The Girl Who Just Wanted to Be Loved

by Angela Hart

  Contents

  1. ‘I’m never lucky!’

  2. ‘I’ve hurt myself’

  3. ‘Can I come and stay again?’

  4. ‘We can’t keep any secrets’

  5. ‘You’re a total bastard!’

  6. ‘Let’s hope it keeps her out of mischief’

  7. ‘Mum went mad lots of times’

  8. ‘I’m worried about those bruises’

  9. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an incident’

  10. ‘It’s like living with Jekyll and Hyde’

  11. ‘I told you he was weird, didn’t I?’

  12. ‘Go on, stab him!’

  13. ‘You all hate me!’

  14. ‘Everything was fine until he came in!’

  15. ‘Is this what is wrong with Keeley?’

  16. ‘We are out of our depth with Keeley, aren’t we?’

  17. ‘Eric made me do things if I lost at cards’

  18. ‘You and Jonathan are bullying me’

  19. ‘You don’t know the half of it, Angela!’

  20. ‘You can’t solve everything, you know’

  21. ‘I don’t want to give up on her . . .’

  22. ‘Can I have another cuddle?’

  23. ‘I wish I could just live with Angela’

  24. ‘I’m not sure I can take much more’

  25. ‘You BITCH! I’m gonna get you!’

  26. ‘Who is Jonathan?’

  27. ‘Keep your nose out, you nosy old cow!’

  28. ‘You mean you didn’t read my report?’

  29. ‘Don’t let her drag you down, Angela’

  30. ‘Let’s all try to get along and enjoy the holiday’

  31. ‘Help! You need to pull over, right now’

  Epilogue

  Other stories from foster mum Angela Hart . . .

  The Girl with No Bedroom Door

  1

  ‘I’m never lucky!’

  The first time we ever saw Keeley was in a Pizza Hut. She was having lunch with her social worker, and it had been arranged that my husband, Jonathan, and I would turn up casually, as if by chance.

  ‘Unfortunately Keeley’s current placement is breaking down,’ our support social worker, Sandy, had explained over the phone. ‘We’d like to move her as soon as possible, but she doesn’t know yet. Do you think you could go and meet her, see what you think?’

  It’s uncommon but not unheard of for Social Services to set up a meeting like this: supposedly bumping into a social worker and a child in a relaxed setting like Pizza Hut means there is no pressure or expectation on either side.

  I felt optimistic when I agreed to the plan. In the seventeen years we’d been fostering, Jonathan and I had only ever met one child we didn’t think we could look after – a teenage girl who instantly gave us both the same uncomfortable feeling that we simply weren’t right for her. Neither of us could put our finger on exactly why this was the case, but we decided it was wise to follow our gut instinct. We were completely honest with the social workers and the placement went no further. I’m sure it was the right thing to do, as you need to feel positive and confident, for everybody’s sake, when you take a new child into your home.

  ‘What can you tell me about Keeley?’ I asked Sandy enthusiastically.

  This was my typical reaction whenever a potential new foster child was mentioned. It was 2004 now, and Jonathan and I were in our late forties. We’d looked after more than thirty youngsters over the years, yet I never failed to feel a surge of excitement at the prospect of caring for another one.

  Sandy began by explaining that Keeley was eight years old, an only child and had been in and out of foster care since she was five. In that time she had stayed with four sets of carers on short-term placements, to give her mother occasional breaks, and over the past twelve months she had been in full-time care with two different families.

  ‘Why have the full-time placements not worked out?’ I asked. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  ‘Keeley’s bad behaviour. Both foster carers tell similar stories. Keeley’s behaviour got worse instead of better as time went on, and both carers reached breaking point after several months, saying they simply couldn’t manage with her any longer. That’s why we’re keen for you to take her on, Angela. I’m sure you’ll do a brilliant job.’

  I appreciated the compliment. Sandy was in her fifties and had a very no-nonsense attitude that seemed to entirely fit with her smart and sensible appearance. I respected her, and receiving praise from Sandy meant a great deal. Knowing that our efforts were appreciated never failed to give me a lift. Even though Jonathan and I always work as a team, fostering can be an isolated job as you are working independently in your own home, typically keeping in contact with social workers on the phone rather than seeing them in person.

  After starting out as foster carers in the late eighties, for many years Jonathan and I had also been providing specialist care for children whose placements in mainstream foster homes had broken down, and who needed some extra help. We heard about the need for specialist carers through an advert on the local radio in the nineties and, after putting ourselves forward, Jonathan and I underwent extensive training in looking after teenagers with complex needs. The training was ongoing and we still do it to this day, to sharpen our fostering skills and keep up to date with new research and methods of caring for difficult children.

  Even though the training courses and workshops are designed to help us deal specifically with teenagers, Social Services often call on us to help when a younger child like Keeley has nowhere else to go, because mainstream fostering is not working and they might otherwise end up in a special unit. Foster children of all ages who come to us for specialist care are generally expected to stay between three and six months before being returned to mainstream care or going back to live with family, although there are no hard and fast rules. Over the years some youngsters have stayed with us for many years after ostensibly arriving for a brief respite stay.

  I arranged a time for Jonathan and I to arrive at Pizza Hut on the coming Saturday afternoon, having organised for our part-time assistant to cover us over the busy lunchtime in the florists. Once the meeting had been confirmed, Sandy called me back and gave me some more background information on Keeley.

  ‘She was on the Child Protection Register under the category of “emotional abuse” before she came into care,’ Sandy said, reading from a file. ‘Keeley’s mother, Tina, has been unable to bond properly with her daughter since birth. Tina has a long history of mental illness, which has resulted in her being sectioned on a number of occasions. There are reports that Keeley was smacked regularly with a slipper and locked in an empty box room when she was naughty. Her birth father has never been on the scene, but her maternal grandfather, Eric, lives next door and is a regular visitor to the family home. On a number of occasions Tina has accused Eric of sexually abusing her when she herself was a child, but nothing has ever been proven and Tina has always refused to take this further or press charges. Unfortunately, there are concerns that Keeley may have also been sexually abused by Eric, and possibly also by her mother.’

  ‘I see,’ I said quietly, disturbed by the detail, and particularly the suspicion of sexual abuse within the family and from mother to child.

  ‘Again, nothing has been proven with regard to the suspicions about Tina,’ Sandy continued. ‘The concluding note in the file states: “It appears the lack of early years bonding and the negative attitude of Keeley’s mother towards her child has affected Keeley’s ability to interact and function socially, resulting in her sustained bad behaviour.”’

  ‘There they are,’ I whispered to Jonathan as we wal
ked into Pizza Hut. He followed my gaze to a large booth in the centre of the busy restaurant, where Keeley’s social worker, Joan, was installed behind a large bowl of salad. We’d know Joan for many years and were very fond of her. She looked more like an ebullient grandmother than an extremely professional and efficient social worker of some thirty years’ experience, and she had a wonderful rapport with children and foster carers alike.

  Settling into the seat beside her was a striking-looking young girl with an olive complexion, deep brown eyes and a mass of long black curly hair that was held back from her face with a bright red hairband. My first thought was that Keeley looked more Spanish than English, and to add to this image she was wearing a red and white polka-dot dress with a wide, red silk ribbon tied around her waist.

  ‘Here goes,’ I muttered to Jonathan as we casually approached the booth. I was just about to feign surprise in bumping into Joan when she threw out her arms.

  ‘Angela! Jonathan!’ she exclaimed brightly. ‘How lovely to see you both! How are you? Why don’t you join us?’

  ‘Oh hi, Joan,’ I smiled. ‘It’s good to see you too, and that would be lovely. Is there space for us?’

  ‘Of course. We can shuffle up a bit, can’t we, Keeley? Angela and Jonathan, this is Keeley.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ we both said, smiling at Keeley.

  ‘Hello,’ she replied, shooting us a rather unfriendly look as she moved in closer to Joan, sliding her fizzy drink swiftly across the table as she did so. Unfortunately, the next moment the large glass hit a groove in the table top and toppled over, splashing lemonade onto Keeley’s pretty dress.

  ‘Fuck!’ Keeley shouted.

  ‘Keeley,’ Joan reprimanded, giving her a stern look. ‘Please don’t use language like that.’

  A group of teenagers on the next table looked over and started sniggering.

  ‘Well what d’you fucking expect?’ Keeley ranted. ‘Look at the state of me!’

  She threw Jonathan and me an accusing look, but we didn’t react. Joan was in charge of this situation and we had to let her deal with it.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ Joan said to us, as she mopped up the spillage with paper napkins. ‘Now, Keeley, let’s start again shall we? You can go and refill your drink. It was just an accident so let’s not allow it to spoil our lunch.’

  Keeley scowled and then stomped off to refill her drink at the self-service machine. I felt a pang of pity for her. To hear bad language from any young child always upsets me, and not just because I find the words offensive. It usually shows that the child has been exposed to an unsuitable environment, and that some of their childhood innocence has been taken from them too soon. The fact Keeley was such an appealing-looking girl and dressed in such a pretty outfit somehow made her foul language all the more shocking; it was completely at odds with her sweet appearance.

  Jonathan and I ordered a coffee and chatted to Joan about what the weather would be like the following day, when there was a popular country fair taking place in the region.

  ‘Can I go?’ Keeley asked, her ears pricking up. ‘Is it like a fairground?’

  ‘It’s more like a country show, with animals on display and a farmers’ market and stalls,’ Joan explained. ‘I don’t know if your foster carer is planning to go, you’ll have to ask her.’

  ‘There’s no chance,’ Keeley snorted, tossing her hair back and rolling her eyes. ‘She won’t take me!’

  ‘You don’t know until you ask,’ Joan said. ‘It’s a big event and a lot of people go. You never know, you may just be lucky.’

  ‘No, I already know what the answer will be. I’m never lucky! I fucking hate her!’

  ‘Keeley!’ Joan hushed. ‘What have I said about your language?’

  ‘Urgh? What language?’

  ‘Your bad language. Now, come on, let’s not have any more of it. Let’s get on with our lunch. I’m starving.’

  Jonathan and I drank our coffee and tried to make conversation, but Keeley was far more interested in when her pizza was arriving and what was on the desert menu than chatting with a couple of strangers like us. That was perfectly understandable, and Jonathan and I politely finished our drinks and said our goodbyes. The meeting must have lasted less than fifteen minutes, but it was long enough for us to make up our minds.

  ‘We’d love to have Keeley,’ I told Sandy on the phone later. ‘Please let me know when she can come and stay. I’m looking forward to it already.’

  Keeley was undoubtedly going to be a challenge. The bad language and petulant behaviour did her no favours, but I was optimistic nonetheless. She had spirit and character, and I wanted to help her.

  2

  ‘I’ve hurt myself’

  ‘Angela! Come quick!’

  It was Sue, who’s a good friend and neighbour, shouting and hammering on my door.

  ‘What is it?’ I gasped. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘No. It’s Keeley. She’s hurt one of the Morris boys.’

  There was a recreation area behind our house where lots of the local children played. It was safe and overlooked by houses on all sides. Parents were generally very happy to let their little ones out to play on their own as most of the neighbours could see onto the ‘rec’, as it was known, from their home. I could have easily kept an eye on Keeley from our lounge window, which was on the middle floor of our three-storey town house. This gave me a very clear view across the football fields and play area, but I had decided to stay out with Keeley, to make sure she settled in with the other children and played nicely. She seemed to be joining in perfectly well, and so when I eventually needed to use the bathroom I was happy to ask Sue to watch her for me for a few minutes.

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ I said to Sue, after first explaining to Keeley that I had to nip inside.

  ‘Take your time, Angela,’ Sue smiled. ‘She’s absolutely fine and I’ll stay right here. Don’t rush.’

  Having Sue running to fetch me like this, just minutes later, was therefore very unexpected, and alarming.

  Following the meeting in Pizza Hut, Keeley was now staying with us for a weekend trial visit, with a view to moving in full time at the end of the month. She had been in a pleasant and receptive mood from the moment we’d collected her from her full-time foster carer, meeting as we did in a retail park halfway between our two homes. I’d had a good feeling about Keeley’s stay. Her eyes were shining and she climbed into our car very willingly, bubbling with excitement and telling us she was really looking forward to the visit.

  Keeley was chatty and pleasant throughout the car journey and showed none of the surliness or rude behaviour we’d seen at Pizza Hut. As soon as we arrived back I showed Keeley around our home and florist shop, which we’d owned and run for many years and was incorporated into the front of the ground floor of our house. I also explained to her that we had two teenage boys also staying with us, and that she would meet them later, when they came home for dinner.

  ‘Wow!’ she giggled when I showed her to her large bedroom, which was along the landing from the boys’ bedrooms and the bathroom they would all share, on the top floor of the house.

  ‘I like it!’ Keeley smiled, deep dimples appearing in her golden cheeks. ‘It’s nicer than at her house.’

  I let this remark go, not wanting to enter into a discussion about Keeley’s current foster carer. As soon as the guided tour was over Keeley had asked if she could play out, telling me she wanted to show her ragdoll, Jinty, to the other children she had seen outside.

  ‘Of course you can,’ I said, pleased she had the confidence to put herself out there so soon after arriving. ‘Just make sure you look after Jinty!’

  ‘I will,’ she replied sweetly, looking at me with her big brown eyes. ‘I promise.’

  I took her outside and introduced her to some of the children I knew and then for a good twenty minutes I sat on a bench with Sue and watched Keeley tearing around the field, playing tag and taking turns pushing her doll
around in a toy buggy belonging to another little girl. It was lovely to see Keeley looking so happy and carefree, running around in the fresh air with her mass of shiny black curls tumbling down her back.

  This was to be the first of two weekend visits. As far as Keeley was concerned she was simply coming to us for respite, in the same way she used to go on short breaks with foster carers when she was still living with her mum. However, if all went well, her social worker would explain to Keeley that she could move in with us full time, if she was happy to.

  I had been thinking about whether this would happen while watching Keeley play, and hoping that it would. When Sue banged on my door I had two thoughts in quick succession: how had she hurt the Morris boy, and would this incident spoil the plans for Keeley’s move?

  ‘What do you mean, she’s hurt one of the Morris boys,’ I said, running back to the rec. I normally used the gate that leads onto a passageway to the rear, left-hand side of our house, but there was also a gate at the bottom of our garden that opened directly onto the back of the rec. It was fractionally quicker to go that way, and so I tore across the back lawn, with Sue dashing behind me.

  ‘I’m not sure what went on,’ Sue confessed. ‘I’m really sorry, Angela, it must have all happened in the blink of an eye. I didn’t see anything until it was too late.’

  To my dismay, I saw Ben Morris, who was about six or seven years old, sitting on the grass and sobbing uncontrollably. He was clutching his arm and his older sister was crouched beside him holding a tissue spotted with blood. She turned to me and scowled.

  ‘That brat pinched him really hard,’ she accused, pointing at Keeley.

  ‘Liar!’ Keeley spat.

  ‘You’re the liar!’ Ben’s sister retorted.

  ‘What on earth has happened?’ I asked. ‘Ben, are you all right, love? Can you tell me what happened?’

  The boy ignored me and continued to cry, hiding his face on his sister’s shoulder.

  ‘They were playing tag,’ Ben’s sister stated. ‘And she just pinched him for no reason.’

  I looked at Sue who shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Angela,’ she repeated, ‘I just didn’t see what happened . . .’