Another Forgotten Child

by Cathy Glass

  ‘Get the fuck out of here!’ she yelled in my face. ‘This is my time with my daughter. Get out!’

  I quickly backed out of the room as the supervisor looked over but made no attempt to intervene. The door slammed shut behind me and, shaken, I returned along the corridor and to reception. ‘I’ll wait here for Aimee,’ I told the receptionist. ‘Susan is very angry.’

  ‘Does the contact supervisor know you’re waiting here?’ she asked, still inputting into her computer.

  ‘I should think so,’ I said. ‘It was pretty obvious I couldn’t collect Aimee from the room.’

  She nodded. I sat in one of the chairs in reception and my pulse began to settle. I hate aggression; I believe situations should be discussed rationally, although I could appreciate how upset and angry Susan must be, with the last of her six children now having been taken into care. I hoped that if she didn’t calm down sufficiently to talk to me rationally then the contact supervisor would tell her to wait in the contact room while she brought Aimee to me. I didn’t want another scene in front of Aimee and also if I’m honest Susan’s temper scared me.

  Five minutes later Aimee appeared, holding her mother’s hand, with the supervisor following a couple of steps behind. Susan’s face was set and pinched, and before she opened her mouth I knew she was looking for trouble. The supervisor was young and I guessed inexperienced. Contact supervisors vary enormously in the competency with which they do their job.

  ‘I’ll report you!’ Susan shouted, advancing along the corridor towards me. I stood. ‘If my daughter wants biscuits you give them to her. Do you hear? Do as Aimee tells you or you’ll have me and her father to answer to.’

  I looked at the supervisor to see if she was going to intervene but she didn’t. She just stood to one side, watching, which gave Susan permission to continue. Aimee was smirking, clearly revelling in her mother’s anger towards me.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing forcing her to have a bath and hair wash?’ Susan continued angrily. ‘No one washes my girl except me. Keep your bleeding hands off her! I say when she needs washing, not you!’ It crossed my mind that clearly Susan hadn’t regularly washed Aimee; otherwise she wouldn’t have arrived in the state she had.

  ‘And where are her clothes, the ones I sent her in?’ Susan now demanded. ‘Have you stolen them? I’ll report you to the police. They’re her clothes and she wants them. You give them back.’

  ‘They’re at home,’ I said. I didn’t have a chance to say anything further, for Susan had moved on to her next complaint. As she spoke her chin jutted out, just as Aimee’s did when she was angry.

  ‘Don’t you dare force my girl to sit at a table and use a knife and fork,’ she yelled. ‘She don’t sit at the table and she can’t use a fork.’ As with Susan’s other complaints she had clearly been told this by Aimee, and I was saddened that Aimee appeared to have spent most of contact complaining to her mother about me and was now basking in the result. ‘And what did you put on her toast?’ Susan now demanded. ‘She said it was disgusting.’

  I was about to say butter when the centre’s manger, roused from her office by the noise of Susan shouting, appeared.

  ‘Susan,’ she said, ‘calm down and we’ll go somewhere quiet to talk in private.’ Then to me: ‘Have you got a minute to discuss Susan’s grievances?’

  My first reaction was to say that Susan’s grievances were so ludicrous that they didn’t merit discussion but I knew that wasn’t the right answer. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If it will help.’

  ‘If you think I’m going to sit in a room with her,’ Susan sneered, jabbing a finger in my direction, ‘forget it.’

  Fine, I thought, but didn’t say.

  The centre manager, used to dealing with upset and angry parents, took this in her stride and produced plan B. ‘All right, Susan,’ she said calmly. ‘Say goodbye to Aimee and then we’ – by which she meant Susan, the manager and contact supervisor – ‘can go into my office and discuss what’s wrong.’

  This seemed to pacify Susan a little and with a brief goodbye to Aimee she turned to the manager.

  ‘Come on, let’s go home and get some dinner,’ I said gently to Aimee.

  ‘No!’ Aimee said in a good imitation of her mother. ‘I ain’t going with you. I’m staying with me mum.’

  ‘See!’ Susan said, her temper flaring again. ‘My girl don’t want to go with that woman. Who can blame her, forcing her to wash her hair and sit at the table.’ It was almost laughable, except it wasn’t.

  ‘Why don’t you want to go with Cathy?’ the supervisor now asked, bending down towards Aimee and inviting further complaints about me.

  ‘She’s horrible,’ Aimee said, eyeing her mother. ‘I’m not allowed to do what I want at her house.’

  ‘There!’ Susan said. ‘Told you!’

  ‘What do you mean, you’re not allowed to do what you want?’ the supervisor persisted.

  ‘I’m not allowed to eat biscuits,’ Aimee said. ‘And she makes me eat horrible food and forces me head under the tap.’

  ‘There!’ Susan said again triumphantly.

  The manager and the contact supervisor looked at me for an explanation and I hid my upset and anger. I was doing my best for Aimee, as I did for all the children I looked after, yet I was being blamed and ridiculed. Like the victim of a kangaroo court, I felt I’d been put on trial and I knew the only person who was going to defend me was me.

  ‘Aimee ate a good meal last night,’ I said positively, addressing Susan, the manager and supervisor. ‘As usual we ate at the table and I helped her use a knife and fork. Then I helped her with her bath, and this morning I washed her hair under the shower. Now, if there’s anything else you wish to discuss I’d prefer it if it was done in private with the social worker and my support worker present, and away from Aimee.’ For I could see that Aimee, far from being uncomfortable, was glorying in the disagreement.

  The manager looked slightly taken aback by my closing statement, but as an experienced foster carer I knew that what I’d suggested was correct procedure. I felt sorry for any new carer put in the same position.

  ‘That seems reasonable,’ the manager said. ‘Susan, say goodbye to Aimee, and then we’ll go into my office and I’ll write down what you want to say. I’ll send a copy to your social worker and he can arrange a meeting.’

  Lured by the prospect of having her grievances committed to paper Susan called goodbye to Aimee and trotted off with the manager and contact supervisor. Aimee, with her audience now gone, looked deflated. She also looked at me, clearly wondering what I was going to say and if I would tell her off.

  ‘Come on,’ I said gently, offering her my hand. ‘Let’s go home and get some dinner.’ Aimee looked slightly relieved, ignored my hand but followed me out of reception and into the car park, where I opened the car door and she climbed in.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ she asked as I got in and started the engine.

  ‘Spaghetti bolognaise,’ I said. ‘Most children like that.’

  ‘I like it,’ she said quietly.

  I glanced at Aimee in the rear-view mirror. She looked sad and lost now her bravado had gone, and my heart went out to her. How strange and vulnerable she must feel, I thought: she had been loyal to her mother’s ways for eight years and now she was suddenly expected to conform to a whole new way of life with very different standards and expectations. It wasn’t her fault she’d complained to her mother about me; she’d only told her mother what she thought she wanted to hear. I knew that with Susan’s history of battling with the social services over her older children for twenty-five years she was going to be difficult to work with, especially if Aimee continued to work against me.

  ‘Aimee,’ I said gently, as I drove, ‘I know it’s difficult for you coming into care and having to leave your mother and live with me. But making up stories about me won’t help. It will just upset your mother and make her angry.’

  ‘It will help,’ Aimee said quietly. ‘Mum�
�s older kids got moved from their foster carers when Mum complained, and that will happen to me.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘I’ve never had a child move from me before as a result of complaints, and I’ve looked after lots of children.’

  ‘How many?’ Aimee asked.

  ‘Over a hundred.’

  Aimee went quiet for a moment and then asked reasonably, ‘Where are all those kids now?’

  ‘Some children returned to live with their parents. Some went to live with relatives, and some were found new mummies and daddies and were adopted.’

  ‘I’m going to live with my mum as soon as she’s bought me a bed,’ Aimee stated categorically. ‘That’s what she has to do.’

  ‘Who told you that if your mother bought a bed you could go home?’ I asked.

  ‘Mum,’ Aimee said.

  It’s always difficult if a child comes into care with preconceived notions of when and what criteria need to be met to allow them to return home. The day comes and goes, or the goal is obtained, and their frustration mounts as they stay in care and nothing appears to be happening. This is especially true for a child like Aimee, who on the balance of probability wouldn’t be returned home by the judge.

  I glanced at Aimee in the rear-view mirror. ‘Aimee,’ I said carefully, ‘we don’t yet know what the judge will decide. But it’s not just about the bed. Did your social worker explain to you about the judge?’

  ‘Yes.’ Aimee nodded. ‘She said he was like a wise owl. He reads all the reports from all the professionals and then decides what is best for me.’ Well done, Kristen, I thought.

  ‘That’s right, but it will take a long time for the judge to read all those reports and decide what is best for you. Maybe even a year. The judge will have to be certain the right decision is made because you are very important. During the time he is deciding I will look after you. But we’ll have a fun time. It’s November now, so Christmas isn’t far away. I love Christmas. Do you?’

  Aimee folded her arms over her chest and scowled. ‘I don’t like Christmas. Last Christmas was horrible. I had to stay at Craig’s house.’

  ‘Oh yes? Who’s Craig?’ I asked, again glancing in the mirror. There’d been no mention of Craig in the referral.

  ‘He’s one of Mum’s friends,’ Aimee said. ‘Mum has a lot of men friends. Some are nice but Craig’s not.’

  When a child tells me she doesn’t like a person I try to find out more. It may be nothing, but sadly fostering has taught me that a story of abuse often lies behind a chance remark or throwaway comment like the one Aimee had just made.

  ‘Why don’t you like Craig?’ I now asked.

  ‘Me and Mum stayed with him at Christmas and he gave us corned beef for dinner. I didn’t like it. He shouted at me really loud. He said I was a rude little bitch. Then he grabbed me by the throat and belted me all over with his fist. It hurt and I had lots of bruises for ages. It wasn’t a good Christmas.’

  How quickly one’s world can change! A moment before I’d been thinking of the spaghetti bolognaise we were going to have for dinner, and Christmas; now I was hearing Aimee disclose abuse. I’d just pulled into the top of my road and I didn’t say anything further until I’d parked outside the house, for I needed to give Aimee my full attention. I released my seatbelt and turned in my seat to face her.

  ‘It was very wrong of Craig to hit you. Have you told anyone – your social worker or teacher?’

  ‘No. Mum said I mustn’t. She said if I told anyone I’d be taken into care. I didn’t tell, so how did the judge know?’

  ‘Aimee, you were right to tell me,’ I said. ‘You were brought into foster care for many reasons, not only that Craig hit you.’ In fact, as far as I was aware Craig’s assault hadn’t been part of the case for bringing Aimee into care, I assumed because no one knew about it. While the social services hadn’t ruled out the possibility that Aimee had been abused, she’d been brought into care for severe neglect; there’d been no firm evidence of abuse, until now. I needed to find out as much as I could, so that I could inform the social worker the following day.

  We were still in the car and I could see Aimee’s face by the light of the street lamp. ‘Aimee,’ I said. ‘Last Christmas was a long time ago – eleven months. Have you seen Craig since?’

  Aimee nodded. ‘We see him all the time. Mum and me stay at his place and he stays at our place. He’s horrible. His cat had kittens and he strangled them all.’

  ‘What? He did that?’ I asked, confused and disturbed. The referral had stated that Aimee had committed that shocking act of cruelty.

  ‘Yes. There were six kittens,’ Aimee said. ‘They were only a few days old and their eyes were closed. They were in the shed at the bottom of his garden. He said he wanted to show me something nice and he took me into the shed. I stroked the kittens and then he picked them up and pulled back their necks. I heard a click and they went all floppy. He said they were dead and he threw them in the dustbin. I cried. It was horrible.’

  ‘That’s dreadful,’ I said. ‘Absolutely horrible. Where was your mother while Craig was doing this?’

  ‘In the house, in bed asleep. She never wakes up until the afternoon.’ Which I knew from the social services to be true.

  ‘This was at Craig’s house?’ I clarified.

  ‘Yes.’

  From Aimee’s description it sounded as though Craig had broken the kittens’ necks, not strangled them, but that wasn’t the point. Susan had told the social services that it had been Aimee who’d killed the kittens; there’d been no mention of Craig. Was Aimee blaming Craig to hide her own evil act, perhaps even making up the very existence of Craig in a bid to pass on responsibility? I didn’t know, but her next comment convinced me she was telling the truth.

  ‘You know all those bruises you saw on me in the bath?’ Aimee said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Craig did them.’

  Chapter Ten

  Poor Role Models

  We stayed in the car. I didn’t want to go inside and risk breaking the rapport that had formed in the close and intimate atmosphere of the car. Aimee was disclosing abuse and it was important I learnt all I could.

  ‘When did Craig make those bruises?’ I asked, still turned in my seat and watching her carefully.

  ‘Last weekend. We always go to his house at the weekend. He stays with us during the week and we go there at weekends.’ So why weren’t the social services aware of Craig’s existence, I wondered? There’d been no mention of him in the referral and there should have been, as clearly he’d played a part in Aimee’s life.

  ‘How long have you and your mother known Craig?’ I asked. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘A long time. Two Christmases,’ she said. It was November now, so that would make nearly two years at least, maybe longer.

  ‘Aimee, can you tell me how you got those bruises?’

  She nodded. ‘He’ – by which she meant Craig – ‘said I was a rude bitch and I shouldn’t answer him back. He said I needed to be taught a lesson and apologize. So he grabbed a lump of my flesh, like this.’ Aimee demonstrated by grabbing her underarm and pinching it. ‘Then he squeezes really hard until I scream and say I’m sorry. Then he lets go.’

  I looked at Aimee and my eyes welled. Although as a foster carer I’d heard many accounts of cruelty to children it never became any easier to hear. The bastard, I thought, but didn’t say. Aimee was calm and I needed to stay calm and objective too.

  ‘And this happened last weekend?’ I clarified.

  ‘Yes, but he does it all the time. Mum says I’m always covered in his fingerprints. That’s one of the reasons I don’t go to school.’

  It was then I realized, with a shudder, what had struck me as odd about the bruises: they were all the same size and shape – round and the size of a small coin. I now realized they were finger- and thumbprints. They were all over her body, including her bottom, the tops of her thighs and across her lower stomach, close to her private parts. I
knew Aimee’s abuse was now a matter for the police and that once I’d told the social worker she’d call child protection; I therefore had to be careful that I didn’t ask her ‘leading questions’, which could contaminate her evidence. But I also knew from experience that children often disclose when they feel safe and comfortable with a foster carer.

  ‘Aimee, love,’ I said, ‘you’ve done very well telling me this, but why didn’t you tell me last night when I asked you about the bruises? You said you’d fallen in the playground.’ I knew this would be one of the first questions the social worker would ask: why had Aimee changed her mind? Was she making up the story about Craig?

  Aimee’s reply was simple and plausible: ‘I feel safe with you,’ she said. ‘Last night I thought Craig might come to your house and hurt me. But at contact Mum said she didn’t know where you live, and the social worker won’t be telling her. So I thought if she doesn’t know then she can’t tell Craig.’

  ‘I understand, love.’ I smiled. ‘And yes, you are safe with me. On Monday morning I’ll phone your social worker and tell her what you have told me, and she will decide what to do for the best. It’s possible you will have to speak to a police lady, but don’t worry: I’ll explain all about it nearer the time.’ I knew there was no point in phoning the out-of-hours duty social worker now (Friday evening) or over the weekend, because Aimee was in care and therefore removed from her abuser she wasn’t at risk from further harm, so it wouldn’t be classified as an emergency. I would be told to wait until Monday and speak to her social worker. That was normal practice. However, Aimee’s bruises could have faded by Monday, so my evidence would be crucial. As soon as I got the chance during the evening, I’d write up my log notes detailing what Aimee had told me.