by Angela Hart
‘Have it your way, then!’ she said, and flounced off to have her shower.
We let her go. It seemed like that was the closest we were going to get to her agreeing to toe the line, and we were both feeling pretty worn out. It was tiring just talking to Danielle at times, because you never knew what she was going to say or do next. It had become the norm for Jonathan and me to be constantly on our guard, trying to say and do the right thing in response to whatever Danielle threw our way.
As she made her way upstairs Jonathan whispered to me that he’d never come across anyone quite like Danielle.
‘She’s so incredibly irritating, but I can’t help liking her too. There’s something I can’t put my finger on.’
‘I know what you mean. I think it’s when she contradicts herself. It’s like something a much younger child might do. It’s kind of endearing, which is really quite astonishing, when she’s being so incredibly annoying!’
We sat at the kitchen table, the molten handset in front of us, and we both looked at it.
‘Do you think Danielle is a fire-starter?’ Jonathan asked, taking the words out of my mouth.
It was a reasonable and obvious concern in the circumstances, and we knew from our training that some children found the lure of fire irresistible and could not help themselves when it came to playing with fire. Of course, not only had she melted the phone but she’d also made the alarming remark about burning a girl’s PE kit at school. It was very worrying indeed.
‘Surely not. We’ve made our stance very clear on that.’
Jonathan and I had told Social Services that we would not be happy to take in a child who had a history of started fires. It was something we both felt strongly about. We had discussed it at length when the question first came up, many years earlier, and we both agreed wholeheartedly we could not cope with the thought a fire might be started in our home. It was the only condition we had ever set out to Social Services. It was usual for us to have more than one child in the house, and we felt it would not be right to take this kind of risk, not just for ourselves, but for other children too.
‘I’m going to call Nelson,’ I said.
I looked at the phone receiver on the kitchen table and told Jonathan I would make the call from the extension in the lounge.
‘Good. I think that’s a very sensible idea, Angela. I’ll get back to the shop. There’s so much to do and I’ve really got my work cut out today. We just took on half a dozen new delivery orders, one after the other. I’m not complaining, but I need to crack on or Barbara will be run ragged.’
Nelson was out of the office and I left a message for him to call me back as soon as he could.
‘Angela, where’s my towel? Where is it? WHERE IS MY TOWEL?’
Danielle was screaming at the top of her voice. I climbed to the top floor of the house as she continued to shout.
‘Danielle, please stop shouting,’ I called forcefully as I reached the locked bathroom.
‘I need a towel, Angela!’
‘Is it in your bedroom?’
I wondered if she’d put it back in the ottoman after using it as she’d done before; I hoped not.
‘No, it’s in here but I can’t see it. Where is it?’
‘I can’t see through doors, Danielle. The bathroom isn’t that big – surely you can see it?’
‘No. It’s steamy. Where is it? Argh! Why is everything so shit? I hate you, Angela. Jonathan is kind but you are so nasty to me.’
I took a clean towel out of the ottoman, placed it outside the bathroom door, told Danielle what I had done and walked downstairs. As I did so I was thinking about that phrase Jonathan had used at the placement meeting. What was it he had said? ‘It feels like climbing a mountain and sliding back down just before you get to the top.’ How true those words were.
Nelson called back a few hours later. By that time I’d discovered the showerhead was broken in the top-floor bathroom – the one Danielle used. She denied all knowledge of what had happened to it until Jonathan came in from the shop at closing time and asked her exactly the same questions I had.
‘Sorry,’ she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him. ‘I was messing with it. I didn’t think it would break.’
‘Thank you for being honest,’ he said.
‘Thank you for being kind,’ she said, flicking me a sly glance. ‘At least ONE of you is kind.’
When I spoke to Nelson I told him about the melted phone and what Danielle had said about burning a girl’s PE kit at school, and asked him directly if she had a history of playing with fire or starting fires.
‘Not to my knowledge. I certainly wouldn’t have kept that from you. Let me look into it though, just to make absolutely sure I haven’t missed anything.’
‘Thank you. And is there any other news?’
‘You mean in finding a school? Not that I’m aware of, but I’ll check that out too, in case there has been any progress.’
Nelson called me back the following morning to say he could see no mention of fire-starting in Danielle’s file, although he advised me to ask Danielle’s social worker, Susan, for clarification. ‘There’s a gap in the dates,’ he said, sounding a little perplexed. ‘It could be that our records are incomplete or that Danielle was being cared for out of the area for a period of time. Hopefully Susan will be able to tell you more. Unfortunately, there’s no news on schools. We still can’t find a suitable place for her.’
I called Susan immediately, but she was off on compassionate leave for a few days.
‘Can anyone else help?’ the rather officious-sounding receptionist asked, after informing me that Susan’s father had passed away suddenly, following a heart attack.
‘I hope so, but I’m not sure.’
I explained that I wanted historical information about a child in our care.
‘I see. I’m afraid you will have to wait and speak to Susan. We can’t give out confidential information like that over the phone.’
The receptionist’s tone was patronising and she really irritated me. I knew full well that Social Services didn’t dish out confidential information over the phone and I was not attempting to circumnavigate the rules in any way at all. I just wanted help with a reasonable request for information, from someone in authority who might be able to legitimately help me, in Susan’s absence. If that meant me going into the office for a meeting or having the information passed to me via Nelson, that would have been fine, but I didn’t get the chance to explain this. Nevertheless, I bit my tongue, thanked the receptionist in typically British style and then vented to Jonathan.
‘Honestly! What a cheek! One minute she’s passing on private information about Susan’s father that I didn’t ask for, and the next she’s reading me the riot act about confidentiality. Some people! I’m going to have to call Nelson back and ask him to get on to this on our behalf. I think he’ll be able to make better progress.’
‘I agree. But first, cup of tea?’ Jonathan raised his eyebrows and gave me a silly look. I’d seen that look so many times, and I knew exactly what it meant: Calm down, Angela. I know you are just letting off steam. You need to take a breather.
I kissed him on the cheek.
‘I’d love a cuppa. Come on. Let’s hope the kettle’s intact!’
‘Indeed!’
We both chuckled and Jonathan repeated a phrase we’ve used many times.
‘That’s the spirit! If we didn’t laugh we’d cry!’
9
‘Keep your hair on, Angela!’
Out of the blue, I had a phone call from the police, informing me that Danielle was required to go into the local station and give an interview about stealing money, cigarettes and food from a person with learning difficulties. My heart sank. I assumed this person was Pippa again, and I agreed to take Danielle in to be interviewed. After she’d stolen the cigarettes from Pippa the first time, I’d taken Danielle round to Pippa’s house and made her apologise to the young woman. I also bought Pippa a packet of
cigarettes to replace the stolen ones: this was what Susan advised when I called her to explain what had happened. Pippa had accepted this and the police were not involved on that occasion, which was Pippa’s wish, but it seemed Danielle had not learned her lesson and this time had stolen even more from the vulnerable young woman.
When I told Danielle about the phone call and said I was taking her into the police station she froze.
‘Will I have to give evidence?’ she asked.
Her lips had turned a bluish colour and I realised she was holding her breath. She began to blink rapidly too.
‘I can’t. I can’t do that again!’
‘Pippa didn’t report you last time,’ I said.
‘I know Pippa didn’t report me last time. She could have. Maybe she should have, then this wouldn’t have happened!’
Two thoughts crossed my mind. Was the last time Danielle talked to the police about her abuse? Or did she have some other history I didn’t know about? After all, we were still waiting for Social Services to confirm she was not a fire-starter.
‘Mina and Shelby made me do it! They made me do it!’
Danielle spat out her accusation against her friends and drew in a deep breath. The colour was back in her lips now, and she was looking more animated.
‘They made you do it?’
‘Yes! I can’t believe they’ve tried to blame this all on me. Shelby was starving and she was dying for a fag. I just went along with it. If I’d had money and stuff I’d have given it to Shelby. I didn’t want to go back to Pippa’s. I feel sorry for her.’
I told Danielle how important it is to tell the truth to the police, and that she had to think very carefully about what she said in her interview. I also told her I imagined Shelby and Mina would have to give interviews too, which seemed to calm her down a little.
‘You have to be one hundred per cent honest,’ I said. ‘This is serious. You need to tell the truth. Think about it carefully, Danielle. If you don’t tell the truth this could get a whole lot worse.’
‘OK. Can Jonathan come with us?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He’ll drive us to the police station and we’ll both wait for you.’
Danielle gave a strange, faraway smile.
‘I’m glad about that. Jonathan always makes me feel better.’
She gave me a disparaging look as she said this, which made me feel uncomfortable. Danielle had started to make it obvious, almost on a daily basis, that she preferred Jonathan to me. At first I thought she was just trying to wind me up, as she frequently tried to do, but then she had started with the fluttering eyelashes, which hadn’t gone unnoticed. Now she was coming out with overt compliments about Jonathan. Obviously, I had to keep an eye on this, because if she had some kind of crush on him things could get very difficult.
All foster carers have to be wary of receiving unwanted attention of this nature, and we all need to avoid situations where we might be vulnerable to false claims of any wrongdoing. In my experience, male carers have to be more careful than female carers in this regard, though other people may not agree. My opinion is based on what I’ve witnessed for myself over many years, and what I have heard time and time again from other carers as well as social workers, when we attend training and discuss this topic.
On the way to the police station I asked Danielle how she was feeling.
‘I don’t have to tell you how I’m feeling. You’re only a foster carer.’
‘You don’t have to tell me how you’re feeling, Danielle. I’m asking because I care about you and I want to make sure you’re OK.’
‘Of course I’m OK. I’m innocent. Innocent until proven guilty!’
The interview was very brief. Jonathan and I sat on a couple of extremely uncomfortable wooden chairs while Danielle was taken into a room with two female officers and a third woman, who was an approved ‘appropriate adult’, as Danielle was under sixteen. Jonathan and I could have attended the interview with her, but she chose to go in with the person recommended by the police. Danielle had a defiant, angry look on her face and she gave each officer and the third female a stony stare as they entered the room.
‘I’m glad I’m not going in,’ I said to Jonathan.
‘Me too. It must be such a tough job interviewing children at the best of times, let alone when they are in a mood like Danielle is.’
While we were waiting outside, a very serious-faced, silver-haired officer walked past and gave us both a look that made me feel uncomfortable. I might have been wrong, but Jonathan agreed that it seemed like the officer was looking down his nose at us, as if it was our fault Danielle was in this situation. I smiled back at him politely, refusing to give him the reaction I felt he wanted: shame or remorse that our daughter, as I imagined he assumed Danielle was, had got herself into this mess.
It emerged that Danielle, Shelby and Mina all blamed each other for the latest theft from Pippa. Shelby and Mina had already been interviewed, and thankfully all three girls were let off with a rap on the knuckles on the understanding they would each go round to Pippa’s with a parent or guardian, hand back everything they had taken, replace the chocolates and crisps they had eaten, and apologise profusely to their victim. If there was a repeat of this misbehaviour or the girls got into any further trouble with the law, they were warned the consequences would be much more serious.
To Danielle’s horror, Jonathan said he was going to drive straight round to Pippa’s from the police station. On the way we picked up plentiful supplies of everything the girls had taken, to pay Pippa back.
‘She’s going to end up with more than I took in the first place,’ Danielle complained.
She didn’t notice her slip-up and I didn’t pull her up on the fact she said ‘I’ instead of continuing to blame Shelby and Mina. I did, however, advise Danielle that there would be consequences if she didn’t give Pippa a genuine apology, promise never to go near her house again and stick to that pledge faithfully. I added that Danielle also had to pay us back out of her pocket money to cover the cost of the replacement goods for Pippa, which is what had happened last time, on the advice of Social Services.
‘What are the other “consequences”?’
‘We won’t allow you to go into town with your friends if you don’t fulfil your side of the bargain and give Pippa a genuine apology that you are going to stick to. We can’t allow you out on your own unless we believe your apology is heartfelt and we know you won’t repeat this behaviour. Also, you won’t be given your pocket money in the first place if you don’t behave. You need to earn it with good behaviour. Is that clear?’
Withholding pocket money is generally frowned upon by Social Services and it’s not something we ever do lightly, but Jonathan and I both agreed that in this instance it was a tactic that might just work with Danielle, so we were prepared to give it a go. Danielle was such an unusual, intriguing character, and we felt we needed to try things that perhaps we wouldn’t have done with a less challenging and perplexing child.
‘OK,’ Danielle said belligerently. ‘It’s clear. Happy now, Angela?’
‘We’re both happy to hear that,’ Jonathan said, catching my eye. He could see Danielle was trying to cast me as the villain of the piece, and I was grateful for his insight and his support.
Thankfully, when we stood on Pippa’s doorstep Danielle did a very good job of convincing Pippa, Jonathan and me that she had learned a lesson, and we felt reassured the young woman would not be bothered again.
‘Thanks, Mr and Mrs Hart,’ Pippa said as we left. ‘I’ll still come into your shop. I know it’s not your fault and it was all her fault.’
She pointed a finger at Danielle, who looked shocked by this and clearly felt Pippa was being provocative. I steered Danielle hastily away.
‘Pippa has some difficulties with how she communicates,’ I said to Danielle as we got in the car. ‘Don’t take that the wrong way. It’s done now. Let’s all move on.’
I hoped that would be the last w
ord on the matter but Danielle replied, in a deadpan voice, ‘I know Pippa has difficulties. I can see that. I’m not stupid! But some people have difficulties you can’t see so well. Think about THAT, Angela.’
I asked her if she would like to talk about what she meant, but now Danielle had what I’d come to refer to as her ‘faraway look’ painted on her face, and she stared resolutely out of the car window all the way back to our house, not saying another word.
When we got home Danielle went up to her bedroom and slammed the door. I decided to leave her to her own devices for a little while, but after half an hour my next-door neighbour came to our door, looking awkward and embarrassed.
‘What is it?’ I asked her. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’
‘Well, Angela. It’s – er – I’ve found wet towels in the garden. I think the girl you have staying with you must have thrown them out of the window or over the fence.’
‘Wet towels? Bath towels?’
‘No. You know, pads. Sanitary pads. I think they’re soaked in urine as they have a strong smell on them.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘I can’t apologise enough. I’ll come round and clear up if you like? And, of course, I’ll have words and try to make sure it doesn’t happen again.’
‘Don’t worry about coming round,’ my neighbour said, sounding more relieved than anxious now. ‘There were only three of them, I think, and I’ve scooped them up already and put them in the bin. There was also a dry one and that’s gone too.’
‘I’m terribly sorry you had to do that. Thank you for being so understanding.’
Unexpectedly, my neighbour then gave me a wonderful smile.
‘Angela,’ she said, ‘I think you are incredible. I could never do what you do. I can’t imagine what you have to put up with. You must have the patience of a saint.’
I felt myself blush a little. This was a compliment I’d been given many times, but on this occasion it took me completely by surprise and really raised my spirits.
I thought of the male police officer who’d seemed to judge me at the station earlier, and I reminded myself that it really didn’t matter what other people thought – especially those not armed with all the facts. It’s much better to focus on the positive and realise that, on the whole, many people do understand that being a foster carer is challenging, and that the actions of the children in our care are not necessarily a reflection on how Jonathan and I do our job.