Saving Danny. Cathy Glass
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routine. I placed the sheet in the folder I’d already begun for Danny, and which would eventually contain all the paperwork I had on him. I returned the folder to the lockable draw in the front room and went upstairs to say goodnight to Paula, Lucy and Adrian. Then I checked on Danny. He was still buried beneath the duvet and, concerned he would be too hot and breathing stale air, I crept to the bed and slowly moved the duvet clear of his face. He was in a deep sleep and didn’t stir. His cheeks were flushed pink, and his soft-toy rabbit lay on the pillow beside him. Danny looked like a little angel with his delicate features relaxed in sleep and his mop of light blond hair.
I checked on him again at 11.30 before I went to bed, and then when I woke at 2 a.m. Both times he was fast asleep, flat on his back, with his face above the duvet and soft-toy George beside him. I didn’t sleep well – I never do when a child first arrives. I subconsciously listen out for the child in case they are upset. But as far as I was aware Danny slept soundly, and he was still asleep when my alarm went off at 6 a.m. I checked on him before I showered and dressed, then again before I went downstairs to feed Toscha and make myself a coffee. At 7 a.m., after I’d woken Adrian, Lucy and Paula, I knocked on Danny’s door and went in. He was awake now, still lying on his back but with his arm around the soft toy and staring up at the ceiling.
‘Good morning, love,’ I said, going over to the bed. ‘You slept well. Did you remember where you were when you woke?’
His gaze flickered in my direction, but he didn’t make eye contact. Then he spoke, although it wasn’t to answer my question.
‘For breakfast I have cornflakes, with milk and half a teaspoon of sugar,’ he said.
I smiled. He had clearly prepared this speech, and I wondered at the effort that must have gone into finding the correct words and then keeping them ready for when they were needed.
‘That sounds good to me,’ I said. ‘I want you to wash and dress and then we’ll go down and have breakfast.’
I looked at his little face as he concentrated on what I’d said and tried to work out if a response was needed, and if so, what.
‘So the first thing you need to do is get out of bed,’ I said. I appreciated that Danny needed clear and precise instructions. There was a moment’s pause before Danny pushed back the duvet and got out of bed. ‘Good boy,’ I said. ‘The next thing you need to do is go to the toilet and then the bathroom so you can have a wash.’
Danny turned, not towards the bedroom door but to where his clothes were at the foot of the bed. He stared at them anxiously.
‘Do you usually put your clothes on first?’ I asked him.
He nodded.
‘That’s fine, but you’ll need clean clothes. I’ll wash those.’ I usually replaced the child’s clothes with fresh ones when they took them off at night, but I hadn’t had a chance the previous evening. I went to the chest of drawers where Danny had put his clean clothes and opened the drawer. Danny arrived beside me, wanting to take out what he needed himself.
‘I’ll put your dirty clothes in the laundry basket,’ I said.
He shook his head and, setting down his clean clothes, picked up the dirty ones, again clearly wanting to do it himself. ‘OK. I’ll show you where to put your laundry,’ I said. But Danny went ahead. I followed him round the landing and then waited just outside the bathroom while he put his clothes into the laundry basket. He’d obviously remembered seeing it the night before.
‘Good boy,’ I said.
He used the toilet and then we returned to his bedroom. I was on hand to help if necessary. Before he began dressing Danny laid out his clothes on the bed in the order in which they would go on. His vest at the top, beneath that his school shirt, then his jumper, pants, trousers and socks. I wondered if this was a system he’d thought of to help him dress or if it had been devised by his parents. Special needs children often struggle with sequencing tasks like this that appear simple to the rest of us; they can easily put their vest on over the top of their shirt, for example. Danny’s system worked. Slowly but surely he dressed himself and didn’t need my help.
‘Well done,’ I said as he finished.
He didn’t reply but now concentrated on folding his pyjamas – precisely in half and half again – and then tucked them neatly under his pillow. He carefully positioned his soft toy, George, on his pillow and then drew up the duvet so just the little rabbit’s face peeped out. After that he spent some moments readjusting the duvet until I said, ‘Time to go downstairs for breakfast now.’
He finally stopped fiddling with the duvet and came with me. At the top of the stairs I offered him my hand, and for a second I thought he was going to take it, but then he took hold of the handrail instead. Because Danny was quite small he navigated the steps one at a time, as a much younger child would. He then came with me into the kitchen-cum-diner and went straight to his place at the table.
‘Good boy,’ I said again.
Adrian came down and took his place at the table. ‘Hi, Danny,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
Danny didn’t answer but did look in Adrian’s direction.
‘Toast and tea?’ I asked Adrian, which was what he normally had for breakfast during the week.
‘Yes please, Mum.’
In the kitchen I dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, poured Danny’s cornflakes into a bowl, added milk and sugar and then placed the bowl on the table in front of him. He picked up his spoon and began eating, clearly used to eating cornflakes. ‘What would you like to drink with your breakfast?’ I asked Danny.
There was silence. His spoon hovered over his bowl and he concentrated hard before he said, ‘I have a glass of milk with my breakfast.’
I poured the milk, gave it to Danny and then joined him and Adrian at the table. The girls came down and said hello to Danny, then poured themselves cereal and a drink. As we ate, Lucy and Paula tried to make conversation with Danny, asking him what he liked best at school and what his favourite television programmes were. He didn’t answer, and I could see he was growing increasingly anxious at their questions, although of course they were only trying to be friendly and make him feel welcome. Danny appeared to be a child who needed to concentrate on one task at a time, and he finally stopped eating.
‘I think Danny is finding our talk a bit much first thing in the morning,’ I said as diplomatically as I could.
‘I know the feeling,’ Adrian added dryly.
‘Watch it,’ Lucy said jokingly, poking him in the ribs.
But the girls understood what I meant and not usually being great conversationalists themselves first thing in the morning, they left Danny to eat. Once I knew more about Danny’s difficulties I’d be better equipped to explain them to Adrian, Lucy and Paula, and also to deal with them myself. At present I was relying on common sense and my experience as a foster carer.
As the children finished eating they left the table one at a time to go upstairs and carry on getting ready for school. I waited with Danny while he emptied his bowl of cornflakes and then drank his glass of milk.
‘Good boy,’ I said. ‘Now it’s time for you to go upstairs so you can wash and brush your teeth.’
‘George?’ he asked questioningly, glancing towards the back door.
‘Do you feed George in the morning?’ I asked.
He nodded.
‘Your mummy will feed George today,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to her about George when I see her this morning at school.’
He accepted this, slid from his chair and then followed me down the hall and upstairs. In the bathroom he completed the tasks of washing and brushing his teeth in the same order and with the same precision as he had the previous evening.
Adrian, Lucy and Paula left for their respective