by Cathy Glass
‘Donna, this is a safe house,’ I said in the same firm manner. ‘Paula feels safe here, Adrian feels safe here and you are safe here. No one purposely hurts anyone else. I need to hear you tell me that you understand, and that you won't do it again.’ I waited. Donna continued looking down and rocking. I waited some more. I wasn't sure how to proceed now. ‘Look, Donna,’ I said in a less authoritative tone, ‘I know lots of bad things have happened to you, but you must try to leave them behind. We all look out for each other here, and you will find if you look after Adrian and Paula they will be just as keen to look after you.’
I paused again, but there was no response; Donna hadn't looked up or stopped rocking. I decided she could do with a few minutes to reflect on what I'd said, before I hugged her and we put the incident behind us. ‘OK, Donna,’ I said, ‘I want you to think about what I've said. Then when you feel able, come down and tell me that it won't happen again. And I also think you need to say sorry to Paula.’
Still nothing. I turned and slowly left the room, drawing the door to behind me, but not closing it. I went downstairs, and to the phone on the hall table, and dialled Edna's number.
‘Edna,’ I said as soon as she answered. ‘It's Cathy, Donna's carer.’
‘Hello, Cathy?’ I could tell by her tone she guessed something was wrong.
‘We've had a bit of a problem here,’ I said. ‘And I would like some more information.’ I explained what had just happened and finished by saying that I thought it would be useful if I could speak to Mary and Ray and find out exactly what had happened there.
I could hear the relief in Edna's voice, for doubtless she had thought that with Donna hitting Paula I would be calling an end to the placement and asking for Donna to be moved. ‘Yes, of course, Cathy,’ she said. ‘I have their telephone number here. I'm so sorry you've had to deal with this. I don't understand what has got into Donna. I've never seen that side of her.’
I waited for her to read out the telephone number, which I wrote on the pad I kept beside the phone in the hall and repeated back to her. ‘I'm going to phone them now,’ I said.
‘Yes, Cathy. I'll speak to them myself later as well. I'm so very sorry.’
I severed the line and keyed in the numbers to Mary and Ray. It was all quiet upstairs — Adrian and Paula were still ensconced in his bedroom with the Gameboy, and I assumed Donna was contemplating, and I hoped taking on board, what I had said, ready to offer an apology to Paula. I listened to Mary and Ray's phone ringing; then a female voice answered.
‘Is that Mary?’ I asked.
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Cathy Glass, Donna's carer.’
‘Oh, hello.’
‘I hope you don't mind my phoning. Edna gave me your number. We've had a bit of an incident here this morning and I felt I needed to speak to you to try to learn more.’
I thought there was a small hesitation before she said, ‘Sure, go ahead.’ I also heard boys' voices in the background and I assumed they were those of Warren and Jason, playing.
I began positively, and said that Donna was settling in well, but that out of the blue she'd smacked my daughter this morning, and I was wondering if Mary had had any similar incident when Donna had been living with her. I didn't say that I knew Mary had received a bruise, or add any more; I wanted to hear what she had to say. What Mary told me didn't in any way lighten my concern.
‘Donna was fine when she first arrived,’ Mary began. ‘A bit quiet and too compliant, but otherwise OK. She was used to looking after her younger brothers, although they often teased and bullied her. She was more like their mother or carer than an older sister, and I thought I should take some of the responsibility from her. So many of these children come into care having never had a childhood because of all the responsibility they've had at home.’ I agreed and knew from what Mary was saying that she was a sensible, level-headed and experienced foster carer, and that what she was giving me was an objective and rational account. ‘The problems began when I tried to discourage Donna from continually fussing around the boys. She fussed around them so much that they really resented it. She also tried to discipline them, which they resented, and I stopped it. It was unhealthy; she wouldn't let them be, and she couldn't see that they were making fun of her. They are a bright pair and can easily get the better of her. I was very shocked when they admitted to Edna that they'd beaten her with a skipping rope. You know Edna came here and spoke to them?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘The situation quickly deteriorated and really, Cathy, there was no way the three of them could stay together. Donna was trying to control not only the boys' lives but ours as well. My husband is a full-time carer and stood by me. But Donna even tried to order him around and resented either of us doing anything for the boys. She actually started to physically push us away if we went near Warren and Jason. We asked for her to be moved after a particularly ugly scene in the bathroom. Ray and I were trying to get the boys ready for bed. They were a bit hyper but no more so than usual. Donna wasn't having any of it. She came storming in and demanded to know what we were doing. She grabbed my arm and bent it back — I thought she was going to break it. Ray had to drag her off. I've still got the bruise.’ Mary stopped as my worst fears were confirmed.
‘Thank you, Mary,’ I said slowly. ‘I'm going to have to think carefully how to handle this.’
‘How old are your children?’ she asked.
‘Six and ten.’
‘I only have my seventeen-year-old son living with me now. I'd be very careful if I were you, Cathy. Donna's a big girl and could really hurt someone smaller.’ She paused. ‘Will she stay with you?’
‘I hope so. I don't want her to feel rejected, but I'll have to see how it goes. Donna has obviously come from a highly abusive family, and I know it's not her fault, but I can't have my children placed in permanent danger.’
‘No. Quite,’ Mary said. ‘Ray felt I had been placed in danger.’
I paused. ‘Mary, one last thing. Edna mentioned the term OCD. I think you had suggested it?’
‘Yes. Donna displayed some strange habits here. She kept washing her hands in a really agitated way, over and over again. I had seen a programme on television about OCD, and it looked very similar to what Donna was doing. Has she done that with you?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘To be honest, it's the least of her problems. I think Donna is like a firework waiting to go off. Goodness knows what has gone on in that family, but I think Donna bore the brunt of it. I was sorry to see her go, but Ray and I couldn't have looked after her and the boys: it was impossible.’
‘Yes, I understand. I'm going to have to make sure she doesn't try to replicate the situation here with my children, which is possible. Thanks for your time, Mary.’
‘You're welcome. Please say hello to Donna for me. I've got my fingers crossed for you. I hope it works out. We'll probably bump into each other at school when the term starts.’
‘Yes. Thanks,’ I said again, and I slowly put down the phone.
As I did, I heard Donna's bedroom door open and she appeared on the landing. Very slowly she came downstairs. Her head was down and her shoulders were hunched forward; her whole stance was dejected, as it had been when she'd first arrived. She came to a halt just in front of me and slowly raised her head. Her large brown eyes were so full of sorrow my heart went out to her.
‘I'm sorry, Cath-ie,’ she said, pronouncing the two syllables separately. ‘I'm sorry I hit Paula. Shall I say sorry to her?’
‘In a minute, Donna. First I need to talk to you. Come with me into the lounge, please.’
Compliant and subdued, she followed me down the hall, and we sat together on the sofa. Outside the French windows the rain was sheeting down; today was set for a mixture of sunshine and showers.
I turned to her. ‘Now listen, love. It's important you understand why you are saying sorry to Paula.’
‘Because I hit Paula,’ she said
quietly.
‘Yes, I know, but do you understand why it was wrong to hit Paula?’
Donna shrugged.
‘Hitting hurts, obviously, you know that, but it also it makes that person afraid of you. You felt like that when your mother and Chelsea and your brothers hit you, didn't you?’ Donna gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘It's an assault on the whole person and makes that person wary of you. You don't want Paula being afraid of you, do you? You want to play with her like a sister, and Adrian like a brother.’
Donna didn't say anything, so I continued with the second part of what I needed to say. ‘Now, love, it's nice that you want to help me look after Adrian and Paula, but that's my job. I would like you to help in the house, but I will tell you what to do. We don't want Adrian and Paula feeling that you are bossing them around, do we? Because it's not nice to be bossed around and made to do things, is it? I'm sure you know that.’ I hoped I was making sense.
Donna gave a short nod. ‘Shall I say sorry to Paula now?’ she asked.
‘Yes, that would be nice. I'll call her down. But first let me give you a big hug. I want you to be happy here, just as I do Adrian and Paula, OK?’
Donna let me put my arms around her and I gave her a hug, although she didn't actually hug me back. Then, leaving her in the lounge, I went upstairs to fetch Paula. Whether I was getting through to Donna and could succeed where Mary and Ray hadn't remained to be seen. It appeared that Donna had come from a family that was highly abusive, where they had shown each other absolutely no respect, or kindness. It was a case of trying to undo all that and start over again — the process of socialisation that is begun in healthy families with the child is a toddler and continues through to adulthood.
Upstairs, Paula and Adrian were still engrossed in the Gameboy, the upset apparently receding with each new point scored on the game.
‘Donna would like to say she is sorry,’ I said. ‘I have spoken to her and she understands it must never happen again. And, Adrian, I have also said she mustn't tell you or Paula what to do, and that I'm in charge. I shall be watching her carefully, all right?’ I smiled and they smiled back; then Paula scampered off the bed and took my hand, and we went downstairs and into the lounge, where Donna was as I'd left her, on the sofa.
‘I'm sorry, Paula,’ Donna said as soon as we walked in.
‘I forgive you,’ Paula said, and she went over and planted a big kiss on Donna's cheek.
‘Good girls,’ I said.
Donna didn't say any more, so I left it at that and hoped that we could move on and put the incident behind us.
We didn't make the 11.00 a.m. showing of The Lion King, but went instead to the next showing of the film at 1.45 p.m. I bought popcorn and sat with Donna on one side of me and Adrian and Paula on the other. I was being careful, and had started the vigilance which I would keep up for as long as was necessary. I hoped that at some point in the future I would be able to relax my guard and the children would be able to play or be together again without me being present. But for the time being if they went anywhere together then I would be close by. I was grateful there was only a week until the start of the new school term, for it was going to be hard work having to be continually aware of where Donna was in the house or garden.
When we returned home after the film it was just gone 4.00 p.m. The sun had come out and the last of the rain had evaporated. The grass was dry enough to play on, and the children went outside, while I watched from the kitchen window as I prepared the vegetables and meat for the evening meal. Donna kept her distance, and once more sat on the bench on the patio while Adrian and Paula played. I hadn't stopped her playing with Adrian and Paula — indeed it would have been nice if she had joined in. But I would make sure she didn't keep organising Adrian and Paula, for then it was only a short step to dominating them, and possibly replicating what had happened at Mary and Ray's, with Donna trying to take over — using force if necessary.
We ate at 6.00 p.m., and then at 7.30 I began the bedtime routine. Leaving Donna in the lounge doing a jigsaw, I took Paula up first. Adrian had popped next door to play with Billy for a while, and when I called him back at 8.30, Donna had already taken her turn in the bathroom. Once Adrian had finished his shower I went in to say goodnight to him, and as I did I heard Donna's door open as she went out and into the toilet. When I'd finished saying goodnight to Adrian, and had also had a look at the illustrations in the book he was reading — The Magician's Nephew by C.S. Lewis — I came out and saw that the toilet door was still shut. Donna had been in there for over twenty minutes!
‘Are you OK?’ I called lightly, not wanting to wake Paula but wondering if Donna was feeling unwell.
There was no reply.
‘Donna?’ I said again, ‘are you all right?’
There was still no reply, but I could hear the tap running. I knocked lightly on the door. Nothing. The locks on the toilet and bathroom doors (as in most foster carers' homes) were out of reach of the children as part of the safer caring policy so that children couldn't lock themselves in, either accidentally or in a fit of pique. ‘Donna?’ I said again, easing the door open and ready to close it again quickly if she was on the toilet.
But she wasn't on the toilet. She was standing beside the small hand basin, washing her hands. The plug wasn't in, and the hot water tap was on full. She stood with the nailbrush in one hand, roughly scrubbing the back of the other hand.
‘Donna?’ I asked.
There was no answer, but she kept scrubbing; then, turning her hand over, she continued on the palm and fingers. It wasn't normal washing: it was the same frenzied scrubbing I'd witnessed in the kitchen, only now it was directed at her hands and not the kitchen floor. As I watched, and she appeared oblivious to my presence, she swapped the nailbrush over and began on the other hand, scrubbing her skin with fierce determination and her face set hard.
My first reaction was to close the door and move away — it was as though I had looked in, and stumbled on, some private ritual. I felt I was a voyeuristic intruder, seeing something I shouldn't be party to. But as I looked, I saw that the light brown skin on her hands was now red and angry with scratches from the nailbrush. I knew that what she was doing wasn't healthy and she needed to stop.
‘Donna,’ I said firmly, ‘stop that now.’ I didn't want to go too close in case she lashed out at me, as she had done with Mary. ‘Donna, don't do that,’ I said again. ‘You are making your hands very sore.’
She continued. I went closer, and then, risking a thump, I placed my hand on her arm. ‘Please stop. Your hands are clean now. You are making them sore.’
‘They're not clean,’ she suddenly blurted while still scrubbing. ‘They're dirty. Mum says I have to get the dirt off.’
‘Donna, your hands are clean,’ I said, keeping my voice even. ‘Please stop it now.’ I reached over and switched off the tap, half expecting her to push me, or grab my hand, or hit me. She didn't, nor did she try to turn on the tap again, but she carried on scrubbing her hands with the nailbrush, over and over again. I could see the scratch marks the nylon bristles were making and the angry red weals. ‘That's enough,’ I said. Then I slowly took the nailbrush from her hands, and reaching for the towel, folded her hands in it. ‘Let's dry them,’ I said, lightly patting the towel. ‘You've made your hands so sore.’ I carefully dried her hands, and she didn't resist. Then I returned the towel to the rail and looked at her hands. Both sides of both hands were an angry red; had she gone on scrubbing for much longer I was sure she would have drawn blood. ‘Come on, love,’ I said. ‘Let's get you into bed. It's been a bit of a rough day for you.’
I led Donna into her bedroom and turned back the sheet. She slowly, compliantly, climbed into bed. I sat on the edge of the bed, and she put her head on the pillow and seemed to relax a little. I stroked her forehead. ‘What's the matter, love?’ I asked gently. ‘Can you tell me?’
A tear escaped and ran down her cheek, then another. ‘Mum says I have to wash all
the dirt off, but it won't come off. I keep trying.’
‘Darling, your hands are spotlessly clean,’ I said. ‘I expect they are even cleaner than mine.’ I was trying to put the incident into perspective, lighten her mood, and possibly even diffuse her obsession and raise a smile. I placed my own hands palms upwards on the pillow to show her. ‘Look, no one's hands are spotless all the time.’ She drew her left hand from beneath the sheet and placed it, palm upwards, next to mine. ‘It's not so bad on this side,’ she said, referring to her palm, ‘but it's the other side. Mine is dirty, not like yours.’
I frowned, puzzled; her hands were perfectly clean, although red from the scrubbing. Mary's suggestion of OCD hung in the air. Donna turned her hand over so that it was palm down and I did the same with mine. Her hand was of course clean, although her skin was a little darker than mine because she was of dual heritage. I looked at our hands side by side on the pillow and was about to reassure her again that her hands were clean when, with a stab of horror, I realised what she meant.
Chapter Nine
Outcast
‘And Donna's mother has convinced her that's she's dirty, and has to scrub it off ! It's her natural colour, and the poor girl has been trying to get rid of it! It's nothing to do with OCD. Donna is trying to wash away her skin colour!’
I was on the phone to Edna at 9.30 the following morning, so incensed that I was nearly shouting down the phone.
‘I've been up half the night trying to convince her it's natural, and something to be proud of. Do you know her mother even gave her wire wool in the bath, and told her to keep scrubbing until she was as white as her! What the hell is wrong with that woman? She wants locking up! And what about the boys? They're dual heritage too, aren't they? Have they been told to scrub off their skin colour?’ I could feel my heart pounding and my cheeks flushing.