by Angela Hart
‘I’m sorry to hear you got into a fight and swore at a teacher,’ I said when he arrived home from school by bus that evening.
I’d spoken to the head of year and knew the details, but I asked Phillip to tell me what had happened. He had been involved in similar fights in the past and Phillip’s standard apology and explanation was, ‘I lost my temper, I’m sorry,’ which I always fully accepted and understood. This time, however, he came out with something I wasn’t expecting.
‘It’s Keeley,’ he said. ‘It was her fault.’
‘Keeley? What’s she got to do with it? She goes to a different school. What are you talking about, Phillip?’
‘You don’t know the half of it, Angela!’ he yelled, banging his fist on the kitchen table. ‘I can’t take it anymore!’
20
‘You can’t solve everything, you know’
After his outburst, blaming Keeley for his fight at school, Phillip started to cry. Over the course of the next half hour or so he reluctantly told me about a string of tricks that Keeley had played on him, which he’d been too embarrassed to tell me about before. Her spiteful behaviour included elbowing him in the ribs whenever she walked past him and nobody else was looking, singing very loudly next to his wall when he was trying to do his homework, smearing toothpaste and hair gel on his bedroom door handle, refusing to let him into the bathroom when he needed the toilet, and teasing him relentlessly with the phrase, ‘I know why you’re in care!’
Not surprisingly, that last taunt seemed to have tipped the balance and really made his blood boil.
‘Is that right, Angela?’ he asked nervously. ‘Does she know why I’m in care?’
Phillip had been rejected by his mother after she remarried several years earlier, which is what led to him being placed in care. His slightly older sister still lived with their mother, which was very difficult for him to accept. His sister had physically abused Phillip, burning him with cigarettes and matches, and she had played psychological games with him throughout his formative years.
I reassured him that Keeley had no idea why he was in care, reiterating that this was something I would never discuss with anybody other than Jonathan, under any circumstances. Keeley was making this up to aggravate him, I told him.
‘Well she’s succeeded!’ he said. ‘She’s making my life a misery!’
The bad blood between Phillip and Keeley was not a passing phase; unfortunately it persisted, spreading like a rotten smell throughout the house. Despite enjoying the shopping trip and her pampering experience in the bath, which she thanked me for several times, Keeley soon snapped back into to being extremely difficult. In fact, she behaved appallingly every day leading up to the police interview. Her back chatting, spitefulness towards the boys and rudeness towards me, and particularly Jonathan, seemed to be non-stop, and she was full of anger. We understood this under the circumstances, but it was still very tough to live with.
One afternoon I spoke to Sandy on the phone about the arrangements for Keeley’s interview, and I told her how bad things were.
‘Have you thought about giving her an old telephone directory and letting her rip it to pieces when she is in a rage?’ she asked. ‘I’ve heard it’s a good way for children like her to vent their anger, in a safe way.’
I was so desperate I tried this the following night, after Keeley had scratched Phillip and drawn blood on his arm during a scuffle in the kitchen. Apparently he’d found Keeley standing on the worktop, trying to hide his favourite mug on top of the highest wall unit.
‘I’ll report you to my social worker,’ he’d threatened.
‘Fine! They won’t do anything! I bet you’ve complained to them before and they haven’t done anything, have they? You’re stuck with me, you daft fucker.’
Phillip tried to grab her and she scratched his arm with her fingernail. I came in on the tail end of the scrap. My gut instinct was to take hold of Phillip’s arm immediately and inspect the cut, but of course I had to put on a pair of gloves first. Fumbling with the box of disposable gloves I kept in the kitchen, I felt like bursting into tears but I bit my lip and stopped myself. I had similar feelings to these for days and days, as I tried to draw on an ever-decreasing pool of patience, goodwill and energy. I kept telling myself that things would get better, because how could they get any worse?
Keeley looked at me triumphantly when I decided to take Sandy’s advice later that day and give her an old telephone directory to destroy. Keeley made a huge mess all over the dining room with it, which she crossly refused to clear up, and I was left feeling even more frustrated and defeated. That method of anger management was later deemed to be unhelpful and we were taught that trying to keep a child calm worked better. This advice has changed since, and now the thinking once again is that children need to release their anger in a physical but safe way, though not necessarily with a telephone directory.
Anyhow, in Keeley’s case keeping calm appeared to work best, and after I’d bought her the smellies, soaking in the bath seemed to do her good. She loved the bubbles and electric candles, and after her bath that night she finally emerged in a much better frame of mind.
‘Can I watch telly before bed?’ she asked.
Keeley was dressed in pink pyjamas, wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe and cuddling Jinty. Her face was glowing after her warm bath, and she looked very pretty, and positively virtuous.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘as long as you are polite to everybody, we have no more arguments, especially with the boys, and you go to bed on time. Do we have a deal?’
‘Yes,’ she grinned, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘It’s a deal, Angela.’
That was the only real chink of light over several days. I left her contentedly watching the television and retreated to the kitchen, where I made myself a large mug of sweet tea and indulged in a chocolate biscuit.
The next night when she took her bath, I noticed that Keeley was only in the bathroom for a very short time. She could have only had a very quick dip, and she certainly hadn’t been in there long enough to have a soak or a proper wash. What’s more, she told me the electric candles had broken already, which was very disappointing, as we hadn’t had them for very long.
‘I’ll take them back to the shop,’ I said. ‘I think we should be able to exchange them. They should last for a lot longer than this.’
Unfortunately, when I did just that, returning them to the shop and complaining about the quality, I was left redfaced, because the shopkeeper opened the battery compartments and found they were full of water.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I explained. ‘The person who used them must have splashed water on them without realising.’
‘Actually, I think it was more than a splash,’ the shopkeeper replied, mopping up the mess on her counter with a handful of tissues. ‘Both candles would appear to have been totally submerged.’
‘Oh,’ I replied sheepishly. ‘Well, I’ll buy another set then and tell the person who used them to be more careful next time.’
This proved to be a complete waste of money, because Keeley clearly couldn’t resist dipping the new set of candles in the water either, and a day later they were broken too.
‘Keeley, what did I say to you about keeping the candles dry?’
‘I did!’
‘You didn’t, because look at the water inside the battery compartment. Look, I’ve opened them up. It’s exactly the same as last time. You must have put them under the water.’
‘I didn’t.’
As frequently happened with Keeley, I couldn’t confidently continue the argument. I hadn’t actually seen her put the candles in the water, although of course there was no other logical explanation. After that she started to refuse to have baths and we went back to having regular discussions about how she needed to have daily showers instead, and wash herself properly using shower gel and a sponge. She rarely did, and we were back to square one with Keeley coming home from school smelling of urine and wearing damp knicke
rs and trousers.
I’d discovered that, despite me telling her to place her dirty trousers in the laundry bin every night, Keeley was wearing the same pair every day and putting the clean ones I laid out for her in the wash. I only noticed this because the pair she favoured had some red stitching on the front pockets, while the other pairs were all completely black. When I tackled her about this she said she didn’t know what I was talking about.
‘But Keeley, I know you are wearing the same trousers every day because you only have one pair with red stitching.’
‘Exactly! Why can’t they all have red stitching?’
‘Then would you wear clean ones every day?’
‘No, because the other kids would think I was trying to be posh if I wore clean trousers every day!’
I could see I was allowing myself to be drawn into yet another confusing and nonsensical argument that I wasn’t going to win, and I bit my tongue once more. One evening I gathered up all the trousers, took out my sewing kit and added red stitching onto all the other trousers. Then I made a point of emptying Keeley’s laundry bin every night so she had no choice but to wear a clean pair from her wardrobe, which thankfully she didn’t seem to mind doing now as they all had the same red stitching.
‘You’re amazing!’ Jonathan said when he found me hunched over the trousers, needle and thread in hand.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said, trying to smile but finding it difficult. ‘I’m not sure I’m doing an amazing job at all.’
‘You are,’ he assured, though I could tell that Jonathan was struggling to be positive too.
He hadn’t been sleeping very well, which wasn’t like him, and he’d been grumpy with the boys about things that didn’t normally bother him. For example, Phillip had a habit of scattering dry mud from his football boots in the hallway. Typically, Jonathan would issue a firm but lighthearted reminder that he should take his boots off outside, or he’d say something like: ‘Phillip, are you leaving that mud there for the magic cleaning fairy to come and clear away, or shall I fetch you the dustpan and brush?’
The next time it happened, however, Jonathan snapped.
‘What did I tell you about taking your boots off outside?’ he said, sighing in exasperation and flapping his arms about. ‘Look at this mess! I won’t tell you again, Phillip. Have a bit of common sense, please! You’re thirteen years old, not five!’
We were both feeling the strain, but neither of us really knew where to go from here. Keeley’s placement was only in its third month, and we didn’t want to give up on her.
When the day of the police interview finally came round I was feeling stressed and nervous.
‘God, I hope this makes a difference,’ I said to Jonathan.
‘So do I, but we have to be prepared for the fact she might be even more difficult to deal with afterwards. It’s going to be very tough for her, going in there and talking to strangers about her past. It could affect her in a very negative way. She’s going to need our support.’
Jonathan was right, but even though I dreaded Keeley being even more out of control I actually felt better instead of worse when I really thought about what he said. Jonathan had put things in perspective for me. This was a very difficult time for Keeley, and whatever she was experiencing was much tougher than whatever I was going through. This is a thought that’s recurred many times with different children throughout my fostering career, and is one that keeps me focused and still coming back for more. At the end of the day, the kids need care, and it’s my job to provide that, no matter how hard it gets for me. That’s the nature of the job, it’s what counts at the end of the day, and it’s worth it, always.
Keeley was monosyllabic on the journey to the police house and when we arrived she didn’t say a word as a smiley female police officer, dressed in civilian clothing, escorted her into the interview room. It was decorated to look as much like an ordinary living room as possible, albeit one with cameras on the walls and tape machines on the coffee table. Jonathan and I glimpsed Keeley being shown to a comfortable settee scattered with cushions, and then we were swiftly directed to an adjacent room to wait for her.
The rule in these interviews is that police officers can’t prompt a child to talk, for the same reasons that foster carers have to use the mirroring technique in conversations when a child is making a disclosure. Anything the child says to us or to the police might be used in court, and so it is imperative that nobody can claim words have been put in the child’s mouth.
Jonathan and I sat uncomfortably on a pair of plastic chairs, making small talk but both struggling to focus on anything but Keeley and what she was going through next door. Twenty minutes later she emerged with the female officer, who was looking sympathetic and telling her not to worry.
‘Mr and Mrs Hart, you are free to take Keeley home now.’
The officer looked downbeat and gave a slight shake of the head as she spoke to us, but I wasn’t sure if this meant the interview had been unsuccessful, or if the officer was upset about what she had just heard.
I desperately wanted to know how the interview had gone, but it wasn’t my place to ask. Social Services would be informed and Jonathan and I would be filled in on a need to know basis only, so maybe we would never find out.
Keeley barely said a word all the way home. She had Jinty with her, and she spent the whole journey plaiting and un-plaiting her hair.
‘Are you struggling there, Keeley?’ I asked. ‘Can I help you?’
She kept her eyes on the doll.
‘No. You can’t help, Angela. You can’t solve everything, you know.’
21
‘I don’t want to give up on her . . .’
Jonathan and I had a lot to discuss at Keeley’s next placement meeting, which was coming up soon. We wanted to talk about Keeley’s effect on the boys and particularly Phillip, plus Jonathan and I had prepared a long list of the behaviour issues we’d encountered that we felt we needed to pass on and ask for advice about.
‘I’m really very worried they’ll think we’re not coping,’ I said after we talked before the meeting about the many problems we’d had with Keeley’s rudeness, spitefulness and general lack of discipline.
‘We have to face the facts,’ Jonathan replied flatly. ‘Maybe we’re not coping. Maybe the right thing to do would be to admit this? I mean, if Keeley has got deep-rooted attachment issues that are causing her to behave badly, maybe we’re not qualified enough to help her? We’re trained foster carers, not psychologists or qualified mental health professionals. Plus we haven’t even been given a diagnosis, so we’re working in the dark really, aren’t we? I don’t think anyone could accuse us of not doing our best, but perhaps our best is not good enough?’
My heart sank when he said this. The same thing had crossed my mind several times recently but I’d been hoping, perhaps naively, that the roller-coaster ride would start to slow down, if not stop. Optimism is one of the characteristics you need in spades as a foster carer. You have to stay strong and see each day as a new challenge, come what may. I’d been doing this with Keeley for months and I’d also been telling myself not to take anything personally.
However badly Keeley behaved with Jonathan and me, I constantly reminded myself that we were not the ones who caused her pain and trauma in her early childhood. It was not our fault that she behaved the way she did, and we had to keep offering her unconditional care and support to help her cope with her past and move forward. The trouble was, of course, it wasn’t just mine and Jonathan’s life that Keeley was affecting and disrupting, and we couldn’t expect the boys to deal with her the way we did.
‘I think we’re doing OK in the circumstances,’ I said, trying hard to give Jonathan an encouraging smile. ‘It’s just very tough because we have the boys too. That’s what’s making it difficult, but we’ll get there, I’m sure.’
Jonathan looked disheartened, and I didn’t like to see him like that.
‘Will we really? I’m not at al
l sure, Angela. I think perhaps Keeley needs to be the only child in a placement. Look how she is when she is with you on her own. Generally speaking, she’s like a different girl. I’m loathed to say it, but she’d be better off with carers who aren’t looking after any other children, wouldn’t she?’
The words hung in the air for a moment. I knew Jonathan was right and I couldn’t argue. I’d thought this myself but never voiced it, and it upset me to acknowledge this now. Thankfully, the boys themselves had never asked if we could move Keeley out, or if they could move, so I took some small comfort from that. There were times when all three children had played games like Cluedo and draughts around the kitchen table together, and managed to get on well and even have fun. They were rare times though, I had to admit. Things clearly weren’t great for the boys and their lives had certainly not improved with Keeley’s arrival, but at least they weren’t desperate. That’s what I had been telling myself as I tried my best to make things work.
‘You’re right, in theory, Jonathan, but,’ I stuttered, ‘I don’t want to give up on Keeley . . . She’s been through enough in her life already. Perhaps she should never have been placed with us when we already had the boys, but we can’t change that now, can we? We have to make the best of things. Surely we can do it?’
Now it was Jonathan’s turn to dig deep and offer me some encouragement.
‘If we acknowledge that we think Keeley would do better as the only child in a placement, it doesn’t mean we’re incompetent or that we’re no good as foster carers. Keeley is just a particularly difficult child to look after, and having the boys makes it much harder. It’s nigh on impossible to juggle the three of them successfully.’
Jonathan was talking a lot of sense, but it was still upsetting and I couldn’t help putting up counterarguments.
‘What if we suggest it’s best for Keeley if she is moved to a single placement, and then she is placed somewhere even more unsuitable? And what if she knew this came from us and felt we’d let her down? What might that do to her? It could be catastrophic!’