The Saddest Girl in the World

by Cathy Glass

  ‘How long will he be in hospital?’ I asked.

  ‘It's usually about three months before he is stabilised, but he might be discharged sooner.’

  ‘Is there no way he can be reminded to take his medication?’

  ‘Not while he is living with Rita. I am going to see if I can find him a place in sheltered accommodation, because this has been going on for too long now and he's having too many relapses. He lived with his mother for a while and she made sure he took his tablets, but she's away for most of the winter, and Mr Bajan keeps gravitating back to Rita. She doesn't remind him about his pills; she's got her own problems with the drink and drugs. The only one who helped him was Donna, and it's hardly the responsibility of a girl her age.’

  ‘No. That's what I told her.’

  Edna sighed. ‘Anyway, I'm going home now, Cathy. I haven't had anything to eat all day and I've a report to write for another case which is due in court next week. I've been up until midnight writing reports every night for a week. Was there anything else, Cathy?’

  ‘No. I'll tell Donna I've spoken to you.’

  ‘Thanks. Goodnight, Cathy.’

  I said goodnight, and as I went upstairs to check that Donna was asleep I thought how conscientious and hardworking Edna was. It was indicative of the huge workload social workers carried that in order to do her job properly Edna spent her days tending to the needs of her clients and her evenings catching up on the paperwork.

  Chapter Eleven

  A Small Achievement

  ‘Why don't you hit people?’ Donna asked on Monday morning in the car on the way to school.

  ‘Because it is an assault on the person; it hurts and makes them afraid of you. Talking is a better way of working out disagreements. It's wrong to hit another person, and certainly very wrong for an adult to hit a child.’ I had said similar things to Donna when she'd first arrived and had viewed corporal punishment and physical violence as the norm, but often during car journeys Donna reflected on things and suddenly asked a question unrelated to anything immediate. Adrian and Paula did it too; I think the soporific motion of the car encourages reflection, and indeed my thoughts sometimes wander while I'm driving.

  ‘But what if a child doesn't do as they're told?’ Donna said. ‘Shouldn't you hit them then?’ Again, I had covered this previously, but clearly something was now gelling in Donna's mind.

  ‘No, never. As a parent you have to be very patient and sometimes explain something over and over again. If a child still won't do as they are told, or they are being very naughty, then I find stopping a treat usually works wonders.’ I glanced at Adrian in the rear-view mirror: he was sitting so quietly and angelically that he could almost have sprouted wings and a halo. He had recently been on the receiving end of my philosophy, and had lost thirty minutes of television time for continually kicking his football into the flowerbed when I'd asked him to use the goalposts at the bottom of the garden, which were away from the plants.

  ‘My mum hit me,’ Donna said, a short while later.

  ‘Yes, I know, love.’

  ‘So did Chelsea, Warren and Jason.’

  ‘Yes, you told me, and it was very wrong of them.’

  ‘Mum didn't hit Warren and Jason much — only when they got on her nerves when she'd been drinking. And when they wouldn't go into her bed.’

  I glanced in the rear-view mirror again, this time at Donna. She was sitting back in her seat and gazing through the side window. ‘What do you mean, she hit them when they wouldn't go into her bed?’

  ‘Mum liked them to go into her bed sometimes when Dad wasn't there, but they didn't want to.’

  ‘What? To give them a cuddle, you mean?’

  I saw Donna shrug. ‘She didn't hit them much but she made them go into her bed when they were naughty.’ I wasn't sure what Donna was saying. Many children go into their parents' bed for a cuddle but this sounded as if it had been a punishment for the boys.

  ‘I don't understand, Donna. Can you explain?’ She shrugged again. I had stopped at a set of traffic lights and I briefly turned to look at her. ‘Why did they have to go into her bed when they had been naughty? Didn't they like having a cuddle in bed?’

  ‘I don't know,’ she said. ‘I was never allowed in. But if they were naughty Mum said, “You'll go into my bed for that.” And when they came out sometimes they were crying.’

  ‘Did she hit them?’

  ‘I don't know. I had to stay downstairs.’

  I put the car into gear as the lights changed and I pulled away. ‘And Warren and Jason didn't tell you what had happened in your mother's bedroom?’

  ‘Mum told them not to tell anyone. She said if they did it would be all the worse for them next time.’

  I tried to concentrate on the traffic, at the same time listening to what Donna was telling me. I didn't like what I was hearing, and I was feeling decidedly uneasy. Whatever had gone on when Rita had summoned Warren and Jason to her bedroom certainly didn't sound like a family cuddle. I needed to try to find out more so that I could inform Edna; I would also have to write all this in my log when I got home.

  ‘I see,’ I said, thoughtfully. ‘How often were the boys made to go into your mother's bedroom?’

  ‘When Dad wasn't there,’ Donna said. ‘I guess about once a week.’ Adrian and Paula were gazing out of the windows, blissfully unaware of any sinister undertones in what Donna was saying. ‘They had to go to the toilet when they came out,’ she added. ‘Sometimes Jason had wet himself.’ From what, I wondered? Fear?

  ‘And your brothers didn't ever say what had happened?’

  ‘No. Warren said it was better to be hit with a coat hanger like Mum did to me than go into Mum's bed.’

  I braked as the car in front slowed. Good grief, I thought, that's definitely not a cuddle. ‘And he never told you why?’

  ‘No. Mum said they mustn't or else.’

  ‘OK, love, thank you for telling me. I'll tell Edna. It doesn't sound very nice to me.’

  ‘No, you can't tell Edna!’ Donna said, her usual flat and emotionless voice rising. ‘Mum will be angry, and we'll all be in for it. I'll get another beating.’

  ‘No you won't,’ I said firmly. ‘You are not at home now, and neither are your brothers. And it's important that Edna knows that Warren and Jason were upset because she can make sure it doesn't happen again.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Donna said, and I could hear the relief in her voice. ‘I'd forgotten that. She can't be angry with me at contact because Edna stops her.’

  ‘That's right, love. You see, I told you life would get better.’ And as I glanced in the rear-view mirror I saw a brief smile of relief and contentment flicker across her face.

  Having seen Donna into school, I took Adrian and Paula to their school, and as soon as I arrived home I wrote up my log notes, including what Donna had said, as near verbatim as possible. At this stage it was impossible to know the significance of what she had told me, or its relevance in the light of what might come out in the future. The detailed log notes foster carers have to keep are sometimes requested by the judge for the final court hearing, if he feels their content is pertinent to the case. Although Donna hadn't witnessed first hand what had happened in her mother's bedroom, and the boys hadn't told her, because of Rita's threats, Donna had said enough to leave me with a heavy feeling of unease. Clearly she was starting to reflect on the life she had led with her mother and the one she now led with me — that is, in a normal family — and she was beginning to draw conclusions and recognise the things that hadn't been right at home. Donna, like many children who come into care for similar reasons, had assumed the neglect and abuse she'd suffered were the norm. It was taking time for her to realise that the life she'd led wasn't normal and some things were clearly bad. It never ceases to amaze me what some children believe is acceptable simply because they have grown up with it, and have never known anything different. One girl of five I looked after thought it was perfectly normal to be tied by the legs
and arms to the bed and left for a day and night without food or water as a punishment for bad behaviour.

  Although I would be seeing Edna briefly before and after contact the following day, I didn't want to discuss what Donna had told me in front of her, so once I'd finished writing up my notes I telephoned Edna. She wasn't in the office; her colleague said she was on a home visit, and I left a message with her asking if Edna could phone me when she returned. What Donna had said played on my mind as I tidied up the living room, vacuumed the carpets and then went outside to do a spot of gardening. It was a fresh autumn day, and as I pruned the bushes, which had become unruly during the summer, I had a growing feeling of disquiet. I thought of Adrian and Paula, who had climbed into my bed at the weekend for a cuddle when they were younger; Paula still did if she woke early. I remembered my brother and me clambering into my parents' bed, and I thought how far removed that was from what Donna had told me about Warren and Jason, who had been made to go to their mother's bed as a punishment and had come out crying and in need of the toilet. In most families the parents' bed is a safe and inviting place for a young child to spend a leisurely hour on a Sunday morning, but it sounded far from a safe place to be at Donna's house.

  I had just come in from the garden at 11.30 a.m. when the phone rang, and it was Edna, returning my call.

  ‘Hello, Cathy. Is everything all right?’ she asked as she always did if I phoned her.

  ‘Donna is fine,’ I reassured her. ‘And this may be something or nothing, but I think you should know what she told me this morning. If you could just hang on a moment I'll fetch my notes so that I can tell you exactly what she said.’

  ‘Yes of course, Cathy. Go ahead.’

  I left the phone in the lounge and went through to the front room, where I took my log notes from the drawer of my desk. I returned to the phone, and having explained to Edna that we had been in the car going to school when the conversation took place, I read out my notes. Edna was silent as I finished; then she said, ‘I shall speak to the boys after school today, Cathy. I'll phone Mary and Ray and tell them I'm coming. The boys obviously haven't said anything to Mary and Ray, but they wouldn't if they'd been scared into secrecy. I don't like what I'm hearing, Cathy. I know Rita only had eyes for the boys, but if Donna is telling the truth it sounds as if there might be more to it. I've never known Donna lie before, but do you think she is telling the truth? Or could she be trying to get Warren and Jason and Rita into trouble — getting her own back?’

  ‘I don't think Donna is capable of that type of manipulation,’ I said. ‘But obviously I can't know for sure.’

  ‘No. OK, Cathy. Thanks. I'll speak to the boys later. If Donna says anything else, will you let me know, please, and also could you print out a copy of your notes and let me have them tomorrow at contact. I hope Donna is making this up.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘So do I.’

  Edna phoned that evening from the office at 7.00 p.m., after she had seen Warren and Jason. ‘They have been sworn to secrecy,’ she said. ‘I knew from their faces there was something they weren't telling me. Jason was about to say something but Warren elbowed him in the ribs to make him be quiet. Mary and Ray are going to talk to the boys separately, and see if they can find out anything. I shall also be having a word with Chelsea to see if she can throw any light on this, although I'll have to get her away from Rita first; they're as thick as thieves at present. I take it Donna hasn't said any more?’

  ‘No. If she does know anything further it will come out in her own time.’

  ‘All right. Thanks, Cathy. I'm off home now.’

  Every evening after school, Donna, Adrian and Paula did their homework before watching children's television. Paula's homework was usually reading; Adrian had work sheets to complete and sometimes needed help; Donna had reading and work sheets and required more help. She was on a reading scheme designed for the average seven-year-old and starting to make some progress. In addition to the reading and work sheets, she had been asked to start learning her times tables, ready for a test on Friday. The whole class was being tested on the two times table, and I knew that when Beth Adams had told me of this new target she hadn't held out much hope for Donna being able to learn and fluently recite the table. I was determined we would prove her wrong. Donna had mild learning difficulties but it didn't mean she couldn't learn.

  Armed with a whiteboard and black marker pen, I took Donna into the lounge after dinner, and we sat on the floor. I slowly recited the two times table as she wrote down the numbers. Beth Adams had given each of the class a printed sheet with the table on it, but what I had in mind would be more visually stimulating, and therefore more likely to be remembered. It would also be more fun than a typed piece of paper. Donna wrote very slowly and meticulously as I repeated the table, rubbing out a number if she wasn't completely satisfied. Her writing was a stark contrast to Adrian's: the same age, he wrote in a flurry, covering pages with writing as his thoughts spilled out. It was quarter of an hour before Donna was satisfied with the columns of figures she had produced, and we then sat either side of the whiteboard and I pointed to each line and we read it together: 0 × 2 = 0, 1 × 2 = 2, 2 × 2 = 4, and so on until the end. We went through it a second time, and then a third time to familiarise Donna with the pattern and rhythm of the table.

  ‘OK, Donna,’ I said, ‘now we are going to learn it in groups of three. That's easier than trying to learn the whole table to the end.’ I covered up the lower nine lines of the table with a sheet of paper, leaving only the top three lines visible, and we read them together: ‘0 × 2 = 0, 1 × 2 = 2, 2 × 2 = 4.’ Then I told Donna to read these first three lines by herself out loud, which she did with some hesitancy. Then a second and third time.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Now I want you to look away. Look at the wall and see how many of these first three lines you can remember.’ This would have been ridiculously easy for the average child of ten, and indeed for a much younger child, but Donna had learning difficulties and I knew she would need more reinforcement and time to learn.

  ‘I can't,’ she said flatly, glancing between the wall and the three exposed lines of figures.

  ‘Yes you can,’ I said positively. I felt, as Mrs Bristow had, that some of Donna's learning difficulties could well be due to lack of confidence.

  ‘I don't know them,’ Donna said, not even willing to try.

  ‘Yes you do. I'll help you to get started. We'll read the first three lines together again, and then I want you to look away and see if you can remember any of them.’

  ‘0 × 2 = 0, 1 × 2 = 2, 2 × 2 = 4,’ we chanted together.

  ‘OK, Donna, look away and have a go. 0 × 2 = ’ I said, leaving the answer blank.

  ‘0,’ Donna said.

  ‘1 × 2 = ’ I said.

  ‘2,’ Donna supplied, then unaided she said, ‘2 × 2 = 4.’

  ‘Excellent!’ I said. ‘Now again from the beginning. 0 × 2 = ’

  ‘0. 1 × 2 = 2, 2 × 2 = 4,’ she said.

  ‘Well done!’ I clapped. ‘And again, this time a bit faster.’

  ‘0 × 2 = 0, 1 × 2 = 2, 2 × 2 = 4.’ She was smiling now, almost grinning, and surprised at her ability to achieve something she hadn't thought was possible.

  ‘Right,’ I said, ‘now we are going to look at the next three in the table.’ I slid down the paper that covered the whiteboard to reveal the next set of three, and we read them together: ‘3 × 2 = 6, 4 × 2 = 8, 5 × 2 = 10.’ We read them a second and third time, and then Donna read them alone. Then as before I got her to look away and, with less resistance this time, she recited them — to her utter amazement and my great relief and praise. Before we attempted the next set of three I wanted her to consolidate what she had learned so far and hear and see the rhythm of the first six lines. We read the lines together twice, then I got her to look away and she began to recite them from memory. She hesitated and needed prompting but we got there in the end.

  So we continued for the next forty
minutes, with me releasing three lines at a time and endless repeating and consolidating what she had learned, until we reached 12 × 2 = 24. When it came to putting them altogether and reciting the whole table, Donna's confidence faltered, and she said she couldn't remember any of it. I said we'd recite it together, which we did, with my voice mainly in the background as a prompt. Donna faltered with 6 × 2, 8 × 2 and 9 × 2, got 10 × 2, and then fell away again at the end. I told her how well she had done and she glowed from the praise. ‘We're stopping now,’ I said. ‘That's enough for tonight. You must be tired out.’

  The following morning in the car instead of having the radio on I began reciting the two times table. Adrian joined in, and on my second run through so did Donna, very quietly and only offering those she was sure of. I was concerned that Adrian, completely fluent in all his tables (as were most of his class), shouldn't emphasise Donna's learning difficulties by his prowess. After I had dropped Donna off at school I explained to Adrian (and Paula) that Donna could learn as well as anyone but it took her a little longer and perhaps they could curtail their enthusiasm, especially Adrian, when we practised the times tables in the car. Such a conversation was always difficult for me when we looked after a child with learning difficulties, for clearly I had to acknowledge and praise my own children for their achievements, without undermining that of the fostered child, who was finding learning more difficult. That afternoon when I collected Donna from school I set up the chant of the two times table in the car and all three children joined in, with Adrian and Paula, as I had asked them, giving Donna the louder voice.