Trust

By Jennie Michel

Sometimes, there's a high price to pay for doing the right thing. But what is the right thing and is Amy Norman prepared to risk everything to do it? It is obvious to Amy that her new client, Lily, is being abused by her grandson and his partner. Craig Simmons, an old friend from school days, is a lawyer and is willing to go along with Amy's wild accusations about Lily's situation — up to a point. Will Craig help her, and where will this renewed relationship lead? And what is it that is driving the behaviour of Lily's grandson? Yes, sometimes there is a price to pay for doing the right thing and, sometimes, the price is more than you could ever imagine.

'Trust' - a book to make you laugh, cry, and examine your own capacity to care.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CreateBooks
• Release date: Aug 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9780994110299

Jennie Michel

Jennie Michel was born in London and spent much of her childhood in Suffolk. She trained as a nurse at Barts Hospital in London. Jennie continued her nursing career in London and Edinburgh before moving to New Zealand in 1979 to marry the Kiwi she had met in London. The couple live on Auckland’s North Shore and have a son and a grandson. Jennie spent the latter years of her career working with vulnerable older people. She was one of the writers of the resource book that led to the development of an Elder Abuse Prevention Service in New Zealand.

Book preview

Jennie Michel

Chapter 1

He tried to make himself as small as he could. Just a small bump under the dirty eiderdown. Put his fingers in his ears to try and block everything out and curled himself tight to stop the shaking.

Shouting. Screaming. Banging. Thuds and other terrifying noises surrounded his hiding place. Then there was – nothing. He stayed under the cover, terrified. His cave, underground. Nobody could find him down here.

When he woke up he was ashamed to find he’d wet the bed. Despite the wet, smelly, cold bed he didn’t want to get up. Any noise might bring them into his room. He would be hit for wetting the bed. Better to stay where he was.

The silence in the house frightened him. Was it day or night? Were they asleep? Maybe the world had ended. He lifted the eiderdown very slowly and peered out. Dust danced in flickers of light leaking through the ragged curtains. He peered around. Apart from his bed and a box of clothes, one pair of scuffed shoes and a few broken toys there was nothing else in the room. In the daylight and the silence he felt his courage grow. He poked his legs out from under the eiderdown and sat up. Listened. Nothing. Perhaps he could sneak down to the kitchen and get a drink. He tiptoed carefully across the floor, stopping every now and again to listen for footsteps or voices. Nothing but silence.

His bedroom door was slightly open. Not enough to squeeze through though. He pushed it further open. The door graunched across the rough floor and he leapt back. Waited, terrified they might come and discover the bed was wet. Still there was no sound. So he tried again and went out on to the landing. The other bedroom door was open. He tilted his head, listening, ready to bolt back to his cave at the slightest sound. Silence. Feeling a little braver he edged across the floor and looked down the stairs. The front door was open, wide open. He frowned. His mother never left the door open. In fact, most of the time it was locked, and had a chain across it as well.

On his bottom like a toddler, he inched himself down the stairs. He could have walked down but this felt safer. He stopped to listen as he slid down the stairs trying not to make bumping noises.

Reaching the last stair, he stood up and crept to the kitchen. No-one was there. His stomach grumbled and he sneaked a mouthful of milk straight from the fridge. Even his mother would yell at him if she saw him drinking straight out of the bottle. He eyed a half-eaten burger lurking on the table next to an over-flowing ashtray, checked to make sure no-one was watching, and scoffed that down as well.

He inched his way around the rooms on the ground floor. No angry voices. He didn’t feel so scared now. The laundry - no-one. Dining area – nobody here. He let go a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Where was his mother?

The sitting room... he gasped, his shoulders hunching up to his ears. It was like a television programmed but he seemed to be starring in it. Was he having a nightmare? Was he still asleep? No, he was awake and this nightmare was very real.

He hugged his arms tight around himself and tried to stop the whimper in his throat for escaping. His mother was on the floor streaked in reddy-brown stuff. Was is blood? He tiptoed over to her.

‘Mummy?’ She didn’t move, not even to tell him to bugger off, which was what she usually did when he disturbed her. He reached out to touch her, shake her, but jerked his hand back, crouched beside her, and clenched both hands between his knees.

Was she dead? He had never seen a real dead person, wasn’t sure he actually knew what dead meant. What he was sure of was his mother was never going to wake up again. Tears slithered silently down his cheeks. His legs felt wobbly.

He didn’t know what to do so he crumpled on the uncarpeted floor next to the only person who had ever cared for him in all his life. What would happen to him now?

Sobs punched him, ripping through his muscles. He pressed his forehead against the grimy wooden floor and gasped for breath.

A siren wailed. Voices. Where were they coming from? The noise was so loud he covered his ears. He didn’t know who or what was making all this noise. Loud stamping sounds came from outside. He sucked his thumb. ‘You’re not a baby,’ his mother would shout when she caught him doing it. Then she would pull his hand away. Sometimes it hurt. She could be rough. . He didn’t think she would do anything about it today.

More voices. Someone was in the house. It could be them.

Before he could scramble away and hide, someone shouted, ‘Police. Anyone here?’

A man was standing in the doorway. A big black silhouette blocking the light.

‘Sarge, there’s a small boy in here.’

‘Is he okay?

‘Well, he doesn’t appear to be hurt, but I doubt he’s okay.’ The man bent down towards him and said, ‘Hello, I’m Bill. What’s your name?’

He curled into himself, his hands over his face, too scared to look at this giant. As far as he was concerned, a man, any man, meant trouble. He stuck his thumb back in his month and sucked furiously. If he kept extra quiet maybe no-one would hurt him.

‘It’s okay, mate,’ this man said and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re safe now.’ 

He parted his fingers, just a bit, to sneak a look and saw large black boots. His tummy flipped. He’d never seen such big boots. Risked another look. The Giant sat on the floor next to him. He was a policeman. He knew that because the Giant was in a policeman’s uniform, but he’d taken his cap off. Ginger hair stood up on his head in spikes, like Bart Simpson’s did.

‘Bill, how is he?’ Suddenly the room seemed full of large men dressed in blue.

‘My guess is he’s traumatized, Sarge.’

Bill’s voice was silenced by a loud sharp cry. ‘Oh, my goodness. Oh dear.’

He peered up to see an old woman, hands covering her mouth, staring at his mother. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Who are you, Madam?’ Bill asked.

‘I’m Mrs Perry, the neighbor. I heard screams and other noises last night and, when I got up this morning and went out for the paper, I saw the front door was wide open. I was worried so I called the police.’

‘Do you know this boy?’

‘Not really. He and his mother only moved in recently...’ She stuttered to a halt and looked at him, her eyes shiny like she might cry.

‘Could you take this wee man outside?’ asked the ginger-haired policeman, putting his arm around her shoulder. ‘And would you be able to stay with him until we can get hold of someone to look after him? I don’t suppose you know his name? We can’t get anything out of him.’

‘No, sorry. I rarely spoke to his mother. I didn’t see them much. But, of course, I’ll take him to mine, No 15. Come on, sweetheart, we’ll see if I can find some biscuits.’

Mrs Perry took hold of his hand. Her hand felt warm and somehow reassuring. His hand had been held like this by another old woman. That woman had smelt of soap. Who was she? Whoever she was, he remembered her brushing his hair out of his eyes and cuddling him. His mouth watered - she’d even given him lollies. Was this the same one woman? He didn’t think so. She said she’d give him biscuits though.

She took him to the house next door and led him into a room bursting with stuff. He’d never seen so many things crowded into one space. He gagged and started to cry. Couldn’t catch his breath, didn’t want to be in this room full of so many things they sucked out all the air. He wanted his mother, to be back in their house with hardly any stuff. When it was just the two of them at home they’d sometimes snuggle up on the couch and watch TV. One time his mum even made some popcorn in the microwave and they munched through that... until he came home. Then his mother made him go to bed. What would happen to him now?

‘Sit on that chair by the window, dear.’

He went over to the chair and sank down. The chair was huge and so soft. He ran his fingers over material that felt like he was stroking a cat.

‘I’ll go and get you a drink and something to eat. Would you like that?’ He nodded.

When she had left, he curled up like he did in bed. If only he had his eiderdown he might be able to disappear, same as he did at home. He jumped when she put a glass of orange juice and some chocolate biscuits on the small table next to the chair.

‘Sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ She sounded kind so he risked taking a biscuit from the plate. When he had eaten that he took a sip of his drink. Fizzy bubbles tickled his throat and he gulped down the lot before someone took it away.

‘Do you want anything else? A sandwich or cereal with milk perhaps?’ He shook his head.

‘Won’t you tell me your name?’ she asked. He hesitated but stuck his thumb firmly back in his mouth.

‘Never mind,’ she said giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.  ‘Let’s at least get these wet things of you. You can put on this old dressing gown of Sid’s. Then I can wash your pajamas. You’ll feel a bit better in clean, dry clothes.’

He had no idea who Sid was but his dressing gown was warm. He curled up in the chair again and reached for another biscuit but they all fell on the floor.

‘Here, let me roll up your sleeves.’ Once his arms re-appeared through the wide sleeves, Mrs Perry picked the biscuits up and put them back on the plate. ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘The biscuits are all right – no fluff. Help yourself.’

He burrowed back down in the chair. The washing machine started up and Mrs Perry bustled around humming some tune. He felt safe. Safe until the doorbell rang. He heard voices and then Mrs Perry said, ‘Yes, do come in. He’s in the front room. I’m just washing his clothes. Maybe he has some other clothes at the house.’

Another woman’s voice said, ‘I’m sure there will be. I’ll sort things out in a minute. Through here you say?’

A woman came into the room. ‘Hello – I’m Jilly.’

She reminded him a bit of his mother. She came towards him smiling and knelt in front of him. ‘I am going to take you to another house where there are some people who will look after you for now. But first, these policemen would like to ask you some questions. I’ll stay here with you. Is that all right?’ He stared at her as the policemen sat opposite him. One of them was the nice one with the Bart Simpson hair.

Questions, questions. So many questions. The one constant person was Jilly. She said she was some sort of worker who had been sent to look after him and stayed with him while all the others asked their questions. Time to put his thumb in his mouth again.

‘What was the name of the man who lived with them?’

‘Was this man your father?’

‘Where is your father?’

And still more questions.

Did he have any other relatives? Grandparents? Aunts? Uncles? What did he like to eat? Drink? Were there any special toys in the house?

‘I think that’s enough now. Can we go to the house to pack some things up for him to take to the foster home?’

What was a foster home? Mrs Perry handed his dry clothes back to him. He sat there clutching the still warm clothes for comfort.

‘Shall I help you?’ said Jilly.

He stood whilst she took Sid’s huge dressing gown off him. he wished he could keep it. He’d felt safe in it. He stood there lifting arms and legs as asked. Without doing anything himself he was back in his pajamas and a fleecy top.

‘Are you taking the boy over to the house with you? I don’t think that’s a good idea. Apart from it being a crime scene, the body is still there.’

He tried to stop a sob escaping but it was no use. ‘I want my mummy,’ he wailed. He managed to get free from Jilly’s grasp and ran out of the front door. He rushed into his house. ‘Mummy! Mummy...’

‘Hello, little man.’ He felt himself scooped up. He looked at the person holding him and saw another policeman with a smiley face. He was carried up to his room.

‘Let’s put some things in this bag.’ As she said this, Jilly held out a bag he’d never seen before.

‘What would you like to take?’

‘I want my mummy...’

‘Maybe you should just put what you think he needs,’ said the policeman who was still holding him. ‘I’ll take him back downstairs.’

He clutched Jilly’s hand as she led him out to her car. He couldn’t see his mother but he said goodbye anyway as he was put into Jilly’s car. He clutched Jilly’s hand when she took him to stay with strangers. She was going to leave him, too. First his mother, and then Jilly. Gone. His lip trembled and he bit down hard on it trying not to cry, trying to be brave.

Chapter 2

Amy took time getting ready that first Monday morning. Donning the pale blue Polo shirt issued by the homecare agency she was pleased to see how well her new navy-blue cotton trousers went with it.  The short hair style Amy had chosen for her interview was just right for her new role she thought when gazing at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. She looked professional but not so remote as to be uncaring. Yes – this was the impression she hoped her appearance conveyed.

Over breakfast Amy organized her day, and now as she got into her car she opened her diary with her route for the day plus the clients’ names and addresses. She had taken the time to look at the local map so she knew all the roads she’d use but, just to be on the safe side, she made a note of the map pages by each client’s address. Maybe she should buy a GPS when she got her first pay packet.

As well as making sure she knew where she was going and who lived at each address she took the time to memorize the clients’ health problems and what she was to do for them. Wishing she felt a little more confident, Amy set off in her new role. Driving slower than was normal for her, Amy searched for the house of her first appointment. She’d thought she knew where she was going when she started off but had been thrown by a No-Right Turn and found herself going further away from her destination. She then tried to get back on track but had found herself in winding streets she hadn’t known existed until now. Once she was in the right road she was still in difficulty as the house numbers were quite indistinct in some places, or so small she had to stop to see where she was but, eventually, she drew into the drive of her first client. Amy knocked on the door and waited, suddenly wishing she had chosen another way to earn some money.

‘Yes,’ said a harassed looking older woman.

‘Good Morning. I’m Amy Norman from the home care agency. I’m here to see Mr Beckett,’ explained Amy struggling to show the woman her identification badge.

‘Thank goodness. You’re later than the other one used to be. I thought you weren’t coming. I was just about to ring your office. You better come in.’

Amy was shown into charming sitting room, nicely furnished, with a very powerful heater ramping up the temperature to hot house levels. Mrs Beckett led Amy through this room along a narrow corridor to a bedroom where she found her client sitting on the edge of his bed trying to do up his dressing gown. It was a woollen checked affair with a twisted rope-like belt. Amy didn’t realize they still made such garments.

‘Hello, Mr Beckett. I’m Amy, your new carer,’ said Amy walking towards the old gentleman. He looked up and stared at Amy then returned to tying up the belt of his dressing gown. Amy wanted to pull out her note book as she couldn’t remember what she was to do for Mr Beckett nor what his care needs were but she felt awkward with his wife watching her so closely.

‘He needs his shower, has to be dressed by ten thirty as the Day Club people are coming to pick him up. I had to phone them to say he wouldn’t be ready at the usual time so they are making a special journey.’

She turned towards Mrs Beckett who was standing with her arms crossed as if daring Amy to contradict her. Her confidence was shaken again when she realized she’d no idea where the bathroom was, where Mr Beckett kept his clothes or even what he wore for these excursions. Taking a deep breath and reverting to her teacher persona she spoke to Mrs Beckett as she would have to an obstinate child.

‘Could you show me around the house so I know where the bathroom is, the toilet and could you lay out the clothes Mr Beckett is to wear today.’

Her authoritarian style did the trick. Mrs Beckett seemed relieved. Order had been brought to the situation. Amy had taken control. The old woman indicated Amy follow her. As she took Amy on a tour of the house, she told Amy all she needed to know down to the shampoo Mr Beckett preferred and how he liked to be showered. She went on to tell Amy she had helped her husband shave that morning which was one less thing for Amy to do.

By some miracle Mr Beckett was showered, dressed and ready when the van arrived to pick him up. After Amy tidied up the bathroom, collected her bag and put on her jacket, she said her good-byes to Mrs Beckett telling her she’d see them both again on Wednesday. She got into her car and took a deep breath a little alarmed at the tears that had welled up when Mrs Beckett thanked her. It was nearly eleven o’clock and she’d only done one client. At this rate she’d be getting her clients ready for bed instead of getting them up. She was already exhausted with both the physical and emotional energy expended in getting Mr Beckett up and ready.

Fighting back tears she set off for her next client, Miss Green, who had been expecting her at ten fifteen. Oh well, better late than never. Fortunately, Miss Green lived in the next road so she was only about half-an-hour late. Amy knocked on the door and waited with some trepidation as to what this next encounter would bring. The gleaming white front door was opened by a perky, smiling woman in her eighties who greeted Amy warmly and she showed her in to the hall.

‘Hello, you must be Amy. The agency told me you were taking over from Josie. Has it been a bit nerve-racking on your first day?’

‘Yes, it certainly has. I’m sorry I’m late.’

‘Don’t worry. How about we cut your visit today down to the bare minimum so you can catch up? No-one needs to know.’

Amy was pathetically grateful to this charming woman. She wondered why she needed a home carer. She was about to pull out her book to check what it was she had to do for her when Miss Green said, ‘I need help with house work and shopping as I have a heart condition and find lifting, in fact any physical exertion, makes me breathless and light headed. So let’s not worry about the house work today and just sort out my shopping list. I expect the agency explained you collect my list today and pick up my shopping on your way here on Wednesday. I have a special bank card that you use and you bring me the receipt so my nephew can make sure everything’s above board. He set all this up with my bank. It has a fixed limit on it and no other accounts can be accessed. I only tell you this so you know I cannot accuse you of over spending or something.’

‘I understand, thank you,’ said Amy noting a certain hardness had come into Miss Green’s eyes and she wondered whether someone had taken advantage of the old woman in the past.

‘My nephew is in the police,’ announced Miss Green with a certain amount of pleasure. Amy looked at her and found her client smiling.

‘I certainly don’t want to upset him,’ laughed Amy.

With the shopping list completed, all Miss Green’s preferences noted including possible substitutions if a certain product wasn’t available, Amy readied to go when she heard a noise from the sitting room. She rushed back in to find Miss Green had fallen. She hurried over and helped her into a chair.

‘Are you all right? Can I call someone for you?’

‘No, don’t worry, it was just one of my turns. I get dizzy when a bit stressed or try to do too much. I’ll be fine.’

‘If you’re sure?’

‘Yes, be off with you. See you Wednesday. Don’t worry, my nephew’s wife is coming in this afternoon to cook my meal for tonight and check on me. She brings my grandniece who is eight years old and loves to fuss over me. I’ll be all right. Goodbye.’

Feeling summarily dismissed Amy left though still a little concerned as to whether she should have done something more than just help Miss Green into the chair. She looked at the time and now she really was running late for her next client, a Mrs Garrett. Before setting off Amy checked her book so she would be better prepared than she had been so far. She read that this client was nearly ninety, had macular degeneration and was legally blind. She’d also had a series of small strokes and was very frail. Putting the car into gear Amy set off, checking her map and route as she did so. With a bit of luck she could make up time here and get her day back on track.

The bedroom door was locked and when Amy entered she was overwhelmed with compassion for the frail elderly Mrs Garrett sitting on a hard kitchen chair, the only the place she could sit other than the bed. There was hardly anything else in the room, no other furniture except the single bed, no personal effects, no pictures or photos and, more to the point, no heater on such a cold day. As Amy walked towards her, the old woman screwed up her eyes trying to make out who Amy was.

‘Come closer so I can get a good look at you,’ demanded the old woman not sounding so frail.

Amy approached the