A Stolen Childhood

by Casey Watson

  Punching him in the chest for making such a suggestion was at least good therapy.

  That and the innate ability children have for taking up all of your attention. ‘Calm down, boys!’ I called out as Jonathan and Tommy burst in through the doors to the playground, at the end of lunch break that Friday. It was a glorious day and I’d had my so-called ‘French doors’ open; it was one of the best things about my classroom. Though it did mean they moved smoothly from playground to classroom without the calming step of having to walk nicely down the corridor first. ‘Play time gets left outside my room please, boys,’ I chided. ‘Time to take your seats, settle down and start to work. You two have your geography worksheets to carry on with and they need to be handed back to Mr Harris by the end of the day, so chop, chop – let’s get on with it, okay?’

  Next up came Morgan and Chloe. I had expected Chloe to be bereft at the sudden absence of Kiara, but it was perhaps indicative of her situation and emotional neediness that she simply transferred her undying devotion to the older girl, starting on the very afternoon Kiara had left us.

  Morgan herself seemed blessed with emotional intelligence in spade loads, which was testimony to her tight-knit, loving family, no doubt, and she was proving to be giving back as much as she was getting during her all too brief (to my mind) spell in state education. She was a lovely girl, and because of the age difference between her and the other kids, all three of them seemed to see her not so much as a fellow pupil but more as a particularly ‘down with the kids’ classroom assistant.

  Like Kiara, she seemed happy to let Chloe monopolise her, too – well, within reason. I had to monitor constantly in order to give her respite from the relentless love and cuddles, so saving her the necessity to rebuff Chloe’s advances herself so she could get on with the work she was there to do to prepare her for the last of her GCSEs. She’d already done Maths and English Language, which she’d pronounced to be hard but doable, and was now revising for her favourite – English Lit.

  We’d been sneaky there; though her father forbade her from being in mainstream classes, I’d been complicit in arranging for her to join a couple of special lunchtime revision classes on Macbeth, and would defend breaking the embargo (to the, ahem, hilt) on the grounds that they weren’t ‘mainstream’ or, indeed, held in a classroom. The only potential snag was that only that morning I’d spotted her and a boy who’d also been attending them in very close conversation out in the playground.

  ‘Can you draw me a picture, Morgie? Please?’ Chloe was pleading as she dragged Morgan towards her desk. ‘Miss, miss! Morgie’s granny has a caravan, just like the gypsies do in the fairy tales, with a teeny tiny sink and a teeny tiny stove and she makes giant pots of stew on it for when they all go camping. It’s just like a doll’s house!’ she declared excitedly, clearly enraptured by the idea of the tiny scale of it all. I got that. I felt the same as a child.

  I smiled as I watched Morgan give Chloe a big hug as a crafty precursor to gently extracting herself. She was a natural around younger kids and it showed. ‘Now haven’t I just told you I’ll do that for you later, you little monkey? I have studying to do, or I won’t pass my last exam, will I? And then where will I be? Later,’ she said again, smiling over in my direction. ‘If Mrs Watson says it’s okay, maybe we can get some paints out later, and we’ll paint it together, okay?’

  I mouthed a ‘thank you’ to Morgan as she headed to the back of the room to take her own seat, at her own desk, where her books and papers were all spread out. But Chloe wasn’t done with her yet. ‘And don’t forget to ask your granny if I can come and play at where you’re camping. I can help her with the stew. I’m good at cooking.’

  I could imagine all too well the sort of picture Morgan’s lifestyle painted for Chloe, the same every child has had for decades, perhaps centuries; images gleaned from folklore, from those very story books she mentioned: the campfires, the painted wagons, the shire horses, the open road. It was an image that was fast being replaced by another, however – though my experience of Morgan and her family had made adjustments to mine. So I was learning plenty as well.

  For now, however, work was very much the order of the day and, for Chloe, this was now centred around a new-fangled gadget she’d been given; an electronic hand-held computer-style device, loaded with programmes that could be adapted to suit the age and stage of the user. They were both new-fangled and new to the school, and Kelly had taken the training course that had accompanied them, thankfully; though I knew it was an integral part of modern teaching, I loathed new technology. But even with my reticent nature regarding all things ‘techno’, I couldn’t dispute how brilliant they were for literacy and mathematics, particularly for those with any degree of learning difficulties.

  I was grateful for Kelly’s input with Chloe generally. In the last couple of weeks she’d been assigned to come into the Unit every afternoon and do a session with her, and the results were proving impressive. It had meant that I could concentrate on the boys – who worked at a different level to Chloe – as well as giving Morgan the opportunity to revise unmolested. With her final exam imminent every moment in school counted.

  Today, however, despite Kelly’s best efforts, Chloe seemed to have ants in her pants. ‘Do try to concentrate, Chloe,’ Kelly scolded for the third time in what seemed like as many minutes. ‘If you don’t do your work with me you won’t have the time to paint with Morgan, because the day will be done before we’re finished. Now come on, sit still.’

  Chloe was intent on spinning around in her chair to try and catch Morgan’s attention, however, and I could see that Kelly was beginning to get cross with her. I set down my own notes and walked across to them, grateful that whatever geographical features the boys were working on were managing to hold their attention.

  ‘What’s wrong with you today, love?’ I asked Chloe as I knelt down beside her. ‘You’re usually such a good girl when you’re doing your literacy.’

  She pursed her lips and pouted much like a toddler would do. Since Morgan had joined us, although her academic progress had been going well, it occurred to me that, looked at from the point of view of her maturity, emotionally she seemed to be regressing. ‘I want Morgie,’ she said, her lower lip sticking out, as if for emphasis. ‘I want Morgie to sit with me. I don’t like Miss Vickers no more.’

  I glanced at poor Kelly. No teacher ever wanted to hear that, me included. ‘Chloe, I know you don’t mean that about Miss Vickers – you and she are good friends. Come on, what’s up?’ I asked her quietly. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

  To my surprise, even given that this was Chloe we were talking about, she burst into tears and threw herself against me, almost knocking me over, and requiring me to grab the adjacent table to stop us both tumbling to the floor. All hope of the boys not noticing the incident was now gone. I could already hear Tommy and Jonathan sniggering from their table.

  ‘She’s a baby, miss!’ Jonathan called out, quick as a flash, as was his way. ‘Maybe she needs her nappy changing!’ Both he and Tommy, both naturally finding this hilarious, began laughing, causing Chloe to cry more.

  I shot them both a warning glance.

  ‘I’ll go over,’ Kelly said, getting up from her seat, leaving me to sort out my personal limpet-mine.

  ‘Lovey, what on earth is wrong with you today?’ I asked, once I’d regained my balance and placed her gently but firmly back in her chair. I pulled out the one next to her. ‘What are all these tears for?’

  She could hardly speak for sobbing. ‘I want Morgie,’ she howled. ‘I want Morgie to be my mummy, miss. She never drinks vodka, miss. She told me. Never, ever. So she never shouts at me, and she always gives me hugs.’

  She was reaching out to me again, much like a toddler asking for a carry, so, despite her size – she was almost as big as I was – I pulled her onto my knee. It didn’t escape me that I must have looked like a small ventriloquist with an extremely large dummy, but with Kelly minding t
he boys, I didn’t expect any further quips. ‘Has something happened at home, sweetie?’ I asked, as she burrowed her face into my neck. ‘Something different? Something new that’s made you feel sad?’

  Chloe shook her head and sniffed, then sighed heavily. ‘I’m just so fed up, miss, that’s all. I wish I had a big sister – why didn’t I get a big sister? It would be alright then, wouldn’t it? Because she could be my mummy, couldn’t she? When she doesn’t get me up, and I don’t have any uniform, or there’s no cereal, and my hair’s a mess – I hate my hair miss, I hate it! But it wouldn’t matter then, would it?’

  ‘I know …’ I said, smoothing her hair down. ‘I know …’

  But Chloe was on a roll now. ‘It’s not fair, miss, is it? I want to live in a caravan, like Morgie does, and have a granny who loves me like hers does.’ She pulled away slightly then. ‘Do you know, miss? You know when Morgie’s granny makes stew? Well she even makes it for children who aren’t even her real kids!’

  Chloe had said those last words as though they were the most important of all. And perhaps they were. No, not perhaps – that was the nub of it all. That other kids weren’t just loved and cherished; they were loved by grannies with so much love inside them that they even had enough left over for one and all.

  It was a moment of insight that showed that, despite her learning difficulties, she was developing emotional intelligence, but it was one I didn’t envy her, given her home situation. With that kind of knowledge came emotional pain – she was getting old enough to realise that having an alcoholic mother wasn’t a very nice business.

  I continued to hug her, wondering fleetingly about teachers and burn-out and how you kept your own emotions in check while dealing with long hours and work stress and the tyranny of the bell and – as in this case – knowing that you couldn’t sort the ills of some children, however many natty hand-held devices you had at your disposal. How long before you felt unequal to the task of doing what little you could do to help?

  I shook the thought from my head. That couldn’t happen, not to me. This was a relatively new position, and the current job description – which seemed to change and get added to as each term passed – made it clear that I would be dealing with traumatised children over the course of my day-to-day duties. No, mine wasn’t a job that could allow for sentiment to take over, let alone sentimentality. We couldn’t change her situation, just her ability to deal with it. As work mantras went, I’d heard worse.

  ‘I know, sweetie,’ I whispered into her hair, ‘I know. And I promise, I will try to think of something to make things a little better for you. I promise I’ll do whatever I can, okay?’

  We eventually got her – and the boys as well – settled back to work then, aided and abetted by my trusty packet of biscuits. But how? I wondered, as I made drinks for Kelly and myself for last break. By taking her away from her current life and giving her a new one? With her mum’s drinking that was never very far from being a possibility anyway. And now I’d seen it in action, I didn’t know quite how to feel.

  Well, except that I’d been blooded.

  Chapter 15

  Fate was watching my figure even if I wasn’t. Just as I was about to dunk my first chocolate biscuit of the day, Kelly nudged me and nodded towards the classroom door. Standing outside was Gary Clark. I was surprised he didn’t just walk in, as he normally did, but from what I could see of him through the glass panel, he looked quite serious, and as he gestured to me to join him out in the corridor rather than come in, I dutifully put down my biscuit and went to the door.

  ‘Will Kelly be alright to watch them for ten minutes?’ he asked when I opened it.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, mouthing a ‘won’t be long’ back to her. I joined him outside and closed the door again and we headed back down the corridor. ‘Problem?’ I asked, wondering if I was being taken to the scene of some new adolescent ‘crime’ or fracas.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Just needed to bring you up to my office for a confidential chat. Seems Kiara Bentley is coming back to us.’

  ‘Really?’ I said as we fell into our usual walking rhythm – Gary striding normally, with me having to incorporate the odd hop-skip-and-jump to keep up. ‘Oh, that’s great, Gary! But what does that mean? Have they found her a local placement? Or – oh, my God – she’s not back with her mother, is she? They wouldn’t let that happen, would they? Surely not? Or, don’t tell me –’

  Gary laughed. ‘Calm down, Casey, take a flipping breath, will you? There’s absolutely no point in me trying to have a confidential conversation with you, is there? Don’t worry. I’ll tell you everything when we get there.’

  I hurried along beside him, feeling ever so slightly like a scolded child, though an unrepentant one, as I reflected that some people were born to be cool as the proverbial cucumbers and some people weren’t.

  ‘And there’s no point in giving me one of those looks,’ Gary added, obviously aware of my reverie. ‘There could be anyone lurking in these corridors.’

  ‘What, like spies?’ I huffed. But we were there now, so he could finally spill the beans.

  ‘She’s going to her father’s,’ he said, once he’d followed me inside and closed the door behind us. ‘It seems Mr Bentley has cleaned his act up somewhat, and social services have agreed that Kiara can move in with him for a trial period.’

  ‘Oh, that’s great news!’ I said, ‘When? When is she moving in with him?’

  ‘She’s already there,’ Gary explained. ‘Was taken to him yesterday, I’m told. She will be back in school from tomorrow – and back with you, obviously. At least till the end of term, we think, so you can monitor things.’

  Gary could have told me all this at the classroom door, so I knew there must be more to come. Stuff that was too sensitive to be picked up by a stray ear. ‘I sense a “but” in all this, Gary,’ I said. ‘Is there?’

  He nodded. ‘Sort of. It’s just that she might be a bit delicate, Casey. According to the discussion I’ve just had with Jenny Davies – that’s her social worker; the one you met? – during the past two weeks, Kiara has been extremely forthcoming about her life with her mother.’ Gary’s forehead creased then. ‘It’s appalling. There’s no other word for it. And worse is that Jenny said she spoke almost matter-of-factly about it. This is clearly quite long established, and Kiara seems to have – what would the word be? – acclimatised? She’s certainly displayed no great distress at the things she’s been made to do, so there is a lot buried deep, I don’t doubt. And the feeling is that now’s the time when she might go into meltdown – now she’s away from it and can start properly processing it.’

  I couldn’t begin to imagine how a 12-year-old would work out how to deal with something like that. ‘She’s so tiny, Gary,’ I said. ‘So young. I mean, where do you start? How do your unscramble it all from her psyche? All those things she’s been subjected to …’

  ‘There’s one positive, at least, and that’s that she’s apparently never been raped, so we must be grateful we were able to intervene when we did. Though she has apparently been an integral part of her mother’s business – photographed in various states – presumably for marketing purposes,’ he added dryly, ‘and performing various other sex acts on a number of her mother’s clients.’

  I took a deep, slow breath. No matter how often I’d heard clues to all this over the days I’d spent with Kiara, I could never get used to the idea of what had been really going on behind that squeaky clean facade – what had been behind the hair pulling, the fatigue, that old-beyond-her-years look she always had in her eyes. Boy, how old beyond her years had she been forced to be. And who were the vile creatures for whom she performed these acts? Other girls’ fathers? Much as I wished it otherwise, I knew the answer might well be yes. No wonder I could never stop the involuntary shudder as I tried to push the mental images away.

  ‘Poor little girl,’ I said. ‘I don’t know about feeling delicate – it’s a wonder she can function at all. Wh
at kind of monster must that woman have been? It still doesn’t quite compute. If you’d seen her place, Gary … It really just doesn’t compute – there’s such a disconnect in my head.’

  He smiled mirthlessly. ‘You’ve not heard of Cynthia Payne, then? Anyway, kid gloves are obviously the order of the day. She’s clearly going to be a work in progress for a long time – there are all sorts of doors open to her if she wants, or needs, to talk, but no one is going to put her under any pressure. Business as usual as far as school is concerned. There’s regular counselling in place via social services, but as far as we’re concerned it’s just carry on as per normal and keep an eye. You know the score, too many cooks and all that.’

  I did. I knew what Gary was essentially saying was that it was important she wasn’t overwhelmed by a surfeit of anxious, hovering adults; it was overwhelming for a child to have to revisit a painful past at the best of times, so to feel that the world and its brother were all wanting to be in the know could be difficult to handle, if not unbearable.

  ‘At least she’s now back with her dad,’ I said. ‘Thank goodness for small mercies. I’m really pleased for her – thank God he’s come back into her life and shaped up at least. He could be key to her getting her head straight, couldn’t he?’

  Gary told me they all felt equally positive. That social services had spelled out the steps he’d have to take and, with their support, and a bit of necessary financial input, he’d started to take them; which might seem like questionable use of ‘taxpayers’ money’ but, given that the alternative would be full-time foster care, was in fact the cheaper option and, in terms of Kiara’s emotional health, assuming her father could sustain his current efforts, overwhelmingly the best long-term option too.