by Cathy Glass
I heard Jill gasp. ‘Susan said Aimee did that.’
‘I know.’
I then brought Aimee’s disclosures of abuse up to date by telling Jill that Aimee had said Craig had made all the bruises she now had by pinching her flesh between his thumb and forefinger.’
‘Bastard,’ Jill said. ‘The poor kid.’
‘When I first saw the bruises I thought there was something odd about them,’ I said. ‘Aimee said they were from falling over but they’re all the same size and shape. Now I know they were his thumb- and fingerprints and couldn’t possibly have been made by falling over. Aimee was scared of him, but now she knows she’s safe she felt able to tell me.’ My anger and upset about all the complaints Susan had made had gone now that I was focusing on Aimee and my concern for her.
‘But who is this Craig?’ Jill asked. ‘There was no mention of him in the referral, and I’m sure Kristen didn’t mention him, did she?’
‘No, not to me. Yet according to Aimee he’s been part of her and her mother’s life for up to two years – she remembers two Christmases with him.’
‘So why weren’t the social workers aware of him?’ Jill asked, thinking aloud. ‘They certainly should have been. Aimee was on the child protection register. She and her mother would have been monitored and regularly visited by social workers.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘And Susan was aware he was abusing Aimee?’
‘Yes. She was present, for some of it at least.’
Jill fell silent before she said, ‘I’ll phone Kristen now. She’ll want to talk to you later. It will be a police matter. Can you email me a copy of your log notes and I’ll forward them to Kristen. I think all Susan’s complaining could be a “smokescreen” to cover up what’s really been going on.’
‘Pity Kristen’s manager didn’t think that,’ I said cynically.
‘Sorry, but we do have to investigate all complaints.’
‘I know.’
Jill and I said goodbye and I drank my now cold coffee, and then took my fostering folder through to the front room, where I switched on the computer. I was still annoyed and upset that Susan had been allowed to cause so much trouble, but I concentrated on typing up my log notes as Jill had asked. I was halfway through when the phone rang and, answering it, I recognized the female voice as Kristen’s.
‘I’m just typing up the log notes now,’ I said. ‘I should be finished in about ten minutes.’
‘Thank you. Jill’s just phoned and told me what Aimee said. But I’m sure Aimee is wrong. We’ve never heard of a Craig. I think Aimee is confusing Craig with her father, Shane. She’s made allegations about Shane in the past, although they were never substantiated.’
Now I was confused. ‘But the name Craig sounds nothing like Shane,’ I said. ‘And Aimee always refers to her father as Dad.’
‘I didn’t mean that Aimee is confusing the names,’ Kristen said, a little tersely. ‘I meant that she’s getting the incidents mixed up. She thinks it was Craig, who we’ve never heard of, who assaulted her, while it was really her father.’
‘Oh,’ I said, no less confused. ‘But Aimee was quite adamant that it was Craig. Why would she make him up?’
‘To protect her father? Or maybe her mother has put her up to it?’
It was possible, although I wasn’t convinced. Aimee had been very clear who her abuser had been. But I knew Kristen would want more than my belief in Aimee: she would want evidence. ‘Shall I talk to Aimee tonight after school and find out some more details?’ I asked.
‘Yes please. See if you can get a description of Craig, and ask her if she knows his surname and address. She says she stayed with him, so she might know his address or at least the area in which he lives. I’m not going to alert CP’ – the police child protection unit – ‘until I hear back from you.’
‘All right. I’ll speak to Aimee tonight, but I’d be very surprised if she is confusing Craig’s actions with her father’s,’ I persisted.
‘Cathy, she’s an eight-year-old girl who’s just come into care; it’s understandable if she is confused.’ I thought that Kristen was rather hoping this would be the case, for it would look very bad on the social services if Aimee had been abused by a man the social services weren’t aware of, while she’d been on the child protection register and being monitored by social workers who were supposed to keep her safe.
Kristen and I said goodbye and I returned to typing up my log notes, although my concentration kept wavering to the possibility that Aimee had made up Craig, in which case it would be difficult to know what to believe in future. Once I’d finished typing I emailed the document to Jill, who would keep a copy for her agency’s records and forward a copy to Kristen. With a bit of time to spare I stayed at the computer and put the finishing touches to a presentation I was giving the following week for prospective carers at an introduction to fostering evening. Since my own children had grown up and were largely self-sufficient I’d broadened my role in fostering. I sat on various committees connected with fostering and adoption; gave presentations to prospective carers; ran training courses for carers; and participated in a mentoring scheme that gave support and advice to other foster carers. I enjoyed all aspects of my role, although I was always a little nervous before going into a room and having to address a new group.
Once I’d finished the presentation I had some lunch and then spent some of the afternoon practising it, out loud and in front of the mirror in the front room. Anyone chancing to peep in would have wondered what on earth I was doing, but after half an hour I was nearly word perfect and felt more confident. Then it was soon time to drive to school to collect Aimee.
I parked in a side road, glanced around for any sign of Susan before getting out, and then waited in the playground for the bell to ring. Aimee came out with her class and was accompanied by Heather, her teaching assistant.
The first thing Heather said to me was: ‘Doesn’t Aimee look smart in her new coat and school uniform?’ I smiled and Aimee looked pleased. ‘Aimee’s had a good day,’ Heather continued. ‘She completed some nice work, and enjoyed playing in the playground after lunch. She’s got some reading and writing homework in her bag.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘I can’t do me homework tonight,’ Aimee put in. ‘I’m seeing me mum, so there won’t be time.’
‘My mum,’ Heather and I both corrected, trying to improve Aimee’s poor diction.
‘There’ll be plenty of time to do the homework after contact,’ I said to Heather and Aimee, although it was true her time would be limited. I knew from my experience of previous children that when children have been at school all day and then have contact, they arrive home tired and emotionally exhausted, and find concentrating on homework very difficult. But Aimee, having missed so much school, had a lot of catching up to do. ‘We’ll do what we can,’ I said to Heather.
‘Enjoy your evening,’ she said.
‘And you.’
Aimee and I crossed the playground and left the school.
I wasn’t sure if I should raise the matter of Craig with Aimee, as Kristen had asked me to, before or after contact, but given my questions were relatively simple and straightforward I decided to approach the subject now. Once we were in the car and before I started the engine, I turned in my seat to look at Aimee. ‘You remember what you told me on Friday about all those bruises you had?’
Aimee nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve still got some of them.’
‘I know. How did you get them?’
‘I told you,’ she said, puzzled. ‘Weren’t you listening? Craig pinched me all over. He’s always doing it. I hate him.’
‘I remember what you said but Kristen, your social worker, has asked me to ask you again. It was definitely Craig? It couldn’t have been your father?’
Aimee looked at me oddly and I thought she had every right to. ‘I know the difference between me dad and Craig,’ she said. ‘I ain’t stupid.’
; ‘I know you’re not, but I understand you told a social worker that your dad had hurt you too.’
‘That was ages ago. Another time. I know who me dad is and it ain’t Craig.’
‘I believe you. Can you describe Craig? Can you tell me what he looks like?’
‘He’s big and fat with tattoos on his arms. My dad is short and thin with tattoos on his legs. My dad ain’t got teeth. Craig has big teeth and he picks food out of them and sometimes bites people.’
‘Did he bite you?’ I asked, aware this could be a new disclosure.
‘Sometimes. Can we go to contact now?’
‘In a minute.’ I made a mental note to add Craig biting Aimee to my log when I got home. ‘Aimee, you told me about some kittens that were hurt? Who hurt them?’
‘Craig! I told you,’ Aimee said, becoming annoyed with me.
‘It was definitely Craig and not you?’
‘What?’ Aimee exclaimed. ‘No! I wouldn’t do that. It’s cruel. I cried when Craig killed them.’
‘I believe you.’ As indeed I’d believed her when she’d first told me. I felt awful appearing to doubt her now, but Kristen had asked me to find out as much as I could and to try to verify what Aimee had said before she phoned the police child protection unit.
‘Good girl,’ I said. ‘Do you know Craig’s surname? It would help the police to find him.’
‘What’s a surname?’ Aimee frowned, puzzled.
‘It’s your last name. Like yours is Mason and mine is Glass. Do you know Craig’s last name?’
‘No. Mum never said. I just call him Craig. Or pig, or shit head when he hits me.’
I had to smile. Despite all that had happened to Aimee she had spirit and a sense of humour.
‘OK, but don’t swear. One last thing before we go to contact: do you know where Craig lives?’
‘I don’t know the name of the road because I can’t read. But it begins with the letter C. We went on the 121 bus. It’s one of those roads behind the old gas tower.’
I knew exactly where Aimee meant. Over on the far side of town was a disused gas tower, redundant for over thirty-five years since the introduction of North Sea gas. The tower dominated the surrounding streets of terraced Victorian houses and I thought there couldn’t be that many roads there beginning with C.
‘He lives in part of a house,’ Aimee added. ‘He has the top floor and another man lives downstairs.’ So I thought it was a house converted into two flats, as some were in that area.
‘Well done,’ I said, turning to the front and starting the car’s engine, ready to drive to contact. ‘You have got a good memory.’
‘Yeah, better than yours,’ Aimee said. ‘I told you a lot of that already. Are you getting old?’
Chapter Thirteen
More Trouble
I didn’t see Susan at the start of contact that night; she was already in the contact room. Following the centre’s normal practice I said goodbye to Aimee in reception and the contact supervisor took Aimee through to her mother. I returned to my car, but before I started the engine I took my mobile phone from my coat pocket and phoned Kristen. She was at her desk and I told her what Aimee had just said, including the description of Craig and where he lived. Kristen went very quiet.
‘So Craig definitely exists,’ I said, making sure Kristen appreciated there could be no doubt. ‘Aimee’s father is a completely different person.’
‘We’ll have to investigate,’ Kristen finally said, sounding subdued and clearly aware of the implications. ‘I don’t understand why this wasn’t picked up sooner. As you know, I only took over this case a couple of months ago.’ I didn’t point out that Craig’s most recent assault on Aimee had happened just before she’d come into care and on Kristen’s watch. Social workers carry huge workloads, and unfortunately errors and oversights do occur. The problem is that in child protection oversights and errors can’t be allowed to happen because a child’s life could be in danger or at the very least their welfare damaged.
‘I’ll type up what Aimee has just said as soon as I can,’ I added.
‘Thanks, Cathy. I’ll be in touch.’
I had enough time to go home for half an hour and prepare dinner, before I had to return to collect Aimee from contact. Following normal practice I waited in reception for Aimee to be brought out by the contact supervisor. Parents are encouraged to say goodbye to their child(ren) in the contact room, as current thinking suggests it usually makes for a less stressful separation. But if parents insist on coming into reception with their child to say goodbye, the supervisor usually allows this rather than risk causing a scene.
Presently Aimee and the contact supervisor appeared through the door leading into reception, with Susan following close behind. As soon as Susan saw me she began complaining; possibly that was the reason she’d come into reception – to complain. ‘That coat you bought Aimee is the wrong colour!’ she said in a loud voice and coming right up to me. ‘She doesn’t like it. Change it. And that school skirt you got her is too long. And she’s got food down her shirt. It’s filthy. You should be ashamed of yourself, sending her to school like that. And she needs socks, not tights. She can’t put tights on!’
Susan paused for breath and the contact supervisor looked to me for an explanation of what appeared to be sub-standard fostering.
Calmly, and choosing my words carefully, I dealt with the last complaint first. ‘Aimee has learnt how to put on her tights,’ I said in an even tone. ‘She learnt very quickly and I thought tights would be warmer than socks for winter. Her coat is the right colour for school and I’ve brought her a jacket for weekend and casual wear. Her shirt was clean on this morning. I expect she dropped some food down it when she had her dinner.’ I didn’t get a chance to explain further, for Susan was now shouting.
‘Are you saying my girl doesn’t know how to eat proper?’ she demanded right in my face.
I took a step back. ‘No, many children have accidents with their meals, especially when they’re learning to use a knife and fork.’ I realized it was the wrong thing to say as soon as I’d said it.
Susan’s eyes blazed. ‘I’ve already told you to stop forcing my girl to use a knife and fork! She can use her fingers like she always does. It ain’t for you to change her. You do as you’re bleeding well told!’
Susan’s voice had risen to such a pitch that the centre’s manager now appeared and, as she had done previously, placated Susan with the suggestion of going into her office and the promise of writing down all her grievances. Susan was so keen to do this that she forgot to say goodbye to Aimee. The two of them disappeared into the office and the door closed, while the contact supervisor went down the corridor, which left Aimee and me alone in reception.
‘Come on, let’s go home,’ I said, offering Aimee my hand, which she refused.
‘What’s for dinner?’ she asked, falling into step beside me. She appeared to be used to her mother’s rages and didn’t seem too badly affected by them, while my heart was pounding heavily and I felt quite shaken. Contact had been set at three times a week, so I would be seeing a lot of Susan. I hoped she calmed before too long. I also hoped that the centre’s manager, when she’d finished recording Susan’s complaints, took the opportunity to talk to Susan about her attitude towards me. For seeing her mother so negative and angry wasn’t going to help Aimee settle into foster care, but then of course that was what Susan intended, I thought unkindly. Kristen had warned me right at the start that Susan had made so many allegations about the foster carers of her older children that eventually they’d all had to be moved to new foster homes, repeatedly, which was very disruptive for the children, and of course the allegations hadn’t had the desired effect of returning the children to Susan.
Aimee was very talkative in the car on the way home and told me all about the many sweet things her mother had given her at contact. ‘I was allowed to eat all the biscuits and sweets I wanted!’ Aimee repeated, in case I hadn’t grasped it the first tim
e. ‘Mum said I could.’ There was a challenging defiance in Aimee’s words: she was making the point that she’d been allowed to eat unlimited sweet foods at contact with her mother while I rationed them at home. I was used to foster children trying to play off their parents against me (the foster carer) and I’d found it was best ignored. Another good reason for the child’s parents and carer working together is that it limits the times the child can manipulate the situation.
However, when Aimee repeated for a fifth time that her mother had given her lots of sweets, I simply said, ‘I’m glad you had a nice time with your mother.’ Which wasn’t what Aimee wanted to hear at all.
‘You’re not listening!’ she accused. ‘I said my mum let me eat lots and lots of sweets and biscuits – all of them!’
‘I heard you,’ I said, ‘but when you are at contact your mother sets the rules and when you are at home with me I set them. If your mother is happy for you to eat lots of sweet things so that your teeth go rotten that’s up to her. I’m trying to keep you healthy by limiting your sweet foods and giving you a good diet.’ I didn’t want Aimee thinking I was rationing her sweets out of spite – it was for her own good.
She didn’t answer and I hoped she appreciated what I’d said.
* * *
We arrived home and had dinner – roast chicken, potatoes and carrots – which Aimee ate after the usual protestations of saying she didn’t like it and wanted biscuits instead. After dinner I told Aimee it was time to do some homework and I would help her. She didn’t want to do her homework but wanted to watch television instead. I explained how important it was to do well at school and that she had some catching up to do.