The Saddest Girl in the World by Cathy Glass

Author:Cathy Glass
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780007321575
Publisher: Harper Collins, Inc.
Published: 2009-03-20T03:00:00+00:00

On Sunday I helped Donna to write some colourful birthday invitations; on each one she had to fill in the name of the person invited, the time and the venue, and sign it. I had already booked the bowling alley for Sunday 15 November, the day before Donna's birthday. The package they offered included an organiser/entertainer, two games of bowling for each child, a party tea and a ‘goody bag’ to take home. I had asked Donna sometime before, when I had first brought up the subject of her birthday, what she had done for her last birthday, and she had shrugged and said she didn't know, from which I had guessed that it was nothing, or something so insignificant as not to merit being treasured as a fond memory. Now as we worked side by side on the table in the annexe, and I watched her slide the invitations into the envelopes and then address them with so much care and precision, I casually brought up the topic again.

‘You are doing a really good job there, Donna,’ I said. ‘Have you ever written birthday invitations before?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Not all families have birthday parties, but we do,’ I said. ‘It's nice to have fun.’ She didn't say anything but concentrated on meticulously sliding the next invitation, which was to Warren, into the envelope. ‘I think it helps you to remember your birthday if you do something a bit special. It is an important day, after all.’

‘I can remember my last birthday,’ Donna said stoically. ‘Very well. I had to do the washing.’

I glanced sideways at her. ‘Oh yes?’

‘Mum said as it was my birthday everyone could have clean clothes. Dad wasn't there, but Mum, Chelsea and the boys all went and changed and brought me their dirty washing. Then Mum went round the house and gathered up all the clothes and rags that were lying around, and the stuff from her wardrobe, and dumped it in the kitchen. I spent all day washing. We didn't have a washing machine like you do, and it took ages in the sink. Then I had to try and get it dry, 'cos no one had any more clean clothes, and we didn't have a washing line. Mum hit me with a wet towel when I couldn't get it dry, and then told Chelsea and the boys to hit me.’

I looked at her and swallowed hard. Donna had said it so matter-of-factly she could have been telling me how she'd poached an egg; she was now carefully filling in her name on the next invitation, making sure she didn't make a mistake. I couldn't speak for the lump in my throat and I waited for the moment to pass.

‘How do you spell Adrian?’ she asked glancing up at me.

I swallowed again, and spelt it out. ‘Donna, love,’ I said, placing my hand on her arm and trying to raise a smile, ‘one thing I can guarantee is that you won't be doing any washing on your birthday this year, or at any time in my house.

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