The Girl and the Ghosts

by Angela Hart

  As Jess had told me on the phone earlier that day, it was Maria’s school that had alerted Social Services this time, when a teacher noticed bruising on her arms that didn’t look as though it was the result of any kind of game. Then it was discovered she had bad bruising on her back too. This also looked too severe to be the result of an accidental bump.

  I passed all the information I’d read to Jonathan. Neither of us stated the obvious, which was that it sounded as though she might be being harmed deliberately at home, by a member of the family. There was no point in saying that out loud, because we didn’t know this for sure and it is wrong and potentially dangerous to speculate. As foster carers it is not our job to make judgements, and it is not helpful for us to form opinions that are not based on hard evidence or proven in a court of law. In the majority of cases we have contact with the child’s parents, if they are on the scene and the child is with us for more than a short respite stay, and so having negative ideas about them or judging them simply isn’t helpful to us or, most importantly, to the child whose care is paramount.

  After I’d talked to Jonathan about what I’d read in Maria’s notes, I mentioned the peculiar way she’d hopped across the bedroom floor and gone up and down the stairs.

  ‘That does sound odd,’ he said. ‘But there’s probably some explanation for it that makes perfect sense to Maria.’

  He recalled a time when he was a little boy and stepped on a spider on the stairs, which scooted under the carpet. Then he wouldn’t step on the same stair in case he trod on it and squashed it the next time.

  ‘I did that for ages afterwards, even when I knew the spider couldn’t possibly still be there. Maybe Maria’s doing something similar?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, smiling at the thought of how typical it was of Jonathan not to want to risk hurting a spider, and to see an innocent explanation. ‘Although the way Maria was going down the stairs seemed a bit more awkward – and risky – than if she was simply trying to avoid treading on a spider or something like that. What worries me is that she might fall and hurt herself. I don’t like to question her about it, but if she keeps on doing it, I’m going to have to try to tackle it.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Jonathan said. ‘I wonder what the reason is?’

  ‘I don’t know, but there will be a reason of some kind. This isn’t something a child does completely randomly and out of the blue, really, is it? You didn’t see it, Jonathan, but I think it’s repeated behaviour, and something must have triggered it.’

  Jonathan sighed, and I knew what he was thinking before he said it.

  ‘I sometimes dread finding out why children do things like this, don’t you?’

  I nodded. Some of the many children we’d fostered by this time had suffered horrific experiences in their past, which made them act out in all sorts of unusual and perplexing ways.

  ‘Yes, I dread it too, but at least we might be able to help, if Maria feels able to talk to us.’

  As usual, all we could do was be vigilant and create a safe and loving environment for Maria, as we did with all of our foster children. Then it was a case of waiting to see what happened next, and being ready to help in any way we could. Patience is something Jonathan and I both have, and I always say it’s just as well, because sometimes we don’t find out the truth about a child’s past until years or even decades later.

  4

  ‘I don’t like being hurt’

  ‘Are you awake?’ I whispered into the darkness.

  ‘It’s difficult not to be,’ Jonathan answered.

  ‘I don’t want to go up again,’ I said. ‘I’m sure she’ll settle; I’ll give it another minute.’

  Maria had been having nightmares and I’d already gone upstairs twice to check on her. Each time I’d crept up the short staircase leading from our bedroom on the first floor of our town house to Maria’s bedroom on the top floor, she’d already calmed down. On both occasions I whispered her name softly and edged the bedroom door open ever so quietly, being sure to tell her it was me, Angela, and that I was just checking she was all right. Thankfully, both times I could see through the glow of the night light that Maria was already silent and sleeping again.

  Now, suddenly, she was shouting out and thrashing around again. Jonathan and I couldn’t make out what she was saying from our bedroom below. It sounded like a series of moans and eerie little screams, and I was very upset to think what might be going on in her head.

  ‘Poor thing,’ Jonathan said. ‘But I agree. Don’t go up again just yet. Let’s hope she settles soon.’

  We’ve fostered a lot of children over the years who have had good reasons to have nightmares. For some of them, waking up to find any adult standing in their bedroom would be a potentially traumatic experience, so I didn’t want to go into her room unnecessarily. Moments later, silence fell again.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ Jonathan said. ‘Let’s hope we can all get some sleep now.’

  Jonathan had had a very long and tiring day, going out at the crack of dawn to the wholesaler, restocking the shop and making deliveries all around the town. He fell back to sleep fairly quickly, but it took me a little longer. Every time I felt myself nodding off I’d snap open my eyes again at the faintest sound, fearing Maria might be awake again, disturbed by another nightmare.

  As I lay in the darkness I found myself wondering what it was like for Maria at home, and what had really happened to her. I desperately hoped she hadn’t been subjected to the physical abuse that it appeared she had.

  Although Maria didn’t shout out in her sleep again that night, she must have continued to toss and turn, because by morning her hair was so tangled it was almost impossible to get a brush through it.

  ‘It’s like this every day,’ she told me as she sat, with remarkable patience, while I tried to restore some sort of order to the chaotic bird’s nest it had become. ‘I’ve asked Mum if I can get it cut, but she won’t let me. So I try to brush it myself. But it hurts. And it still looks the same when I’ve done it.’

  Having it cut did seem to be a sensible option, certainly if Maria continued to be so restless at night. It was something I thought Social Services might be able to ask her mother about, if Maria ended up staying a while, as she would need to give her permission. In the meantime, though, the leave-in conditioner I always kept in the bathroom cabinet came in very handy on that first day.

  ‘That’s good!’ Maria smiled, looking at the bottle. ‘But how did you know I would need it?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I replied. ‘I always keep a bottle here in case anybody who stays needs it.’

  Maria narrowed her eyes.

  ‘So you are not . . . psychic?’

  ‘Psychic! Heavens, no!’ I laughed. ‘I’m impressed you know that word, though, Maria. It’s not one you hear every day, is it?’

  She looked at me sideways and that was the end of that conversation.

  Maria was very well behaved as she got ready for school and did everything I asked her to, including eating her breakfast of Weetabix and orange juice without complaint.

  However, when it was time to leave the house she began to cry and say, ‘I want my mum. When can I go home? Can I go home now?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re missing your mum, Maria,’ I said, gently. ‘But you still need to go to school. I’d have thought a clever girl like you wouldn’t want to miss school. And you’ll be able to see all your friends while you’re there. So I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘I’m not a clever girl,’ she said, eyeing me suspiciously as she used the back of her hand to wipe away the tears that had trickled down her nose.

  ‘Aren’t you?’ I asked in a tone of exaggerated astonishment. ‘Well, I am surprised to hear that, especially having seen how good you are at reading. Anyway, shall we get going now? We don’t want to be late.’

  I opened the front door as I spoke and, to my relief and surprise, Maria shuffled down the hallway towards me. However, she continued to repeat, ‘
I’m not a clever girl,’ as she put her hand in mine, then stepped out onto the pavement beside me.

  The route to Maria’s school was a pleasant one, away from the main roads and most of it through a park. As we joined the other children and mothers with pushchairs who were hurrying along the path, Maria suddenly let go of my hand and darted off across the grass towards a little girl she had spotted walking up ahead. It didn’t take me long to catch up with her, and for the next ten minutes she walked beside me again, chatting cheerfully to her friend as she did so.

  I thought it must be distressing for Maria, having to walk to school with a stranger rather than with her mother, who she was obviously missing, but the animated conversation she was having with her friend seemed to distract her. When I pointed out a squirrel that was making a dash from the safety of one tree to another, and wondered aloud whether it might still be there when I walked back this way again to meet Maria in the school playground at three o’clock, they both looked at me and smiled.

  ‘I hope so,’ Maria said. ‘I like animals like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I mean little ones, that don’t come and hurt you. I don’t like being hurt.’

  ‘Of course not. Nobody likes being hurt.’

  When we arrived at the school we were in good time. I said goodbye to Maria and reassured her I would be in the playground at pick-up time. She smiled as she said goodbye, which was heartening to see. I then went to the reception to give the school secretary my details and let her know I was fostering Maria.

  I had a busy day in the shop, but each time I had a break and time to catch my breath I thought about Maria’s little face as I waved her off at school. It was great to have left her with a smile, and I thought how brave she was, as it can’t have been easy for her to leave her mother and suddenly find herself staying with Jonathan and me. I know that when I was a little girl I absolutely hated it whenever I spent time away from my parents, even when the only place I ever stayed without them was with close family, who I’d known all my life.

  I walked to the school in the afternoon, looking forward to seeing Maria and asking her all about her day, but as soon as she appeared I could tell she was in a completely different mood to the one I’d left her in.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she snapped. ‘Can I have crisps?’

  ‘No, not before you’ve eaten your dinner. Like I explained yesterday . . .’

  ‘Not this again!’ she spat. ‘I want crisps! I want crisps.’

  ‘Maria, let’s just get home and you can choose something healthy to eat.’

  ‘Home! Your house, you mean? That’s not home!’

  By now some of the other mothers who were collecting children were giving me sideways glances. A lot of people in the town knew I was a foster carer as I’d done it for so long, and over the years I’d brought a succession of children to this school. Many didn’t have a clue, though, and were looking on with everything from astonishment to suspicion in their eyes as Maria’s temper tantrum got worse and worse.

  ‘I’m hungry! I want to go home, to my house, to my mum!’

  ‘I do understand what you are saying, Maria, and there is no need to shout. Now let’s just start walking nicely . . .’

  ‘No! I’m not going anywhere until I get crisps!’

  ‘Right,’ I sighed, parking myself on a bench. ‘I think we might be here for a while then. I might as well take the weight off my feet.’

  Maria looked at me quizzically as I calmly took a leaflet out of my handbag and started reading it. It gave details of all the stalls and raffle prizes on offer at the local festival that weekend.

  ‘Oooh, that sounds good,’ I said out loud.

  ‘What does?’ Maria demanded.

  ‘First prize, four VIP tickets to the theme park.’

  ‘What theme park?’

  ‘Oh, that one that’s just had lots of new rides added. What’s the new theme they have? Something to do with wizards, I think . . .’

  Maria was now standing in front of me with wide eyes, her temper tantrum suddenly forgotten.

  ‘Can I try to win the prize? Can I, Angela?’

  ‘I don’t see why you can’t have a few raffle tickets,’ I said. ‘I always buy raffle tickets for children who are well behaved.’

  She thought about this for a moment and held out her hand.

  I took it and stood up, and Maria walked home beautifully, chatting about her day and telling me how she had learned about Viking ships and had been chosen by the teacher to take the register to the reception, as she had done the best drawing in the class of a Viking warrior.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thanks!’ she said, giving a little giggle.

  My heart swelled. When she was in this frame of mind Maria was absolutely adorable and her sweet giggle was quite infectious. I hoped I could keep her in this mood for as much of her stay with us as possible.

  When we got home Maria took off her shoes and said she was going upstairs to change out of her school uniform.

  ‘That’s a good idea!’ I said brightly, but then my heart sank a little as I saw Maria edging her way awkwardly up the stairs, stepping only on the wooden edges of the staircase.

  ‘What are you doing, sweetheart? I asked.

  ‘I’m going up to my room, like I said,’ she replied. ‘Isn’t that all right? Have I done something wrong?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ I answered hastily. ‘I just wondered why you were walking on the wood again rather than on the carpet.’

  Maria seemed bemused by what I’d said and replied, ‘Because I’m not allowed to walk on the carpet.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to walk on the carpet?’

  ‘No. Mum says I can’t.’

  ‘Your mum says you can’t walk on the carpet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Nobody can walk on the carpet at your home . . . ?’ I tried to make it sound like a cross between a question and a statement.

  ‘No, silly! I’m not allowed to, but everyone else can.’

  The fact that it was something Maria obviously accepted without question made me feel very sad for her.

  ‘Well, you can walk on the carpets here,’ I told her. ‘In fact, it would be better if you did. I think it’s a safer way to go up and down the stairs.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ Maria looked at me suspiciously for a moment, as though she thought it might be a trick. Then she shrugged and proceeded to climb the stairs in exactly the same way she’d been doing before I spoke to her.

  Most children simply accept whatever happens in their family as being ‘normal.’ So, for Maria, ‘normality’ included being the only person who, apparently, wasn’t allowed to walk on the stair carpet, and it was clearly a difficult habit for her to break as she continued to avoid the carpet for the duration of her stay.

  While she was with us, Social Services was gathering information for an assessment, so that a decision could be made about whether or not Maria would be able to live at home again. I’d agreed that Maria could stay as long as this took. Maria was to have no direct contact with her mum, but she was allowed to talk to her on the phone, and she was also allowed to see her maternal grandmother, Babs, who lived close by.

  ‘I love Nanny,’ Maria told me cheerfully one day, on the walk to school. ‘Sometimes I wish she was my mummy.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes. She’s kind and lets me do what I want.’

  ‘She lets you do what you want?’

  Maria scrunched up her face, as if deep in thought.

  ‘Yes, like when I talk to her I can say what I want!’

  ‘I see . . . you had a long chat with your mum on the phone though, Maria?’

  ‘Suppose,’ she said, then added with a critical tone in her voice, ‘Veeerrry long.’

  I had been in the kitchen while Maria chatted to her mum the previous evening. The call was arranged and agreed by Social Services and so I trusted that the social
workers involved believed there was no problem with Maria talking to Christine, although they did ask me to always be present to supervise the calls. Obviously I could only hear half of the conversation, but it sounded to me as though it went well. Maria had a lot to say, and the call lasted at least fifteen minutes. In hindsight, however, I could see that Maria had given her mum long and detailed answers to all her questions, and afterwards she had told me she felt ‘tired out’.

  ‘Well, Maria, if you find it tiring talking to your mum for so long on the phone, perhaps you could let her know that? I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to be on the phone so long that you feel tired?’

  ‘Mmm,’ she murmured, not looking convinced. ‘I think she knows.’

  ‘She knows?’

  ‘Yes. She knows everything. They both do.’

  ‘They both do?’

  Maria shrugged and then repeated, ‘I love Nanny,’ before giving me a smile.

  5

  ‘So, what’s Maria told you?’

  During her first week with us Maria was invited to her nanny’s for tea after school one night. As Babs lived close to our house, I volunteered to take Maria round there and collect her, which Babs agreed to. I’d been given her phone number by Maria’s social worker and so was able to make this arrangement myself, and I was happy to find that Babs sounded very cheerful and accommodating and said she was looking forward to meeting me and seeing her granddaughter.

  Maria was really looking forward to the visit, and when we walked there after school she seemed more animated than normal and started babbling away ten to the dozen, telling me all sorts of things about her family.