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

the kitchen floor.’
    ‘No,’ I said, raising my voice above hers. ‘You don't have to. Stop it, now! And you are not supposed to be in the kitchen. It isn't allowed.’ Which was true: it was a house rule that I didn't have young children in the kitchen, for safety reasons, but I hadn't yet explained the house rules to Donna.
    Gradually the frantic scrubbing grew less frenzied, and then came to a halt. Her hands on the rag became still, but she remained on all fours, bent over the rags. ‘Don't hit me,’ she said. ‘I've done my best.’
    I stared at her, horrified. ‘Of course I'm not going to hit you. I don't hit anyone, and certainly not a child.’ I continued to look at her, as I tried to understand what was happening. Keeping my voice even, I said, ‘Donna, I want you to stand up, and dry yourself. We need to talk.’ My firmness masked my anxiety, as I continued to search for a reason that could have brought Donna down here in the early hours to do this.
    I took the hand towel from the rail by the sink and held it out. ‘Now please, Donna, stand up and dry your handsand legs. You're soaking.’ The front of her nightdress was sopping wet where it had trailed in the water; it dripped as she stood. I passed her the towel and she slowly wiped her hands, then bent down and wiped her knees. I watched her: the frenzied movements of her scrubbing had vanished and she had once more resumed her slow lethargic manner. She finished wiping off the excess water from her legs and handed back the towel. Although her legs and hands were dry, her nightdress was still dripping. ‘I think we had better get you changed first before we talk,’ I said.
    She shrugged.
    I reached out and took her hand, and she allowed me to lead her from the wet and slippery floor of the kitchen, across the carpet of the annexe and into the hall. I let go of her hand as I led the way upstairs. Adrian and Paula were still asleep — it was just before 7.30 a.m. I went into Donna's bedroom, took a set of clean clothes and underwear from her wardrobe and laid them on the bed. ‘Get dressed, please,’ I said. ‘I'll be back in a minute. Leave your nightdress in the laundry basket on the landing.’
    Donna didn't say anything but made a move towards the clothes. I came out, pulling the door to behind me. I went to my bedroom, where I quickly dressed and ran a brush through my hair. My morning routine having been disrupted, I would have to shower later, after I had spoken to Donna. What had been going through her head to make her rise at the crack of dawn and creep downstairs with her bag of rags and start the ritualised cleaning, I couldn't begin to guess. It hadn't been proper cleaning, as if she had wanted to make a difference; nor had it been a small task, as Adrian and Paula sometimes performed, which I would have to admire with great delight — ‘Look, Mum! We'vetidied the toy box!’ No, Donna's work had been a frenzied attack, almost as if she was acting out something, which hadn't been aimed so much at accomplishing a task as releasing something in her. Edna's almost throwaway comment came back to me — ‘Mary thinks she might have OCD.’ I knew very little about OCD, other than that it was an obsessive need to do something over and over again; was this how it manifested itself ?
    I went round the landing and knocked lightly on Donna's door. ‘Are you dressed?’ I asked quietly, not wanting to wake Adrian and Paula.
    Donna's small voice came back. ‘Yes, Cath-ie.’
    I went in. She was sitting on the bed, hunched forward, arms folded into her waist and head down. The colourful beads from her bracelet were now strewn across the floor.
    ‘Oh dear, have you broken your bracelet?’ I asked, wondering if this had anything to do with what had just happened in the kitchen.
    She shook her head, and in that movement I saw a small guilt. I was almost certain that the two incidents were somehow connected, and that she had possibly broken the