Will You Love Me?

by Cathy Glass

  Predictably, Lucy gave another small shrug and then said, ‘I don’t mind really.’

  ‘Paula,’ I said, ‘why don’t you show Lucy the cupboard where we keep the games, and then the two of you can choose something to play together?’

  ‘I will,’ Paula said, now feeling more at ease. And sensing that Lucy needed to be looked after as a much younger child would, Paula gently took her by the hand and led her out of the kitchen.

  Chapter Twelve

  No Appetite

  Mealtimes in many family homes are often as important for their social interaction and family bonding as they are for eating food. In our house, as in many others, we eat our meals together whenever possible, seated on dining chairs around a table, talking between mouthfuls and sharing our news. Apart from in exceptional circumstances – birthdays, Christmas or when a child is upset and might want a cuddly toy with them – I don’t normally allow toys, books, games consoles, mobile phones or any other distractions at the table while we’re eating. I encourage the children in their table manners, as they not only ensure a pleasant meal for all, but will stand the children in good stead for later life, when much socializing and business takes place over a good meal. However, I realize that while my children are relaxed around the meal table, it could seem daunting for a newcomer: another new custom with its own rituals in a house of strangers. So I keep a watchful eye on the new child and do all I can to make them feel comfortable.

  In the thirteen years I’d been fostering I’d seen all types of behaviour at the meal table, including shouting, screaming, tantrums, standing on the table, hiding under it, nose-picking, burping, farting, throwing food, grabbing food from others’ plates and, very commonly, children who only ate with their fingers because they’d never used cutlery. But in all those years I’d never seen a child as anxious as Lucy was when she came to our table. I called her and Paula to come to lunch three times before they finally appeared. At first I thought it was because they wanted to finish their game, but when Paula drew Lucy by the hand into the kitchen I realized it was more than that.

  ‘Lucy doesn’t want anything to eat,’ Paula said. ‘She’s not hungry.’

  I looked at Lucy with a reassuring smile, but I could see how tense she was. ‘Well, sit down, love, and just have a little,’ I encouraged. ‘You’ll need something to eat; you didn’t have breakfast and it’s a long time until dinner.’

  I drew out the chair next to Paula and smiled again at Lucy. ‘We thought you’d like to sit here, next to Paula,’ I said brightly.

  ‘Yes, sit next to me,’ Paula said. Adrian was already seated, opposite Lucy – he’d been the first to come when I’d called everyone for lunch.

  Lucy hesitated, her brow creasing with worry. Then she slipped silently onto the chair next to Paula, and I helped her ease it closer to the table. I gave each of us a bowl of soup and set the platter of sandwiches, crisps, cherry tomatoes and sliced cucumber in the centre of the table ready for when we’d finished our soup. I sat down. Adrian and Paula were already tucking into their soup as I picked up my spoon, but Lucy sat stiffly upright, staring at her bowl. I didn’t know how much of her anxiety was due to the intimacy of sitting and eating with strangers and how much of it was about the actual food. When I’d asked her if she liked tomato soup she’d said she did, but as I watched her out of the corner of my eye while I ate my soup she didn’t make any attempt to start hers.

  ‘Try a little,’ I encouraged after a while. ‘You must be hungry. You don’t have to eat it all.’

  Slowly, reluctantly almost, Lucy picked up her spoon and, dipping it into the bowl, took out the smallest amount possible and put it to her lips. I saw Adrian and Paula surreptitiously watching her and I motioned for them not to stare. Poor Lucy felt self-conscious enough already without having an audience. Lucy took a second and third spoonful as slowly and as measured as the first, then, when Adrian and Paula finished their soup, she put down her spoon, leaving over half a bowlful, and sat back in her chair.

  ‘There’s no rush,’ I said, hoping she might have some more.

  ‘I’m full,’ she said quietly.

  I finished the last of my soup, collected together the bowls, took them through to the kitchen and left them in the sink.

  ‘Help yourselves,’ I said, returning to the table and referring to the sandwiches, crisps and salad. ‘Those sandwiches are ham and those are cheese,’ I said, pointing. I’d previously checked with Lucy that she liked both.

  Adrian and Paula began filling their plates with sandwiches, salad and crisps, while Lucy took one little sandwich. I’d cut them diagonally into quarters so that one sandwich amounted to half a slice of bread and a little bit of filling.

  ‘Are you going to have some crisps and salad?’ I suggested, offering Lucy the plates as she might not have liked to help herself, but she shook her head.

  She ate the one sandwich slowly, taking small bites and chewing endlessly before swallowing. I made light conversation to try and help her feel at ease, and I also put on the radio in the background, but it didn’t help. Lucy only had one sandwich and half a glass of water. It was her first meal with us and I didn’t want to make her feel more self-conscious than she already did by encouraging her further. So once everyone else had finished and it was clear Lucy wasn’t going to eat any more, I cleared away the dishes and hoped she’d make up for it at dinner time. As soon as Lucy left the table, she visibly relaxed and happily went with Paula to finish their game of dominoes.

  Shortly after lunch, a friend of Adrian’s who lived in the next street telephoned and asked if he’d like to go to his house for a few hours. Adrian asked me if it was all right and I said yes. I knew from experience that a new child would feel at home more quickly if we carried on with normal family life. I told Lucy that Adrian was going to a friend’s house for a few hours and he called goodbye as he left. I then read a couple of pages of my book in the living room while the girls played snakes and ladders. In her playing and interaction Lucy was doing well, much better than Pat and Terry had led me to expect, so I was pleased.

  Once the girls had tired of snakes and ladders, I suggested we unpack Lucy’s bags, which I’d previously taken up to her room. I knew that once she had her possessions in her room and had arranged them to her liking she would start to feel more at home.

  ‘We can both help you,’ Paula said enthusiastically, jumping up and clapping her hands in excitement.

  I saw that Lucy looked a bit uncomfortable. ‘Is it all right if Paula and I help you with the unpacking?’ I asked. For I wouldn’t have expected an eleven-year-old child to unpack by herself.

  Lucy gave a small nod and then said quietly, ‘It’s just that I’ve got some private things I don’t want anyone to see.’ She said it so sweetly and self-effacingly it was as though she daren’t breathe for fear of upsetting others. I guessed these private things were small mementoes she was attached to. I’d seen children I’d fostered before arrive with all sorts of weird and wonderful objects they’d grown attached to and didn’t want anyone to see, including one little boy who brought a clothes peg with him, which he said reminded him of his mother, and a girl who was inseparable from her father’s (expensive) watch. I later found out he was in prison for breaking into a jeweller’s shop!

  ‘I understand, love,’ I said to Lucy. ‘We could help you unpack, and then when you take out your private things Paula and I will close our eyes. How does that sound?’

  A small smile flickered across Lucy’s face and I touched her arm reassuringly. ‘You don’t have to worry about upsetting me,’ I said. ‘I want you to feel relaxed and at home here. You must tell me what you want.’

  She gave a small nod and then said to Paula: ‘I can show you one of the private things, but not the other.’

  ‘Great!’ Paula exclaimed. Taking Lucy’s hand, she drew her to her feet and then scampered off, with Lucy close behind.

  Upstairs in Lucy’s room, I asked Lucy which case we should unpa
ck first and she pointed to the largest case, which contained her clothes. I began hanging and folding them into the wardrobe and drawers, showing Lucy where I was putting them, while Lucy began unpacking her bag of toys, with Paula’s help. Lucy didn’t have many possessions compared to the average eleven-year-old but, having been in foster care for a while, she had more than a child coming straight into care from a neglected home, who would often arrive with nothing.

  ‘This is the private thing I can show you,’ I heard Lucy say.

  I glanced over from the wardrobe as she delved into a small pink rucksack and carefully drew out a soft toy rabbit. Clearly much loved and petted, it had chewed ears and a missing tail. Holding him against her chest, she hugged him hard.

  ‘Why’s he private?’ Paula asked, voicing my thoughts.

  ‘Because I don’t usually show him to anyone,’ Lucy said quietly. ‘The children in one foster home were horrible to me, because he’s old and has bits missing. So I don’t let anyone see him. But I think you’re kind. I know you won’t laugh.’

  I could see that, far from laughing, Paula was close to tears at the thought of children being unkind to Lucy because her favourite toy was old. I didn’t know in which home this unkindness had taken place, but children can be cruel without anyone realizing it.

  ‘What’s his name?’ Paula asked, as Lucy held the soft toy to her chest and stroked him protectively.

  ‘He’s called Mr Bunny,’ Lucy said. ‘Mr Bunny Rabbit if he’s been naughty.’ I smiled and thought that Lucy had a sense of humour buried beneath all her worry and anxiety.

  ‘How old is he?’ Paula asked, meaning: how long have you had him?

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lucy said. ‘He’s always been with me, for as long as I can remember. My other toys got lost when I kept having to move, but Mr Bunny stayed with me. I used to take him out, but I don’t any more. He’s private.’ And so saying, Lucy leant on the bed and tucked Mr Bunny under the duvet, so that only his ears were visible on the pillow. ‘You can have a little sleep, Mr Bunny,’ she said softly. ‘You’ve had a busy day.’

  I continued unpacking as Lucy and Paula explored Lucy’s toys, slowly putting them into the toy box. Then I heard Paula ask: ‘What’s your other private thing?’

  ‘No, Paula,’ I cautioned lightly, turning from what I was doing to look at her. ‘We said we’ll close our eyes when Lucy unpacks her private things. She’s already shown you Mr Bunny.’

  Lucy gave a small nod. ‘I can show you the cover, but no more. Not yet. Not for a long time, because it’s very private.’

  Before I looked away I saw her slide a large scrapbook from her bag. On the front of the book was a photograph of herself. I thought it might be her Life Story Book, started by a previous foster carer. Life Story Books are usually compiled by foster carers for children in long-term care. They contain photographs and some written history to support the child’s memories. Children who are raised by their own families share collective memories, but foster children don’t have this, and memories can become confused or even lost over time. If I was right and this was Lucy’s Life Story Book, then it would be very personal to her and I could appreciate why she didn’t want to share it with us yet.

  ‘It’s got some photographs in it and some writing about me,’ Lucy said to Paula, as she hid the book under the bed.

  ‘Why don’t you put it safely in one of your drawers?’ I suggested, pointing to the chest of drawers. ‘No one comes into your bedroom without your permission, so it will be safe. No one will see.’

  Lucy gave a small nod and reached under the bed to retrieve the book.

  ‘Eyes closed,’ I said to Paula.

  Paula and I both screwed shut our eyes and I heard movements as Lucy placed the book in a drawer and closed it.

  ‘You can look now,’ she said.

  At about the same time as the girls and I finished Lucy’s unpacking, Adrian returned from his friend’s house. He let himself in, called up, ‘Hi, ladies!’ and then went into the kitchen for a snack. Like most active thirteen-year-old boys, he was always hungry.

  I stacked Lucy’s empty suitcase and bags on the landing. ‘I’ll put them up in the loft later, out of the way,’ I told Lucy, for I didn’t want her to think that I’d just got rid of them.

  As I went downstairs, with Lucy and Paula following, I heard Lucy tell Paula: ‘I won’t need my bags for a long time, maybe a year. Your mum said I can stay until the judge makes a decision.’

  ‘I’m pleased,’ Paula said. ‘I like playing with you. I think we’re going to be good friends.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Lucy said. ‘I think I’m going to be happy living here with you and your family.’

  You will, love, I thought. I’ll make sure of it.

  I served dinner at six o’clock, but far from making up at dinner what she hadn’t eaten at lunch, Lucy looked just as uncomfortable, still had no appetite and picked at her food. I’d made cottage pie, a dish that is easily eaten with a fork or spoon, and a favourite with most children. When I’d asked Lucy before the meal if she liked cottage pie, she’d said yes. But the little she had she ate very slowly, almost as though she was scared of eating or didn’t like the taste or feel of food in her mouth.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, love?’ I asked at length, wondering if perhaps she had a sore throat or was sickening for something.

  Lucy nodded and continued slowly, eating a tiny bit at a time. Paula and I finished ours, and Adrian was already on seconds. Then Lucy looked up and said, ‘I really can’t eat any more.’

  ‘All right, love, don’t worry,’ I said quickly. ‘Just eat what you want and leave the rest.’

  She set down her knife and fork; I guessed she’d eaten about four mouthfuls – not enough for a growing child, but I didn’t say anything more. I served pudding – apple crumble and ice cream – and Lucy had one scoop of ice cream, but no crumble. Had Lucy’s poor eating not already been mentioned, I might have put it down to being in a new house – and that might well have been partly responsible – but I knew that if her appetite didn’t start improving over the next few days then I would be raising the matter with her social worker and seeking advice.

  After dinner we watched a film on television and when it finished I made everyone a hot milky drink, which Lucy had, and then I began the bath and bedtime routine. I usually put the children to bed in ascending order of age, so Paula first, then Lucy, and Adrian last. Adrian usually went up at about nine o’clock and read for a while in bed. So when Paula was snuggled in her bed, I called for Lucy to come up and together we collected her toothbrush, flannel, towel and pyjamas from her bedroom and took them into the bathroom. I showed her where everything was and ran her bath. I wouldn’t normally bath an eleven-year-old unless they had learning difficulties and needed help, so once her bath was ready I checked that Lucy had everything she needed and then came out, telling her to call me if she needed anything. I’m always very cautious when a new child arrives, until I am sure what they can safely do and what they need help with, so I hovered on the landing while Lucy was in the bathroom. But fifteen minutes later she emerged, washed, dressed in her pyjamas and brushing her lovely long black shiny hair.

  I showed her where the laundry basket was for her dirty clothes and then went with her to her bedroom. I asked her if she liked her curtains open or closed at night, and she said open a little. I also found out that she liked to sleep with the light off and the door slightly ajar.

  ‘It’s bound to be a bit strange at first,’ I said, as she climbed into bed. ‘Call me if you need me in the night. I’m a light sleeper, so I’ll hear you.’

  She gave a small smile and snuggled beneath the duvet. She looked very comfortable with Mr Bunny on the pillow beside her.

  ‘All right then, love? Is there anything you need?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Would you like a goodnight kiss?’ I always ask a child when they first arrive if they want a kiss. Some do and some don’
t, and it’s an invasion of their personal space to just assume they do and go ahead.

  ‘Yes, I’d like a kiss,’ Lucy said softly.

  I leaned forward and kissed her forehead, and as I did she slid her arms around my neck. ‘Can I have a hug too?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Of course, love.’ I looped my arms under her shoulders and gave her a hug. I could feel her smooth, warm cheek resting lightly against mine. It’s unusual for a child to want this degree of physical contact on their first night and I thought that Lucy must either be a very tactile child, or she’d been starved of affection.

  After a while I gently drew away and kissed her forehead. ‘You get some sleep now, love. You must be exhausted. You’ve done very well for your first day.’

  ‘Have I done well?’ she asked, her dark eyes growing wider.

  ‘Yes, you have. I’m very pleased with you. And you’ll find it will be easier tomorrow, and the next day. Everything won’t be so strange – well, apart from me!’ I added, with a small laugh.

  She smiled. Then her eyes flickered and began to close; the poor child was exhausted.

  ‘Night, love,’ I said, standing. ‘Sleep tight, and see you in the morning.’

  ‘Night,’ she said. ‘And thanks for having me.’

  ‘There’s no need to thank me, love. I’m glad you’re here.’

  That night Paula got her wish – it snowed. When I woke in the early hours to check on Lucy, who was asleep, I was aware the air outside seemed brighter and the sound muted. Returning to my bedroom I peered through the curtains to see a white blanket of snow. Not enough to cause travel chaos, but about two inches – enough to smooth the edges of reality so that everything had a magical, dreamlike softness to it. Yippee, I thought, we’ll have fun tomorrow!

  I returned to bed; it was only 3.30 a.m., but I couldn’t sleep. Excited by the snow, I wanted the children to wake so they could see it too, but I was also thinking about Lucy. I find the early hours are a good time for worrying and fretting over the day’s events, and I had plenty to worry about with Lucy. The referral had said very little and I hoped to learn more from the social worker. But when a child has been seriously neglected over a long period, as Lucy had – unprotected and living with a series of strangers – there’s a strong possibility that at some point they’ve fallen victim to a predator paedophile and been sexually abused. There was no suggestion in the referral that Lucy had been sexually abused, and obviously this was a huge relief, but Lucy had spent so long living a hand-to-mouth existence with her itinerant mother that I knew she would have seen and experienced more than any child should have. Some children deal with their pain and anger by attention-seeking and aggressive behaviour, but Lucy seemed to be internalizing her pain. I knew at some point it would come out, just as it had at the previous carers’ when she’d been told she would have to move again.