Free The Saddest Girl in the World by Cathy Glass Page A

Warren and Jason. I did my best, but it wasn't good enough. And Mary and Ray didn't want my help.’
    I continued to stroke her forehead. ‘Donna, at your age, love, you should not be responsible for looking after the house or your younger brothers. That is the adult's responsibility. It was nice of you to help, but it was your mother's job to look after you, just as Mary and Ray are looking after your brothers now, and I will look after you. Do you understand?’
    She nodded.
    I paused. ‘Is that what's bothering you, or is there something else?’
    She gave a slight shake of her head.
    ‘All right, love, we'll talk about this more tomorrow, but I'm very pleased you felt you could tell me.’ I smiled andshe looked directly at me again and, although she didn't return my smile, I thought I saw a slight lifting of the dreadful melancholy that had frozen her expression into sadness.
    ‘Night then, love.’ I kissed her forehead.
    ‘Night, Cath-ie,’ she said, again separating the second syllable.
    I came out and with huge relief went into Adrian's room to say goodnight.
    ‘Donna's talking,’ I said.
    ‘Cool. Now she can play with Paula.’ I wasn't sure if this was a comment on Donna's progress or that Paula had been taking up rather a lot of his time recently.
    I said goodnight to Adrian and, with my usual warning about not reading until too late, came out and went downstairs. I went into the lounge, where I wrote up my log notes with considerable relief and some small satisfaction that I had got there in the end and Donna was finally talking.
    That night I slept very well, after sleeping badly the previous two, and when I went downstairs it was just after 7.00 a.m. At the end of the hall, I was surprised to find the door to the kitchen slightly open — I usually made sure all the downstairs doors were shut before I went to bed. I tentatively pushed the door wider open and went in. As I did, I started and did a double take. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Donna was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor for all she was worth. She was using the rags that had been in the carrier bag in her bedroom.

Chapter Six
Amateur Psychology
     
    ‘W hatever are you doing?’ I asked, amazed. Donna was in her nightdress, and the floor was awash with puddles of water and the sopping wet rags, which were dotted around her.
    She didn't answer, but continued rubbing one of the rags back and forth across the floor.
    ‘Donna?’ I said again. I began walking across the wet and now slippery tiled floor, with my bare feet squishing on the tiles. ‘Donna?’ I went right up to her. She must have heard me, and seen me out of the corner of her eye, but she kept on scrubbing furiously. Both of her hands clutched the rag in front of her and she rubbed it backwards and forwards as though her very life depended on it. In different circumstances I might have seen the funny side of it — a child frantically mopping up a spillage before I could see it, with their well-meant intentions making it a lot worse. But not now. This was no spillage — there was too much water and Donna's work was all-consuming and frantic.
    ‘Donna?’ I said again, more firmly; then I placed my hand on her shoulder, hoping to break the motion. My hand jerked back and forth in time with her frenzied cleaning. ‘Donna, stop now,’ I said loudly. ‘You don't have to do this.’
    ‘I do,’ she said, and she continued, now pushing the cloth round and round. The water sprayed against my ankles. I thought she must have tipped the washing-up bowl full of water over the floor, for there was far too much water for it to have come from the wet rags alone. She must have left her bedroom and come downstairs very quietly, for normally I heard a child out of bed and on the landing.
    ‘Donna, I want you to stop. Now!’ I said, and again I touched her shoulder.
    ‘No! I must clean,’ she said, her voice rising in panic. ‘I must! I must! I have to clean