The Girl Who Just Wanted to Be Loved

by Angela Hart

  ‘Do you think I’ll win?’ she asked excitedly, as she lined up alongside lots of fairy-tale princesses, a Goldilocks, Pinocchio and Jack from Jack and the Beanstalk.

  ‘Who knows?’ I said, smiling. ‘You’ve got as good a chance and anyone. You look great!’

  In the event Keeley took third prize and was given a book voucher for W H Smiths, which she was very pleased with. One of the Cinderellas and Pinocchio took first and second prizes, which Keeley accepted graciously. ‘I think they did look the best,’ she said, adding wistfully, ‘my mum would like that Cinderella dress. She loves pretty dresses.’

  This comment made me feel slightly uncomfortable. We’d been to a few supervised visits with Keeley’s mum by now, each of them very similar to the first. Keeley always put on her most sparkly dresses and her mum picked her up and spun her around, sometimes with her hands under her dress, on Keeley’s bare legs. The supervising social worker had had several words about this, I’d learned from Sandy, but it didn’t seem to stop Tina behaving inappropriately. It was a difficult situation, because it did appear that Tina’s low mental age was responsible for her behaviour, rather than something more sinister. She picked Keeley up like you might a young baby girl in a frock, when nappies and tights made it acceptable to touch the legs. Clearly, though, at eight years old Keeley was no baby, and her mum really should have known better.

  Anyhow, the carnival was great fun, and I didn’t allow those uncomfortable thoughts to cloud the enjoyment of the rest of the day. After the fancy dress competition, Keeley and I admired the floats and we both cheered and waved when we spotted the one on which the girls’ choir was assembled, resplendent in their bonnets. Keeley was transfixed when they began their repertoire with a very joyful and upbeat song that got the crowd clapping and tapping their feet.

  ‘I’d love to be in a choir like that,’ Keeley said.

  ‘Would you? Well, these girls are a little bit older than you, but perhaps you could see if you could join the choir at school?’

  She thought about this for a moment, and I was hoping she might be as taken with this idea as she was about joining the theatre group. I think by this point in time, with so many fights and arguments already behind us, I was prepared to encourage anything of this nature that might distract Keeley from misbehaving.

  ‘No, I can’t do that. The teachers don’t like me and they won’t let me join the choir, and the girls are all the stuck up ones. They don’t like me either.’

  Keeley delivered this verdict very calmly, as if she accepted this was her fate and wasn’t even going to bother trying to challenge this situation.

  ‘I don’t think it’s true to say the teachers don’t like you,’ I said. ‘The teachers don’t like some of your behaviour sometimes, but that does not mean they don’t like you.’

  Keeley didn’t look convinced but she didn’t argue, and so I carried on talking while I had her attention, and she seemed to be in a fairly responsive mood.

  ‘As for the other girls, how do you know they don’t like you? Perhaps you just need to get to know them.’

  ‘No, they are stuck up. They look down their snooty noses at me, Angela. They think they are better than me.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘It’s true. They think they are better than me because they live with their mums and dads and I don’t.’

  I felt my heart tighten when she said this, because I knew there was probably some truth in what she was saying. Before I started fostering, I had no idea of the prejudice that exists against children in care. Many people don’t even know they are doing it and it isn’t necessarily intentional, but unfortunately the mere mention of ‘foster care’ can provoke misguided judgements in some that can lead to discrimination against a child. Sadly, some people with no experience or understanding of fostering often jump to conclusions about a child’s intelligence, their personality and even their future prospects, purely because they have the label that they are in care. Most damagingly, some people imagine that a foster child is responsible for their circumstances, or that there must be something wrong with them because they have ‘ended up’ in a foster home. I’ve seen this in peoples’ eyes and in their reactions many times, and I always want to say to them: ‘This child was not born bad. This child was born into a bad family situation. She did not ask to be a foster child. Please understand the difference! It could have happened to you, or me, but it happened to this child. It is not her fault. She has as much right as you and I to be treated fairly and without prejudice.’

  I didn’t press the point about the choir, instead changing the subject and telling her a bit more about the theatre group I thought she might be interested in. It was actually a musical theatre group, I told her, and I explained that the previous year I’d watched a terrific performance they put on of Mary Poppins.

  ‘Who is Mary Poppins?’ she asked, which gave me another pang in my chest.

  I must have been about Keeley’s age the first time I watched the film, in black and white, with my family. Since then I’d watched it dozens of times, often with foster kids snuggled up on my settee. In my mind it was a part of childhood that you simply couldn’t escape. Even if Keeley hadn’t yet watched the film, it seemed very sad that she hadn’t even heard of it.

  ‘Mary Poppins is a magical nanny,’ I said. ‘It’s a lovely film; we’ll have to watch it together next time it’s on. Seeing it on stage is lovely too. I’ll keep my eyes open and see if there’s a performance coming up locally. Would you like to go and see it?’

  Keeley nodded.

  ‘Do you have to play a musical instrument to be in the theatre group?’ she then asked. ‘Because if you do then I’ll have to forget it.’

  ‘No, not at all. Some of the children do play instruments, I think, but mostly they sing and dance or act, or do a bit of everything. We’ll find out more, shall we?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said emphatically. ‘As long as none of those girls from the school choir go.’

  I couldn’t guarantee that, of course, but I didn’t say this. Instead I promised Keeley I’d phone up Mrs Crowther, a very enthusiastic, middle-aged lady who’d run the group for years, and make enquiries.

  Keeley enjoyed the carnival so much she didn’t want to go home. She asked me to take her photograph several times; first when she was wearing her bonnet, again on the spinning teacups ride and also when she tried her hand at hook-a-duck and won a light-up necklace, which she loved and wore for the rest of the day.

  ‘Can I hold your hand?’ she asked when we finally set off home.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Have you had a nice day?’

  ‘The best ever. Thank you, Angela.’

  That evening Keeley followed me around like a little shadow.

  ‘Can I sit next to you?’ she asked when we put the TV on in the early evening. ‘Can you plait my hair? Can you help me change Jinty’s clothes?’

  It was lovely to see her in such a good mood and of course I obliged, but when Jonathan came in and I told him about our day, she started behaving quite strangely.

  ‘I’m absolutely shattered!’ he declared after we’d caught up on each other’s news. ‘It’s been such a busy day in the shop.’

  ‘You do look tired,’ I said. ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh yes please, I’d love one, thanks, Angela.’

  Keeley narrowed her eyes and spoke to Jinty, who was sitting between us on the settee. ‘Can’t he make it himself?’ she asked. ‘Why does Angela have to do it?’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Keeley?’ I asked, trying to brush over her remark. ‘I’m happy to put the kettle on, and I could make a big pot for all of us to share. The boys will be back any time too.’

  She let out an exaggerated sigh.

  ‘Boys!’ she huffed, again talking to Jinty. ‘I wish they would go away. Far, far away and never come back.’

  I couldn’t ignore this.

  ‘Keeley,’ I explained. ‘I know w
e’ve had a lovely day together, just you and me, but Carl and Phillip, and Jonathan, are all in this evening and this is their home too. There’s no reason we can’t enjoy the evening together, all five of us.’

  She totally ignored me and stayed sulking in the living room while I stood up, ready to go downstairs to make the tea.

  ‘How was the carnival then, Keeley?’ Jonathan asked, as I was leaving the room. ‘I heard you won a prize. Well done!’

  She pretended she hadn’t heard, but Jonathan told me later that he wasn’t easily put off, and he’d persisted with his questions.

  ‘Did you take some photographs? What did you win?’

  ‘None of your business, nosy parker!’ she’d shouted, staring intently at Jinty.

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ Jonathan had exclaimed. ‘I hope you weren’t speaking to me like that, Keeley?’

  Again she spoke to the doll. ‘What was that noise? Did you hear something?’

  She lifted Jinty up to her ear. ‘What was that you said? Oh, yes, just a silly old man!’

  ‘Keeley!’ Jonathan said. ‘Will you please stop being rude and ignoring me. I’ve been trying to ask you about the carnival. I heard you had a great day. How was it?’

  Jonathan was shocked to see that now Keeley put her hands on her ears and began humming loudly, shaking her head from side to side.

  ‘What on earth is going on with all this humming?’ I asked, when I came back into the room with the tea tray. ‘Why are you making that noise, Keeley?’

  She carried on, and Jonathan relayed what had just happened.

  ‘Keeley, if you don’t start behaving properly I’m afraid I might have to send you to bed early.’

  She took her hands away from her ears and lowered the volume of her humming.

  ‘Did you hear me, Keeley? I said, please behave yourself or I will have to send you to bed early tonight.’

  Keeley finally stopped humming, and then she got to her feet, hurling Jinty at Jonathan as she did so.

  ‘It’s all his fault!’ she screamed. ‘It’s all his fucking stupid fault! Everything was fine until he came in!’

  Keeley was eventually sent to bed half an hour early that night, after being given three warnings to apologise and curb her behaviour, which she repeatedly failed to do. In fact, she got worse instead of better as the evening wore on, and she completely ignored Carl and Phillip when we had dinner together. Her language was shocking too, and she called me a ‘fucking bitch’ as I put her to bed.

  ‘I hate you all,’ were her final words as I switched off the light, feeling absolutely wrung out.

  15

  ‘Is this what is wrong with Keeley?’

  The next morning Keeley came down for breakfast and seemed to have completely forgotten what had taken place the evening before.

  ‘Can I play out?’ she asked, looking out of the kitchen window and across to the rec.

  It was quite early and I told her that she could, once she had done her homework and tidied her bedroom.

  ‘OK, thanks!’ she smiled.

  She ate some toast and marmalade and had a glass of milk, and then she told me she was going to have a shower first, then tidy her room and do her homework.

  ‘I’ve got spellings,’ she said. ‘Will you test me later?’

  ‘Of course. I’d be happy to.’

  Though I found them unsettling, I’d become accustomed to Keeley’s unpredictable moods by now and Jonathan and I had agreed that we should try to always enjoy the calm before the next storm, because otherwise we would be permanently at loggerheads.

  I explained this to Sandy when she phoned, as she did once a week to check how we were getting on. This call was in addition to the support we received at the regular sixweekly placement meetings, and Sandy wanted to know if there were any concerns we wanted to raise.

  ‘Well, we are still seeing a lot of bad behaviour, and her moods are unpredictable,’ I said, ‘but at other times she is a delight to be with. There is no rhyme and reason to it. We try to make the most of the good times, of course.’

  ‘Do you feel you are coping with Keeley, despite the behaviour issues?’

  ‘Yes, I do, but I have to admit she is not an easy child to look after. Normally I’d be seeing a general improvement in the child’s behaviour by now, but Keeley’s progress is erratic, to say the least.’

  ‘I see,’ Sandy said, encouraging me to go on.

  I was careful not to sound as if I was losing patience with Keeley, as overall I didn’t consider that I was.

  ‘You know what it’s like with most children, Sandy,’ I continued. ‘Nearly every child is on their best behaviour when they begin a foster placement, aren’t they? Then, after this so-called “honeymoon period”, they might have a bit of a relapse, and then they usually get back on track, settle down and show a steady improvement, don’t they?’

  ‘That’s generally the way it goes,’ Sandy conceded. ‘And you and I should know,’ she added, a nod to the many years’ experience we had between us.

  ‘Well, with Keeley it’s not like that,’ I went on. ‘She’s not like any other child I have come across before. It is very difficult to gauge how she is going to behave, and Jonathan and I have said several times that it feels like for every one step we take forward, we often take two steps back.’

  Sandy paused.

  ‘I was at a conference the other week,’ she said. ‘And a case study was discussed that reminded me of Keeley.’

  I was all ears as Sandy went on to discuss the child in question. This young girl was seven years old and, like Keeley, she had also been brought up by a mother with a low mental age, who had failed to bond with her daughter.

  ‘The young girl was accused of being an attention seeker,’ Sandy explained. ‘But in fact she had “attachment disorder”, because she hadn’t bonded with her mother the way she should have done from birth and in her early years. She was reaching out to one particular carer as she wanted to form an attachment with that person, but this was often misconstrued as attention-seeking behaviour. Often it was very bad behaviour the girl exhibited, but the point was she was doing this to try to bond with her carer, because she wanted to be noticed and not ignored, as she had been as a baby and toddler. She didn’t know how else to behave, as she hadn’t learned how to form a normal relationship. Ultimately, love was what she needed and wanted, but she asked for love in an unpleasant manner.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, my mind going into overdrive. ‘Is this what is wrong with Keeley? Do you think Keeley has this “attachment disorder”?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ Sandy said. ‘There is certainly nothing in her file about it, and of course I don’t know exactly what she’s discussing in therapy. All we know for sure is that she suffered emotional and physical abuse at home, and possibly sexual abuse. Clearly, I don’t want to start putting a label on Keeley and guessing at a medical diagnosis; that would be very wrong of me. The case study did ring bells, though. I thought it might be useful for you to hear about it, just in case it might help you deal with Keeley in some way. There’s a leaflet I picked up that gives some tips for carers and parents that might be useful for you to see. I’ll pass it on.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘The girl’s story certainly does have similarities to Keeley’s. Thinking about it, I’m sure I’ve got some notes on attachment disorder, actually. I remember it was mentioned at a training session not that long ago. I’ll go and dig the notes out.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Sandy said. ‘I don’t think it can do any harm to do a bit of research, as long as we’re not jumping to any conclusions.’

  ‘Precisely,’ I agreed. ‘Forewarned is forearmed, I always say. At least it might give me some clues to help me understand Keeley a bit better.’

  Sandy said she trusted me to use the information sensitively. Social workers and foster carers generally knew little about attachment disorder in those days, and far fewer children were diagnosed with it compared to today. Now th
ere is a wealth of help and information available to all foster carers. Research into attachment disorder has not only increased but become much more widely recognised and distributed, and of course there is now a huge amount of material online, including support groups and discussion boards accessible everywhere from Mumsnet to Facebook.

  After the call I went straight upstairs to find my old notes, which I kept in rows of lever arch files on a large bookcase in my bedroom, precisely for times like this, when I wanted to refer back so some information we’d been given at training. It didn’t take me long to locate them, as I’m meticulous about dating everything and I had a fairly good idea when the session took place.

  I sat at my dressing table and began to read, my eyes hungrily scanning the page.

  The first three years of a child’s life are crucial to switching on their capacity to bond with other human beings. If somehow that bond is not developed it can make it extremely difficult for the child to function in society. Healthy brain development depends on the child’s interaction with their mother, or parent figure, in these critical early years. If a child is not given eye contact or a loving touch, or soothed, nurtured and fed consistently, and when necessary, nerve connections crucial to forging human bonds and relationships are not formed. The results can be very damaging and farreaching. A child who develops attachment disorder is prone to behavioural and interpersonal problems.

  Alarmingly the notes, which had originated from a research centre in America, went on to state that some experts believe such damage to brain development in early childhood might be ‘irreparable and irreversible’. Being in a stable and loving home and receiving effective therapy ‘could go some way towards helping the child progress’, I read, but that was where the information ran out.

  My mind flashed back over some of the incidents we’d had with Keeley, and particularly those involving other children she had fallen out with. There was no doubt she had behavioural and interpersonal problems, and now I’d read this, things seemed to make a little more sense. After all, how could a child like Keeley, starved of basic care and bonding from birth, be expected to form relationships as naturally as a child who’d been nurtured and soothed and shown boundless love and affection? I wanted to hug her and tell her everything was all right. Nothing was her fault. Having a diagnosis that labelled her as an ‘attachment disorder’ sufferer seemed irrelevant. We knew she had been emotionally abused and was having therapy, and from now on I felt that Jonathan and I had to work on the basis that what happened in her early years had potentially left her with the problems she had behaving herself and getting along with others.