by Angela Hart
‘I don’t honestly know, Angela. I suppose we will just have to keep being patient. What do you think?’
‘Well that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know either I think I’d like to know what’s going on. If there’s a problem and we can’t have children, I think I’d like to know now, rather than just waiting to see.’
Jonathan cleared his throat before he spoke again.
‘I can understand that, Angela. But how do you think you would feel if there does turn out to be a problem?’
‘I won’t mind,’ I said straight away. ‘Honestly. If it’s meant to be it’s meant to be. I’ve realised that I’ve reached the point where I’d just rather know, one way or the other.’
‘Are you absolutely sure about that, Angela?’
‘Positive. Honestly, I am. How would you feel, if we can’t have children?’
‘To tell the truth, it worries me. I think if it’s bad news we’d both be more disappointed than you might imagine. Mind you, we’ve not exactly been feeling desperate, have we? It’s taken us a long time to reach this point and even have this conversation.’
‘Exactly! We’ve had so much on our hands with fostering. What I do know is, I’d like to carry on fostering, whatever the news is.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘One hundred per cent. What about you?’
‘I’m not sure about that either. I’m enjoying fostering but I never really imagined it would be something we’d do long term. I think I thought we’d do it for a few years and maybe move on. Let’s see what the doctor says, shall we?’
I made an appointment with my GP, and eventually Jonathan and I were given a hospital appointment several months hence, at the start of 1990, when we would have some tests.
Meanwhile, three days after my customer had reported seeing Vicky making a nuisance of herself outside the old folks’ home, a neighbour from a few doors down popped in to the shop and also asked if she could have a ‘quiet word’ with me.
‘Is it about Vicky?’ I said, my throat tightening.
‘Yes it is. I think you need to hear this.’
The neighbour explained that her son was a volunteer at the Saturday afternoon disco Vicky attended, and she said he had become concerned about Vicky’s relationship with the DJ who worked there, Jason Brown.
‘I see. What’s been going on?’
‘Jason’s been taking Vicky for drives in his car after the disco.’
‘Has he now? How old is he?’
‘Late twenties, probably about twenty-six my son reckons.’
‘Twenty-six? Good Lord! Surely he knows how inappropriately he’s behaving? No wonder you wanted to tell me, thank you so much. Do you know any more about him?’
‘Not about him, but about his family, I’m afraid. Apparently his younger brother, Jeremy, was questioned by the police recently.’
‘What for?’ I asked nervously.
My neighbour leaned closer to me.
‘For having sex with an underage girl,’ she whispered. ‘He’s a well-known drug dealer in the area, apparently. He is denying everything, claiming someone with a grudge against him has invented the whole thing.’
My blood ran cold. Whatever the truth about the brother, Vicky should not be driving around with a twenty-six-year-old man, and I hoped to goodness I’d got to know about this before anything untoward had happened. I thanked my neighbour profusely and assured her I would keep her name out of things when I sorted this out, which she was grateful for.
‘What’s up, Angela?’ Vicky said when she breezed into the shop about an hour later. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’
‘I’m not surprised about that,’ I said. ‘Can I have a word with you?’
She rolled her eyes as if to say, ‘what now?’, as I signalled to Jonathan that we were going through to the back.
‘I haven’t been anywhere near the old folks’ home, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘If anyone says I have, they’re lying!’
‘Vicky, love, it’s more serious than that I’m afraid. It’s about the DJ from the disco. You’ve been going for drives with him, haven’t you?’
Vicky nodded uncertainly.
‘Yes, but only up to the recreation ground. We listen to music, that’s all. He’s got loads of tapes and a really good stereo. We’re into the same bands, you see.’
‘Yes, but the problem is, Vicky, he really should not be driving you around and taking you anywhere in his car. You’re a child and he’s an adult, and it’s not appropriate.’
‘We’re not doing anything like that!’ Vicky said, looking horrified. ‘I’m not like that, and nor is he!’
She huffed and folded her arms tightly across her chest.
‘I am not for one minute accusing you of anything,’ I said, and from her reaction I felt reassured she was telling the truth.
‘It is he who is behaving inappropriately, and I don’t want you to get in his car ever again, is that understood?’
‘Whatever,’ she replied, shrugging her shoulders and curling her lip.
‘No, Vicky, not “whatever”. There are some men who try to take advantage of young teenage girls. I have no idea if he is one of them, but I’m afraid I have not heard good things about his family, and I certainly don’t want you to be in any danger.’
The last word seemed to get through to Vicky.
‘Danger?’ she repeated back to me.
‘Yes, Vicky, you could be in danger, and it is my job to keep you safe.’
She looked at the floor.
‘OK, Angela. I won’t do it again, I promise.’
I was satisfied that Vicky had got the message, and later that day I had a word with the person who ran the disco, who was shocked and apologetic.
‘I want you to know we made all the appropriate checks. Jason Brown certainly doesn’t have a criminal record; I made the checks on him myself.’
‘I’m not blaming you,’ I said. ‘Unfortunately, if a person has no criminal record it doesn’t guarantee they are not a threat, or that they will not go on to commit an offence, does it?’
‘No, it doesn’t, which is why it’s very important that members of the community are vigilant. I’m really sorry this has happened. I’ll see to it that he won’t be working at the disco again. You have my word on that, and thank you for letting me know.’
I never discovered what was said to the DJ, but he was removed from his post and Vicky never saw him again. She had no idea I’d had a word behind the scenes and, for reasons best known to herself, Vicky kept up a charade for several weeks, claiming to me that she told Jason each Saturday, ‘No thank you, I don’t want to come for a drive in your car. Please don’t ask me again. I’m not allowed.’
Why she told such unnecessary lies I have no idea; I can only guess that, ironically, she was trying too hard to prove to me that she was being true to her word and keeping her promise. I couldn’t tackle her on this as I didn’t want her to know I’d got involved; the most important thing was that Vicky was no longer in contact with this person.
Incidentally, I don’t remember the word ‘grooming’ being in common parlance back then, and of course this was years before the shocking scale of child sexual exploitation in places like Rochdale and Rotherham was exposed, but looking back I do believe Vicky was being groomed, and to this day I’m very grateful to the neighbour who tipped me off.
6
‘STOP! I’M GETTING OUT … !’
It was an overcast Saturday morning and I had a van full of flowers to drop off around town. Vicky had started doing a few hours in the shop when we were particularly busy, as we were on this day. We had a big wedding on, and when Michelle was out visiting her father, Vicky had helped me prepare the corsages and tie the bouquets with peach and white ribbons.
‘Fancy helping me with the deliveries?’ I asked, as Jonathan could manage the shop on his own.
Delivering the finished goods was always something I found very satisfyi
ng, and I thought Vicky might like it too, especially after having worked so hard on the wedding flowers. I always liked to involve any children staying with us as much as possible in our daily lives, and Vicky was very pleased to have the chance to earn some extra pocket money.
‘Er, OK,’ she said. ‘Will I still get paid for that?’
‘Course you will, cheeky! It’s all work, whether you’re in the shop or on the road.’
‘Oh good! Count me in then!’
Vicky was in a chirpy mood that morning and she began chattering non-stop as we set off.
‘What was your wedding like?’ she asked. ‘Bet you had loads of flowers!’
‘Oh it was in the seventies,’ I laughed. ‘The decade that style forgot. I’ll show you some pictures later. Jonathan was in brown flares and I had a frizzy perm and wore a dress coat with great big collars that were probably six inches wide.’
‘No way! Can’t wait to have a good laugh at those!’
‘Well they are funny, looking back. My mum arranged all the flowers for us and she did us proud, as you’d imagine. I think the flowers stole the show, actually. We must have had hundreds of white roses in the church, I had a posy of mixed roses for my bouquet and all the men, including Jonathan, had a red carnation in their button hole.’
Vicky laughed and said she’d remind me to get the wedding album out when we got home, and then she turned her attention to my slow and cautious driving. I was taking it very steady, as I had plenty of time and didn’t want to risk disturbing any of the carefully packed flowers in the back of the van.
‘Come on, Angela, can’t you put your foot down? Just as well you’re not driving the bride to church. Her bloke would think he’d been dumped at the altar!’
‘Hey! I’ve told you once today not to be cheeky! I know what I’m doing. I have done this before you know, Vicky!’
She rolled her eyes playfully and I smiled. I didn’t mind the ribbing at all; I loved to see Vicky in such a light-hearted mood, and I was really enjoying her company. The chatter went on as I took the turning for the north end of town and then the slip road that would lead me to the large housing estate where the bride lived.
‘You’re going so slow you’re holding up the traffic!’ Vicky mocked, looking in the wing mirror on her side of the van. ‘Ha ha! Did you say the wedding was today or next week? Hang on! Angela! Where are we going? This is . . . What . . . ? NO! STOP!’
Vicky was looking straight ahead now, and she suddenly shouted in panic and grabbed onto my arm. I felt her nails dig frantically through the sleeve of my top as she yelled: ‘STOP! CAN YOU STOP, PLEASE!’
‘Just a minute!’ I gasped, completely taken aback. ‘Just wait a minute, Vicky, while I find a safe place to pull over.’
My heart was racing as I tried to keep my focus on the road.
‘JUST STOP THERE!’ Vicky implored, pointing desperately to a bus stop. Her voice was quaking with fear and I wanted to do as she asked, but there was a queue of people waiting at the stop and the bus was right behind us.
‘I can’t just pull in here, love. I’ll have to stop a little bit further along because . . .’
‘Oh my God. STOP! I’M GETTING OUT . . . !’
Vicky’s hand shot towards the door handle but I managed to pull over and jam on the handbrake before she pulled the door open. As I did so I heard trays slipping and sliding in the back of the van. Vicky froze, still with her fingers on the handle, and then everything went eerily quiet. I looked across and Vicky was statue-like, just as if a switch had been flicked in her brain, instantly immobilising her. It was extremely unnerving, and she was so silent and motionless that I could scarcely tell if she was breathing or not.
‘Are you all right, love?’ I asked, but I got no response whatsoever.
It was chilly in the van and I shivered and felt goosebumps prickle my arms. Vicky’s behaviour was so unexpected, and very alarming. Her eyes were glazed and she looked absolutely terrified. I wanted to hug her and shake her to her senses, all at the same time.
‘Vicky? Can you hear me? There’s no need to be afraid. I’ve stopped the van now. We’re not going anywhere.’
Vicky stared through the windscreen, her eyeballs glazed like marbles, and she continued to sit rigid in her seat with her hand reaching for the door handle. Looking back, it was like a scene from a cartoon where a character is struck with an ice gun and is instantly stopped in their tracks. Poor Vicky was frozen with fear. I took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten, and then I asked Vicky again, as gently as possible, if she was all right, and if there was anything I could do to help her.
‘I’m here, right beside you, Vicky. Can you hear me? I’m here and I can help you. Do you think you can move your arm away from the door?’
She still didn’t move or respond in any way at all. Her normally rosy cheeks had turned ivory white and she looked as cold and still as stone. The expression of terror on her face was like nothing I’d seen before: I had never seen a child look so scared in all my life. Instinctively, I didn’t touch Vicky. With no training to call on I was acting on my wits and drawing on common sense to help me deal with the situation. I felt that if I made a sudden movement or took hold of her it might startle her, or provoke some other negative reaction. As it happens, I did the right thing; talking calmly is nearly always the first thing you should do, unless a child is in physical danger.
‘Take a deep breath, love. That’s what I’ve just done. Just breathe and try to calm yourself down. You’re with me, Angela, and you’re safe.’
The words hung in the cold air between us. The smell of the lilies and freesias, usually something I couldn’t get enough of, was suddenly sickeningly overpowering, and I felt ripples of nausea in my stomach.
‘Vicky, love, we don’t need to go onto the estate if you don’t want to. Shall I turn back?’
Ever so slowly, Vicky turned to face me, looking for all the world like a mechanical puppet as she moved a fraction of an inch at a time, in tiny jerking movements. Finally, when she was staring me straight in the eye, I heard her release a breath, and then she gave a loud, snotty sniff that seemed to snap her out of her paralysis.
‘Have you got a tissue?’ she asked quietly, barely moving her lips.
I had never been so relieved to hear such simple words, and I leaned across the van and grabbed a fistful of tissues out of the glove compartment and thrust them at her.
‘Thanks,’ she said shakily, taking hold of them with a trembling hand. ‘Can you take me back? Just turn around here?’
‘Of course, love. But what happened? Do you want to tell me what the matter is?’
Vicky said nothing at all. I did a clumsy three-point turn, clipping the kerb on both sides of the road, which provoked another clatter of trays in the back of the van.
‘Oh dear! Silly me!’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Vicky said, deadpan, while gazing through the windscreen and absent-mindedly wiping her nose.
It was only once the estate was behind us that I sensed Vicky’s tension starting to ease a little more. It didn’t take a genius to work out that something, or someone, had frightened her there.
‘You know you can talk to me about anything you like, don’t you?’
‘I know,’ she replied quietly.
‘What is it about the estate you don’t like?’
‘Everything,’ she said. ‘My mum lives there. You can just let me out by the library if you like, and I’ll walk the rest of the way. I don’t want to make you late. I hope the flowers are all right.’
Vicky’s voice had returned to its normal level, and by the time we’d reached the library a few minutes later she even had the colour back in her cheeks.
‘Are you sure you want to get out here? I can take you home if you like?’
‘Nah! I’m fine now. Don’t worry. I’ll see you later! I want a book, anyhow. I fancy another Colleen McCullough.’
As she stepped away from the van I recognised the cocky
swagger Vicky had on the day she arrived to stay with us, and I was very glad to see it.
‘Thanks, Angela,’ she said, waving at me through the van window. ‘Hope the flowers are OK! Hope the bride’s happy!’
Much to my surprise, she then pulled up both corners of her lips with her index fingers, creating an exaggerated smile, before giving me a slow-motion thumbs up and a diva-like wink. I laughed out loud; it was such a relief to see her back to her normal self. The warm and funny Vicky I knew had returned, just as quickly as she’d slipped away and turned to ice.
‘I’m sure the bride will be very happy,’ I called back, but in my head I was only thinking about Vicky.
All I wanted was for Vicky to be happy, without whatever happened in the past spoiling her present, and possibly her future. She had been scared stiff back there, and clearly she didn’t want to be anywhere near her mum’s house. What on earth could have happened in the past to bring on such an extreme reaction? I knew Social Services were doing all they could to find out about Vicky’s history but it seemed to be taking forever, which was becoming increasingly frustrating. It now seemed very naive that I had ever dared hope the reason Vicky had no case file was because she had not needed one. She had a mother with a long-term drink problem who clearly terrified her. I wanted to know why, so I could help Vicky move forward in her life, but would she ever tell?
When I finally got back to the shop, just before lunchtime, Jonathan was behind the counter, looking ashen-faced.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, immediately thinking of Vicky.
‘Oh, Angela,’ he said, walking to the door and turning the ‘open’ sign around to ‘closed’. ‘You aren’t going to believe the news. It’s just appalling.’
‘Is it Vicky?’ I asked, panic-stricken.
‘No,’ Jonathan said. ‘She’s in her room, reading a library book. It’s Aiden. He’s got . . . leukaemia.’