“The cats help me as much as I help them”
Bill Gibb learns how Abbie Carter began fostering felines after her ME diagnosis.
could detect was that Claire had freckles on her nose and Kirsty had none.
I racked my brains for what I knew of their history.
I knew their mother had died four years ago, and from then they had become increasingly rebellious, with a “can’t do” attitude.
My heart went out to them. To lose your mother so young was devastating, I knew that.
Judging by their nonetoo-clean clothes and unbrushed, waist-length hair, I would say their father was struggling to care for them.
There was no money to keep up with fashion trends, so while the other girls sported Bay City Rollers scarves round their wrists, Kirsty and Claire had none.
I eyed the jotters in front of them.
“You two have a lot to give. We really want to produce great work. Can we get the task finished?”
The girls slumped down further.
Claire sniffed and Kirsty’s eyes slid away from mine.
For a moment, I ducked my head, trying to follow their eyes, then I gave up and decided to change tack.
I reminded them they could miss the lunchtime netball club.
“I hate netball.” Kirsty’s sharp cheekbones blazed.
Claire’s pasty face lit up with fury.
“We’re not wearing those silly skirts.”
I kept my cool and sympathised with that. The netball skirts were far too short.
“Well, then,” I tried again. “I’ll bet you girls are great at football. Would you like me to ask about forming a girls’ football team?”
They turned to look at me with a defeated expression.
“There’s no point, miss. Football is only for the boys,” Kirsty replied.
This was not going to plan.
“So what are you girls good at?” I asked.
“Nothing,” both replied, eyes full of pain and rage.
I brought the meeting to a close.
“Leave it with me, girls.” Across the corridor, Mike was singing loudly.
Admiring his groovy purple shirt, I flung myself down on the chair opposite his.
I started to explain my attempts to find a sport that would engage the twins, when suddenly he interrupted.
“I know,” he cried, a huge grin on his face. “I know what you really need.” “What?”
“A running club,” he announced triumphantly. “For girls.”
I leapt up and hugged him.
In preparation for a discussion with Dr No regarding a girls’ running club, I dressed carefully in one of my recently sewn smart dresses and platform boots.
To my relief, he listened carefully.
He agreed a running club would be beneficial, especially for the less academic children.
It would be open to girls in primaries six and seven.
It gave me great hope, and we talked about permission slips, behaviour expectations and safe routes in and around the school grounds.
Then he brought me down to earth with a bump.
“They can wear the netball skirts.”
The initial surge of joy was gone and my heart dropped like a stone.
I ignored his last comment and raced off to tell Mike we had the thumbs up, and then into the playground to sound out the girls, including Kirsty and Claire, about the new club.
“I was sick last time I ran,” Kirsty said defensively.
“I tripped last time,” Claire added.
I wasn’t giving up.
“No problem. I will teach you how to run correctly,” I assured them.
Suddenly, Claire stared at me.
“That’s not a bad idea,” she allowed. “I’ve always wanted to run fast.”
“Really fast,” Kirsty agreed.
“What will we call ourselves?” Claire sounded interested.
“Easy,” Kirsty replied. “We’ll be the Jammy Joggers.”
Four intelligent eyes looked directly at me and I felt a throb of anticipation.
Now it was more important than ever to solve the skirt problem. I couldn’t let the twins down.
After a sleepless Friday night, the answer came to me.
Once again, Mum’s sewing machine came to the rescue.
But would Dr No approve? A fortnight later, I was ready to ask him.
Nervously, I stood in the middle of his office.
I trembled as I explained I would like to shelve the netball skirts, and instead use “skorts”, which I had made, and which would allow the girls more freedom of movement. He looked puzzled. “Pardon? Please, explain. What are skorts?
“These are skorts,” I explained, pointing. “I am wearing them. And this is what I would like the Jammy Joggers to wear.”
“But you’re wearing a skirt,” he pointed out.
I took a deep breath. “I’m not wearing a skirt, Mr Stewart. These are shorts with a layer of material over the top to make them look just like a skirt.”
Slowly, he leaned forward and steepled his fingers, staring in a way that made me nervous.
Had I merely succeeded in annoying him again?
A silence fell before he spoke.
“Well, Miss Cameron, this is an unusual garment.”
I held my breath, expecting him to refuse permission.
And then, I don’t exactly know how it happened, but in a surge of unexpected magnanimity, he smiled.
“But I suppose it is . . . acceptable.”
His words swam giddily at me.
I sighed a huge sigh of relief. Dr No had said yes!
“Well done. Truly amazing.” Mike beamed on hearing my news. “And skorts will be perfect for jogging to school in the mornings!”
Two weeks later, the Jammy Joggers were warming up for the first after-school run.
The twins approached hesitantly, clutching something between them.
It was a small bottle around a quarter full of liquid.
Kirsty’s eyes sparkled. “This is for you, miss.” “For me?” I was baffled. “It was Mum’s perfume,” Claire said with pride. At first, I was speechless. “It was your mum’s?” Then I smiled with the warmth of understanding. “Oh, that’s so kind of you.”
I dabbed it on my wrist with trembling fingers.
“Thank you for your generosity.”
“Now you smell just like our mum used to,” Kirsty said, her face aglow.
It touched me deeply, but there was no time for any tears.
The Jammy Joggers set off on a two-kilometre run around the playing fields.
There were 17 of us in total.
There was myself and 16 girls, including the twins, dressed – according to Claire – in our cool skorts.
That first run went well. The more I encouraged the twins, the faster they responded.
I hoped their schoolwork would improve, too.
I was enjoying this job now. It was exciting being able to help young people to change.
And as we ran, skipped and laughed over the finish line, I had a feeling this was just the beginning.
WHEN she was struck down by ME as a teen, Abbie Carter’s world crumbled around her.
She was so exhausted she became housebound, lost friends and the future looked uncertain and bleak.
Despite her own concerns, animal lover Abbie wanted to help others and started to take in homeless cats and kittens.
Now she is about to notch up the incredible milestone of fostering her 200th cat, with one of them, River, taking pride of place on Cats Protection’s 2024 calendar.
Abbie, from Chesterton, Newcastle-under-lyme, says caring for the fragile little balls of fur gives her joy and a sense of purpose.
Abbie was just fourteen when her health took a devastating turn for the worse.
“I was constantly getting sick, and I got tired so easily,” Abbie, now twentysix, says. “It spiralled from there and I was housebound during my final year of high school.
“I had to do my GCSES at home and pretty much lost all my friends because they didn’t understand that I had a long-term illness.
“It took years to get any kind of diagnosis. With ME, it’s a case of other things being ruled out, rather than an official label being put on it.”
Abbie has had to manage her condition carefully over the past decade, learning her limits and knowing how to keep herself at what she calls “normal level”.
She has other chronic illnesses, has spells when she can’t leave the house, and sees a therapist to help with her mental wellbeing.
Abbie has always had an affinity with animals, and her fostering began seven years ago, when she felt she needed a focus as she battled her condition.
“I took in a pregnant cat that had been found locally,” Abbie recounts, “and after looking after my rescues, Cats Protection asked me to foster for them.”
She is also a volunteer with the Stoke and Newcastle Branch.
“They usually ask me to take pregnant mums and kittens because I’m at home all the time,” Abbie adds, “and they need lots of time and attention.
“I tend to keep them for about twelve weeks, then Cats Protection finds new homes for them.
“I obviously love them, but I don’t think of them as my pets, as I know I can’t keep them and don’t want to be so attached I can’t let go.
“After three months with all the work of six kittens, I’m usually ready to hand them over!”
The exception, in a litter from three years ago, was River.
She was so laidback, Abbie couldn’t part with her, and River joined Abbie’s three other cats – Rhubarb, Fuze and Beans.
River was chosen as a calendar star for this year, and Abbie still has a passion for taking in more and more little homeless strays.
“Sometimes I have to hand-rear the kittens,” she reveals. “That means feeding them every two hours, even during the night. When I do that for a while, I know I’m going to pay for it.
“But the cats help me as much as I help them. They give me a purpose and structure to my days, and I just love to see how they come on.”