating the Dewey classification system now than I had been before, and eventually I went to the desk and asked the librarian. At least I had the subject matter named correctly this time – self-harming – and the librarian checked on her computer and found there was one book listed. She led me to the shelf and took down the book. It was entitled
Self-harming and Adolescents: The Therapy
. Before she passed it to me she briefly flicked through it.

‘I’m not sure this is what you want,’ she said. ‘It seems to be about teenagers.’