Another Forgotten Child

by Cathy Glass

  Thirty minutes later, after the family centre had officially closed for the day, the contact supervisor finally appeared with Aimee. Susan wasn’t in sight. I got out of the car and opened the rear door so that Aimee could get in. She didn’t look at me but I could see that her eyes were red from crying. I didn’t know if there was a specific reason for her crying or if she was just upset, and the contact supervisor didn’t tell me. Indeed the supervisor treated me very coolly. Having brought Aimee to the car she turned and went back into the centre without even saying goodbye. Perhaps she blamed me for leaving her to Susan’s rage, but she had her manager and the other centre staff to look out for her while I just had me.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I now asked Aimee as I leant in and checked her seatbelt.

  She nodded and sniffed. I put my hand lightly on her shoulder to comfort her but she pulled away. Closing her car door, I went round and climbed in the driver’s seat, and began the drive home. Aimee didn’t speak during the journey and every so often I glanced in the rear-view mirror and asked her if she was all right, to which she gave a small nod. But as I pulled up outside our house she broke her silence and said: ‘I don’t want dinner. I’ve got tummy ache.’

  I guessed it was a result of the upset at contact. I knew how she felt; my stomach was still in a tight knot.

  ‘I want to go to bed,’ she added plaintively.

  Cutting the engine, I turned in my seat to look at her. She looked very sad and withdrawn, almost depressed. ‘Aimee,’ I said with a reassuring smile. ‘When children first come into care it’s always very difficult for everyone, but it does get better, I promise you. Very soon you and your mum will be in the routine of seeing each other at contact and having a nice time and then saying goodbye. Your mum will be less angry and it will get easier for both of you, and me. I’ve looked after many children and know this always happens.’ This was true, although I did wonder if this would happen with Susan.

  ‘So please try not to worry,’ I continued, trying to give Aimee the reassurance she so badly needed. ‘Enjoy the time you spend with your mum at contact and then enjoy your time at home with me. It’s Saturday tomorrow and I’m planning on taking you to the cinema. Have you ever been to the cinema before?’

  Aimee shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘You’ll love it. A film called Madagascar is showing. It’s a lovely cartoon film about animals who run away from a zoo and have lots of adventures. We’ll have some sweets and popcorn too.’

  Aimee’s face finally lost its downcast expression and lit up, although I suspected it was more because of the promise of sweets and popcorn than anything else I’d said.

  ‘Cor,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve heard the kids at school say they’ve been to the cinema and had sweets and popcorn. Now I’ll be able to say I have too.’

  I smiled. ‘Yes, you will. You’ll be able to join in.’ Here was another sad indication of the life Aimee had lived: that she’d reached the age of eight without ever going to the cinema. True, it wasn’t life-threatening neglect or abuse but in a developed society it’s reasonable for a child to benefit from what society has to offer and share similar experiences to those of their peer group.

  ‘We’ll have a great time,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, we will,’ Aimee agreed, brightening. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  * * *

  That evening Aimee was exhausted; it was the end of the week and I also suspected she was emotionally exhausted from the ups and downs of seeing her mother. She did eat dinner, and with virtually no complaints, and was too tired to object to having a wash and brushing her teeth, which made the bedtime routine a lot easier. Once she was in her pyjamas I saw her into bed, and I said she could sleep in the following morning, as we didn’t have to get up early for school.

  ‘Good,’ she sighed, snuggling beneath the duvet. ‘I’ll have a long, long sleep. I like my bed here. It’s nice and warm and comfortable. Not like that smelly mattress at home.’

  I smiled and tucked her in. ‘I’m pleased you like your bed,’ I said. ‘Would you like a goodnight kiss and a hug?’

  Her face wrinkled to a cheeky grin. ‘No thank you, but keep asking.’

  ‘I will.’

  That evening, as usual, once I’d finished clearing up I wrote up my log notes, including the scene that had taken place at contact. As I wrote I felt the heaviness of what had happened descend on me again – Susan’s anger and Aimee’s upset. Goodness knew what thoughts went through Aimee’s head when she was alone in bed at night and ran through the day’s events. Because of the distance she was keeping between us she didn’t share her fears and worries with me, as other children I’d fostered had, and as far as I knew she didn’t share them with anyone else, so they were ‘bottled up’. Aimee didn’t have face-to-face contact over the weekend, but she did have phone contact, and I dearly hoped Susan wouldn’t use it as a vehicle for making more trouble. I was looking forward to a pleasant and relaxing weekend.

  The following morning we all had a lie-in and then once up I cooked a full English breakfast, which was a weekend tradition in our house: eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes and fried bread. Adrian, my son who was away at university, telephoned during the morning and said he was up in the Lake District with a couple of his friends for the weekend. Their return journey, the following day, would take them within a few miles of our house and he was thinking of stopping by to see us – was that OK?

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘We’ll look forward to it. Do you all want dinner?’

  ‘Yes please. It’ll give me a chance to meet Aimee too.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, hesitantly. ‘It will. But you’d better explain to your friends that Aimee hasn’t been with us long and is still settling in.’

  Adrian gave a small laugh. ‘OK, Mum, but don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be on her best behaviour.’

  ‘Hopefully,’ I said.

  As soon as Adrian and I had finished talking on the phone and having said goodbye, I went through to the kitchen to make sure there was enough food in the fridge for the weekend. Three big lads would need feeding well and I took a large joint of meat out of the freezer to defrost. I then told Lucy and Paula that Adrian would be stopping by with a couple of friends for Sunday dinner and they were pleased. I also told them I was planning to take Aimee to the cinema that afternoon for the five o’clock performance of Madagascar and, never too old for animated cartoons, they both wanted to come too.

  When I told Aimee that Adrian and two of his friends were coming on Sunday she said, ‘Oh goody. Lots of men, just like at my mum’s.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head and refused to say any more.

  I also told Aimee that Lucy and Paula were coming with us to the cinema. ‘Are Adrian and his friends coming too?’ Aimee asked with no conception of time.

  ‘No, they are coming tomorrow – Sunday. Today is Saturday, and we are going to the cinema.’ As I’d done previously with Aimee (and also other children I’d fostered who’d struggled to understand time and the days of the week) I pointed to the large colourful children’s calendar pinned to the wall in the kitchen.

  ‘Here is today,’ I said, pointing to Saturday on the calendar. ‘And here is tomorrow, Sunday. Sunday is after one sleep. We are going to the cinema today, and tomorrow, after one sleep, Adrian and his friends are coming.’

  ‘And how many sleeps to school again?’ Aimee sensibly asked.

  ‘Two – tonight and tomorrow.’

  She nodded and I think she understood.

  Aimee was thrilled to have Lucy and Paula accompany us to the cinema and wanted to sit between them to watch the film, which was fine with them. I’d already explained to Aimee what would happen in the cinema – how we’d sit in a row of chairs with other people and the lights would go down and then the film would come on a very big screen, much bigger than the television. But when the lights dimmed and the cinema darkened Aimee s
quealed and grabbed the girls’ arms, which sent popcorn everywhere. ‘Don’t worry,’ I laughed. ‘It’s an occupational hazard at the cinema. You’ve got plenty more.’

  The four of us had a nice afternoon and we all enjoyed the film (and the sweets and popcorn); the only downside for me was the thought of the phone call I had to make when we got home. We’d be phoning Susan a bit later than usual – I estimated we’d be home from the cinema at about seven o’clock, and we’d phone straightaway. We usually phoned between six and 6.30, so it wasn’t much later than normal and I (naively) hoped Susan wouldn’t object, as her daughter had benefited from going to the cinema.

  As I had estimated, we arrived home at seven o’clock and with Aimee on the sofa beside me we phoned straightaway, but as soon as Susan answered and Aimee said ‘Hello, Mum,’ she began – at Aimee.

  ‘You’re late phoning,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages for you. I’m not well, and this has made me feel worse. Where have you been?’

  Aimee’s previous enthusiasm for telling her mother all about her trip to the cinema vanished, and she looked at me to give her mother the explanation.

  ‘Susan, Cathy here,’ I said, moving closer to the mic in the phone. ‘I’m sorry we’re phoning a bit later than usual but I took Aimee to the cinema to see –’

  ‘I’m not talking to you,’ she snapped rudely. ‘This phone call is between me and my daughter.’ Then, addressing Aimee: ‘Aimee, don’t phone late again, do you hear? It makes me ill. I’ve been in bed all day.’ And Susan continued telling Aimee about her stomach cramps, diarrhoea and sickness, which according to her had been made worse by our later-than-usual phone call.

  Clearly I didn’t know if Susan had been unwell that day or if us phoning slightly later than usual had compounded her illness, but the result was instant and effective. Aimee gave up all thoughts of telling her mother what a good time she’d had at the cinema and, feeling guilty for upsetting her, listened, sympathized and then apologized.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she said. ‘I should be at home to look after you. Tell the social worker you need me there.’

  ‘I will.’

  Most emotionally responsible parents wouldn’t worry their children with their own ailments but make light of them or not mention them at all, but Susan was emotionally immature and very needy, probably as a result of her own upbringing. She treated Aimee as a confidante or surrogate mother figure and offloaded. So that after another ten minutes of listening to her mother’s symptoms and suffering (which were really quite minor) Aimee was sad and anxious.

  ‘Will you be all right alone tonight?’ she asked fretfully.

  ‘I’ll manage. Craig’s coming later. He’ll look after me.’

  I saw the colour drain from Aimee’s face at the mention of her abuser and she also looked very confused. ‘Why’s he coming?’ she asked in a small voice.

  ‘To look after me, silly. You know how he looks after me.’

  I didn’t know what game Susan was playing but it was a cruel one, for here she was telling her daughter that her abuser was a good man who looked after her when she was ill, while her daughter wasn’t there for her. I saw the confusion, upset and rejection on Aimee’s face and decided it was time to step in. Lowering my voice away from the mic I said quietly to Aimee, ‘Tell your mother you went to the cinema and then say goodnight.’

  ‘Bye, Mum. I hope you’re better soon,’ Aimee said, omitting her news.

  ‘Are you going already?’ Susan asked, her voice rising.

  ‘Yes. Cathy says I have to.’

  ‘Why? What’s it got to do with her?’

  Aimee looked at me, very worried, and didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Susan,’ I said, again moving closer to the mic, ‘as you know I’ve been asked to monitor these calls and intervene if necessary. I don’t think it’s appropriate to be talking about Craig, given the allegations that have been made against him, and the police investigation. It’s also upsetting for Aimee. So if you’d like to say goodbye we’ll phone again tomorrow at the usual time. You can discuss my decision to shorten this call on Monday with your social worker.’

  ‘You bet I will! When I find out who the new social worker is.’

  ‘Say goodbye to your mum,’ I now said to Aimee so that Susan could hear.

  ‘Bye, Mum,’ Aimee said. ‘Please don’t let Craig come round. I don’t like him. He’ll hurt you.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly – of course he won’t hurt me,’ Susan said. ‘He’s my friend. Make sure you phone on time tomorrow. Goodbye.’ And she hung up.

  Aimee sat beside me on the sofa, confused, sad and upset. I could see she didn’t know what to think about Craig and her mother, and was riddled with guilt and self-doubt. Susan would make a complaint next week that I’d cut short the call but I knew my action had been justified – to protect Aimee. I reasoned that if I couldn’t end a call when I saw fit there was no point in monitoring these phone calls, and I hoped the new social worker would agree and support my decision.

  ‘It’s my fault Mum has to see Craig,’ Aimee said after a moment.

  ‘Of course it’s not,’ I said firmly. ‘Your mum is an adult. She makes her own decisions about who she sees. You’re not responsible for her.’

  ‘But if I’d looked after her better when I was at home I wouldn’t be in care. If I’d cleaned the house and cooked and gone to school when I should, I would be at home with Mum and she wouldn’t need Craig to look after her. I shouldn’t have told you about Craig – it’s made Mum upset.’

  Susan had succeeded in punishing Aimee and making her feel guilty for disclosing Craig’s abuse.

  ‘Aimee, love,’ I said, turning to her on the sofa, ‘you are not responsible for your mother and you did right to tell me what Craig did to you. Parents should protect their children and look after them. It’s not the child’s job to cook and clean and get to school. It’s the parents’ job, and unfortunately your mother couldn’t do it, which is why you’re here with me. I’m sorry your mother feels she has to see Craig, and I can understand why you’re worried, but it is your mother’s decision. It’s a pity she mentioned Craig on the phone and when I speak to the new social worker I will explain what has happened. All right?’

  Aimee shrugged despondently, any residue of delight in our outing to the cinema completely gone.

  ‘Come on, cheer up,’ I said. ‘Can I give you a hug?

  Aimee shook her head.

  ‘Can I hold your hand, then?’ I asked, feeling the need to offer her some physical comfort.

  She gave a small nod and I gently lifted one of her hands, which was resting on her lap, and took it between mine. It was the first physical contact I’d had with Aimee apart from washing her hair, and her hand felt stiff and resistant. Children who have been physically abused are very wary of physical contact, as experience has taught them it usually hurts. I continued to gently stroke Aimee’s hand as she stared straight ahead; then she slid her hand from mine and asked if I’d read her a bedtime story.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Choose some books from the shelf.’

  She left the sofa and gathered a selection of young children’s storybooks from the bookshelf, which I read with her sitting next to me on the sofa. After we’d finished I told her it was time for her bath and I began the bedtime routine. She was still subdued and for the second night in a row didn’t object to washing or cleaning her teeth. And while this made life easier for me, I hated seeing her so quiet and withdrawn and would have preferred the feisty child who objected to everything. I asked her a few times what was wrong and she said, ‘Nothing.’

  I finally tucked her into bed and said goodnight. She was lying flat on her back and staring at the ceiling. And just for a moment as she stared, unseeing and distant, I caught another glimpse of Jodie who, as a result of horrendous abuse, withdrew so far into herself she became impossible to reach. It had been dreadful to witness and I knew it must never happen to Aimee.

 
; Chapter Sixteen

  Serious Allegation

  I didn’t sleep well that night. Thoughts of Jodie flashed through my mind and I checked on Aimee three times, but she was always fast asleep. It was a long night and I was very relieved when Aimee woke the following morning and sprang out of bed, her usual objectionable self. ‘I ain’t having me hair washed today!’ were her first words – she was aware I always gave her hair a good wash and fine-tooth comb on a Sunday morning.

  ‘Aimee, before we debate the merits of washing your hair, there’s something I need to say to you.’

  ‘Yeah?’ she said quizzically, standing by her bed. ‘You know you can talk to me.’

  I smiled at the phrase I sometimes used, sounding quaint when spoken by a child. ‘Aimee, I wanted to make sure you know that you can talk to me about anything that’s worrying you. It often helps to talk about the things that worry us, to share a problem. And I won’t be shocked or upset.’

  ‘Like what?’ she said, eyeing me cautiously.

  ‘Well, I don’t know exactly,’ I said, perching on the bed. ‘Only you know what could be worrying you. But I think things could have happened before you came into care, which you now realize were bad and could be worrying you. I want you to feel you can tell me. I don’t want you to keep worries to yourself and “bottle them up” because that can make them worse. I also want you to remember that whatever happened before you came into care wasn’t your fault. Do you understand?’ Abused children often blame themselves, feeling they should have stopped the abuse, or that they deserved it because they were naughty, or even encouraged it by being ‘a tease’.