by Cathy Glass
Lucy stared at Aimee, horrified. Any humour was now gone. We’d fostered children before who’d been badly neglected and harmed on Christmas Day – as on most other days; indeed Lucy’s own Christmases before coming into care hadn’t been good, but what she had experienced was nothing compared to this. And the fact that Christmas should be a time of peace and happiness seemed to make Aimee’s suffering all the worse. I was grateful Paula was in her bedroom listening to music and hadn’t heard what Aimee had just said.
It was a moment before Lucy and I spoke. I could see Lucy’s eyes glistening as she stared at Aimee. Then she reached out and, gently touching Aimee’s shoulder, said quietly: ‘That won’t ever happen again. Shall I tell you about all the nice things we do here at Christmas?’
‘Yes please,’ Aimee said, recovering. She moved slightly closer to Lucy on the sofa without actually touching her and Lucy began.
‘Well, about two weeks before Christmas,’ Lucy said, as if telling a child a story, ‘we all help to get the Christmas decorations down from the loft, where they’re stored in boxes. Two big boxes full of Christmas decorations. There are lots of brightly coloured garlands and big glittery stars and snowflakes, which we hang from the ceiling. Then there’s a golden angel that goes on the wall in the hall and a model of the Nativity, and a Father Christmas that goes “Ho ho ho” whenever anyone walks past.’ Aimee smiled. ‘We all go shopping and buy presents for each other, and because they are surprises we wrap them without anyone seeing. Then a week before Christmas we buy a Christmas tree and we all help to decorate it – with tinsel and baubles and chocolate novelties, which mustn’t be eaten until Christmas, Aimee.’
Aimee grinned. ‘Hmm, yummy, I like chocolate.’
I smiled. Aimee was enthralled, as a young child should be. As Lucy continued telling Aimee all about the build-up to Christmas, I slipped from the sitting room and went into the front room where I kept my fostering folder. I wanted to write up my log notes while Aimee’s new disclosures about Craig were still fresh in my mind. These, together with what Aimee had previously told me, would help build up a picture which would, I hoped, eventually lead to a prosecution. So, as Lucy’s voice drifted in from the sitting room and she told Aimee all about the promised joy of this Christmas, I wrote about the misery of Aimee’s last one, and Lucy’s words could not have been more of a contrast: as Lucy said, ‘… then on Christmas morning we all sit round the Christmas tree and give each other presents,’ I wrote ‘… she had so many bruises she couldn’t go out for a week.’
Perhaps it was because Aimee had been remembering her last Christmas before she went to bed that she had a nightmare that night. Just after midnight I was woken by the most horrific blood-curdling scream. With my heart racing, I shot out of bed and went round the landing to Aimee’s room as Lucy and Paula came out of their rooms. Going in, I turned on the light. Aimee was sitting upright in bed, her eyes screwed tightly shut and her hands pressed over her ears, as though trying to shut out the horror of what she’d seen and heard. She stopped screaming as I entered but now sat rigidly upright, like a statue. I sat on the bed and placing my hands over hers I tried to ease them away from her ears.
‘It’s all right, Aimee,’ I said gently. ‘You’re safe. Open your eyes. You’ve had a bad dream, that’s all.’
Aimee stayed as she was, hands pressed against her ears and eyes shut tight, frozen in her nightmare.
I kept my hands on hers and felt her skin, soft and clammy. ‘Open your eyes, Aimee,’ I said again. ‘You’re safe. There’s nothing to worry about now. Lucy and Paula are here too.’
Gradually Aimee opened her eyes and let me ease her hands away from her ears. She looked vague and disorientated, still partly in the nightmare world she’d inhabited. Then slowly reality returned and her gaze went to Lucy and Paula, who were standing by the door looking very worried, and then back to me. Aimee looked at me, scared.
‘Please don’t hit me,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve wet the bed.’
‘Of course I won’t hit you. I’ve never hit anyone,’ I said, as I’d said before. ‘A wet bed doesn’t matter.’
Aimee looked at me thoughtfully and then said, ‘I was so scared at home sometimes, I used to wet myself.’
‘Scared about what, love?’ I asked gently, my hand now resting lightly on her arm. ‘What scared you so badly?’
Aimee shook her head, signalling either that she couldn’t remember or that she couldn’t tell me the horror that had made her wet herself at home.
‘You two go back to bed,’ I suggested to Lucy and Paula. ‘I’ll soon have Aimee tucked up in bed again.’
Satisfied Aimee was going to be all right, the girls went back to their own rooms while I went to the airing cupboard along the landing and took out clean bedding and pyjamas. Returning to Aimee’s room, I helped her out of bed and gave her a packet of wet wipes. ‘You can have a bath in the morning,’ I said to her. ‘Just wipe yourself clean with these for now.’
While Aimee took off her wet pyjamas and used the wet wipes to clean herself, I changed the bedding. I always keep a waterproof mattress protector on the bed, so no damage had been done. I wondered what Aimee had been so scared of at her mother’s that she’d wet herself, but now wasn’t the time to press her. I hoped that eventually she’d be able to tell me this and all the other half-remembered incidents of abuse she’d begun to tell me about and then stopped. Still quiet, but in clean pyjamas, Aimee climbed back into bed, while I dumped the wet bedding in the bath to take down to the washing machine later.
I returned to sit on the edge of her bed and tucked the duvet under her chin. ‘All right now, love?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Aimee said quietly, her rounded eyes watching me.
‘I want you to think of nice things now and try to go back to sleep. I’m going to my bed but if you need me call out.’
Aimee gave a small nod and then reaching out her arms, to my surprise said: ‘Hug.’
I smiled and slipped my arms around her and felt her little body warm against mine. It was only a small hug before she pulled away, as though she didn’t want to be too close for too long. But it was a start: we had crossed a bridge and I knew there would be more hugs to follow as Aimee slowly put her trust in me and allowed me closer.
Chapter Twenty-One
Going for Gold
I decided it was time Aimee met my parents who, although in their eighties, were healthy and active and looked much younger. They’d always been supportive of my fostering and went out of their way to make the child or children I was looking after feel included in the wider family. It never took long before the child was calling them Nana and Grandpa and enjoying their kind and patient attention. They always bought birthday and Christmas presents for the child and obviously missed them, as we did, once they’d gone. I’d put off introducing Aimee to my parents for longer than normal, as I wanted to feel confident Aimee’s behaviour would be acceptable. I find it very stressful to have guests (even if they are my parents) if I have to spend all day correcting the child, issuing warnings and sanctions, and eventually tell them off and give them time out. I now believed Aimee was ready to meet my parents, so I telephoned them and asked them over for Sunday lunch.
‘You come to us,’ Mum immediately said. ‘I’ll cook you dinner for a change.’
‘Only if you will let us all help,’ I said, mindful of the work involved.
‘All right. We’ll all help. Look forward to seeing you on Sunday.’
* * *
So on Sunday morning I explained to Aimee where we were going and who we were going to see, and she seemed appropriately excited. Paula came with us, but Lucy had already arranged to go out with a friend for the day, and as she saw Nana and Grandpa regularly it didn’t matter if she missed this time. ‘Give them my love,’ she called as we left.
‘I will.’
We arrived as arranged at twelve noon and Mum and Dad greeted us at the door with hugs and kisses. I introduced Aimee, wh
o’d held back from hugging, and we went in. Almost immediately – as soon as we were inside – Aimee began playing up.
‘Where am I supposed to play?’ she demanded rudely.
I shot her a warning glance. ‘Through here, in the sitting room. I’ll show you,’ I said. I’d brought activities with us – colouring books and puzzles – and Mum always kept a well-stocked toy box in the sitting room.
I settled Aimee at the coffee table with various activities but a minute later she was saying she was bored and demanding: ‘What else is there to do?’
I spread out more activities and re-settled her. Then a couple of minutes later she was away from the table and trying to jump on and off the sofa. I steered her back to the activities, but then a minute later she was off again, running upstairs and into my parents’ bedroom.
I went after her. ‘You don’t go in other people’s bedrooms,’ I said, taking her by the hand and leading her out. ‘They are private. Like our bedrooms at home.’
I took her downstairs and re-settled her with another puzzle, but no activity lasted longer than a few minutes before she was up running around, up and downstairs, in and out of the kitchen and then opening various cupboards or drawers. Even when she was occupied with an activity it was impossible to hold a conversation, as the moment attention switched from her and what she was doing, she interrupted us, loudly butting in. Using my 3Rs technique (detailed in Happy Kids) I told Aimee how she should behave and warned her of the sanction if she didn’t behave, then began stopping television time. Half an hour later Aimee had lost all her television for that night and I was starting on the following day.
‘Don’t care,’ Aimee said. ‘I’ll do as I please.’ And she did.
‘You’ve got your hands full,’ Dad said quietly to me, clearly concerned at the strain Aimee’s behaviour was putting on my family and me.
‘I thought she’d got over this,’ I said apologetically. ‘She’s been doing well at home until now.’
Eventually, after another rude interruption from Aimee, I gave her time out and sat with her in the utility room while Paula helped Mum serve dinner. When dinner was ready we sat at the dining table but Aimee continued with her rude, confrontational and defiant manner. She demanded a spoon, claiming she couldn’t use a knife and fork. Mum fetched her a spoon and also cut up her dinner for her, but Aimee refused to eat any of it, saying it was yucky and she wanted biscuits instead. I told her off, told her she wasn’t having biscuits, stopped more television, and then gave her more time out so we could finish our meal in peace. But I was silently fuming and at a loss to know why she was letting herself and me down so badly. Mum and Dad looked forward to our visits and Mum had put a lot of effort into Sunday dinner and I felt awful, although Mum told me not to worry. The day was a disaster and we left earlier than planned. I was exhausted and stressed, and Paula had run out of patience. I could see she was angry at the way Aimee had treated her dear Nana and Grandpa and we both apologized to my parents as we left and got in the car.
Unbelievably, as I started the engine Aimee said: ‘That was nice.’
‘Nice!’ I exclaimed. ‘I spent the whole day telling you off! You’ve lost all your television for the next two days. I’m shocked at your behaviour, Aimee, shocked and saddened.’ I reversed off the drive and set my face to a smile as we waved goodbye to my parents.
‘Aimee, whatever was the matter?’ I asked once we were on the road. ‘When we go to someone else’s house you behave as I’ve taught you to do at home.’
‘Do I?’ Aimee said, bemused.
‘Yes! You do!’ Paula exclaimed. ‘You know that.’
‘I didn’t at me mum’s,’ Aimee said. ‘When I went with me mum to get her Big H, I did as I liked. No one bothered there.’
I thought that just about summed it up! Aimee’s social visiting prior to coming into care had consisted of accompanying her mother to drug dens and crack houses, where the rules of decent social interaction clearly wouldn’t have applied. Although I’d taken Aimee with me a few times when I’d popped into friends’ houses, we hadn’t stayed for long and not for a meal. I realized that while Aimee’s behaviour was progressing well at home she clearly needed to be socialized more. I made a mental note that when she broke up from school for Christmas and we had more time, we’d visit as many friends as possible, preferably friends who fostered and who wouldn’t be fazed if Aimee’s behaviour was bad.
As I drove I now went through the dos and don’ts of visiting. ‘Always say please and thank you,’ I said. ‘Don’t go rummaging in people’s cupboards and drawers unless you are asked to. Don’t stand on the coffee table, jump on their sofa or beds, or make gagging noises at the meal table.’ Obvious to any child from a normal home, but not to a child like Aimee, who had existed in a feral ‘dog eat dog’ world for most of her life.
‘We’ll see Nana and Grandpa again soon,’ I said, finishing my lecture. ‘So you’ll be able to show them how well you can behave.’
‘I had a nana,’ Aimee said. ‘But she was horrid.’
Paula, who was sitting in the passenger seat and still annoyed with Aimee, was unable to conceptualize a nana who was ‘horrid’. ‘What do you mean “horrid”?’ she asked. ‘You mean you got told off because of your behaviour?’
‘No. Really really horrid,’ Aimee said. ‘When I was naughty she hit me with a broom and locked me in the shed.’ After the way Aimee had behaved this afternoon I had a degree of sympathy with the woman, although I obviously didn’t condone the cruelty.
‘Was this nana your mother’s mother, or your father’s mother?’ I asked, aware I’d have to log this new abuse in my fostering notes and tell the social worker, so I needed to get the facts right.
‘What?’ Aimee asked, confused.
‘You can have two nanas,’ Paula explained. ‘One is your mum’s mother and the other is your dad’s mother.’
‘Don’t know,’ Aimee said. ‘I just called her Nana or witch – because of her broomstick. I used to stay with her sometimes, when me mum had had enough of me. Then one day Mum came back early and found me and Grandpa in the shed. There was a big argument and I didn’t have to go and stay with them any more, which was good.’
I glanced at Aimee in the rear-view mirror, not sure if this was just a family argument that had led to estrangement or something more sinister. ‘Why was your mother angry?’ I asked.
‘Because I was in the shed with Grandpa!’ Aimee said, her voice rising as if I should have understood.
‘Why should that make her angry?’ I asked. Aimee didn’t answer.
‘What was happening in the shed to make your mother angry?’ It was a question I would never have thought of asking when I first started fostering but experience had taught me that such a question could unlock more disclosures of abuse.
‘Nothing!’ Aimee said too quickly.
‘So why did your mother stop you from visiting?’
‘Because Grandpa …’ Aimee began. Then stopped. ‘Don’t know. Can’t remember.’
‘All right. But if you do remember one day I hope you will be able to tell me.’
‘Maybe,’ Aimee said thoughtfully.
‘And Aimee,’ I added before I let the subject go, ‘I don’t know what your grandparents were like, I’ve never met them, but ours are lovely, kind and caring people. They would never hurt anyone, and if they knew you’d been hurt they would be very sad.’ It needed to be said because Aimee’s experience had shown her otherwise.
‘OK,’ Aimee said. ‘Thanks for telling me. I’ll try and be good next time I see them. But don’t expect an angel.’
‘We won’t,’ Paula said.
When we got home Aimee, having eaten no dinner, was hungry, so I made her a sandwich, while reminding her that the next time we visited Nana and Grandpa she’d eat what Nana cooked for us. Aimee agreed she would at least try the food. I wondered how much of Aimee’s negative behaviour at my parents’ had been a result of the experience she’d had wit
h her own grandparents – if indeed they were her grandparents. Some abused children are taught to call their abusers Nan, Grandpa, Aunty or Uncle, to cover the fact the child is spending a lot of time with an unrelated adult, which could arouse suspicion. With each new disclosure Aimee made I was coming to the conclusion that anything was possible.
After Aimee had eaten it was time to phone her mother, for although the Guardian had said she’d see if she could reduce or stop phone contact I still had to make the phone calls until I was officially told to stop by the social services.
As it turned out, I called a halt to the phone contact very quickly, for as soon as Susan spoke it became clear she was under the influence of something – drink or drugs I didn’t know. The phone was on speaker as usual, so Aimee and I both heard her slurred speech as her words ran together and she appeared to be confused. ‘Is that my youngest child,’ she drawled. ‘Or my eldest? Or maybe it’s the devil’s child!’
‘What the fuck are you on, Mum?’ Aimee said, clearly recognizing the signs of substance misuse, as I did.
‘It’s the devil’s child!’ Susan returned and laughed hideously.
‘Susan, it’s Cathy,’ I said, leaning towards the mic on the phone. ‘Are you able to talk to Aimee properly?’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ she demanded.
‘I’m Aimee’s carer. Aimee is in foster care.’
‘In hell, more like!’ she said, laughing again.
‘Susan, I’m stopping this call,’ I said. ‘I’ll explain why to the social worker. Would you like to say goodbye to Aimee?’
There was silence on the other end of the phone, although the line was still open.
‘Say goodbye to your mother,’ I said to Aimee.
‘Bye, Mum. See you tomorrow,’ Aimee said, subdued.
There was still no response from Susan, so I said ‘Goodbye, Susan,’ and cut the call.