Broken

by Rosie Lewis

  Some of the suggestions sounded familiar and I remembered Des telling me about new techniques used in US schools, designed to interrupt the ‘school to prison pipeline’, a phrase coined to describe the seemingly inevitable trajectory for problem kids in the classroom.

  The other book that had been recommended, Inside I’m Hurting, wasn’t available on Kindle but, astonishingly, when I refreshed the thread, someone with the username LIONKING had kindly summarised the book, bullet pointing the tips they had found most helpful for their own children.

  I printed everything off and put it into a folder then telephoned Millfield Primary. Megan was due to spend the whole day at nursery on Friday and so I made an appointment with the SENCO for 2 p.m. at the end of the week. I also sent an email to the head of the virtual school, the organisation responsible for overseeing the education of looked-after children, asking if there was anything I could do to persuade Millfield to spend the pupil premium they were receiving for Bobbi on additional support for her.

  It was only when I began to feel lightheaded that I realised I hadn’t eaten anything since early morning. I checked the time, amazed to find that it was a quarter to twelve, almost time to pick Megan up. I grabbed a banana and ate it while I refreshed the forum page one last time. There were some new responses to my post.

  2 replies

  Submitted by GOOSEYLOOSEY – Have you tried using memory cards for the constant interruptions, Mrs D? AS needs to feel I keep him constantly in mind. When he interrupts I give him a memory card – a visual reminder to show him that I know he needs me and he’ll have my attention very soon. Handy when I’m on the phone or in the loo!

  Submitted by LEMONSHERBERT – Have you considered that your FC might have a processing difficulty? Early trauma slows processing speeds. We find giving short, specific, simple choices to our AS works wonders. We’d never leave the house in the morning without them.

  I scribbled a quick note of all the suggestions, typed a quick message to thank everyone for their replies and then pulled on my coat. Feeling empowered and optimistic, I grabbed my keys and raced out the door. I couldn’t wait to pick up the children and try out my new techniques.

  ‘Bottom on sofa or floor?’ I told Bobbi later that afternoon, after a dangerously executed cartwheel over the footstool. ‘Which one?’

  She looked between the two and then threw herself into a handstand on the sofa. It was an approximation of success and I gave an inward cheer, my silent celebration faltering when she collapsed sideways and crashed into Megan. ‘Ow! You poophead!’ Megan complained, clamping a hand over her head and giving me a teary look. Still adjusting to nursery, her usual effervescence was absent in the late afternoons, her skin chalky and pale. I pulled her into a hug and kissed the top of her head. ‘Try to be a bit more careful, Bobbi,’ I said. ‘How about you both help me to get the dinner ready?’

  ‘I want to bounce with Arty,’ Megan said wearily. Of the two siblings, Megan seemed to prefer Archie when she was tired. However badly they were behaving, he always seemed to have a reserve of patience for the girls.

  ‘You look fit for bed and not much else, sweetie,’ I said gently, glancing across the room to where Archie sat, his books open in front of him on the table. ‘And anyway, Archie’s still doing his homework.’

  ‘S’alright, I’ll go,’ he said amiably, closing his book and getting up. ‘I’ve almost finished anyway.’

  Tonic to her ears, Megan immediately perked up. She ran into the hall, grabbed her coat and shoes and then took Archie’s hand, steering him towards the back door. Mungo followed them out. Still a bit wary of Archie, he kept a safe distance as he trotted along the path after them.

  ‘Wait, Bobbi.’ I reached for her hand as she leapt off the sofa to follow them. ‘Before you go outside you need to put your coat on.’

  She yanked her hand away and spun around, heading for the door. Remembering one of the suggestions on the forum about breaking instructions down into short, specific nuggets, I knelt down in front of her. ‘Bobbi,’ I said, taking her hands in mine and gently steering her to face me. She craned her neck away, keeping her eyes fixed on the garden. ‘Hey, Bobbi, look at me.’ Reluctantly she turned around to face me. I let go of her hands. ‘Good girl. Now, hat on,’ I said, miming the action by pulling closed fists down either side of my head. ‘Coat on. Wellies on. Then outside.’

  She frowned, looked around, then trotted off and grabbed her hat. To my amazement, she pulled it down over her ears then grabbed her coat and shoved it at me. I held it up and she wiggled her way into it, catching my smile and returning it with a big beaming one of her own. I couldn’t believe it.

  ‘What a good girl! Give me a high five.’ She clapped flattened hands against mine and then threw her arms around me. My heart melted. ‘Aw, that’s lovely,’ I said, giving her back a brisk rub. ‘Now, glasses.’ I held out a flattened hand. She hooked her glasses off, dropped them into my palm and then ran to the patio door, slipping her feet into her wellies before running out.

  Progress in the early days of a placement often feels slow. I find it helpful to cherish every success, however tiny it may be. The mystery of Bobbi’s ability to respond to some of my requests, presumably those I had kept short and sweet, while ignoring others, had been solved. In the world of fostering, it was undoubtedly a moment worthy of celebrating.

  I couldn’t understand, then, as I watched her run across the frosted grass to join the others, why I felt as though we were all standing on quicksand, further away from solid ground than that first day back in early January.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I arrived at Millfield Primary just before 2 p.m. on Friday 6 February. It was a bright day, a few stringy white clouds stretched across an otherwise clear blue sky. There was a sharp bite in the air though, the frost-covered sails shading the Early Years playground billowing noisily in the wind.

  ‘Rosie, you’re freezing,’ Clare Barnard said, grasping my icy fingers in her own warm hands. Her eyes strayed to the books and papers tucked under my arm.

  ‘You’ve come armed, I see,’ she said, but her smile was as welcoming as her handshake and she chatted pleasantly as she escorted me along the corridor towards her office. ‘Mrs Cullum-Coggan has asked to join our meeting,’ she said, stopping and tapping on the open door of a different, much larger office.

  My heart sank. It seemed that the outcome of the meeting might already have been decided, the SENCO enlisting reinforcements to shore up her position.

  Mrs Cullum-Coggan stood up as we came in, walking around her long desk and shaking my hand. ‘Please, sit down,’ she said, gesturing to one of the empty chairs in front of her desk. I took the nearest one and Clare sat on the chair next to me. Mrs Cullum-Coggan eyed the thick wad of papers on my lap and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’ve been doing a bit of research.’

  ‘So I see,’ she said with a half-smile. Her severe features softened significantly. She sat down behind her desk and leaned her elbows on top, her fingers pressed together in an arch. ‘Well, there is a lot we need to discuss, but perhaps if you start, Rosie, and we can take it from there.’

  I looked down at my notes and quickly gathered my thoughts. ‘The first thing we need to do,’ I said, ‘is to get Bobbi seen by an educational psychologist.’ I went on to explain my reasoning using inclusive language to encourage them to view the issue as a joint one and careful phrasing to trigger all their safeguarding alarms.

  Mrs Cullum-Coggan sucked in sharply. ‘There’s a long waiting list for ed psychs’,’ she said, shaking her head as if already dismissing the idea.

  ‘So can we shuffle Bobbi up the list?’

  Clare opened her mouth but the headmistress spoke first. ‘We can’t do that. Some of our children have been waiting almost a year.’

  ‘A year?’ I looked between Mrs Cullum-Coggan and Clare. ‘Why so long? Aren’t there enough to go round?’

  The headmistress lifted her shoulders. ‘Demand is high.’<
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  I paused, wondering whether her reluctance had more to do with tight budgets than high demand. ‘Well, can I pay for Bobbi to see one privately then?’

  She frowned. ‘Could do, I suppose, but assessments done privately aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.’

  I gave a small laugh of disbelief and shook my head. ‘Really?’

  Clare turned in her chair towards me, her stance more conciliatory than that of her boss. ‘Parents who go privately tend to get the diagnoses they’ve paid for. Local authorities rarely place much store in privately sought consultations.’

  Temporarily knocked off course, I looked down at my list and decided to move on to the list of classroom tactics I had printed out, summarised by my new virtual pal LIONKING. ‘I’m not trying to teach grandma to suck eggs,’ I said, giving Clare an apologetic glance, ‘so please tell me if you’ve already tried this stuff.’

  ‘We’ve seen more of Bobbi in the last month than we did the whole of last term, so we haven’t had all that much time to get to know her,’ Clare said encouragingly. ‘You live with her. You’re the one who knows her most out of all of us; that was demonstrated to us very clearly last week. So please, go ahead.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I nodded, grateful that at least they were willing to listen to what I had to say. At least, Clare seemed open to it. Mrs Cullum-Coggan sat listening quietly, her expression impassive. ‘So firstly I’d like to send her into school with a learning friend, a small item from home that she has an attachment to.’ I was thinking of Bunny, of course. According to LIONKING’s notes from Inside I’m Hurting, the use of a transitional object as a link with home could help to ease a child’s anxiety in the classroom, and Bobbi’s attachment to Bunny had undoubtedly grown since her first night with us.

  ‘We have a strict no toys policy,’ the headmistress cut in, before Clare could respond. ‘Things get very messy otherwise. Lots of arguments over what belongs to whom and tears over lost items. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ I said, trying to sound reasonable but firm. ‘But Bobbi has a specific need for reassurance, bearing in mind all she’s been through. Bringing some small token from home might make all our lives easier.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Mrs Cullum-Coggan was shaking her head, but my eyes were on Clare. The SENCO glanced at the headmistress and then looked at me. She licked her lips. ‘If the object were small and discreet, and not a toy as such, perhaps that might be something we could consider?’

  I avoided Mrs Cullum-Coggan’s disapproving stare. ‘Yes, I’m sure I can come up with something.’

  Clare smiled. ‘Excellent.’ Her eyes fell to my lap and I moved on to the next item on my list.

  ‘You said that Bobbi keeps crawling off under the desks or hiding in the toilets.’

  Clare gave a grim nod. ‘Yes, that’s right. We unblocked the desks after what you said last week about her need to flee, and she spent most of this morning under one of them, I’m afraid. We tried to coax her out again but –’ she pressed her lips together and let her words hang in the air.

  I felt a band of sympathy tighten around my chest. Poor Bobbi. ‘Would you consider having a small tent in the classroom? Or one of those cloth wigwams? They don’t take up much room and –’

  ‘We hardly have space for a tent in our classrooms!’ Mrs Cullum-Coggan cut in, scoffing, as if it was the most ridiculous suggestion she had ever heard. ‘And even if we did, we can’t have children diving into a tent willy-nilly, the second someone does something to upset them.’

  ‘Bobbi could hold a card up to ask permission to take a break when she’s feeling overwhelmed,’ I pressed on, ignoring the note of heavy sarcasm in Mrs Cullum-Coggan’s tone. ‘All it would take is a small nod of agreement from Miss Granville and then she could take herself off. At the moment she’s scarpering regardless. This system would increase the teacher’s control, not weaken it.’

  ‘That may be so,’ the headmistress said. ‘But we simply don’t have the space to indulge every child’s whim.’

  Beside me, Clare’s fingers were strumming her lap. ‘If I might interrupt, Mrs Cullum-Coggan?’ Her boss inclined her head minutely. ‘We do have a book corner in the Reception classrooms. Perhaps if we were to come up with a way of closing the area off somehow, we could provide a bit of a sanctuary without stealing away any more space from the classroom. Children do like to tuck themselves away so I’m sure it’s something that would benefit everyone.’

  I smiled at Clare gratefully. ‘That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll see what I can come up with.’ I was already picturing some willow screens around the outside of the bookshelves, with some sort of canopy hanging from the ceiling.

  Mrs Cullum-Coggan gave a stiff nod. ‘Very well. Anything else?’

  ‘Well, yes, quite a lot actually.’ I ploughed on through my notes and those of the LIONKING, telling them that Bobbi was most likely to flee whenever there was a deviation from the usual routine. I suggested that she might benefit from being given a structured activity during ‘off timetable’ periods; perhaps colouring-in or tracing, a predicable exercise that would help to soothe her.

  ‘We can certainly try it,’ Clare said helpfully, nodding as I continued to reel off all the interventions recommended by the online adoption and fostering community. There was an unmistakable change in her demeanour from the last time I’d spoken to her. I suspected that the change had something to do with that day in the classroom when Bobbi had sobbed in my arms. Perhaps the sight had transformed her view of Bobbi, and she now saw her as a very frightened little girl rather than a troublesome one. Far from being irritated or insulted by my interference, as I had feared she might, Clare seemed energised by my ideas. I got the impression that Mrs Cullum-Coggan, on the other hand, regarded me as a bit of a nuisance. She kept glancing at the clock on the wall above Clare’s head with each new suggestion I made, her stern features overwritten with weary impatience.

  ‘Is that everything?’ she asked, when I’d fallen silent. I nodded. ‘Well, you certainly have some interesting ideas. I’m not sure how useful they’ll be, ultimately, particularly in light of recent events.’ I gave her a blank look. She unfolded her arms and lifted her hand, palm upwards, towards Clare. ‘Perhaps you can bring Mrs Lewis up to speed, Miss Barnard?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Clare rolled her lips in on themselves and then looked at me. ‘Rosie, I’m afraid there’s been an incident this morning that’s quite concerning.’

  ‘O-kay,’ I said slowly. The hackles on the back of my neck began to prickle.

  ‘It happened at break time,’ Clare continued. ‘On the far side of the playground near the sand pit. Bobbi pinned another girl to the ground, and some of the language she used was’ – she stopped, licking her lips – ‘well, let’s just say it was highly inappropriate.’

  I stared at her, waiting for her to elaborate. ‘What did she say?’ I asked, after a few seconds of silence.

  ‘We can’t be sure exactly. This only came to our attention because a teaching assistant heard some sort of scuffle going on. The other girl involved is too upset to talk about it, but the TA says she heard Bobbi say something like’ – Clare flushed as she flicked a glance across the desk at her boss – ‘“You’re going to fucking get it”, and then she called her a “dirty girl”.’

  My heart plunged into my stomach. I groaned and looked away, the reason for Mrs Cullum-Coggan’s presence beginning to make more sense. It was a serious incident, one that would be reported to the local authority. With my sights adjusting to this new information, my thoughts started to spin, spooling back to Bobbi’s early days with us. I suddenly pictured her graphic drawings and the terror in her eyes when I first put her in the bath.

  A lump rose in my throat. I glanced around the room to compose myself, concentrating on the framed certificates on the wall between two mahogany glass-fronted cabinets. When I turned back to Mrs Cullum-Coggan her features had softened. ‘It’s c
lear that you care about Bobbi,’ she said gently. And then she gave a deep sigh. ‘And believe me, we have every sympathy for her ourselves. I dread to think what she might have been through, but we have to safeguard the well-being of all of our pupils. What we’re dealing with here is peer-on-peer abuse. We can’t allow this sort of behaviour to continue.’

  ‘No, I understand,’ I said quietly. I had already felt a pressing need to help Bobbi with her struggles at school. Now I felt thoroughly sick.

  ‘We’re going to reduce her to part-time hours with immediate effect, and consult with the local authority on whether Millfield is the right place for her.’ I nodded in agreement. However much I wanted to avoid Bobbi feeling rejected, I understood that the other children had to be kept out of harm’s way.

  I didn’t leave the meeting until almost ten to three and made it to Megan’s nursery just in time to pick her up. I was back at Millfield Primary at just gone twenty past, Megan chomping hungrily on an apple beside me. I kept my eyes trained on the outside door leading to Bobbi’s classroom; after hearing about the incident in the playground, I couldn’t wait to hug her.

  As soon as I caught sight of her expression though, I shelved the idea. With her forehead crumpled and lips pouted in a deep scowl, she stamped across the playground, dragging her coat on the ground behind her. Stopping a few feet away, she chucked her book bag at me. I caught it reflexively, one of the rough corners catching me in the corner of my eye. ‘Owph, careful, Bobs,’ I said, blinking rapidly. I rubbed my eye briskly, eager not to make a song and dance over it. ‘Would you like an apple while we wait for Archie?’

  ‘I want chocolate!’ she snapped, turning in circles to avoid Megan, who was holding her arms out and following her.

  ‘She won’t let me huggle her,’ Megan complained, spinning one way and then the other with her arms outstretched.