Maddie sat on command. She didn’t have the energy to process the admission that Jade had helped herself to money from her purse as well as her front door key. ‘Thanks so much for looking after me. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing – you’d do the same for me.’
‘Where’s Ben?’
‘He’s with a friend.’
A burnt smell filled the air and minutes later Maddie was presented with some charred toast, the butter melting into the black crumbs. ‘Here, eat that. It might look burnt, but the charcoal will help settle your stomach.’
Maddie took a timid nibble of the corner. ‘Thanks.’
‘Go on, get it in ya,’ Jade pushed.
Maddie took another bite, not exactly relishing the blackened taste, then put the toast down. ‘You know, I think I’ll go back to bed. I’m wiped out. But thank you so much for looking after me. I do appreciate it and I had no one else I could count on.’
‘Oh, really, it’s fine. I can hang out here if you like? In case you need me?’
‘No, no, you get back to Ben. I’ll be fine – I can text you if I need anything.’
‘Ok, if you’re sure.’ Jade got to her feet. ‘Let me know, yeah? And eat that toast!’
Maddie smiled and took another bite as evidence. As soon as the door closed behind Jade, Maddie took the plate of cremated bread into the kitchen and tossed the toast in the bin. She headed back to bed, but paused at the front door to slide the chain in place first.
THEN
Everywhere I look I see children that are clearly being neglected. Overlooked, forgotten while their parents focus on work, their social lives, their phones.
Take the little boy over there by the swings, for instance. He has been running around with snot rimming the dummy in his mouth for about ten minutes, his mother oblivious to the germs he is sucking in with every tug on his dummy as she sits and natters away with her friend. She is as thin and shapeless as a French fry and she is guzzling what is probably a skinny frothy caramel something or other from a takeaway cup like it’s a drug. Meanwhile, her little angel of a boy is swallowing snot, his head clearly full of a nasty cold. He should be at home, tucked in bed with her reading him stories or snuggling together watching a Disney film so that he can recover, not here, running around a cold and damp playground, sharing germs with the other toddlers like they’re sweets from a packet.
Sometimes I am flabbergasted at how women like these have been given such a blessing as these beautiful little creatures when they clearly do not deserve it.
A little girl has tripped over her own feet not far from me and she is crying. I can see her knee is grazed, the skin red raw and bleeding. I can’t see the mother anywhere.
Another victim of neglect.
I get up and stride over to the girl. ‘Hey there, Princess. Did you fall over? Have you hurt yourself?’
The little girl is sitting in the dirt, peering at her knee. Her big brown eyes are glassy with hurt and tiny pebbles of water have collected along the edges of her long eyelashes. She looks down at her bleeding knee, her lip trembling, and nods her head.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that. We’ll clean you up and then you’ll be as right as rain. You know, a little scrape here and there is a sign that you’ve had a good day. You’ve done something unusual, extraordinary, dangerous even. Don’t you think?’
The girl is peering at me like I’m an alien with two heads. She hasn’t run away though, so she clearly hasn’t had the don’t talk to strangers conversation yet.
I lift her gently from the ground, brush the dirt from the back of her skirt and lead her over to the bench I have been sitting on. I look around again – still no mother has made herself known.
There is a café on the other side of the playground with a small bathroom where I could clean her knee and wipe her face.
‘What’s your name, Princess?’
‘Mia,’ she whispers with a hiccup.
‘Where’s your mummy?’
She shrugs. A tiny movement, but I’m sure I see it.
‘Will you come with me to the café over there so that we can clean up your knee? Maybe we can see if they have any cookies too? To make you feel better?’
She doesn’t respond, but takes hold of my hand when I reach out to her. I look around as we walk away from the noise and bustle of the playground towards the café. Are there any women here who look like they might belong to this little angel? A childminder who has her hands full with a few children maybe? Or a working mother too busy answering emails to notice her daughter has hurt herself? There are a few women that could fit the bill, either staring at their phones or chatting to friends, another fawning over a tiny dog as it does a rather runny poo on the grass just beyond the fence that cordons off the play equipment from the rest of the park.
The girl is trotting next to me, still sniffing. Her pink shoes are freshly scuffed at the toe from when she fell. I push open the door of the café and walk straight past the tables, weave around the many pushchairs and beyond the queue of people waiting to pay for their beverages, heading instead to the bathrooms at the back of the room.
The bathroom is empty except for one cubicle with the door closed. The air smells chemical, like it has just been doused in bleach. Someone inside the cubicle is loudly praising a small child for not weeing in their pants for a change, saying in a sing-song voice that he’s such a big
