Where Has Mummy Gone?: A young girl and a mother who no longer knows her

‘Yes, we let her spend the lesson walking widths and doing small jumps to get used to the feel of the water.’

I thanked Miss May and we said goodbye. On the way to the car Melody said, ‘Lots of the children in my class can swim and go in the deep end without armbands.’

‘And you will too one day,’ I said brightly.

‘Will I?’

‘Yes. As well as the swimming lessons at school I could take you swimming at the weekend to help.’

‘No. Mummy won’t like that,’ she said adamantly. ‘It will worry her.’

‘We’ll see. I’ll talk to Neave about it,’ and I dropped the subject. While I didn’t want to worry Amanda or Melody, I would be pursuing the matter, for here was another opportunity Melody had missed out on. Now she was in care (under a court order) the social services had responsibility for her, and usually they felt the child should have access to opportunities like this that they’d previously missed, so I would ask Neave if I could take Melody swimming.

When we arrived at the Family Centre Amanda was in reception signing the Visitors’ Book.

‘Mummy!’ Melody cried, rushing to her. Amanda turned and they hugged, but then Amanda suddenly drew back.

‘You’ve got fleas,’ she said.

‘No, I haven’t,’ Melody said, hurt.

‘Yes, from their cat.’

‘No, I haven’t, Mum,’ and she looked to me for help.

‘She hasn’t got fleas, Amanda,’ I said, going over. ‘Our cat doesn’t have fleas. Melody had head lice, but they’re all gone now.’

‘Really?’ Amanda said, apparently truly astonished. ‘How did you make them go away? Magic?’

I looked at her. ‘With head lice lotion,’ I replied. Did she really not remember after all the fuss she’d made last week about me putting ‘poison’ on her daughter’s hair?

‘I think I need some of your magic lotion,’ she said and began scratching her arm quite roughly, which can be a sign of drug withdrawal.

‘Come on, Mummy,’ Melody said, taking her hand. ‘Let’s go to the room.’ I followed them, carrying the box of pasta bake as Melody guided her mother down the corridor. It was my responsibility to see Melody into the room, then I would leave. Amanda didn’t appear unsteady on her feet and there was no smell of alcohol, but she was disorientated, and what she’d just said seemed quite bizarre. She kept looking around and into the rooms she passed as if searching for something familiar. I doubted she would have found Yellow Room again without Melody showing her. The centre tries to give families the same room each time for continuity. I said a polite hello to the contact supervisor – the same one as before – and placed the box of pasta bake on the coffee table. ‘I hope you like it,’ I said to Amanda.

‘It’s pasta, Mum,’ Melody said. ‘Your favourite.’

But Amanda just looked blank, so perhaps she’d forgotten I’d brought in food before. I said goodbye to her and Melody, and then left.

I went to the café again where I did some paperwork and read a book over a cup of tea. I was starting to enjoy this quiet time alone – our house was always so busy. I returned to the Family Centre at 5.30 p.m. to collect Melody and went through to Yellow Room. She and her mother were sitting side by side on the sofa with a pencil each and a sheet of paper on a clipboard between them. ‘We’re playing noughts and crosses,’ Melody said.

‘Great. That sounds like fun.’

I went over to look. For anyone not familiar with it, it’s a simple game for two players who take turns to place a nought or a cross in a three-by-three grid. The player who manages to make three of their marks in a horizontal, vertical or diagonal row wins the game. Another grid is then drawn for the next game. It’s a ‘fill in’ game you play in your spare time for about ten minutes. But their sheet of paper was covered in dozens and dozens of small completed grids. Beside them on the sofa was a stack of similarly covered sheets. ‘Have you been playing noughts and crosses all this time?’ I asked.

Melody nodded as her pencil hovered over the grid and she tried to decide where to place her cross.

‘Come on, your turn.’ Amanda nudged her. ‘You can’t go until we’ve finished.’

Melody made her cross in a place that would allow her mother to win. Amanda added a nought and yelped with joy. ‘Time for another game!’ she said, and quickly drew another grid.

I glanced at the contact supervisor. It wasn’t for me to say it was time to go. ‘One more game and then you need to pack away and say goodbye,’ she said.

As I waited I picked up from the coffee table my empty stay-fresh box that had contained the pasta bake.

‘Why are you taking that?’ Amanda asked, looking up.

‘I’ll take it home so I can use it again,’ I said.

‘It’s Cathy’s,’ Melody added.

‘Oh, is it?’ Amanda said, as though she had forgotten.

The game ended with Amanda winning again and she began to draw another grid for the next game. It was now nearly 5.45. Contact should have ended fifteen minutes ago. ‘Time to pack away,’ the contact supervisor finally said. Standing, she came over.

‘Oh, just when I was winning!’ Amanda lamented, like a child might.

‘We can play it again next time,’ Melody said, and handed the clipboard and pencils to the contact supervisor. She then hugged and kissed her mother goodbye.

‘See you Wednesday,’ I said. Amanda looked confused. ‘Wednesday is the next contact. It’s Monday today.’

‘Is it?’ she asked.

‘You should have a letter with the days and times of contact,’ the supervisor said.

‘She’ll have lost it,’ Melody said.

I picked up one of the unused sheets of paper from the coffee table and, taking a pen from my bag, wrote down the days and times of the contact. ‘Here we go,’ I said, passing the sheet to Amanda.