Another Forgotten Child Read online

  ‘There’s no need to worry,’ Paula said, with another small shrug. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Good.’ I patted her hand. ‘Your feelings are very important to me,’ I said. ‘I hope you know I would never knowingly do anything I thought would upset you. I wouldn’t have agreed to look after Aimee if I thought you, Adrian or Lucy were really opposed to it.’ Fostering is always a balancing act between the needs of the foster child and those of the carer’s own children.

  ‘I’m not opposed to it,’ Paula said. Then she slipped her arms around my waist and laid her head on my shoulder, ready for a cuddle and to make up. I put my arms around her and we held each other for some time before she said, ‘You know, Mum, Aimee sounds a bit like Jodie.’

  I looked at her, surprised that she too had made the connection. ‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘But if she is, then at least I’ll be better prepared to deal with her problems this time. I learnt a lot from looking after Jodie and I won’t make the same mistakes again.’ Although in truth I doubted I could have done much more to help Jodie, so deep was the damage that had been done to her. She needed specialist help.

  Paula and I hugged each other for a while longer and once I was satisfied she’d recovered I left her to relax and listen to her music before she began her homework, while I went downstairs to make the dinner. I was grateful my children were so understanding and I was pleased that although we had disagreements – like any family – no one sulked and the air soon cleared.

  At 5.30 p.m. Lucy, my adopted daughter, arrived home from her work as a nursery assistant.

  ‘Hi!’ I called from the kitchen as she let herself in the front door.

  ‘Hi, what’s for dinner?’ she returned from the hall.

  ‘Chicken and pasta bake.’

  ‘Great.’

  I smiled to myself, for when Lucy had first arrived as a foster child seven years previously, she’d been borderline anorectic: she had been very thin and had hardly eaten anything. Now she was a healthy weight and enjoyed her food, as we all did. I’d adopted Lucy five years ago, so she was a permanent and much-loved member of my family.

  Having taken off her coat in the hall Lucy came into the kitchen and as usual greeted me with a big kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Have you had a good day?’ I asked, as I always did when my children came home.

  ‘Yes, although the four-year-olds were over-excited after their visit to the fire station. So was my manager – by the firemen.’

  I laughed, and decided I’d better tell Lucy straightaway about Aimee. ‘It’s possible we might be having an eight-year-old girl coming to stay on Thursday,’ I said.

  ‘Cool,’ Lucy said, helping herself to a biscuit.

  ‘She’s been badly neglected and has behavioural problems,’ I clarified.

  ‘OK. What’s her name?’

  ‘Aimee.’

  ‘That’s nice. Have I got time for a shower before dinner? I’m going to the cinema later.’

  ‘Yes, a quick one. Dinner will be fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Cool,’ Lucy said again, and planting another kiss on my cheek hurried off for a shower. Older than Paula, with a more robust constitution from her own experiences before coming into care, and with a life outside our home, Lucy had taken Aimee’s proposed arrival in her stride.

  We ate at six o’clock and Aimee wasn’t mentioned again, and the evening progressed as usual, with Lucy out socializing and Paula doing her homework in between MSNing and texting her friends.

  I didn’t hear anything further from either Jill or Kristen until Thursday morning, by which time Aimee’s room was prepared, even if I wasn’t. I’d already given the bedroom a good clean after Reece (the little boy whose story I told in Mummy Told Me Not to Tell) had left the month before. Now I changed the Batman duvet cover for one with pictures of butterflies, which I hoped would appeal to Aimee, and I arranged some cuddly toys on the bed. As well as the bedroom furniture there was a toy box in the room with some games and puzzles; the rest of the toys were kept in cupboards downstairs. I’d sort out some clothes for Aimee once she arrived, when I’d have a better idea of her size. I kept an emergency supply of clothes (for both sexes and in most sizes) in the ottoman in my bedroom.

  At lunchtime Jill telephoned and asked if I’d heard anything from Kristen. I hadn’t, so we assumed the case was still in court. An hour later Kristen phoned and said she’d just come out of court and the judge had granted the care order, which was clearly a relief. Kristen said she and her colleague, Laura, were on their way to Hayward school to collect Aimee. ‘Susan, Aimee’s mother, was very upset in court,’ Kristen said. ‘And her barrister was good, so I had to agree to let Susan see Aimee for half an hour at the end of school to say goodbye.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘See you later.’ I put down the phone and thought of Susan going to school to say goodbye to her daughter.

  I felt sorry for her, as I did for many of the parents whose children I fostered, for none of them started life bad with the intention of failing and then losing their children. I guessed life had been cruel to Susan, just as it had to Aimee.

  Chapter Three

  A Challenge

  Despite all the years I’d been fostering I still felt nervous when anticipating the arrival of a new child. Will the child like me? Will I be able to help the child come to terms with their suffering and separation from home? Will I be able to cope with the child’s needs? Or will this be the one child I can’t help? Once the child arrives there is so much to do that there isn’t time for worrying, and I simply get on with it. But on that Thursday afternoon while I waited for Aimee to arrive, which I calculated would be between 4.30 and 5.00 p.m., my stomach churned, and all manner of thoughts plagued me so that I couldn’t settle to anything. Jill had phoned to say she’d been called to an emergency so wouldn’t be able to be with me for moral support when Aimee was placed. I’d reassured her I’d be all right.

  Paula arrived home from school at four o’clock and, having had a drink and a snack, went to her room to unwind before starting her homework; Lucy wouldn’t be home until about 5.30. My anxieties increased until at 4.40 the doorbell rang. With a mixture of trepidation and relief that Aimee had finally arrived, I went to answer it.

  ‘Hello,’ I said brightly, with a big smile that belied my nerves. ‘Good to see you.’ There were two social workers, whom I took to be Kristen and her colleague Laura, and they stood either side of Aimee, who carried a plastic carrier bag. ‘I’m Cathy. Do come in.’ I smiled.

  It was clear who thought she was in charge, for, elbowing the social workers out of the way, Aimee stepped confidently into the hall and then stood looking at me expectantly.

  The social workers followed. ‘Hello, Cathy,’ they said and introduced themselves.

  ‘Shall we leave our shoes here?’ Kristen said thoughtfully, slipping off her shoes, having seen ours paired in the hall.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘And I’ll hang your coats on the hall stand.’

  As Kristen and Laura took off their shoes and coats I looked at Aimee, who was doing neither. ‘Shall we leave your shoes and coat here?’ I said encouragingly.

  ‘No. Not taking ’em off,’ Aimee said, jutting out her chin in defiance. ‘And you can’t make me.’ My fault, I thought, for giving her a choice. What I should have said was: ‘Would you like to take off your coat first or your shoes?’ It’s a technique called ‘the closed choice’ and would have resulted in action rather than refusal.

  ‘No problem,’ I said easily. ‘You can do it later.’

  ‘Not taking ’em off at all,’ Aimee said challengingly. The two social workers looked at me and then raised their eyes.

  ‘You can keep your shoes and coat on for now,’ I said, aware I needed to be seen to be in charge. ‘And we’ll take them off later. Come on through.’ Before Aimee could give me another refusal I turned and led the way down the hall and into the sitting room. My thoughts went again to Jodie. Although Aimee was the same a
ge as Jodie, with similar blonde hair and grey-blue eyes, she wasn’t so badly overweight and also seemed more astute. I knew I would need my wits about me in order to gain her cooperation.

  In the sitting room Aimee plonked herself in the middle of the sofa, which left the two social workers to squeeze themselves in either side of her. ‘This is nice,’ Aimee said, running her eyes around the room. ‘It ain’t like this at my house. My ’ouse is a pigsty.’ I smiled sadly at her heartfelt and innocent comparison – she was simply stating it as she saw it.

  ‘No,’ Kristen agreed, seizing the chance to demonstrate what an improvement coming into care was. ‘Cathy’s house is clean and warm and has lots of nice furniture. You’ll have your own room here – we’ll see it soon. And there’ll always be plenty of food and hot water.’ All of which I assumed had been missing from Aimee’s house.

  ‘It’s nice, but it ain’t me home,’ Aimee said.

  ‘It will be for now,’ Laura put in.

  ‘No it won’t,’ Aimee said, louder, turning to Laura and jutting out her chin. ‘Me home’s with me mother and neither you nor your bleeding lawyers can change that.’

  Kristen and Laura both looked at me. ‘I can guess where that’s come from,’ Kristen said. I nodded. It was a phrase an adult would have used, not an eight-year-old child, so I assumed Aimee was repeating something her mother had said.

  ‘Cathy will be taking you to school and collecting you,’ Kristen continued, unperturbed. ‘And tomorrow you’ll be able to see your mother after school.’ Then, looking at me, Kristen said: ‘I’ll speak to you later about contact arrangements.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. Then I offered them a drink, as I hadn’t done so before.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ Kristen said. ‘We’ll settle Aimee and then get back to the office.’ Laura agreed.

  ‘What about you, Aimee?’ I said. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  She shook her head, more interested in the objects in the room, which she was gazing at in awe, like a child in a toyshop. My sitting room was nothing special, but it clearly was to Aimee, who seemed mesmerized by the framed photographs on the walls, the potted plants, ornaments, etc. like those that adorn most sitting rooms.

  ‘Aimee has one bag with her,’ Kristen said. ‘It’s in the hall.’ I nodded. ‘We’ll try to get some more of her things when Mum has calmed down, but I’m not sure how much use they’ll be.’ I nodded again, as I understood what she meant. If the clothes Aimee wore now were representative of the rest of her clothes, the others were likely to be suitable for the ragbag. The jacket she’d refused to take off was far too small, dirty and badly worn; the faded black jogging bottoms were too short and badly stained; and her plastic trainers had split at both toes, so that her socks poked through. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a child so poorly dressed.

  ‘Is she in her school uniform?’ I asked, mindful that Aimee had come to me straight from school.

  ‘What there is of it,’ Kristen said. ‘You’ll need to buy her a whole new uniform. I’ll arrange for you to have the initial clothing allowance.’ This allowance – approximately £80 – is a payment made to foster carers when a child arrives with nothing and needs a whole new wardrobe. It is often weeks before the money is paid and it only goes some way towards the clothes a child needs, but at least it is something.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Is there somewhere private where we can go to talk?’ Kristen said to me. ‘Laura could stay here with Aimee.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, standing. ‘We can go in the front room. There are some games over there,’ I said to Aimee and Laura, pointing to the boxes of games I’d brought in.

  Laura stood and went over to select a game while Aimee remained on the sofa, studying its fabric as though she’d never seen anything like it before. Then she began struggling out of her jacket. ‘It’s bleeding hot in ’ere,’ she said. ‘I’m gonna take me coat off.’

  ‘Good choice,’ I said, throwing her a smile.

  Kristen took some papers from her briefcase and as we left the room we heard Laura suggest to Aimee they do a jigsaw together and Aimee ask what a jigsaw was.

  ‘Aimee is eight,’ I said quietly to Kristen in the hall. ‘And she doesn’t know what a jigsaw is?’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ Kristen said. ‘She’s been so neglected. There were never any toys at her mother’s flat, so Aimee watched television all day and night. Susan said the toys were at Aimee’s father’s flat but he wouldn’t let me in, so I could never substantiate that. I doubt there were toys there, though. All their money went on drugs.’

  Once we were in the front room with the door closed Kristen confided that Aimee’s was one of the worse cases of neglect she’d ever come across, and repeated that she couldn’t understand why she hadn’t been removed from home sooner. Then she said again that Aimee had very bad head lice, so my family and I should be careful not to catch them.

  ‘I’ll treat her hair tonight,’ I said. ‘I have a bottle of lotion.’

  ‘Good,’ Kristen said. ‘She needs a bath as well. She smells something awful.’

  I nodded, for I had noticed as she’d walked in. ‘I’ll do that as well before she goes to bed.’

  ‘You know Aimee used to kick and bite her mother when she tried to wash her?’ Kristen reminded me.

  ‘Yes, I know. I read it in the referral.’

  ‘There’s a high level of contact with her mother,’ Kristen said, moving on. ‘Face-to-face contact will be supervised at the family centre and it will take place after school on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. There will be telephone contact every night they don’t see each other, including weekends. Can you monitor the phone contact, please, on speakerphone?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. This was something I was often asked to do. ‘So is the care plan eventually to return Aimee home?’ I asked. That was the most likely explanation for the very high level of contact – so that the bond between Aimee and her mother would be maintained for when Aimee was eventually rehabilitated at home.

  ‘Good grief! No!’ Kristen exclaimed, shocked. ‘There’s no chance of Aimee being returned home. Her mother has been given enough chances to sort herself out in the past. The care plan is to try to find Aimee an adoptive home or, failing that, a long-term foster placement.’

  ‘So why is there so much contact?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘It seems cruel if there’s no chance of her going home.’

  ‘Susan’s barrister pushed for it in court and there was a good chance that if we hadn’t agreed the judge wouldn’t have granted us the care order.’

  ‘What?’ I asked, amazed. ‘With this level of neglect?’

  ‘I know, it’s ludicrous.’ Kristen sighed. ‘But the threshold for granting care orders is so high now that children are being left at home for longer than they should.’

  Not for the first time I thought how badly the whole child protection and care system needed reviewing and revising. While no one wants to see a family split, early intervention can give a child another chance at life. By the age of eight most of the damage is done and it is very difficult to undo.

  ‘As mentioned in the referral,’ Kristen continued, checking the essential information forms she’d taken from her briefcase, ‘Aimee wets the bed.’

  ‘I’ve put a protective cover on the mattress,’ I said. ‘It’s not a problem.’

  ‘Good. It was at home. The mattress Aimee and her mother slept on in the lounge stank of urine. It was disgusting and you could smell it as soon as you walked into the flat. Now, as you know, Aimee needs firm boundaries and routine,’ Kristen continued. ‘There were none at home. And as I mentioned on the phone Susan is very good at making allegations and complaints against foster carers, so be careful. She seems to think that if she gets her children moved enough times they will eventually be returned to her, but of course it doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘Susan has contact with her other children?’ I asked.

  ‘Some
. A lot of it is informal. Once kids become teenagers you can’t stop them getting on a bus and going to see their natural parents, and many of them seem to gravitate home.’ Kristen sighed again, and then, turning to the back page of the set of forms, said: ‘Can you sign this, please, and then we’ll show Aimee her room and I’ll be off.’

  We both signed the relevant form which gave me the legal right to look after Aimee, and then we returned to the sitting room. Laura and Aimee were on the floor poring over a large-piece jigsaw. It was obvious Aimee hadn’t got a clue what to do and had been relying on Laura to do the puzzle for her – a puzzle for pre-school children aged two to four years.

  ‘Aimee,’ Kristen said brightly, ‘Cathy is going to show us your room now. Won’t that be nice?’

  Aimee seemed to agree that it would be nice and hauled herself to her feet. I noticed she hadn’t got Jodie’s hyperactivity; if anything Aimee’s movements were very slow, lumbering almost. Laura stood and I led the way out of the sitting room, down the hall and upstairs. As we passed the bedrooms I said, ‘This is my daughter Paula’s bedroom. She’s seventeen. You’ll meet her later. And this is Lucy’s. She’s at work now.’

  ‘That’ll be nice, won’t it, Aimee?’ Lauren enthused. ‘Two grown-up girls to play with.’ I wondered if Paula had overhead this comment and what she thought of it!

  Aimee didn’t say anything until we got to her room, when her face lit up. ‘Cor, this is nice. Is it all for me?’ she said with touching sincerity.

  ‘Yes. This is your room. Just for you,’ I said.