Cathy Glass - Cruel to Be Kind, Part 3 of 3

Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the familys privacy.

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2017

FIRST EDITION

Cathy Glass 2017

Cover layout design HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover photograph Iwona Podlasiska/Arcangel Images (boy, posed by a model)

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Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008252007

Ebook Edition September 2017 ISBN: 9780008252069

Version: 2017-10-10

Chapter Seventeen

Their front door was opened unusually by Caz. Leaning heavily on her crutches, her mobility apparently no better than the last time Id seen her, she was clearly in a lot of discomfort. Hi, Mum, Max said, offering up the box of fruit.

Put them in the kitchen, will you? she said. I havent got any hands free.

How are you? I asked. Max disappeared into the darkness of the hall.

Not good, Caz said, grimacing.

Oh dear. Whats the matter?

Everything, she sighed. But I wont keep you. Youve got your kids waiting.

Actually, I havent, I said. Theyre spending a few days with their grandparents.

Do you want to come in then? she asked in the same despondent tone.

Yes. I smiled, pleased that I was being asked in and Caz appeared to be making an effort to get along with me. I waited on the doorstep as she awkwardly turned, easing her crutches around in little jolts until she was facing down the hall.

Shut the door behind you, will you? she said. I did as she asked and with no natural light the hall became darker still. Light bulbs gone, she said. I cant get up there to change it.

Is no one else in? I asked.

Theyre all out. Could have done with resting myself. My feet are killing me.

Oh dear, I sympathized. You should have phoned me we could have cancelled contact tonight.

Not likely! And let that social worker think Im not coping? Quickest way to lose your kids, Id say.

We were now in their open-plan living room, which smelt of cigarette smoke despite the window being wide open. A large plasma-screen television stood against one wall with a sofa and two armchairs grouped in front of it. A kitchen area at the other end of the room was separated by a Formica-topped breakfast bar. I could now understand why Max went to his room to read; it was impossible to have privacy or escape from the television in this room. The television was on now, its bright lights and constantly moving images and loud dialogue dominating the room. Max had made a space for the box of fruit on the work surface and was waiting, uncertain of what to do next, presumably because his usual routine had been disrupted by me coming in. Caz noticed and said, You can go to your room. Cathy can make me a drink if I want one.

With a brief smile he turned and plodded off upstairs and a few moments later I heard his bedroom door close. Caz eased herself down into one of the armchairs, then lifted her feet onto the footstool. They told me at the hospital I should keep my feet elevated when sitting, she said. Both her feet were bandaged now and her slippers had been cut to fit.

Is there anything I can do? I asked. I could change the light bulb in the hall.

No. One of them can do it when they get back. Its always going. It gets left on all night. Sit yourself down.

The other armchair was occupied by one of their cats, so I sat on the sofa where I was at right angles to Caz. She picked up the remote and lowered the volume on the television until it was just a hum in the background. In front of me was a glass-topped coffee table littered with teenage magazines. A bright-red glass fruit bowl stood in the centre, but instead of containing fruit it held an attractive display of sweets small packets of Smarties and Jelly Tots, lollipops and sherbet dips and so on. Very tempting indeed. I could picture Caz and her daughters in the evening watching television or flicking through the magazines while popping sweets, as they had done at the hospital. Jo had said it was what they did a little family ritual. The rest of the room contained the detritus of six people living in a relatively small house where the main caregiver was incapacitated. Pans were in the sink, the draining board was stacked with cutlery and crockery, while the work surface was littered with takeaway pizza boxes and half-empty bottles of fizzy drinks. A number of beer cans had been stacked beside the overflowing bin. Sorry about the state of the place, Caz said, nodding towards the kitchen They just eat and leave me with their mess.

Where have they gone? I asked, making conversation.

Dans out with his mates, drinking, and the girls have gone to the community hall. They put extra entertainment on in the summer. I used to go. Its nice. You can meet people and have a cup of tea and a chat. But I havent been able to get there since Ive been ill.

Youll be able to go again soon, once your foot is properly healed, I said encouragingly.

She looked downcast and shrugged. Not so sure. Theyve put me on antibiotics again. My other foot is playing up. Two toes on that foot might have to come off.

I am sorry, I said, shocked. What a worry. Hopefully the antibiotics will start to work soon and it wont be necessary.

The nurse who changes my dressing didnt seem too hopeful. Cazs face clouded and she suddenly burst into tears.

Oh, Caz, I said, standing and going to her. You poor dear. I went to take her hand but she pulled away. Is there any other treatment you can have? Have you talked to your doctor?

She shook her head despondently and, taking a tissue from her cardigan pocket, quickly wiped her eyes as if she didnt have the right to cry or be upset.

I am sorry, I said again, at a loss to know what comfort I could offer.

Its not just that, she said. I feel so worthless. Sometimes I think everyone would be better off without me.

Caz, dont say that. Your family loves you lots. I saw that at the hospital. Not many teenagers would give up every evening to go to the hospital, even if it was their mother. I think you should speak to your doctor about how you are feeling. I am sure hell be able to help.

Its not the girls, its him, she said in the same flat voice, and for a moment I thought she meant Max.

Max? I asked, wondering what he could possibly have done to upset her.

She shook her head. No. His father. Anyway, its not your problem. She blew her nose and tucked the tissue into the sleeve of her cardigan.

Do you have someone you can talk to? I asked, returning to my chair.

Yes, but talking doesnt do any good. There was a few moments silence, which I broke by telling her Max was coping well and enjoying the summer holidays something most parents of children in care want to hear. But Cazs face clouded again and her bottom lip trembled. I made a move to go to her, but she waved me away.