by Rosie Lewis
I had rolled out every weapon in my armoury to try and persuade Bobbi into her clothes: playfulness, competitiveness – I bet you can’t get your jumper on within the next twenty seconds – bribery with chocolate. With Megan’s enthusiastic help, I’d even involved her in crafting a postbox out of cardboard and red paint, so that we could post pictures of each item of clothing she managed to get on herself. It worked a treat with Megan, who paraded her entire wardrobe in front of me in the time it took to get Bobbi into her socks.
‘If you don’t get dressed we won’t be able to get you a costume and you won’t be able to swim with Megan,’ I said, kneeling in front of her and holding out her jumper invitingly. I had spoken to Megan’s swimming teacher that morning and she’d kindly agreed to squeeze Bobbi into the lesson so that she wouldn’t feel left out. I often found people went out of their way to be accommodating for fostered children.
My spirits lifted as Bobbi ducked her head and allowed me to slip her jumper on. I could hardly believe she might finally relent. ‘Woo-hoo!’ I said, clapping and making a big fuss of her as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. ‘Well done, Bobbi!’ She beamed.
Megan joined in with the applause. ‘Well done, Bobs!’ she cheered. ‘Yippee!’ From beneath the coffee table, Mungo gave a soft bark.
‘She’ll take it off again in a minute,’ Archie predicted morosely from the sofa. He peered over the top of his book and then quickly returned his attention to the page, his eyes eagerly running left to right. Within half a second Bobbi’s arms were out of the sleeves, the rest of the jumper hanging like a thick woollen chain from her neck.
I gave Archie a dark look. Ever since his arrival he had been nothing less than accommodating and helpful. This morning, though, he seemed determined to derail my efforts to prepare him for school. He had faked surprise when I told him that Danny had confirmed that he went to Millfield Primary, and since then had dragged his feet at every turn. ‘Bobbi,’ I said in a low tone. ‘Put it back on, please.’ She looked at me, her head in a defiant tilt, and then she whipped the jumper right off.
‘Back on now or you won’t go swimming,’ I said warningly. Megan stood close by, her eyes flitting between us. I feigned an interest in the TV magazine on the coffee table, half-aware of Bobbi picking up her leggings as I flicked through the pages.
‘Yay!’ Megan shouted. ‘You can come swimming with me now, Bobs!’
‘Ow-a!’ Bobbi growled. ‘I can’t do them.’
‘Come here. I’ll help.’ She crawled over and gave them to me. I lifted her to her feet and told her to hold on to my shoulder. ‘That’s it, now lift your leg.’ She didn’t move. ‘Come on, honey, lift your leg.’
Half a second later Megan cried out and clamped a hand over her eyes – while I’d been leaning over, Bobbi had slapped her face.
‘Right, that’s it. No swimming for Bobbi.’ I had tried to keep my voice even but it hadn’t worked. My patience was drained and it showed. Megan wasn’t crying – I think she was more shocked than anything else – but I drew her onto my lap and kissed the top of her head. She leaned into me and rested her head on my chest.
A sickening thud reached my ears a second or two later. I swung around just in time to see Bobbi’s head slamming into the floor for a second time, the crack of skull meeting floorboard making my stomach flip. Megan got off my lap and stared at Bobbi in horror. ‘It’s alright, Meggie,’ I said, steering her towards the door. ‘You go upstairs and see if you can find a towel and your goggles. I’ll take care of Bobbi.’
Megan backed slowly out of the room, her eyes fixed on Bobbi, who was now on her feet and biting her own forearm. It must have been painful, but with the red mist working its numbing magic, she continued to gnaw at her skin. I crouched in front of her, aware that Megan was still staring at us from the doorway. ‘Go, Megan, please,’ I said, without taking my eyes off Bobbi. I heard her scurry away and my chest tightened with guilt.
‘Bobbi, I’m not going to let you hurt yourself,’ I said, taking a firm hold of her arm and pulling it free of her jaws. ‘I can see that you’re feeling cross,’ I continued, in a lame attempt at naming her feelings, but she’d already reached a point from which it was going to be difficult to return. She just needed to be held.
‘GET OFF ME!’ she screamed as I reached out to her, battering me with her fists and then clawing her hands down her own face. I pulled her onto my lap and pinned her arms down with my own to protect us both. She struggled and screamed, her feet slamming repeatedly into the floor. Once again, though, it was Archie’s reaction that unnerved me most. He was watching me from the sofa, an expression of suppressed fury on his face.
‘What’s wrong, Arch?’
‘You shouldn’t have kept asking her to lift her leg,’ he snapped, chucking his book aside. ‘You scared her.’
I looked at him. ‘How come?’ I leaned over Bobbi, who had stiffened on my lap. ‘Why were you scared to lift your leg, sweetheart?’
‘Jason makes her stand on one leg when she’s naughty, that’s why,’ Archie spat out.
My throat tightened. ‘Oh, Bobbi, that’s very wrong of him. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t know.’ She allowed me to cuddle her to my chest. I gave Archie a regretful look over the top of her head. He glared at me, his cheeks flushed red.
Chapter Seven
Swirling grey clouds hung low in the sky as we drove towards Millfield Primary the next morning. As luck would have it, Megan’s nursery opened fifteen minutes earlier than Archie and Bobbi’s school, so I had been able to drop her off with confidence that I’d make it to Millfield on time.
It was Tuesday 6 January, Bobbi and Archie’s first day back at school after the holidays, and I had woken everyone earlier than usual in anticipation of a major fall-out in getting Bobbi dressed. With careful avoidance of any ‘lifting leg’ instructions, it wasn’t the battle I’d anticipated, as it turned out, and by 8 a.m. everyone had been tucking into their breakfast.
The Jason comment aside, I still knew little about Bobbi’s past – my gentle attempt to encourage her to talk about her fears of punishment batted away last night by a loud screechy song – but there was every reason to suppose that she had been neglected from birth. There were all sorts of likely triggers to her panicked behaviour, some I would only ever be able to guess at.
The smell of sour milk, for example, might set off a hysterical reaction in a child who had lain untended in their cot for hours at a time. I knew that some children in foster care flew off the handle whenever they were cold, the sensation reminding them of the terror they felt as babies, when they had been left to go to sleep without clothes or blankets. For others, loud music caused fear, or shouting, or being smiled at in a certain way; a once-used code from Daddy signalling that it was time to join him upstairs. Trauma triggered behaviour was unpredictable by its very nature; I knew it would take some time to decode.
At a red light I glanced at Bobbi in the rear-view mirror as she made an infernal noise. She looked smart in her uniform and older somehow. I had bought two new sets of uniform for each of the children when I finally made it to the shops yesterday, my mother stepping into the breach so I didn’t have to drag Bobbi around town in her PJs. ‘They’ve been as good as gold,’ Mum announced on my return, a twinkle in her eye. It was often the way with the children I looked after. They seemed to sense the genuine warmth beneath Mum’s firm exterior and responded well to her gentle attentiveness. As an unwanted replacement of their birth mother, it often took longer for me to gain a child’s trust.
‘Maybe you could try being a bit firmer,’ Mum had whispered to me on her way out. My mother holds firmly to the view that punishment and retribution are the most effective means of keeping children on the straight and narrow. Though rarely openly critical, I often got the feeling that she believed my own system of using positive praise, consistency and continuity alongside a careful balance of love and discipline was ridiculously soft.
I rolled my eyes at m
y brother, Chris, who had popped by to pick Mum up and drop her and Megan to the leisure centre for her swimming lesson. When Bobbi had seen Chris on the doorstep she froze. A few seconds later she had wrapped herself around his shins and was planting rapid kisses on his knee.
Stunned, Chris gave her head a quick pat and threw me a ‘What’s this all about?’ look. I raised my eyes and pulled her gently away. ‘Bobbi, this is my brother but you don’t know him yet. We keep our cuddles for people we know well. Okay, poppet?’ I began to wonder whether she had some sort of attachment disorder. Unscrupulous abusers seemed to have internal radar for vulnerable children like Bobbi. Foster carers are taught to gently dissuade children from being overfamiliar to reduce their risk of sexual exploitation. Bobbi’s random friendliness was yet another concern to add to the list in my diary. I was glad that the siblings’ social worker was due to visit this morning so I could discuss it with him.
‘See, there. That’s where I come out, Rosie,’ Archie told me as we crossed the colourful springy tarmac of the playground. He pointed to an archway at the far end of the brick building in front of us. ‘I’ll be there at half past three, but Bobbi comes out five minutes earlier.’
‘I know, honey. You’ve said.’ The prospect of returning to school seemed to have cracked his facade. He had been fidgety all morning and extra fastidious, straightening every wonky item in his sight. ‘I’ll be here, don’t worry. You enjoy your day.’ He nodded soberly, ruffled the top of his sister’s hair and then picked his way through a crowd of children. Not a single one of them turned to greet or even acknowledge him as he passed. My heart squeezed at the sight. Children in care often struggle to make and maintain friendships, their ability to form relationships compromised by their early experiences.
The Early Years play area was separated from the main playground by a multi-coloured fence. Inside the confines I could see a sand pit, climbing frame and, at the far end, a race track with buggies and cars lined up neatly on the starting line. Part of the playground was shaded by enormous sheets of coloured canvas fixed to tall posts, designed to look like sails on a ship. It was a bright, welcoming space, but one that was failing to work its magic on Bobbi. At my side, she was clinging onto my hand so tightly that I could feel her fingernails digging into my palm.
A young woman with crinkly red hair tied into two long plaits appeared at the Early Years gate, ready to welcome the Reception children in. ‘Hello, nice to meet you, I’m Rosie,’ I said, doing my best to stay upright with Bobbi now clutching at my legs.
The teacher smiled uncertainly. ‘I’m Miss Granville,’ she said, giving Bobbi a wary, almost fearful look. Any help I was hoping for in coaxing Bobbi away from me wasn’t forthcoming, so I went into the classroom with her and gently disentangled myself there.
‘That’s so thoughtful of you,’ the receptionist said when I dropped in my contact information details. ‘I think we have these on file already though. The MASH team were in touch yesterday.’ A motherly-looking woman with a round face and greying hair, she lowered her tone and leaned closer to the glass partition she was sitting behind. ‘Those poor children. It breaks your heart, doesn’t it? I don’t know how you do it.’
Almost every serious case review triggered by the death or serious injury of a child previously identified as being at risk had highlighted a lack of information sharing as a major failing. Multi-Agency Safeguarding Hubs (MASH) were considered the solution; a co-located arrangement of agencies – social services, police, health and education, with close links to probation, youth offending teams and mental health. It was thought that by bringing the agencies together, information sharing, intelligence gathering and networking would vastly improve. The results were noticeable. Now, if police are called to an incident of domestic violence and children are living in the house, their schools are notified before 9 a.m. the following day. Forewarned of the trauma the child may have experienced, teachers are now in a better position to understand distressed or difficult behaviour.
I thanked the receptionist and made to leave, but before I’d reached the door I heard a tapping sound. I turned to see a tall, bespectacled woman with dark hair at the glass. ‘Rosie, sorry,’ she called through a grille in the window. ‘I overheard you introducing yourself. I’m Clare Barnard, the SENCO. Have you got time for a quick word?’
I glanced at the clock on the wall and nodded. The children’s social worker was due at ten but I had time for a quick chat and the Special Educational Needs Co-ordinator (SENCO) was often a very useful person for a foster carer to get to know. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ Clare said half a minute later when she joined me in reception. There was a long red sofa behind us and she made a sweeping gesture, inviting me to sit down.
‘I’ve only got a few minutes,’ I said apologetically. ‘I’m meeting the children’s social worker this morning.’
She raised a hand. ‘No, that’s fine. I won’t keep you a minute. I just wanted to bring you up to speed with how things stand from our perspective. We haven’t been able to have this discussion with the children’s mother because,’ she paused, licking her lips, ‘well, I expect you can imagine. It’s difficult to involve some parents in school life.’ I nodded ruefully and she continued. ‘The thing is, we’ve been concerned about Bobbi since she started with us in September. As you probably know, we’ve not seen much of her, but when she is here she’s extremely disruptive. Towards the end of last term we even considered reducing her hours to part-time. That’s not something we’d consider lightly. The only reason we didn’t is because we were worried about the impact of her spending more time at home.’ She looked at me. ‘But now she’s in foster care –’
‘Ah,’ I said slowly, the inference dawning on me. ‘You’re going to reconsider?’
She looked at me over the top of her glasses. ‘We haven’t made a final decision yet. It could be that she settles down and we won’t have to resort to that. We’re working hard to encourage her to make good choices, but the level of disruption is quite severe, I’m afraid. She’s already bitten her class teacher several times. Miss Granville is newly qualified. It really isn’t behaviour we can accommodate in our school.’
‘No, I see.’
The SENCO pulled her chin in and blinked in surprise. ‘I expected more resistance. The prospect of having a child at home during the day doesn’t appeal to some.’
‘I’d rather she was here, of course I would, especially as she might regard reduced hours as some sort of rejection. But I appreciate you have a duty of care to the other children. And to Miss Granville,’ I added with a grim smile. The young teacher’s earlier avoidance suddenly made more sense.
If I’m honest, I had felt a sense of relief when I escaped from Bobbi’s class. The opportunity for some time alone to regroup and recharge wasn’t something I wanted to relinquish, but if Bobbi wasn’t coping well with full-time hours, it wasn’t good for her or anyone around her if she wasn’t cut any slack. And one way or another, the impact would reach us at home.
Clare smiled gratefully. ‘Well, that’s one less battle for us to worry about. Obviously we’ll do all we can to avoid it. We want her to learn, and with what she’s missed already –’ She paused, pressing her lips together. ‘She has a lot of catching up to do.’
‘Being behind isn’t likely to help her frustration levels either.’
She looked at me thoughtfully. ‘No, it is a worry. Archie’s the same. He’s a bright boy but he’s missed so many days since he joined us in September. Thirty-five in a single term, if memory serves me. We’re still liaising with the Children Missing Education Agency because of all their non-attendance.’
‘Oh? They’re both new to the school then?’
She nodded. ‘And we’re still trying to piece together what happened before they came here. I’m told they moved into the area two years ago but their mother didn’t bother to register Archie with a new school when they relocated. It’s only when they came under the radar of social services that
his non-attendance came to light.’
‘I had no idea. How can that have happened?’
She sighed. ‘I’m afraid some children do fall through the net. Archie was registered with a school somewhere down south before the family moved. It seems that Mrs Brady removed him from the admission register down there and gave the receptionist the name of another school when they moved up here, but he was never actually registered.
‘As I say, it only came to light when social workers became involved with the family. Our feeling is that they should have been removed from home long before this. I despair of the system sometimes.’
‘It’s a difficult balance to strike, I guess.’ With the benefit of hindsight it’s easy to criticise, but I knew lots of social workers who wrestled with their consciences when making judgements that so deeply affected people’s lives.
Clare held her hands up. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I couldn’t be a social worker, not in a million years.’
I made it home with ten minutes to spare before Danny Brookes was due to arrive. Given that lateness seemed wired into the DNA of almost every social worker I had ever met, I assumed that I had at least another half an hour before he actually turned up. I made a quick cup of tea, gave Mungo some fresh water and fired up my computer, but just as I sat down in front of it, the doorbell rang.
‘Don’t look so surprised,’ Danny said, when I opened the door. ‘Not all of us are muppets.’
I laughed and he shook my hand warmly. Over a foot taller than my five feet, Danny was a large-framed black man with wild Afro hair and the biggest biceps I had ever seen. It was a cold day, about two degrees, but his large hands were warm despite the thin T-shirt and jeans he was wearing. ‘You may not be a muppet, but I’m not sure you’re human,’ I said as he petted Mungo. I showed him through to the living area. ‘It’s freezing out there and you’re dressed for the beach.’