by Cathy Glass
‘I'm sorry, Paula,’ Donna said again, her head resting on Paula's, and tears on her cheeks, as Paula cuddled up to her.
‘Don't cry, Donna,’ Paula said. ‘You hurt my head but I forgive you. I still love you.’
I saw Adrian's face cloud over, even though he was trying to do what he saw as the ‘man thing’ and view this female emotion with dispassion. Yet while my heart lurched, and I was deeply touched by both Donna's and Paula's words — and I could have gone over and encircled them both and told them that everything would be all right — I knew that if we were to continue as a family I would have to make sure Donna's rage didn't touch Paula again. Paula was a child and couldn't see further than Donna's present apology and unhappiness, as I could.
I crossed to Paula and Donna, who were side by side on the sofa, and drawing up the footstool, I perched on it, just in front of them. Donna had her eyes lowered, her head still resting on Paula's as they hugged each other tightly. I gently eased Paula's arm away.
‘Donna, I need to talk to you.’ Paula sat back and took one of Donna's hands in hers. Slowly Donna raised her head and looked at me, her cheeks and eyelashes wet from crying. ‘Dry your eyes, love,’ I said, passing her the tissues. I waited while she took a tissue from the box, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Paula followed suit. I took hold of Donna's other hand. ‘Donna,’ I said, gently but firmly, ‘I know you're sorry now, and I'm pleased you have apologised to Paula. But love, we have to make sure it never happens again.’
‘I won't hit Paula again, I promise.’ She sniffed and wiped her tears.
‘I know you won't, not while you're like this. But your anger can get the better of you, and then you don't know what you're doing and you're out of control. This evening you were very angry with your mother, but instead of telling me, or letting it out somehow, it all built up until it had to come out like an explosion. I was very angry with you just now, Donna, but I didn't hit you. Something stopped me getting close to that, and that something would always stop me from striking someone. We have to help you do that.’
‘I didn't mean to hit Paula,’ Donna said, her face crumpling.
‘No, I know. That's what I am saying. You were very angry and she was the first person you saw.’ I paused. ‘Donna, can you think of a way that would allow you to control your anger and stop it from happening again?’
Donna was quiet, thinking about what I'd said. Adrian and Paula were quiet too.
‘I will have to try to talk to you,’ Donna said at last.
‘Yes, that's important, and talking before it builds up. Also letting your anger out in other ways like those we have talked about helps. I know you're hurting inside, because you have been treated badly. Edna has talked to you about finding a counsellor, but it won't be until after the court case in May. Donna, do you think it makes it worse by seeing your mother three times a week?’ It wasn't a question I would have asked a very young child because it would have been asking them to make a value judgement about their family, which wasn't right. But I felt Donna was old enough, and had enough insight, to give her opinion. Indeed the Guardian had already asked Donna about her feelings towards her family, although I hadn't been in the room to hear her answers.
Donna shrugged.
‘Edna thinks, as I do, that it might be better if the contact was reduced. You would still see your mother and Chelsea but not so often. You see your brothers every day at school. Mrs Bristow says you have lunch with them in the canteen.’
‘I'd rather see my dad,’ she said.
‘Your dad is still in hospital, but as soon as he comes out I'm sure Edna will arrange for you to see him, perhaps on another evening, separately from your mother.’ I paused, scanning my thoughts for what to say next. It was difficult. The truth was that Donna badly needed therapy to help her to come to terms with her anger and her past, and I was no therapist.
Suddenly she looked at me, as though seeing something for the first time, or perhaps viewing it from a different angle. ‘Cathy, I think it would help me if I stopped wanting my mum to love me so much. I get angry because I try so hard to get her to love me, and when she doesn't, it hurts and makes me angry. I don't know why Mum doesn't love me. I haven't done anything wrong. I was the one who did all the housework at home, and I tried to stop us going into care. But I was blamed for everything, even those things that weren't my fault. I think there is no point in loving my mum any more. She hates me and she will always hate me. I am right, Cathy, aren't I?’
What could I say? How could I agree with a child that her mother hated her, apparently had always done so and was very likely to continue doing so in the future, and for reasons that no one understood? But in some ways that was what Donna needed to hear, put less severely, so that she could start to come to terms with her past and hopefully move on to a better future.
‘Donna, love, you are a good person and your mother has treated you very badly. I don't know why, and neither does Edna. Sometimes in families it happens, though fortunately not very often. Your mother didn't treat your brothers very well, nor Chelsea, but her treatment of you was far worse. Your brothers love you, and so do your dad and gran. You need to remember that: it is important. Some children I look after have never had anyone love them. Your mother is very silly for not loving you as much as she could. It was bad of her to treat you as she did. But it has nothing to do with you as a person, or anything you did or didn't do. It could just have easily have been Warren, Jason or Chelsea she picked on. Sadly it was you. Her comments tonight about the baby were part of all that. I don't know whether she will ever change. But you have your whole life ahead of you, and it will be a good life because you are a good person, Donna.’ I finished as I had started, for festering within Donna was the feeling that she was bad and to blame, and her badness had brought it all on. Although my simplification of the situation was grossly inadequate, it was the best I could offer.
Donna slowly nodded. ‘I'm sorry, Paula,’ she said again. ‘I'm really sorry for hurting you. Do you still love me?’
Paula's little voice came out from where she was snuggled into Donna's side. ‘Yes, I love you, Donna.’
‘I'm sorry, Adrian,’ she said, looking at him as he squirmed slightly at the surfeit of emotion. ‘Do you still love me?’
He nodded and grunted.
Donna looked at me. ‘And you, Cathy? Can you love me like my mum should have done? I love you like a daughter.’
I swallowed the lump in my throat and blinked back my tears. ‘Yes, love. I'm sure we can all put this behind us and move on.’ We had to. I couldn't give up on Donna now, and I was sure Adrian and Paula wouldn't have wanted me to either.
Chapter Nineteen
Paula's Present
Donna didn't suddenly and miraculously recover from all the trauma of her past, but we did slowly and gradually turn the corner. I was sure it was that recognition Donna had had, that flash of insight which had allowed her to view her mother objectively that was responsible, rather than anything I had said or done. How dreadful was it that a child had to admit that their mother didn't love her, had never done so and probably hated her, before she could start to like herself?
My assertion to Donna, my promise to love her as a daughter was true: I did, while she was with me, but her future was still undecided. The final court hearing was two months away and I couldn't know what the judge's decision would be, or what the care plan drawn up by Edna in conjunction with the Guardian would outline for Donna while she was a child in care, although I knew enough to be certain Donna wouldn't be returning to live with her mother, and neither would the boys. For, apart from the boys being severely neglected, they had begun to say things about their mother to their carers.
Warren and Jason had told their carers that they'd been made to go into their mother's bed when they'd been naughty, but the punishment they began to describe to Mary and Ray wasn't a smack or even a beating but of a sexual nature. I wasn't told the details by Edna: there was no reason f
or me to know. It wouldn't have helped my care of Donna to know, and I certainly wasn't going to ask. As a foster carer I hear enough details of degradation and abuse (including sexual abuse) from the children I foster to last me a lifetime; I didn't want more horror stories to plague me at night.
Edna discussed the possibility of reducing Donna's contact (and also that of the boys) with the Guardian, Cheryl Samson, but they decided that with the final court hearing less than two months away, after which contact would be reduced, there wasn't much to be gained. By the time the application had been compiled and gone before the judge there would probably be only about a month left. But Edna suggested that I start arriving late for contact and also collect Donna early for the next couple of months. This arrangement gave Donna about forty-five minutes there. I sat in the car with Adrian and Paula, reading or listening to the radio while Donna was at contact. There was no point in returning home for the ten minutes it would have given us. We all had our evening meal together on our return just after 6.00 p.m.
Aware that Donna seeing her mother had been a catalyst for many of her angry outbursts, I told Donna that I didn't want her going to her bedroom or sitting by herself and brooding immediately after contact. I gave her little jobs to do as I prepared dinner, which redirected her thoughts and also allowed me to keep an eye on her. Donna was a child who internalised her pain and anger to the point where it eventually exploded. I spent a lot of time talking to her and encouraged her to tell me what she was feeling, rather than letting it build up. I would like to say that Donna's self-image dramatically improved, but it didn't: her progress was very slow and piecemeal, for the scars ran deep.
Emily finally came to tea the second week in March and returned the invitation the following week. When I collected Donna from Emily's, her mother, Mandy, said that the girls had played nicely and remarked how polite Donna was. ‘I had to tell Emily off, though,’ Mandy added. ‘I thought I would mention it, as Donna looked very worried.’
‘OK, thanks,’ I said lightly, not thinking anything of it. But going home in the car, Donna seemed quieter than I would have expected after spending an enjoyable evening at her best friend's.
‘Is everything all right?’ I asked.
She shrugged, and then, remembering my repeated warnings about not letting worries build up and to tell me instead, she said, ‘I got Emily into trouble.’
I glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘Did you? How?’
‘I showed her how to tear up paper into little bits. And we threw them all over her bedroom. Her mum came in before we cleared it up and Emily got into trouble.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Thank you for telling me. Shall I explain to Mandy that it wasn't really Emily's fault?’
‘Yes please. Or else Emily might not want to be my friend any more.’
‘Don't worry. I'll put it right.’
I had to smile to myself, for what I had come to view as an innocent and harmless way for Donna to release and act out her role from the past Mandy had seen as unacceptable. If I had been a mother without the experience of fostering, and had invited a child to tea and doubtless cleared up and made sure my daughter's bedroom was tidy, I wouldn't have been very pleased either to find it littered with hundreds, possibly thousands, of bits of paper. But as a foster carer I had seen such bizarre and extreme behaviour from the children I'd looked after that I had adapted and modified my judgement of what was a wrongdoing.
The following day I had a quiet word with Mandy in the playground when I collected Donna from school. I thanked her again for having Donna to tea and said how much she had enjoyed it. I then apologised, and said that the mess the girls had made in Emily's room wasn't really Emily's fault. Without breaking confidentiality I briefly explained that this was Donna's way of acting out some of her past, and that I had now told Donna it wasn't acceptable to do it in someone else's house. Mandy thanked me for telling her and said she would square it with Emily, and that Emily had already asked when Donna could come again to tea. But as we said goodbye I wondered what Mandy really thought, for ours must have seemed a strange house to her. Not only did I appear to tolerate such odd behaviour but I accepted it almost as the norm, which it was for Donna. And, I thought, Mandy didn't know the half of it: shredding paper was nothing compared to some of the behaviour I had seen from children who had had to rid themselves of their trauma in any way they could.
Adrian's and Paula's birthdays were two weeks away. I had planned their parties, and they had given out their invitations. Although their birthdays were only a week apart — 30 March and 7 April — as usual they were going to have separate parties, on consecutive Sundays. Adrian wanted a football party that would be organised by, and hosted at, our local football club. Paula wanted her party at home, with jellies and ice cream, and games organised by yours truly. Donna had said to me that she wanted to buy Adrian and Paula a birthday present each, and she had set aside two weeks' pocket money to do this, which was very thoughtful of her. The opportunity for us to go shopping without Adrian and Paula arose the following Saturday, when they were out with their father for the day.
Once I had said goodbye and seen them off at the door, Donna and I went into town to find the gifts, and also for me to buy some wrapping paper and order their birthday cakes. Much to the dismay of Adrian and Paula, I didn't have the cake-making skills of some of their friends' mothers, who annually produced the most amazing scenes of Superman, castles and Winnie-the-Pooh, out of sponge, coloured icing and Smarties (and, I suspected, sorcery).
Donna and I were browsing in the ‘pound shop’ in the arcade. It was a shop selling low-priced goods including children's toys and games, books and ornaments. I had told Donna that I would add to her pocket money so that she could afford whatever gifts she chose for Adrian and Paula, but she was adamant that she wanted to buy them herself, so that they were ‘really’ from her. ‘I've never been able to buy presents before with my own money,’ she said. For like most children who come into care she'd never had pocket money: there simply hadn't been enough in the household budget.
We had been in the pound shop for about ten minutes, and Donna was looking at a little gaily painted jewellery box, which she thought Paula would like, and I agreed. I became aware of someone standing close behind us and I thought they were trying to get past. The shop was crowded on Saturday; it was always popular with those wanting small gifts that were reasonably priced. I took a step forward to allow the people behind us to get by, and continued looking at the box, which Donna was now opening to examine the inside. A woman's voice suddenly came from behind.
‘Well! Look what we have 'ere!’ The voice was harsh and scathing, and I immediately turned. Rita and Chelsea were standing side by side, hands on hips in a mirror image of each other, glaring at us.
I felt my stomach tighten. Donna didn't turn but remained, head lowered, looking at the jewellery box, although obviously she'd heard her mother.
‘Hello, Rita, Chelsea,’ I said evenly. ‘Nice to see you again.’ I hadn't seen either of them since that first day at school in September, and although ‘nice’ wasn't the term I would have used given what I now knew of the way Rita had treated Donna, I had to remain polite. They were as poorly turned out as before, with very worn matching black nylon jogging bottoms, and stained nylon tops now stretched over their bumps. Chelsea, six months pregnant, had the larger bump, and Rita (who I'd learned from Edna was definitely pregnant) was catching up fast, assisted by already being badly overweight. They were both watching Donna intently, although not in a friendly way. Donna still hadn't turned; she was actually trying to ignore them.
‘How are you both?’ I asked, trying to deflect their interest from Donna. ‘Congratulations,’ I added. I wasn't being hypercritical; it was the polite and decent thing to say.
‘We're good,’ Rita said, while Chelsea chewed on her gum. ‘Be better if that nosy parker Edna minded her own bleedin’ business.'
I gave a half smile and glanced at Donna.
She still had her back to them, and was now nervously fiddling with the jewellery box, opening and closing the lid.
‘Ain't ya gonna say hello to your mother and sister?’ Rita demanded loudly, and she prodded Donna sharply in the back. I saw a woman standing further up the aisle glance at us.
Donna shrugged but still didn't turn. I felt my pulse rate begin to rise. I could see that this could quickly develop into an ugly scene. I had run into foster children's parents before while shopping and the outcomes had been variable — sometimes a brief ‘hi’ was enough and we went on our way, sometimes if the parents were amicable I stopped for longer and chatted, but neither of these approaches fitted the present encounter.
‘Donna is choosing a present for my daughter's birthday,’ I offered, hoping to defuse the situation.
‘Is she?’ Rita sneered sarcastically. ‘D'you 'ear that, Chels? Your sister is buying a present for someone else's kid. Ain't bought us nofing, 'as she?’
Chelsea shook her head and continued chewing her gum. Damn, I thought, now what?
‘And why d'you keep bringing her late for contact?’ Rita said, turning her attention to me. ‘Ain't that bleedin' social worker told ya what time you supposed to be there?’ Given that Rita ignored Donna at contact unless she wanted to say something spiteful, I didn't think she could be missing her.
‘Edna thought this arrangement would suit everyone better,’ I said evenly, swallowing what I would really have liked to have said.
‘Did she now?’ Rita said sarcastically. ‘Wait till I see her. I'll show her what suits me.’
The conversation was going from bad to worse, and I didn't see how it was going to get any better with Donna ignoring them and Rita openly hostile. I was feeling very hot, and as uncomfortable as Donna looked. Rita and Chelsea were making no move to go and seemed to be basking in Donna's nervousness. I thought the only way out was for us to leave the shop, hopefully not followed by Rita and Chelsea.