by Rosie Lewis
‘When I … he hurts me … in my bed. And … I’m in the bath … sometimes when …’
Her whole body trembled as she spoke, the words jumbled in broken sentences. Though I was tempted to pull her into a hug and say, hush, don’t try to speak, I knew that the pain had to come out and putting it into words was the only way, however difficult it was for her to do so. I sat motionless, concentrating on the movement of clothes on the line in an effort to keep my expression bland.
She began sobbing again, hiding her face in her hands. ‘Don’t look at me!’ she snapped when I turned to her, so I stared straight ahead, feigning interest in the flowering shrubs in a colourful array of pots around the deck. There were several minutes between each sentence when all I could hear was the sound of her sobs, but I didn’t try to rush her and made no further attempt at comfort either, in case she took it as a sign that I had heard enough.
‘I wanted it to stop. I told him how much it hurt but he put his hands over my mouth and told me to be quiet.’ Her despairing voice jabbed at my heart.
Lowering her hands, she risked a glance in my direction.
‘And the man makes the noise?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I think it’s my ears that make the noise but then I have to make a bigger noise to make the nasty one go away.’
I nodded slowly, filled with a deep yearning to give her a cuddle. I wondered whether it was possible for a child to be so frightened that the wiring in their brain could misfire and cause tinnitus. It was another mystery to investigate using Google, as soon as I had the time.
Forcing a grim smile, I pressed gently ahead. ‘What did he look like, this man?’
She was looking at me but her eyes were unfocussed, exhausted now with the effort of trying to find the words to explain an act that was completely beyond her understanding. As the minutes passed I tried rephrasing the question in several different ways but nothing drew a response. Her whole body seemed to deflate. As the sun lowered I decided not to probe any more. Part of me wanted to grab her by the shoulders and ask if it was her father who had hurt her, but that would be too suggestive and so I said nothing.
When we made our way back inside it was as if Phoebe had aged a few years. Her shoulders sagged and her feet shuffled lethargically. Again she reminded me of an old lady in a nursing home. No wonder, I thought, with the burden she’s been carrying around with her. And then, with a nauseous sinking in my stomach, I wondered just how long she’d been living with it.
Until recently I had thought that the placement was about to end and Phoebe would be going home in a better state than when she arrived. My hands were shaking as I prepared tea, trying to absorb the realisation that, far from being over, the nightmare for Phoebe might have only just begun.
Now the protective walls she had surrounded herself with were gradually dismantling there was no telling what other revelations might be unleashed.
Chapter 21
When I called Lenke the next morning to report Phoebe’s disclosure, her tone filled me with the unmistakeable sense that something was wrong. Launching into a summary of our veiled conversation on the swing, I got the distinct impression that the social worker was not fully concentrating on what I was saying. Surely she appreciated the gravity of the situation by now?
When I fell silent there was a pause before she sighed. ‘OK, record everything and email it to me.’
Why is it I feel like I’m being a nuisance? I wondered.
‘Hmm, the thing is, Rosie …’
Another hesitation.
‘There has been a complaint. I need to contact your supervising social worker and come along to interview you.’
My heart plummeted. ‘What complaint?’
Phoebe came in from the garden and plunged onto the sofa, screeching loudly. To block out the row I pressed a flat palm against my right ear, concentrating so that I could make out what the social worker was saying.
‘I can’t tell you that at the moment. Are you free later today for a visit?’
So you can find the time to come and see us now, I thought acidly, knowing she would only divulge the nature of the complaint in person, so that I wouldn’t have time to cook up a story. It was standard procedure but I couldn’t help but feel resentment towards her. Where were her visits when we had needed some advice? ‘Yes, I’ll make sure I am,’ I choked, my mouth dry. Already my stomach was churning. I wanted to meet her as soon as possible, so that I could find out exactly what I was dealing with.
‘Good. The legal team have been informed – I’ll be seeking their advice before I come. See you later, Rosie.’
A dark thought occurred to me.
Swallowing hard, I couldn’t free the grip of tension in my throat as I ended the call. With the legal team involved, there was no telling how serious the complaint might be. I knew from training that children who had suffered sexual abuse could sometimes misinterpret an innocent gesture as something threatening, confused by their earlier experiences. Surely Phoebe hadn’t made an allegation against me, had she?
It was impossible to concentrate for the rest of the day as I racked my brain, trying to work out what I could possibly have done wrong. A number of possibilities came to mind, one being the incident with the scissors. I knew her parents were unhappy that Phoebe had got hold of a sharp instrument. Maybe they’d waited until now to make a formal complaint? It was impossible to know for sure and as the hours passed, though I kept myself busy making sure that all my financial records and daily diaries were up to date, I grew more and more anxious.
By the time I answered the door to Desmond late that afternoon, I had already decided that I needed to cry. I could feel the threat of tears rising but knew I must keep a lid on it until the children were in bed. I was grateful for the continuing dry weather; Jamie and Phoebe were in the garden and could stay there out of earshot, until the dreaded meeting was over with.
Desmond’s cheerful smile faded in concern at the sight of me. ‘Oh dear, you’s catastrophising again. Come on, let’s make you a cuppa.’
It was true that I was prone to fearing that the worst thing possible was likely to happen. And the most awful allegation I could possibly think of was to be accused of sexual abuse. I could imagine no greater horror and although the fear had never been strong enough to prevent me from fostering, it had always been a niggling worry at the back of my mind.
‘Rosie, whatever it is, it cannae be that bad. The parents are trying to muddy the waters because they’re shocked at the direction things are going in. It’s probably no’ a direct accusation from Phoebe.’
‘I know you’re probably right.’
‘Well, tell your face that, then – you look terrified.’
With a superficial calm I answered the door to Lenke. Bypassing pleasantries, she gave me a curt nod and swept past me into the hall. Following behind, I was relieved that Des was there to offer her a drink and keep the atmosphere genial.
Without waiting for Des to bring her tea, she launched straight into business, her tone already reproachful; her manner intense. ‘Where do you buy Phoebe’s clothes, Rosie?’
‘Sorry?’ Even as I spoke I had a horrible feeling I knew what she was getting at. Des walked in, handed Lenke a steaming mug then leaned against the doorway, his face a picture of puzzlement. He had no idea where this was going but, by then, I did.
She cleared her throat. ‘Phoebe’s clothes – can you tell me where you take her to buy them?’ The floral blouse she wore did nothing to soften her expression, leaden with gravitas.
‘Look, if this is about the pirate dress I can explain …’
She interrupted me before I could continue. ‘You know, of course, that part of the payment you receive each week must be spent on clothes for Phoebe. New clothes.’
‘Yes, but this was in addition to her normal clothes – a present.’
She shook her head from side to side. ‘So you think that because she’s a Looked After Child, she doesn’t deserve new p
resents?’
I was annoyed by her attitude but I remained calm. ‘Of course not, and I’ve bought her lots of new things since she came here. It’s just that we were passing the charity shop and she fell in love with this particular outfit.’
‘So you should have found out where it came from and bought her a new one. Her parents are very upset about this. They say not only was Phoebe dressed in old clothes but she was also unkempt and dirty. They have made a formal complaint, questioning your standards of care, and now we have all sorts of extra paperwork to deal with.’ She was staring at me as if I were on trial for some grievous crime, and feeling like I was back at school and summoned by the headmistress, I found myself floundering for an appropriate response that wasn’t sarcastic.
I wasn’t surprised that the Steadmans had complained; most parents were prepared to fight dirty if they felt under threat of losing their child. I wondered whether I would do the same if I found myself in the parents’ situation, but then I quickly dismissed the idea. If Emily and Jamie, when they were younger, had been sent to stay with complete strangers, I would have done all I could to try and build a positive relationship, knowing that the children would be at the mercy of their carers.
Sadly, rogue foster carers do exist and when parents were prepared to risk alienating those who were responsible for the children’s welfare, it made me wonder just how loving they really were. Usually I tried to rise above petty grievances and not take them personally but given the state of Phoebe’s hair when she first arrived, I felt it was a bit rich for the Steadmans to complain about hygiene and standards of care.
What I wanted to tell Lenke was that worrying about what the girl was wearing and ignoring the carnage in her mind struck me as just a little bit twisted. Of course, I didn’t say that. Over the years of fostering there have been many times when I have longed to speak my mind but have kept quiet through a love of my job. I wondered whether one day my self-control would falter and it would all come tumbling out in front of some unsuspecting social worker. For now, though, I sat in silence as I swallowed down the tirade and so was immensely grateful to hear Des’s strident voice.
‘Rosie chose to spend her own money on a second-hand item. Surely that’s a matter for her and no one else?’
Before Lenke could respond, Des answered his own question. ‘If her financial records are up to date and all the relevant allowances have been passed on, there’s nothing else to be said.’ He remained as genial as ever but there was a finality to his tone as he told her that he was sure lessons had been learnt. He finished by saying, a tad facetiously, that all purchases would be made from approved retailers from now on.
After checking my financial records, which were thankfully now up to date and showing that I had overspent on clothes for Phoebe, Lenke gathered her things together. With a slight prickliness she rose to leave, assuring us before she went that from the answers I’d given to the questionnaire, Phoebe had amassed enough points to qualify her for an assessment from a CAMHS counsellor. It was a relief to know that she would have someone with some professional knowledge to talk to. Though I tried my best, I really had no idea whether the responses I had given Phoebe were the right ones, or even if there was a right way.
Des stayed for dinner and once Phoebe was in bed and Emily and Jamie were sprawled out in front of the TV, we sat at the dining table sipping cocoa. He had read a copy of my report but I ran through Phoebe’s disclosure again, as much to share the burden of it as anything else. ‘She hasn’t named her abuser yet,’ I added, ‘though it’s pretty obvious who it is.’
‘Hey, that’s not very open-minded,’ he said in mock-chastisement.
‘I know, but who else would have had the opportunity?’
‘Do you really need to ask me tha’, Rosie? Don’t be so naive. Look at some of your other placements – teachers, babysitters, ministers even. It could be anyone. And she hasn’t actually said what’s happened yet, has she? Not specifically. She did seem low, though, at dinner. Far more subdued than when I last visited.’
Should I bear some responsibility for that? I wondered. On some level, perhaps I was partly to blame. I felt like I should have done a better job than I had. It was undeniable that the child was in a worse state after the period in my care than she had been in when she arrived. ‘Perhaps the burden of protecting her abuser’s identity secret is wearing her down?’ I suggested.
Desmond pursed his lips. ‘Mmm, perhaps. Naming him will certainly reduce the power he has over her.’
The pressure of the day finally got to me and I hunched my shoulders, biting my lower lip to hold back the tears. Des must have noticed the strain in my face. He reached across the table and touched my cheek with the pad of his thumb. The kind gesture only made me more choked.
‘Rosie, it’s OK. I’m here, let it go.’
It was tempting. Des was someone I could imagine myself coming to rely on and I certainly felt like I could do with the comfort, but I brushed him away and rose to my feet. ‘I’ll be OK after a hot bath. Come on, it’s late – Mrs D will be expecting you at home.’
He smiled, though he looked slightly offended. ‘If you’re sure you’re OK.’
A bath brought me to the point of no return and the tears began to roll. I indulged them, telling myself there were some things so terrible that the only natural reaction was to cry and there was no doubt that, by anyone’s standards, Phoebe’s history warranted someone to cry for the loss of her childhood.
It was difficult to believe that she had slipped through the net for so many years, with no one suspecting there might be a more sinister reason for her strange behaviour than autism. I knew that many of her symptoms could be put down to her condition but I couldn’t help but wonder why she hadn’t felt able to disclose what she’d been through, until she came to me. What we had done for Phoebe wasn’t special in any way – aside from offering her a stable, loving, calm environment – and I certainly wasn’t qualified to deliver any sort of therapy. I suspected that she was beginning to open up because for the first time in her young life, she felt safe. How could so many people, her parents, teachers, even medical staff, have failed her?
It didn’t matter how many disclosures of abuse I had listened to since becoming a foster carer, each time was as bad and shocking as the last. But there was something in this case that disturbed me more than ever before, though I couldn’t, for the life of me, think what it was.
Chapter 22
The display on my bedside clock read 2.24am when I finally decided to give up chasing sleep. There was a clatter of metal as I threw back my duvet and switched on the light. At first I froze, wondering if Phoebe was up to something dangerous again, then I realised it was probably the sound of a scavenging fox in one of the neighbours’ dustbins.
Since the self-harming incident I had been alert to threat, waking at the tiniest of sounds. Pausing, I listened carefully, only switching on the television when I was sure everyone was safely in bed. After watching BBC News 24 until the same headlines rolled round again I flicked through various channels, unable to find anything that grabbed my interest enough to chase away my fears about what horrors Phoebe might have endured.
Restless, I ran my fingers through the books on my shelf and made a listless attempt to engage my brain by flicking through my old favourites, but again, I found it impossible to concentrate. My head was too full of Phoebe and now even her father was strutting around my mind with impunity.
Still wide-awake two hours later, I was so deep in thought that the alarm, when it went off, threw me into a spin of panic and made my stomach roll. Mechanically, I showered and dressed, my thoughts continually returning to Phoebe. Something definitely didn’t feel right. I just wished I could gain her trust enough to find out exactly what it was.
At breakfast Phoebe sat at the dining table, staring blankly ahead. An untouched plate of toast and jam was on the table in front of her, as well as the obligatory porridge with grated chocolate on top. When I
prompted her to eat she picked up the spoon and twirled it in the bowl, tracing swirls in the chocolate but making no attempt to put it anywhere near her mouth. It was heartbreaking to see her so desolate and frustrating too. There was something deeply disturbing about seeing a child in a depressed state but I felt helpless to do anything about it.
When Emily and Jamie came downstairs and sat at the table she barely even raised her downturned eyes. They gave her quizzical looks but said nothing. Their own expressions were miserable, feeding off the gloom. The silence was unnerving so I switched on the radio and began washing up the breakfast things, clanging cups and bowls clumsily to inject some life into the house.
Staring out of the kitchen window and across the garden, I remembered how lifeless four-year-old Freya had been when she first came to live with us in 2003. After several disclosures she seemed to sink further into her own gloom, but months later she had made what seemed to be a full recovery. I was surprised to see how quickly she became well, but maybe it had helped that she was so young.
On Radio 2 Vanessa Feltz was interviewing a man who had been unable to leave his house for the past 30 years because of the mountain of rubbish he’d hoarded, half a lifetime’s work. He cheerfully confided to the presenter that none of it would have been possible were it not for obliging family members delivering food and other essentials through the narrow gap in his hallway.
Seven years of fostering had taught me how much damage loved ones could inflict on their own flesh and blood. I watched Phoebe as she gazed lifelessly out of the window, wondering whether it was her own closest relatives that had caused her so much hurt.
Chapter 23
As I climbed the concrete stairs of the local authority offices the next day I was filled with a feeling of disquiet. The navy blue walls and peeling paintwork didn’t create the most welcoming environment. But it wasn’t the grimness that made me feel uncomfortable; it was the anticipation of what lay ahead.