by Cathy Glass
‘No, Reece,’ I said. ‘You will break them.’ I knelt down and, taking him gently by the arm, drew him down beside me. ‘The first thing we are going to do is put these toys back into their boxes so they don’t get broken,’ I said, and I began putting them away. Reece was beside me watching. Then as I leant forward to retrieve another toy, hoping he would follow suit, he cuffed the back of my head with his open hand. ‘No, Reece,’ I said. I took hold of his hand and directed it again to the toys on the floor.
‘Want me breakfast now!’ he yelled.
‘You will have breakfast as soon as we have cleared away and got you dressed,’ I said.
‘Want it now,’ he yelled and went to cuff my head again. I took his hand and drew it once more towards the toys.
‘You will have breakfast as soon as we have cleared up and got you dressed,’ I repeated.
Eventually he realized I wasn’t going to give in and that if he helped me to clear away it would complete the task and get him what he wanted that much quicker. Suddenly he started grabbing handfuls of toys and throwing them into the boxes, so that very soon the floor was clear.
‘Well done,’ I said. ‘Excellent! Now get dressed. Then we can have breakfast.’
I had already taken out clean joggers, sweatshirt, vest, pants and socks, and placed them on the chair ready for him to dress himself.
Reece looked at them. ‘No!’ he yelled. ‘Can’t!’ which I had more or less guessed.
‘All right, I’ll teach you how to dress yourself, and won’t you feel good when you can?’ I smiled bravely, knowing that achieving this task was probably going to be no easier than the last of clearing away his toys, or any other task, come to that. It seemed that Reece was so used to not doing things, either because he couldn’t or didn’t want to, that his first response to any request was either ‘can’t’ or ‘won’t’.
‘No,’ he yelled again. ‘Can’t!’
‘I’m sure you can,’ I said evenly. ‘You are very clever. And, Reece, try not to shout, love. I can hear you just as well when you talk quietly. OK, love?’ There were so many issues with Reece that I was having to address them one at a time. Certainly, while the continuous shouting, or rather ‘voice modulation’ as it’s correctly termed, needed to be addressed, it wasn’t as much of a priority as his biting, head-butting or running berserk around the house.
‘Now, take off you pyjama bottoms,’ I encouraged, ‘and put on your pants.’ I held up his pants ready, but he stood helplessly waiting for me to do it.
‘Can’t,’ he said with slightly less volume, now sulking.
‘Try,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you can.’
‘Can’t,’ he said again and made no attempt. ‘You do it, cow!’
‘Reece,’ I cautioned, ‘please don’t use that word. It’s rude.’
‘Cow,’ he said again. He crossed his arms and stood glaring at me defiantly.
I remained where I was, a short way in front of him, still holding his pants. ‘Take off your pyjama bottoms and put on your pants.’ I repeated. ‘Do you want me to leave the room while you do it?’ I didn’t think it was modesty that was stopping him, for he hadn’t been self-conscious at bath time the night before.
He shook his head. There was an impasse for a good two minutes when Reece continued with his arms folded and glowered at me menacingly, while I stood relaxed and outwardly at ease, holding his pants out ready for him, as though waiting for Reece to get dressed was of no great importance and I had all the time in the world. For as the evening before when I had wanted him to go for a walk, if he saw my request was important to me, his refusal could easily become a tool for trying to manipulate me. But I had already been there, done that and ‘got the T-shirt’ many years ago when I had first started fostering. Eventually Reece would do as I asked and see that if he cooperated he would win my approval and feel happier in himself, but not yet. Now he hated me and wanted to do exactly what he had always done, which appeared to be nothing, or exactly what he felt like doing.
Five minutes later Reece pulled roughly on his pyjama bottoms and then, using his feet, stamped them to the floor.
‘Well done,’ I said, ‘although next time it might be easier to use your hands.’ He snatched the pants from me and, sitting on the bed, put them on without too much trouble.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Now take off your pyjama top and put on your vest.’
He had real problems trying to get his arms out of his pyjama top, so I helped him, showing him how to do it, and then gave him his vest, which he got into first time. Next I helped him on with his sweatshirt.
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Now the socks.’
Aware that putting on socks is difficult for young children, particularly those with poor coordination, I told him to sit on the bed again and I would show him how to put on one sock and he could do the other.
As I knelt in front of him, he tried to cuff me over the head again and I guessed this regular cuffing had probably been done to him. ‘No, you don’t do that,’ I said, moving my head out of reach. ‘Do you understand?’
He nodded. I showed him how to put on one sock and passed him the other. ‘Who used to dress you before?’ I asked casually as he struggled to get his toes into the sock.
‘Carers.’
‘And at home?’
‘Don’t know.’
He had made a reasonable attempt at putting on the second sock and I helped him to complete the task. Praising him, I took his hand and we went downstairs together. Lucy and Paula were in the hall, putting on their coats, ready to leave for school and college. I hadn’t seen them properly that morning because I had been so occupied with seeing to Reece.
‘Bye, loves,’ I said. ‘Have a good day.’ I kissed them both.
Reece pursed his lips, wanting to kiss them goodbye also. Lucy and Paula smiled and, bending towards him, offered their cheeks. He gave them a nice little kiss each.
‘Goodbye,’ they both called to us. I saw them out and closed the door. Reece was beside me, his hand still in mine.
‘Cor, that was nice,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’d really like to give them one.’
I paused in the hall and looked at him, my heart sinking. ‘Pardon, Reece? What did you say?’
He grinned again, leering almost. ‘I want to give them one,’ he repeated. He dropped my hand and clamping his left hand on to his right arm he brought up his fist in the crude pumping gesture of wanting sex.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ I said, knowing only too well. ‘But it’s not a nice thing for a boy of seven to say. And please don’t do that with your arm.’
‘My dad does to my sister,’ he said and stopped, aware that he had committed the ultimate sin of saying something about home.
‘Does he?’ I asked lightly, while assured of Reece’s reply.
‘Don’t know. I want me breakfast now. You said it was time.’
I followed Reece into the annexe off the kitchen, which we call the breakfast room. I knew from Reece’s history he’d seen a lot of inappropriate behaviour, possibly even sexual abuse, but I was still shocked and saddened. I also knew that Reece had been sworn to secrecy and wasn’t about to say anything more. Later I would talk to the girls and remind them of our ‘safer caring policy’ — the guidelines all carers follow. They had just left with Reece giving them a kiss on the cheek like any younger brother, but Reece had laden it with sexual connotations and for all our safety we were going to have to be very careful.
The ‘safer caring policy’ is a document drawn up by all foster carers detailing how they keep everyone in the household safe. It is not just about strapping children under seatbelts in the car or making sure there are batteries in the smoke alarms. It is also about how we treat foster children who have come from inappropriately sexual explicit homes, or have been sexually abused, and have therefore developed feelings and attitudes that are inappropriate and beyond their age. I knew already from what Karen had told me on the phone that there was a sugge
stion that Reece’s father had sexually assaulted Reece’s half-sister, and that a paedophile had been going into the family home. What I didn’t know, and what the social worker, Jamey Hogg, would I hoped tell me when he returned from holiday, was whether Reece had witnessed or been included in any paedophile activity in the home. I also knew that Reece had been allowed to watch adult videos, which could account in some way for his viewing the girls in sexual terms, but without further details we would have to assume the worst and act accordingly. For if Reece did view Lucy and Paula as objects of sexual desire instead of older sisters, as his comment had suggested, then his behaviour would reflect that. Not only would it be very unpleasant for the girls but it could easily lead to Reece interpreting any affection from the girls towards him in sexualized terms. The whole subject of sexual abuse is sickening and sad but it is something that has to be dealt with by foster carers all too regularly.
Although I had written up my daily log notes the night before, detailing Reece’s first day with us, I had been too tired to look at the placement forms. Now I wondered if they contained any more information on Reece’s background that I should be aware of. Settling Reece at the table with the two slices of toast and jam he had asked for, I quickly went into the front room, unlocked my desk and took out the placement forms; then I returned to sit opposite him at the table. I read as Reece ate, eating being another activity that appeared to keep him quiet for its duration.
As I turned the pages of the placement forms, I saw there was nothing on his background beyond what I already knew, apart from Reece’s parents’ address, which came as something of a surprise. His parents lived in a flat on an estate no more than half a mile away. I hoped the social services had noted this, for it was a little too close for comfort, given that his parents wouldn’t be told our address. It was quite possible that we used the same high-street shops, which meant there was a risk of us bumping into each other. Not a problem if the child’s parents were cooperating with the social services, and were allowed to know where the child was, but clearly that wasn’t the case with Reece. I’d had experience of ‘impromptu’ contact before — in the shops or outside the school gates – and it’s a difficult and embarrassing situation for all, not to mention intimidating if the parents are angry and blame the foster carer. I would mention my concerns and Reece’s attitude to the girls to Jill when she phoned again — not that I thought for one moment the social services would move Reece because of where his parents lived, but it was something they needed to be aware of, if they weren’t already.
I returned the placement forms to my desk as Reece finished his breakfast. Although he had been focused and concentrating while eating, as soon as he’d finished he was out of his seat, zooming around and streaking jammy fingers along the walls.
‘Come on, Reece,’ I said. ‘We’ll give you a wash and do your teeth; then we’re going out in the car.’
The mention of the car seemed to please him, because he ran straight up the stairs and into the bathroom, with his arms outstretched and yelping at the top of his voice. I showed him how to squirt toothpaste on to his toothbrush and watched as he made a good attempt at brushing his teeth; then I ran warm water into the sink and, wringing out his face flannel, helped him to wash his face. I asked him if he needed the toilet before we went out, and he said he didn’t. I took his hand and we went downstairs and into the hall, where I passed him his coat and shoes. He made a good attempt at putting them on and I was pleased he hadn’t just stood there helplessly as he had done the night before – this was already a small improvement and I praised him immensely.
I assumed Jill would be phoning at some point during the day, so before going out I switched on the answer-phone and dropped my mobile in my handbag. It took me some while to settle Reece on the booster seat under his belt in the rear of the car; he didn’t appear familiar with the procedure, which was surprising given that yesterday he’d said he was used to being in a car rather than walking. First he wanted to ride in the front passenger seat, which I explained wasn’t legal at his age; then he didn’t want to sit on the booster seat, which I explained was a legal requirement. I secured his seat-belt over his shoulder, but he kept tucking it under his arm, which would have not only rendered it useless in an accident but also badly hurt his stomach if it had suddenly tightened.
Fifteen minutes later I reversed out of the drive with Reece making brumm-brumm noises at the top of his voice. I stood it for as long I could, for I realized he was only doing what a lot of boys do, imitating the car engine noise, but very loudly.
Then I said, ‘Reece, I need you to be quiet in the car so I can concentrate on driving.’
‘Brummmm! Brummmm!’ he yelled, louder.
‘Would you like some music on?’ I asked. ‘I have a sing-a-long CD here.’ Although Reece’s singing would doubtless break the sound barrier (everything he did was at such a volume) it would be preferable to the exploding sound of his brumms, which were making me jump each and every time they erupted.
‘Brummm! Brummm!’ Reece yelled, his lips trembling with the vibration of the brummm. I inserted the CD in the hope he might join in, but five minutes later, when the brummms had increased in volume and intensity and were drowning out the sound of ‘The Wheels On The Bus’, I switched it off again.
‘Reece, you will have to try and sit quietly,’ I said. ‘I can’t concentrate on driving when there is a lot of noise.’
‘Bruummm! Bruumm!’ Then, ‘Yeoooo crunch crunch,’ which I wasn’t sure represented a car, a plane or even a shark attack, but whatever it was the noise was deafening. Then he started kicking the back of the passenger seat.
I indicated, and drew into the kerb. Putting the car into neutral and the handbrake on, I turned in my seat to look at Reece. He was now yelping and kicking the seat in a frenzy.
‘Reece!’ I said. ‘Reece, listen to me.’
He didn’t.
‘Reece, I need you to be quiet and sit still.’ I tried again, raising my voice so it could be heard over the relentless yelps. ‘Reece, quiet, and please stop kicking that seat. We don’t kick anything other than footballs.’
He didn’t stop, so I switched off the engine, got out and went round to the pavement and opened his door.
‘Reece,’ I said firmly. ‘Sit still. Now, please!’ I placed my hand lightly on his legs to quell the kicking. ‘Sit still and be quiet. Then we can go to the supermarket and you can push the trolley.’
He continued with the yelping and kicking for another few seconds; then suddenly he stopped the noise and became still.
‘Can I?’ he said, looking at me suspiciously. ‘Can I push the trolley?’
‘Yes,’ I said, smiling. ‘Would you like to help?’
He nodded furiously, his head bobbing up and down. All Reece’s movements were accentuated when he was in a hyperactive state. ‘I’ve never pushed a trolley before,’ he said. ‘Can I really push it?’
I smiled sadly. The poor kid: while he had been party to goodness knows what in the adult world at home he had missed out on the simple childhood pleasure of pushing a supermarket trolley and helping mum to shop.
‘All right, Reece, now listen to me,’ I said, looking at him carefully. ‘You can push the trolley as long as you sit quietly while I drive to the supermarket. OK?’ It wasn’t bribery, just positive reward for good behaviour, and he nodded furiously. I returned to the driver’s seat and drove to the supermarket at the edge of town with no more than a ‘wow’ when I had to brake quickly as the car in front suddenly pulled into the kerb without signalling. And I thought that pushing the trolley was going to be another strategy for encouraging Reece’s good behaviour, so that together with reading a lot of books I was also going to be doing a lot of shopping, which was fine because we consumed a lot of food.
Reece pushed the trolley remarkably well, controlling the speed to an acceptable 5mph, once I’d explained there were elderly people in the store who couldn’t get out of the way in time if
he went any faster or tried to run them over. Reece’s biggest problem in the supermarket was curtailing his enthusiasm. I had asked him, as I ask all foster children, to choose some of his favourite food. We already had Chicken Dippers, tinned spaghetti hoops and Wall’s sausages in the trolley in abundance, but would also have had, had I not returned them, five cartons of chocolate ice-cream (I kept one), six packets of Jammie Dodger biscuits (I kept two) and twelve tubes of brightly coloured sweets (I put them all back because of the additives and replaced them with milk chocolate bars). I praised Reece for the way he steered the trolley and helped me, and he glowed from achieving the task successfully. He was also pretty patient at the checkout, considering the length of the queue, and I only had to remind him a couple of times not to shunt the trolley into the back of the man in front.
Once it was our turn at the checkout Reece’s enthusiasm for shifting all the food from the trolley on to the belt knew no bounds. The items were jettisoned with such force that they found their way to the cashier without the need of the moving belt. I held back the box of eggs and put them on myself. I paid, and then Reece helped me push the trolley out of the store and through the car park, missing most of the cars. I strapped him into his seat while I packed the bags in the boot — it was safer than having him hopping around in the car park. Once all the shopping was in the boot I returned the empty trolley to the trolley park close by and got into the car. Before inserting the keys into the ignition I turned and looked at him. ‘Good boy,’ I said. ‘Thanks for helping me.’ Then I noticed he was chewing something.
‘What are you eating?’ I asked, for certainly I hadn’t given him anything. I had said he could have one of the iced buns when we got home.
‘Sweets,’ he said, producing a packet of fruit pastels from his coat pocket.
‘Where did you get those?’
‘From the shop.’
I stared horrified. ‘But I didn’t buy them.’