by Angela Hart
The Girl With No Bedroom Door
Angela Hart
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Epilogue
1
‘I’m rubbish. I’ll mess it up’
It was a blistering hot afternoon in the summer of 1993 when Louise arrived on our doorstep. I was surprised to see she was dressed in a thick black-and-white shell suit, zipped up to the neck, and chunky high-top trainers that her feet must have been sweltering in.
‘Hello!’ I smiled. ‘Come in! I’m Angela.’
Louise’s arms were folded protectively across her chest and she had a faded red baseball cap on her head, with its wide peak pulled down low on her forehead.
‘Hi,’ she muttered, jutting her chin up ever so slightly, so I could just about see her blue eyes.
Louise was fourteen, looked very pale and slight, and her white-blonde hair was tied into a high ponytail that was sprouting, straw-like, from the back of her cap.
‘Come in and sit down,’ I smiled, showing her and my support social worker, Wendy, through to the kitchen. ‘Can I take your jacket, Louise? Aren’t we lucky to have such great weather?’
‘I’m fine thanks,’ Louise shrugged, reluctantly taking a seat at the kitchen table.
The doorbell rang again moments later and Louise’s social worker joined us for the initial placement meeting. We were given all of the background paperwork and emergency contact numbers available to Social Services, and it was explained that Louise would be taken to and from school by taxi, as she was living outside of her old neighbourhood.
Louise shuffled behind us when I saw the two social workers out. There was a small nylon holdall in the hall, which Louise had brought with her, and she picked it up expectantly.
‘Right,’ I said, taking my cue, ‘I’ll show you up to your room, Louise. One thing, would you mind taking off your trainers? It’s something we all do in the house, to help keep it clean.’
‘OK,’ she shrugged, forcing the bulky shoes awkwardly off her feet without untying the laces.
An unpleasant smell of sweat immediately hit my nostrils, and I couldn’t help taking a discreet step backwards. Thankfully, Louise didn’t seem to notice my reaction, and she appeared completely oblivious to the sweaty smell too.
‘Who else lives here?’ Louise asked shyly.
Despite appearing reticent, she stepped up very close to me as she spoke, but I didn’t react or move back from her again; the last thing I wanted to do was offend or upset Louise in any way.
‘You’ll meet my husband Jonathan later, who is also a trained foster carer, and we have two boys staying with us, who are both thirteen. They’re out doing after-school activities at the moment, but they should be back just after five. Come on, I’ll show you your bedroom.’
As we climbed the stairs I explained the layout of our home, which had three bedrooms and a bathroom on the top floor, and mine and Jonathan’s bedroom on the middle floor, along with our bathroom and the lounge. The kitchen and dining room were on the extended ground floor, which also incorporated our family business – a florist that was part of a small parade of shops on the outskirts of town.
‘You’ve got a lovely house,’ Louise said thoughtfully as she looked around. ‘It’s posh! Like a hotel! I’ve never been in a multistorey house before. Is that what you call it?’
‘It’s a town house,’ I smiled. ‘That’s the proper name for it. And we’re not posh, I can assure you of that! I just like to keep a clean and tidy home.’
When we reached the top floor Louise walked over to the brand new divan bed in her large, airy room. She ran her hand over the pretty lilac duvet cover and then turned and looked appreciatively towards the door.
‘I’m glad I’ve got my own bed and door,’ she smiled.
‘You’re glad you’ve got your own bed and door?’ I said, giving her an encouraging smile.
I deliberately mirrored what Louise had said as this was a technique I’d learned on a foster carers’ training course, the idea being that repeating back what the child has said ensures you don’t put words in their mouth. However, Louise didn’t reply and so I broke the silence after a few moments.
‘By the way, we also have a rule in the house that nobody comes into your bedroom uninvited. We have to knock on each other’s door, so we all have our privacy.’
‘Oh, that’s good. When I was living with my mum I didn’t have any privacy at all.’
‘No privacy?’
‘No,’ Louise replied, stepping in slightly too close to me again as she spoke. ‘None at all.’
I couldn’t help noticing that Louise’s breath didn’t smell very fresh either, and I suspected her teeth could do with a good clean. Often when children come into care the placement has been hastily arranged and they are in a state of disarray, or at least not looking and feeling their best. This certainly appeared to be the case with Louise.
After showing her where the bathroom was, and explaining the best escape route in case of a fire, which was a standard routine I had to go through when a new child arrived, I asked cheerfully, ‘Do you want to unpack and freshen up, then perhaps you’d like to help me get the dinner ready?’
‘OK,’ she said tentatively. ‘You mean you want me to . . . help in the kitchen?’
‘Yes, sweetheart, but only if you’d like to.’
‘I’d love to!’ she said, looking amazed. ‘My mum never let me help her because I’m useless at cooking.’
‘Well, it’s only tuna pasta and salad,’ I smiled. ‘Nothing complicated. I’m sure you’ll be a great help.’
Louise’s eyes widened. ‘I can’t make that!’
‘Of course you can!’
‘No, I can’t. I really can’t. I’m rubbish. I’ll mess it up.’
‘That’s what I thought before I made it for the first time, but I can do it because I’ve learned and practised. Come down just as soon as you’re ready and I’ll show you how.’
2
‘Nobody ever taught me that’
When Wendy had phoned to ask if we could take Louise in, Jonathan and I didn’t hesitate in saying yes. We had been passed by Social Services to take in up to three children at any one time and, after fostering for six years, we were also trained as specialist carers for teenagers who needed a bit of extra support. Louise’s previous fostering placement had broken down. As with most of the children we looked after, the initial plan was that she would spend around three months with us, so we could help her deal with whatever problems she had before she returned to mainstream foster care. The specialist scheme was run extremely well. Carers like us received extensive training and we were given a great deal of ongoing support. There would be a placement meeting every six weeks to monitor Louise’s progress, and if Jonathan and I felt we needed any additional help it would be provided.
‘What can you tell me about Louise?’ I’d asked Wendy on the phone.
I knew I would receive all of Louise’s Social Services files when she arrived, but I naturally wanted to have some idea of the issues we’d be facing in advance. I heard the rustle of paperwork.
‘Let me see,’ Wendy said. ‘Louise’s dad left when she was a baby. She’s the oldest of six siblings. Mum wasn’t coping and had a succession of boyfriends. Louise got in with the wrong crowd and had been sleeping rough when she first came to our attention. That was four months ago. She’s since fallen out with her foster carer, and she tried to run away. Now she’s refusing to go back, saying she’s nearly fifteen and can look after herself.�
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‘What was the problem with her previous foster carer?’ I ventured.
I heard Wendy thumb through some more paperwork.
‘I wasn’t on duty when the call came in but, according to the notes from the duty social worker, Louise claims her foster carer was very nasty to her. They had a row and Louise failed to return home after a night out and was found sleeping rough again, back with her old gang from her mother’s neighbourhood. The police picked her up and contacted us.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Wendy. Of course we’ll take her.’
Experience had taught me that whatever information the social workers gave me, I rarely found out the real problem until the child moved into our home and our lives.
‘Er, are you sure you want me to help?’ Louise asked when she came down to the kitchen on her first evening with us.
I had set out the ingredients for the tuna pasta and salad on the kitchen worktop and she looked at them with trepidation.
‘Yes please!’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could chop the onions?’
‘I can’t do that,’ she said, eyeing them nervously.
‘You mean you haven’t learned how to do it yet?’
‘Well, er, I suppose.’
I demonstrated a chopping method my own mother had taught me some twenty-odd years earlier, when I was a bit younger than Louise.
‘Wow!’ Louise marvelled as she watched me cut a criss-cross pattern through the top of the onion before turning it on its side and slicing across the circumference.
‘That’s cool!’ she said as she watched the pieces of diced onion tumble onto chopping board.
‘Isn’t it just? Your turn now.’
As Louise took hold of the next onion I noticed her fingernails were caked with dirt.
‘Oh, I forgot the first rule of cooking,’ I exclaimed breezily. ‘You need to go and wash your hands before you get started, Louise.’
‘They’re all right,’ she said, picking up the onion. ‘I washed them earlier.’
‘No, it’s the rule. You always wash your hands immediately before cooking.’
‘Another rule!’ she huffed. ‘Nobody ever taught me that. It’s only a stupid onion and you’re going to cook it anyhow.’
I didn’t rise to the challenge and, after Louise had reluctantly washed her hands, I guided her through each step as she diced the second onion.
‘It’s not as good as the one you did,’ she frowned.
‘That’s because I’ve chopped hundreds of onions in my time, and this is the first one you’ve ever done. Now then, we need to open the tins of tuna. Do you think you can do that?’
‘No, I can’t use those kinds of can openers.’
‘I’ll show you. It’s easy.’
‘No, I can’t do it!’
‘Of course you can. Let me show you. Just take hold of the can . . .’
This pattern was repeated throughout the preparation of the meal. Crushing garlic, sprinkling herbs, even boiling pasta and arranging the salad in a bowl were viewed as impossible tasks that Louise was certain she was incapable of carrying out; that is, until she was shown how and gave it a go.
‘Lovely dinner!’ Jonathan declared when he and the boys tucked in later.
Jonathan had greeted Louise warmly when he came in from the shop, and both boys had been introduced to her and had given her a polite welcome.
‘I know you’re only saying that,’ Louise snapped rudely at Jonathan. ‘You don’t mean it.’
‘Louise!’ I said. ‘Jonathan didn’t even know you helped me to cook. I think you owe him an apology.’
‘Sorry,’ she sulked.
The two boys polished their plates and asked for seconds, which seemed to astonish Louise.
‘Are you taking the piss?’ she asked.
‘No,’ they both said. ‘Why would we? It’s nice.’
Louise looked bemused. I let the bad language go with a discreet warning, because I could see this was a minor problem to tackle compared to Louise’s other issues. She was clearly not used to receiving praise, and she seemed to have a very low opinion of herself.
I wanted to find out more about what had happened in the past to make her feel like this and, more importantly, I wanted to improve her current attitude, and give her a more positive outlook on life.
3
What on earth is that smell?
Later that evening I discussed what I knew about Louise with Jonathan. I mentioned her broken home, the fact her mother couldn’t cope and that Louise had expressed gratitude for having a bed and a bedroom door. I also told him what little I knew about her running away both from home and from her former foster carer, and the fact she claimed she was ‘useless’ and ‘rubbish’.
‘I think it’s obvious Louise is suffering from low self-esteem,’ I said. ‘She has no faith in her abilities to do even simple tasks, and she doesn’t seem to take much pride in her appearance, which as we know can be a telltale sign.’
‘Yes, I think you’re probably right,’ Jonathan said. ‘Obviously I’ve not really seen much of her yet, but I did notice she’s a little bit, well . . .’
Jonathan is an incredibly polite and sensitive person and is always very tactful. I could tell what he was thinking though, and so I spared him the embarrassment of saying what I knew was on his mind.
‘Smelly?’ I said.
‘Well, yes. There’s no other way of saying it, is there?’
On top of having sweaty feet and dirty teeth and fingernails, Louise suffered from unusual body odour. She gave off an acrid yet stale smell. It was impossible not to notice it, particularly as she had a habit of invading your personal space when she spoke to you.
‘I suppose it’s feasible Louise might never have been taught how to take care of her personal hygiene,’ Jonathan said kindly.
‘Exactly, though why her previous foster carer didn’t tackle it I don’t know. She was there for four months, and her clothes are scruffy and dirty too. I’d like to know more about the breakdown of the placement.’
Before bedtime I suggested to Louise that she might like to take a shower, showing her how to switch it on and where all the toiletries where.
‘Great, thanks!’ she said. But afterwards she didn’t smell any fresher and her hair was only wet in a small patch on the very top of her head. I checked the bathroom and found there was no steam in the room and the shower cubicle was bone dry. Louise had clearly not taken a shower at all, and I imagined she had simply splashed a bit of water on her hair to try to make it look as if she had.
‘Feel free to take another shower before school tomorrow,’ I said, as I wished her goodnight. ‘The weather’s so hot, I’m sure you’d like to shower before school.’
I didn’t say it to Louise, but I was very concerned about what her classmates would think if she went to school smelling the way she did.
‘OK, thanks,’ she nodded. ‘I will.’
However, when Louise appeared for breakfast the next day my heart sank. There’s no polite way of saying this; she smelled absolutely awful – much worse than the day before. My best guess was that the odour came from extremely dirty underwear on top of a very grubby body, possibly one that had been unwashed for a very long time.
‘Did you have a shower this morning, sweetheart?’ I inquired as casually as possible.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’ll have one tonight.’
Louise just about had time to eat a slice of toast before the taxi pulled up that would take her to school. The taxi service was a standard arrangement when a teenager was living a certain distance away from their school; Social Services generally provided transport so the child’s education could continue uninterrupted while they were in foster care.
‘OK,’ I replied with a sigh. ‘Can I go into your room to fetch your laundry while you’re out? I’d like to get some washing on the line this morning.’
‘Yes, of course. There’s not really anything to wash though, except my shell suit. It’s on th
e floor. My other socks are in my holdall. They could do with a wash, I suppose.’
‘No problem. Are you happy for me to go in your bag for the socks?’
‘Yes, no problem. Thanks! See you later.’
I told myself that at least if Louise had clean clothes we might be part way to solving her hygiene issues. Perhaps she’d re-worn some of her underwear this morning because she didn’t have enough? Louise clearly hadn’t brought a great deal of clothing with her, as the nylon bag she’d arrived with was small and light. Perhaps I should offer to take her shopping at the weekend to get her some new underwear?
All of these thoughts were going through my head as I made my way up to Louise’s bedroom, but I was totally unprepared for the smell that hit me when I opened the door. There was a pungent, eye-stinging stench hanging in the air, which made me catch my breath.
What on earth is that smell? I thought, as I gasped and walked towards its source: the bed.
Pulling back the duvet I was shocked to see that Louise had wet the bed and then thrown the covers back over the soaked sheet, presumably in an attempt to cover it up. No wonder she smelt so terrible, having simply removed her wet pyjamas, which were scrunched under the duvet, and put on her school uniform.
I quickly stripped the bed, scooped up the shell suit off the floor and looked in the holdall to find the dirty socks. There was nothing else in the bag but a sweatshirt, a couple of T-shirts and a few tatty pairs of knickers that were so old they were practically falling to pieces.
How could a girl who had come from another foster home have such a poor collection of clothes? Surely this couldn’t be all her belongings? I also wondered why Louise hadn’t tried to put me off when I’d asked her if I could go into her room to fetch her laundry. She must have known I’d realise she’d wet the bed, and that I’d discover exactly how few clothes she had.
Loading the washing machine, I took comfort from the fact that perhaps Louise wanted me to know so I could help her deal with the issue. It was either that or she was so used to wetting the bed that it had become the norm to her to cover it up and just get on with it. I hoped not; that was a very sad thought indeed.