by Cathy Glass
I made Aimee another slice of toast and gave it to her dry with the glass of water she’d asked for, but I knew I should start introducing new foods into her diet as soon as possible. She was pale, her skin was dull and her movements were lethargic, which made me suspect she might be mineral and vitamin deficient. All children who come into foster care have a medical and I would raise my concerns with the paediatrician when we saw her, and while I couldn’t give Aimee a vitamin supplement without the doctor’s or her parents’ consent, I could improve her diet.
Paula and Lucy came down to breakfast as Aimee finished eating hers.
‘Feeling better?’ Lucy asked, taking a bowl for her cereal from the cupboard.
‘No,’ Aimee scowled.
‘What’s the matter?’ Paula asked, joining Aimee at the table.
Aimee looked at the girls for a moment, then at me, and her face crumpled. ‘I want me mum,’ she cried, and burst into tears.
‘Oh, love,’ I said, immediately going to her. ‘Please don’t upset yourself. You’ll see her soon.’ I went to put my arms around her, wanting to hold and comfort her, but she drew back, so I settled for laying my hand on her arm and standing close to her.
I saw Paula’s eyes mist as Aimee sat at the table with her head in her hands and cried. ‘I want me mum. Please take me to my mum.’ For like most children, no matter how bad it has been at home, Aimee missed her mother, with whom she’d been all her life.
‘You’ll see her tonight,’ I reassured her, ‘straight after school.’
‘Don’t cry,’ Paula said, her voice faltering. ‘We’ll look after you.’
‘Better than your mother did,’ Lucy added under her breath. I frowned at her, warning her not to say any more.
‘Why can’t I see me mum now?’ Aimee asked, raising her tear-stained face. She looked so sad.
‘Because your social worker has arranged for you to see your mum tonight,’ I said. ‘And we have to do what your social worker says.’
‘Me mum didn’t do what the social worker said,’ Aimee said, oblivious to the fact that had she it would have probably helped them both.
‘I know it’s difficult to begin with,’ Lucy said, going round to stand at the other side of Aimee. ‘But it will get easier, I promise you. And doesn’t your hair feel better already? No more itchy-coos.’ Lucy lightly tickled the back of Aimee’s neck, which made Aimee laugh.
‘Good girl, let’s wipe your eyes,’ I said. I fetched a tissue from the box and went to wipe Aimee’s eyes, but she snatched the tissue from my hand and wiped them herself. Children who have been badly neglected are often very self-sufficient; they’ve had to be in order to survive.
Chapter Seven
Should Have Done More
I called goodbye to Paula and Lucy, and Aimee and I left for school at 8.00 a.m. as planned. This would allow half an hour to drive through the traffic so that we arrived at school – on the opposite side of the town – well before the start of the school day at 8.50. This morning I wanted to go into school before the other children so that I could introduce myself at reception and, I hoped, meet Aimee’s teacher or the member of staff responsible for looked-after children. All schools in England now have a designated teacher (DT) who is responsible in school for any child in care. The child is taught as normal in class but the designated teacher keeps an eye on the child, attends meetings connected with the child, and is the first point of contact for the social services, foster carer, child’s natural parents and professionals connected with the case.
As I helped Aimee into the child seat in the rear of my car she asked why she had to sit in this seat and I explained it was so that the seatbelt could be fastened securely across her to keep her safe. She had no idea how to put on the seatbelt and I showed her what to do, how to fasten it, and then I checked it was secure. I closed the car door, which was child-locked and therefore couldn’t be opened from the inside, and climbed into the driver’s seat. I started the engine and reversed off the drive. As I drove, Aimee asked many questions about the car and how I drove it, as though being in a car was a new experience for her, so that eventually I asked: ‘Aimee, have you ever been in car before?’
‘Only with the social workers yesterday,’ she said. ‘But it was dark and I couldn’t see what was happening. Mum and Dad use buses.’ Which was another indication of just how disadvantaged Aimee’s background had been. For a child in a developed country to have reached the age of eight without regularly riding in a car was incredible; I’d never come across it before. Even if a child’s parents didn’t own a car (not uncommon for children in care) the child had usually been a passenger in the car of a relative or friend’s parents; usually someone the child knew owned a car. But I believed Aimee when she said her first experience of riding in a car had been the day before, for her curiosity and questions about my car and driving it seemed to confirm this and were unstoppable: ‘What’s that blue light for?’ ‘Why’s that number moving?’ ‘Why you holding that stick?’ ‘I can hear a clicking!’ ‘There’s an orange light flashing!’ And so on and so on.
Although I was happy to answer Aimee’s questions, I soon began finding her constant dialogue very distracting while I was trying to drive through the traffic. A few minutes later I asked her to sit quietly and save her questions for when I’d stopped, as I needed to concentrate on driving. She did briefly and then began a running commentary on what was happening outside her window: ‘There’s a man with a big dog.’ ‘That girl’s going to school.’ ‘I saw a bird, Cathy!’ ‘Look at that lady’s hair! Cathy! Look! Look!’
‘I can’t look, love,’ I said more firmly. ‘I’m driving. I have to concentrate on driving or we’ll have an accident. Let’s listen to some music.’ I switched on the CD player, which still contained a CD of popular children’s songs and nursery rhymes from the last child I’d looked after. Aimee listened and then I said, ‘I expect you know most of these nursery rhymes?’
‘No,’ Aimee replied.
So I guessed Aimee’s parents hadn’t recited, sung or read nursery rhymes to her as a child, although I thought she would have seen them in children’s programmes on television.
‘Your mum and dad had a television, didn’t they?’ I said, glancing in the rear-view mirror.
‘Yeah, a great big telly,’ Aimee said. ‘A lot bigger than yours.’
‘Didn’t you watch children’s programmes like CBeebies?’
‘Na, they’re silly,’ Aimee sneered.
‘What did you watch, then?’ I asked, half anticipating her reply would include a list of adult programmes.
‘Me and me mum watched EastEnders and horror films,’ Aimee said. ‘There was one about a woman who got chopped up with a big axe. First the man chopped off her arms and all blood spurted out of her shoulders, but she kept on walking ’cos she was a zombie. Then the man stabbed her in the face so her eyes came out, then he chopped off her head and it rolled on the floor and there was all blood spurting out of her neck and you could see her brain on the floor and –’
‘All right, Aimee, that’s enough, thank you. I understand,’ I said, my stomach churning. Many parents don’t realize the damage that can be done in allowing young impressionable minds to watch such horrific images.
‘EastEnders is on tonight,’ Aimee added, as I pulled up outside the school.
‘So I believe,’ I said. ‘But we won’t be watching it.’
‘I will!’ Aimee said.
‘Not while you’re living with me. That programme is for adults. You will be able to watch children’s programmes.’
Aimee pulled a face. ‘What about Texas Chainsaw Massacre or Friday the 13th? You got those DVDs?’ she asked.
‘No. But I have got Mary Poppins, Toy Story, The Jungle Book, The Lion King and many others that are nice.’
‘Never heard of them,’ Aimee scoffed.
‘You will, love, I promise.’
The path that led to the school’s main reception took us past the sc
hool playground.
Aimee pointed to children who’d arrived at school early and were playing. ‘What are those kids doing?’ she asked.
‘Playing,’ I said, feeling I was stating the obvious.
‘They should be in their classrooms,’ Aimee said.
‘Not at this time. There’s ten minutes before the bell goes for the start of school.’
Aimee frowned, puzzled, and we continued to the main door, where I pressed the security buzzer. The door was opened a minute later by a very pleasant lady, who smiled a warm hello. ‘Good to see you, Aimee,’ she said. ‘Your hair looks nice.’ Then to me: ‘I’m the school secretary. Do come in.’
‘I’m Cathy Glass, Aimee’s foster carer,’ I said. ‘I expect you know she came to me yesterday evening?’
‘Yes. How is she?’
‘Doing very well,’ I said, glancing at Aimee. ‘I thought I’d come into school this morning to make sure you had my contact details, and also if possible to meet Aimee’s teacher or the designated teacher.’
‘Lynn Burrows is the designated teacher,’ the school secretary said. ‘She asked me to let her know when you came in. Take a seat and I’ll fetch her.’
I thanked her and she disappeared through the double doors that led into the main body of the school while Aimee and I sat on the chairs in reception.
‘She said my hair was nice,’ Aimee said, running her fingers through her hair.
‘It was worth all the pain and suffering, then?’ I said lightly, with a smile.
‘No it wasn’t,’ Aimee retorted. ‘And you ain’t doing it again!’
We’ll see about that, I thought, but didn’t say. I’d already discovered that Aimee automatically rejected or contradicted most of what I said – presumably as a result of there being no boundaries at home – so I let it go, although Aimee would be doing as she was told while she was with me.
‘Look at you! Don’t you look nice!’ A lady said, coming through the double doors a few minutes later. ‘I wouldn’t have recognized you, Aimee.’
I thought she might, as Aimee was still wearing the clothes she’d arrived in, but Aimee smiled, pleased by the second compliment within a few minutes of arriving.
‘Lynn Burrows, designated teacher,’ the woman said as I stood. We shook hands. ‘Pleased to meet you, Cathy.’
‘And you.’
‘Let’s go to my office for a chat. I’m also the school’s SENCO, so they give me an office of my own,’ she added with a small laugh. The SENCO (Special Educational Needs Coordinator) helps children with special needs and also often assumes the role of designated teacher.
‘Did you sleep well?’ Lynn now asked Aimee as we made our way down the corridor.
Aimee didn’t answer; she was more interested in the playground, which we could see through the windows on the right of the corridor. ‘Mrs Burrows, can I go in the playground with the other kids?’ she said, pausing at one of the windows. ‘Please, I haven’t been there before.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ Lynn said as we drew to a halt. Then to me: ‘It’ll give us a chance to talk in private. I’ll just ask the playground supervisor to keep an eye on Aimee.’
Aimee and Lynn went out of one of the doors that led into the playground while I waited in the corridor. The building was old, I guessed built in the 1950s, but my first impression was that it was a friendly and caring school. I liked Lynn, she was a warm and bubbly person, but I thought Aimee must have been mistaken when she’d said she hadn’t been in the playground before, because, even allowing for her poor school attendance, she would have gone into the playground at break and lunchtime.
Lynn returned with a smile. ‘She’s happy enough and she looks so much better already. Amazing what a good wash can do.’
I smiled. ‘I need to buy her a new school uniform,’ I said, as I followed Lynn up a short flight of stairs and into her office.
‘Aimee will love that. She’s never had a school uniform before. We’ll sort one out when we’ve finished talking. You know why Aimee was so keen to go in the playground just now?’ Lynn said, as we settled in her small but comfortable office on the first floor.’
‘No.’
‘It’s the first time she has had the opportunity of playing in the playground before the start of school, because she’s never arrived on time before.’
I looked at Lynn amazed. ‘Are you saying that in four years of schooling she never once arrived on time?’
‘That’s right. Aimee’s attendance averaged about twenty per cent each year, and on the days she was in school she never arrived until the afternoon.’
‘Good grief!’ I said. ‘That’s probably the worst school attendance I’ve ever heard of for a young child. And it explains why Aimee was puzzled that the children were in the playground first thing. As we came in she remarked that the kids should be in their classrooms, not the playground.’
‘That’s because they were always in school doing their lessons when she arrived before.’
‘But how did Aimee’s parents get away with not sending her to school and always arriving late?’ I asked.
‘I wish I knew,’ Lynn said with a sigh. ‘We kept reporting it to the social services, together with all our other concerns: Aimee’s poor hygiene and head lice, the rags she wore for clothes, the bruises we saw and also her bad behaviour, but nothing seemed to happen. A social worker must have visited the mother’s flat, for we had some meetings here. But we never saw the same social worker twice and Aimee’s mother, Susan, is very manipulative. She’s had plenty of practice with all her older children being in care. She always had lots of excuses as to why Aimee wasn’t in school, was always filthy dirty and didn’t have a school uniform. Have you met Susan yet?’
‘No. But I will tonight when I take Aimee to contact.’
‘Be warned: she can be very aggressive. I guess it’s all the drink and drugs. I’ve had her escorted off the school premises many times. Whenever I phoned the social services and raised my concerns she came in here looking for trouble. I have the feeling the social workers are frightened of her. She often has that nasty Rottweiler with her. God knows how much that dog must cost to feed!’
‘I don’t understand why Aimee wasn’t brought into care sooner,’ I said. ‘The current social worker can’t understand why she was left so long at home either.’
Lynn nodded. ‘I blame myself for not doing more, although I’m not sure what else I could have done. When Aimee first came to the school and was in the nursery we tried to help Susan. We put in a lot of support – much of it with school funding – but it achieved nothing. She’s followed the same path in the neglect of Aimee as she did with the other children. I’ve sat in case conferences and it’s history repeating itself. It’s so sad.’
‘I’m sure you did all you could,’ I said. ‘At least Aimee is in care now.’
‘Thank goodness.’ Lynn sighed. ‘Now, let me write down your contact details before I forget.’
Taking a pen and paper from her desk she wrote my name and then I gave her my address, telephone numbers – landline and mobile – and email address, all of which the social services should give the school but hardly ever do. ‘You appreciate my details are confidential,’ I said. ‘Susan doesn’t know where Aimee is staying.’
‘Good. Less chance of her causing trouble,’ Lynn said.
When she’d finished writing I said: ‘Last night when I helped Aimee with her bath I noticed she had a lot of small bruises all over her, some of them quite new.’
Lynn nodded. ‘We often saw bruises on Aimee and always reported them to the social services. Her mother said she was accident prone. Aimee was in school so little we couldn’t monitor her properly, and she was never in school on the days she had PE – a classic sign a child may have something to hide and doesn’t want to undress. When I asked Aimee how she got the bruises she said she fell over. I doubt it; they didn’t appear to be in the right places for falling over.’
‘No,’
I agreed. ‘I intend reporting what I’ve seen to the social worker when I speak to her later. I guess with so little schooling Aimee is a long way behind with her learning? Yesterday evening she struggled to do a simple puzzle that was suitable for a pre-school child.’
‘Aimee is a long, long way behind in all her learning,’ Lynn confirmed, shaking her head sadly. ‘She can just about write her first name but that’s the only word she can write; she can only count to ten, doesn’t know her alphabet and has a sight vocabulary of three words.’
I gasped. ‘She can only read three words at the age of eight?’
‘Her mother says Aimee has learning difficulties but I don’t think so. I’m sure it’s a combination of virtually no schooling and not being able to concentrate when she has been in school. I’ve found before when children have difficult home lives that they spend all their time worrying about what’s going on at home rather than concentrating on their lessons: if Mum is staying off the drink or drugs, if she’s getting a beating from Dad, if they are going to receive another beating when they get home or if there’s any food in the house. I’m sure now Aimee’s in care she’ll achieve great things.’
I nodded, although I hoped Lynn wasn’t expecting too much too soon. Lynn had clearly had experience of children who’d been abused or neglected, but while I agreed with what she said about Aimee catching up I knew it would take time. Aimee would start to learn now she was safe and being looked after but she had eight years of neglect and goodness knew what else to overcome first, and they would leave emotional scars, many of them deep.
Lynn and I discussed Aimee’s learning a while longer and I said I would do all I could to help her at home. Then Lynn’s phone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, picking up the handset. I couldn’t hear what the person on the other end was saying, but it soon became clear it was bad news. Lynn’s previous warm and positive expression vanished, and was replaced by concern and anxiety. ‘I’ll come straight down,’ she said, standing. Then, replacing the receiver, she said to me: ‘Stay here. Susan is in the school and is very angry. She’s looking for trouble.’
