Cut by Cathy Glass

had a drink and a snack on coming in. When John came home from work we ate dinner together, and then afterwards Dawn asked me if I could check her English essay for spelling and grammar.
    We sat together on the sofa as I read the essay; it was a piece of creative writing entitled ‘Five Again’. The class had been asked to write from the perspective of being five years old. They could use their own experiences of childhood or make it up if they preferred. I smiled as I read the idyllic world Dawn’s five-year-old had inhabited, where she played endlessly in ‘green parks’ with ‘bright yellow daffodils’, and had ‘red jelly and strawberry ice-cream’ for tea every evening, and where there were no worries beyond that of choosing which sweets she would buy with her pocket money. Considering Dawn had missed a lot of schooling, her essay was pretty good. She had used plenty of adjectives, as her teacher had told the class they should, and there weren’t that many spelling mistakes. Dawn made the necessary corrections as we went along and I continually praised her essay.
    When I came to the end, I said, ‘That’s excellent, Dawn, really good. It sounds as though you had a great time when you were five years old.’
    ‘I made it all up,’ she said dismissively. ‘I can’t remember when I was five.’
    I smiled. ‘Well, it’s very good. You’ve got a good imagination, but I’m sure if you thought carefully you could remember some things from when you were five. I can, and I’m a lot older than you.’
    ‘No,’ she said adamantly. ‘Not a thing. I did try and think back, because it would have been easier than making it up. But my first memory is when I was eight and I started school.’
    I looked at her, puzzled. ‘You would have started school three years before then,’ I said. ‘That memory must have been from when you changed schools, which can be very traumatic.’
    She shook her head. ‘No, it was my very first day at school, and I was eight. I remember how scared I was, and I can’t remember anything before then.’
    I let the subject drop, for clearly Dawn was mistaken. She must have started school by the time she was five years old: it was a legal requirement. I decided she was confusing being five with being eight and it didn’t really matter. John and I were meeting her mother and social worker the following evening, when hopefully the conversation would turn to Dawn’s past. It would be helpful for me to have some background information and it would also probably jog Dawn’s memory.
    ‘Well, Dawn, made up or not, it’s very good,’ I finished by saying. ‘I’m sure your teacher will be very pleased. I am.’
    She glowed from the praise, and carefully folding the A4 sheets of writing paper, placed them in her school bag, ready for the following day. She then set about learning the dates for history, and I tested her on them. Later that evening, as John and I sat in the lounge, Dawn went to get ready for bed.
    She came downstairs again almost immediately, and standing in the hall outside the lounge, called me quietly. ‘Cathy, can I speak to you in private?’
    Exchanging a quizzical glance with John, I left him with Adrian and went into the hall. Dawn was only half changed, with her pyjama top on but still in her joggers. ‘Cathy,’ she whispered, glancing anxiously at the open lounge door. ‘I’ve started my first period. I haven’t got any sanitary towels.’
    ‘Oh, right, love,’ I said, understanding her need for privacy. ‘Don’t worry. Come with me. I’ll get you some of mine.’
    I took Dawn upstairs, gave her a pack of sanitary towels and then waited while she finished in the toilet. When she came out she gave me her stained clothes, and I reassured her that it wasn’t a problem and I would put them in the wash. I felt I should talk to Dawn about periods as a mother would do, and as my mother had done with me. We went into her bedroom and sat side by side on the bed,