by Rosie Lewis
‘Big heart, ain’t I?’ he barked, banging his fist into his chest. ‘I don’t need nothing else to keep me warm.’
Already at ease in his company, I made him a cup of coffee and gave him a summary of events over the last few days, sparing none of the grisly details. He listened without interrupting, dunking half a packet of biscuits into his coffee as I spoke and letting Mungo lick the crumbs from his fingers. ‘So, all in all,’ he said, when I’d fallen silent, ‘things couldn’t be better.’
‘We’ve known worse,’ I said with a grin. ‘But I really felt myself floundering over the weekend. The tricks I usually employ – you know, lots of praise, sticker charts, removal of privileges – they just don’t seem to work with Bobbi. I’m not sure I’m helping her that much. I feel like I’m making things worse, if anything. Then there are the pictures she drew … did you get the email I sent over?’
Danny nodded. ‘Yep. It’s good you’re being vigilant, but I don’t think we should worry about it at this stage.’
I looked at him. ‘There were quite graphic.’
‘Something to keep in our line of sight maybe, but let’s not go running away with ourselves yet.’ I nodded. Under increasing pressure to place children who are unable to return to their birth families into adoptive placements, some social workers have a tendency to gloss over the more disturbing details of their past through a strong desire not to scupper their chances of finding a forever home. It’s a sad fact, but injuries and evidence consistent with sexual abuse makes scary reading for adopters, and sexually abused children are difficult to place. ‘And how about Archie?’
I sipped my tea. ‘He’s doing everything he’s asked. He’s polite and helpful. Charmingly complimentary, even. But I get the feeling that he’s an exceptionally angry young man.’ I paused, lowering my cup to the floor. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m reading more into it all than I should.’
Danny handed the packet of biscuits to me. ‘They’re going down a bit too nice. Get them out of my sight, will you?’ He brushed a few stray crumbs from his mouth and let a delighted Mungo mop up the rest. ‘Now, listen, there’s nothing wrong with that. They’ve finally got someone on their side. But let’s not go over thinking anything at this stage. They’ve had two major upheavals in the last week. That in itself can cause these sorts of low-level behaviours.’
I knew what he meant. Two moves in one week was undoubtedly a shock to the system, but still I felt my jaw stiffening. What appeared on paper to be low-level behaviours were, in reality, not that easy to live with. He noticed me bristling. ‘Listen, I’m sure it’s pretty full-on, but you know what I’m getting at, yeah?’
I sighed. ‘Yes, I know.’
He nodded. ‘Course, there’s a lot in their background we just don’t know about yet. They’ve been on our radar for the last eighteen months or so, but it wouldn’t surprise me if things weren’t a whole lot worse than we thought.’ He reached into his rucksack and pulled out an A4 notepad and pen. ‘I’ve just inherited the case from the Children in Need team, so don’t know Tanya, their mum, well. She denies it, but we suspect there’s a long history of alcohol abuse. She’s not with the kids’ birth father; they separated when Bobbi was tiny. We’re trying to trace …’ he flicked through his notes. ‘… Mr James Brady as we speak.’
I nodded. ‘Archie seems very keen to see him.’ I told him what Archie had said about his father’s visit and his mother’s refusal to let him in the house.
‘Ah, interesting. According to Mum, he wants nothing to do with them.’ Danny tapped his pen on his pad. ‘I’ll have to do a bit more digging. Mum’s been with her latest partner, Jason Keane, for two years. Over the last year and a half there’ve been a few incidents of domestic abuse. None involving the children in a physical sense but we all know that don’t really matter. They were at home at the time, so they’re involved.’
I jumped in then, telling Danny about Archie’s comment about Jason forcing Bobbi to stand on one leg. He grimaced. ‘We’ve already suggested that separation is the only way for Tanya to get them back, but she’s absolutely having none of it.’
I pulled a face. ‘Yep,’ Danny said with a grim twist of his lips. ‘What can you do? The kids both attended the Keep Safe workshop –’
‘Yes, I helped out on some of the sessions,’ I interrupted again. ‘I met Archie there.’
‘– oh right, yeah. Mum’s been asked to attend the Judy Fights Back course. We want her to wise up to what’s happening, but so far she’s refusing to engage. She won’t go anywhere without Jason. She even wants to bring him to contact with the kids.’
‘And is he going to be allowed to?’
‘Is he bollocks! No way.’ I stifled a smile. Danny was quite different to most of the social workers I knew, but bluntness wasn’t a bad trait to have in his line of work, I thought.
‘How is Tanya? Archie’s worried about her.’
Danny tutted. ‘Poor kid. Tell him I’ve spoken to her and she’s okay. What else?’ he continued. ‘As I said, the kids have shown no physical signs of abuse, but there have been concerns about them getting caught in the crossfire. Bobbi’s been kicking off at school so it’s clear she’s seen something at home. I reckon there’s a whole lot more to come out. We’ve suspected neglect for a while now, and your note about Bobbi’s flat scalp would seem to corroborate that. Have you noticed whether Archie’s is the same?’
I shook my head. ‘It isn’t. I made a point of checking when he last washed his hair, and it looks normal –’ I stopped, correcting myself, ‘– I mean, typical, not normal.’
Danny grinned. ‘You can relax around me, Rosie. I’m not about to pull you up on stuff like that.’ His expression grew serious. ‘That would make sense with what we know about neglect. The older kids often fare better than the younger ones, what with addiction intensifying over time.’
I nodded, suddenly reminded of something Greg Keck, a psychologist specialising in the treatment of children who have experienced trauma, had said when addressing a national adoption conference – ‘If you have to choose between abuse and neglect, choose abuse; it does less damage.’ His audience were shocked, but the psychologist reasoned that when a child was being physically abused, at least they were being noticed, albeit in the worst way imaginable. By making the comparison he was challenging the widely held belief that abuse is worse than neglect and also highlighting the devastating impact of ignoring a child.
Danny filled out some of the necessary paperwork while I made him another coffee and then we went through the Placement Plan and Agreement forms together. ‘Contact’s been agreed as twice a week with Mum initially, to take place straight after school on a Monday and a Thursday. I’ve asked for a seamless transfer to the family centre so you don’t have too much messing around, but could you pick them up at five thirty when it’s finished?’
I nodded, grateful that Danny had given contact some thought. It wasn’t always the case. ‘How d’you feel about them giving Mum a call, say, a couple of times a week?’
I pulled a face. ‘I’m flexible, I suppose, if you think it will help.’ Personally I wasn’t a fan of telephone contact. Some children found face-to-face contact with their parents unsettling. Shoehorning phone calls into their ‘days off’ added yet another burden onto their shoulders; another reminder of how complicated their lives were.
‘Let’s start with once a week then. I’ll give you Mum’s phone number and you can withhold your number when you call.’
I nodded again. ‘Do I need to supervise their conversations?’
‘Yep, keep the phone on loudspeaker. Make sure you warn Mum first though, yeah? We’ll talk it over at the LAC Review, which, by the way, has been arranged for this Friday.’
I widened my eyes and Danny apologised. ‘Yep, sorry. I might be punctual, but I’m not perfect.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Are we inviting Archie to the review?’ LAC, or Looked After Children’s, Reviews, are meetings attended by everyone involv
ed with the child’s welfare – birth parents, foster carers, social workers, teachers and, in some instances, police officers – to ensure that the child’s needs are being met and that a reasonable care plan is in place.
Chaired by an IRO, Independent Reviewing Officer, the reviews give everyone an equal opportunity to express their concerns and raise any complaints, as well as a chance to discuss contact arrangements, future plans and the children’s day-to-day care. Older children are usually encouraged to join at least part of the review, so that they can share their feelings about the placement and any other concerns they may have. ‘Yes, discuss it with him. See if he feels comfortable attending. I’ll leave it up to you to decide whether you ask Bobbi or not. Personally I think she might find it a bit much.’
‘I agree. I’ll ask Archie though.’
‘Right. Now we’ve just got the delegated authority forms to get through.’ Delegated authority is the authorisation given by the local authority to the foster carer to make everyday family life decisions on their behalf, without consulting with social workers first. It’s a lengthy but useful form covering such things as haircuts, school trips and sleepovers and leaves no one in any doubt as to their responsibilities.
Danny heaved a sigh as he shoved the notepad back into his rucksack and pulled out a bulky manila file, which he referred to as ‘more crap’. ‘Not a paperwork fan then, Danny?’
‘Me? Nah, I’m new to this level of bureaucracy.’
‘Oh right? What did you do before?’
‘I was in the army. Royal Engineers.’
I smiled. ‘Ah, now the timely appearance makes sense.’
He laughed. ‘Yep, old habits die hard. I don’t do late. This paperwork is a whole different ball game though.’
‘Goodness, yes, I bet.’ It was hard to tell, but if I had to place him I would have said he was in his late thirties, early forties at the most. ‘That’s quite a change of direction.’
He scratched his tight curls. ‘Yeah well, I’d had enough of travelling around by the time the missus was expecting. I wanted something closer to home, know what I mean?’
It was almost one o’clock by the time we’d finished. After stowing his notepad and files in his rucksack, Danny stretched his arms behind his head, yawned loudly and then slumped back on the sofa. ‘I don’t wanna move now after all that. You haven’t got any lunch knocking about out there, have you?’
Chapter Eight
We ate lunch together and after Danny left I took Mungo for a walk and then spent an hour catching up on the chores that are necessary at the beginning of a new placement; I registered the children with my GP and made appointments for them at the local dentist and opticians. It was standard procedure and something I would be asked about at the LAC Review.
My suspicion that Bobbi needed glasses gained a little more weight when I picked her up from school later that afternoon. ‘Look at those sheep, Rosie,’ she said as we neared the ironwork gates. A few feet away, two Labradors padded along the pavement on either side of their owner.
‘They’re not sheep, they’re doggies!’ Megan said. Bobbi squinted and then the pair of them giggled. By the time we’d reached the car they were at loggerheads though, because Bobbi had accidentally trodden on a snail, and Megan adored snails. ‘You’re a meanie, Bobbi!’ Megan shouted as I strapped her into her seat.
In protest at the insult, Bobbi screamed with such fury that she wore herself out, and a few minutes from home her head began to nod.
‘Rosie,’ Archie yelled, ‘she’s falling asleep, quick!’
‘Don’t worry about it, Arch,’ I said soothingly. He really did sound stressed, and then I remembered what he’d said about being responsible for getting Bobbi to bed. He still hadn’t adjusted to the idea of handing the reins over to me, bless him. When Bobbi started to scream again, the anguish on his face subsided.
Bobbi tried to kick me as I led her into the house, but I told myself we were making progress. It was a half-hearted attempt and at least I hadn’t got the crooked finger from Miss Granville when I’d picked her up, the summons dreaded by foster carers all over the country. When I looked at her home school diary, though, it was clear that she hadn’t had an incident-free day – ‘BOBBI SCRATCHED A CLASSMATE ACROSS THE FACE TODAY FOR NO APPARENT REASON’, the note read, in big attention-grabbing letters. ‘WHEN ASKED WHY SHE DID IT, SHE BIT ONE OF THE STAFF.’
Therapeutic parenting experts advise foster carers to assume that the child they’re caring for is stuck developmentally in babyhood, unable to move on until the unmet needs of their infancy are fulfilled. Telling Bobbi what she shouldn’t do hadn’t worked out too well so far, so I decided to strip everything back to basics.
‘We must use our hands and feet gently,’ I said when we got to the living room. ‘Shall we try and think of some nice things we can do with our hands?’
‘I know!’ Megan cried. ‘We can clap!’ She clapped her hands together in demonstration, looking from me to Bobbi. She beamed when we copied her and threw her arms around Bobbi. In no mood for a hug, Bobbi shoved her violently in the chest and Megan fell backwards onto her bottom. Mungo half-ventured out from beneath the coffee table with the whites of his eyes showing, growled, then scurried back to safety. Megan looked at me in wide-eyed surprise. As I picked her up for a cuddle I felt a small twist in my heart.
I stoked her back. ‘It’s best we get to know Bobbi a bit more before we hug her, okay?’ I whispered. She gave a small nod of her head. ‘Now, Bobbi. We mustn’t use our hands for pushing. Can you think of something nice instead?’
‘Drawing,’ Megan whispered, with a wary glance at Bobbi.
‘Good one, Meggie. What else?’
‘Painting,’ Bobbi offered, beginning to get into the spirit of the game.
‘Yes, brilliant, painting’s a great one.’
‘Can we do it now, Rosie? Please, Rosie, please. I want to paint now.’
‘Okay, for a little while, until dinner’s ready.’
Megan, who loved anything arty, leapt from my lap and held her hand out to Bobbi. I held my breath, frantically searching my mind for a distraction so that Megan wouldn’t feel rejected if Bobbi pushed her away again. Half a second later, to my surprise Bobbi reached out and took her hand. My heart melted as I watched them walk over to the table together.
Through the patio doors I could see Jamie and Archie kicking a ball to one another in the garden. Archie’s tense expression had relaxed when he saw me waiting for him in the place we had agreed, but he mumbled something inaudible when I told him that his mum was okay and that contact had been arranged for Thursday. He politely agreed to attend the LAC Review with me on Friday, but had been quiet ever since. When I tried to talk to him he smoothly changed the subject, telling me about the latest fix Harry Potter had got himself into in The Chamber of Secrets. Once again I was filled with the sense that something was badly wrong; something Archie seemed desperately keen to cover up. He visibly brightened when Jamie got in from school though and pleaded to play with him.
It was when Jamie finally came in that I first glimpsed the real boy beneath the mask. ‘That is one angry kid,’ Jamie said as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink. ‘He’s got a right strop on. I don’t know what his problem is. I told him I only had a minute and we’ve been out there ages.’
I dropped the potato I had just peeled into a saucepan of water and picked up another one. ‘I know you have. It’s good of you to give him a run-around. Don’t worry about it, love, he’ll be alright.’
He touched my shoulder and walked away. ‘What time’s dinner?’ he called from the hall. His movements had slowed over the years and our conversations had shrunk at the same rate. At ten years old he used to dart around the place talking for England; now everything about him was measured and unhurried. Even his replies to my texts were abbreviated these days, most of them consisting of a single letter – ‘K’.
‘It’ll be on the table in half an hour.’
At that moment the back door swung open and Archie stamped in, his face like thunder. I lowered my knife and turned around, a half-peeled potato in my hand. ‘Disappointed your game’s over, love?’ I gave him a sympathetic glance. He ignored me. Leaning on one of the worktops for support, he stepped on the back of one trainer with the tip of the other. ‘Still, there’s always another day,’ I added cheerfully, picking up my knife again.
Behind me, he let out a growl of anger. I turned, watching as he ground one shoe into the other in a furious bid to get his trainers off. ‘Oh damn it!’ he shouted, kicking out at the wall.
‘Why don’t you just untie the laces instead of going through all that kerfuffle?’
‘Why don’t you fuck off?’ he hollered, yanking one trainer off with his hand. It hit the floor and spun upwards, hitting me on the back of my leg.
‘Archie!’ He ignored my yelp, stamping away in a furious half-limp, one trainer on, one off. I stared after him, the peeling of the potato hanging in a spiral from my knife, my heart beating fast in my chest.
At the dinner table he picked at his food, pushing it around his plate with a sulky expression. I wondered whether returning to school had upset him, or whether some of his classmates had caught wind of him being in foster care and ribbed him about it. I had expected him to be pleased with the news about his mum, but there was every chance he had mixed emotions about the prospect of seeing her again. After the meal he sloped off to his room, banging the door behind him.
I ventured up there while Bobbi and Megan sat beside each other on the sofa, watching cartoons. I tapped on the door, opening it when I heard a faint grunt coming from inside. Archie was sitting on the floor below the window, his knees drawn up and one elbow on each, head cradled in his hands. ‘I can see you’re upset, Archie,’ I said softly, taking a few steps into the room. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
He looked up at me and shook his head, a scowl on his face. I waited. ‘Did something happen at school today?’