The day was heating up quickly and I wanted to get what I needed from the shops before the car became uncomfortably hot. The quick trip to the supermarket that I had mentioned to Edna the day before, which had seemed very positive when Edna had told me that Donna liked shopping and liked to help, now loomed as something else to overcome with one-sided conversation and a large measure of patience. Once we had finished the snack I bundled everyone into the car, showing Donna where to sit and checking her seatbelt was on. At their ages, all three children had to be on booster seats by law and in the rear of the car, and there wasn't an awful lot of room. Paula, the smallest, was in the middle, with Donna and Adrian either side. There was the usual elbowing between Adrian and Paula when they first got in and fastened their seatbelts. Once they were settled, I started the car, fed in the sing-along cassette and began the ten-minute journey to the supermarket. Normally Paula would have joined in the catchy rhymes but she sat, as did Adrian, in unnatural silence, further intimidated, I thought, by Donna's withdrawn and now close presence.
At the supermarket I took a small trolley and went up and down the aisles, dropping in what we needed. Adrian and Paula, as usual, chose a couple of ‘treats’ each, which was their reward (or bribe) for enduring another shopping trip. Donna, despite Edna's assurance of her liking shopping, walked beside the trolley, head down and taking no interest whatsoever. I repeatedly asked her if she liked this or that, lingering at the displays of unhealthy but tempting biscuits and crisps, but there was nothing beyond a shrug, or on one occasion a brief nod. Even at the ice-cream cabinet she barely raised her eyes, and certainly didn't express a preference. Over the years I've taken many children to the supermarket and I have experienced many different reactions — from a child stealing when I wasn't looking to a full-scale tantrum (often) when I wouldn't buy all the sweets that had been demanded — but never before had I experienced complete and utter silence and indifference.
Arriving home, I gave everyone a carrier bag and we made one journey into the house and took them through to the kitchen. Adrian and Paula went straight out into the garden, while Donna hovered, arms loosely folded in front of her and head hung down. I asked her if she would like to help me unpack. She shrugged without looking up and continued to stand, a haunted silhouette in the doorway of the kitchen.
‘Donna, love,’ I said at last, ‘you can do what you like, play in the garden, help me, or look at a book, but find something to do until lunchtime, pet.’ She moved away and, head down, shuffled off. Presently I saw her appear in the garden and sit on the bench on the patio, watching Adrian and Paula playing in the sandpit. I viewed the fact that she had actually gone outside as a positive sign, and I watched her for a few moments longer; then I stopped unpacking the bags and went to offer some encouragement.
‘Donna, would you like to play in the sandpit too?’
She shook her head.
‘What about the swings?’
The same shake of the head.
‘Do you want a bat or ball, or a bicycle out of the shed?’
Nothing, so I returned inside and finished the unpacking.
I made sandwiches for lunch and, with a packet of crisps for each of us, carried the tray outside to the table. We ate under the sunshade and in silence. Adrian and Paula were even quieter now — the unhealthy and oppressive silence was contagious, and like a smog it seemed to hang in the air.
‘I thought we would spend the rest of the day in the garden,’ I said. ‘Then tomorrow shall we have a day out somewhere?’
‘Sure,’ said Adrian, without his usual enthusiasm and suggestions of where we could go.
Paula looked up at Donna for her input and predictably was met with nothing. Paula continued eating her egg sandwich and crisps in silence, and as soon as she and Adrian had finished they scuttled off; I remained where I was at the table, opposite Donna. I looked at her. Here we were in the garden on an idyllic summer's day, surrounded by flowers in all their colourful glory, with a gentle breeze faintly stirring the trees, and Adrian and Paula without a care in the world, and Donna was in abject and withdrawn misery. I reached out and touched her hand.
‘Donna, love,’ I said gently. ‘You are going to have to start talking to me some time. It's too lonely for you otherwise.’ She withdrew her hand from mine and shrugged. ‘I know it's difficult for you, sweet, but you can trust me. I want to help you, but I need you to start talking to me. Adrian and Paula were looking forward to you coming to live with us, and they want to be friends with you.’
She shrugged again and, leaving the rest of her sandwich, got up from the bench and went to sit in the lounge. I sighed. My prognosis of a good night's sleep making all the difference now seemed laughable. And if I was honest, part of me was becoming irritated by her continual rejection of my best efforts, for I was sure she had some control over this unrelenting front she was hiding behind. I knew she was suffering, but she must have been talking at Mary and Ray's; otherwise they would have raised the alarm and Edna would have certainly told me. I could only assume that it was as a result of being separated from her brothers, and having to move, but how on earth I dealt with it was another matter. I decided the best course of action was to carry on as much as was possible with normal family life and include Donna, but not expect her to participate, in the hope that eventually she would feel comfortable enough to drop the barriers and join in. If nothing had changed by Monday morning, I would phone Jill and Edna and ask for help.
I took Paula and Adrian to one side and tried to explain the position to them, because I couldn't just ignore Donna's persistent silence: it was like ignoring the elephant in the room. ‘Carry on as normal,’ I said. ‘Talk to Donna but don't expect her to reply or join in.’ They said they would try, but clearly it was difficult for them. Later Paula made a few brave attempts to include Donna in her play but with no success.
That evening I ran a bath for Donna while she stood by me in silence, and then I left her to wash and change into her nightdress. I said goodnight and told her that the following day we would go out somewhere. I kissed her goodnight, said sleep tight, came out and pulled the door to. I consoled myself that while Donna wasn't engaging with me at any outward level at least she was cooperating and doing what I was asking. The day before I had been worried that she might stubbornly refuse to do anything, which would have been even more difficult, if not impossible to deal with.
Sunday evening approached. We had spent the day at a small adventure park, where Donna had sat and watched Paula and Adrian enjoying themselves with all the other children but not joined in once. I knew I would have to phone Jill and Edna first thing in the morning. I would ask them how to handle the situation because clearly my strategies were not working. I began the bedtime routine, and I left Donna to change into her nightdress and have her wash and do her teeth while I went downstairs and wrote up my log notes. Paula was already asleep and Adrian was getting changed into his pyjamas in his bedroom.
When I heard the bathroom door open and Donna return to her bedroom, I went upstairs to say goodnight. She was in bed with her arm around the teddy and had closed the bedroom curtains. I was half inclined to say a brisk goodnight and come out, for I was finding it difficult not to take her refusal to speak to me personally. I felt very frustrated and not a little hurt that she was making no attempt to communicate at all. But something stopped me from taking this line, and instead I went to her bed and knelt beside it.
I stroked her forehead and she didn't pull away. ‘Donna, love,’ I said, ‘I know you are hurting but you must start talking to me. I can't