by Cathy Glass
She looked downcast and shrugged. ‘Not so sure. They’ve put me on antibiotics again. My other foot is playing up. Two toes on that foot might have to come off.’
‘I am sorry,’ I said, shocked. ‘What a worry. Hopefully the antibiotics will start to work soon and it won’t be necessary.’
‘The nurse who changes my dressing didn’t seem too hopeful.’ Caz’s face clouded and she suddenly burst into tears.
‘Oh, Caz,’ I said, standing and going to her. ‘You poor dear.’ I went to take her hand but she pulled away. ‘Is there any other treatment you can have? Have you talked to your doctor?’
She shook her head despondently and, taking a tissue from her cardigan pocket, quickly wiped her eyes as if she didn’t have the right to cry or be upset.
‘I am sorry,’ I said again, at a loss to know what comfort I could offer.
‘It’s not just that,’ she said. ‘I feel so worthless. Sometimes I think everyone would be better off without me.’
‘Caz, don’t say that. Your family loves you lots. I saw that at the hospital. Not many teenagers would give up every evening to go to the hospital, even if it was their mother. I think you should speak to your doctor about how you are feeling. I am sure he’ll be able to help.’
‘It’s not the girls, it’s him,’ she said in the same flat voice, and for a moment I thought she meant Max.
‘Max?’ I asked, wondering what he could possibly have done to upset her.
She shook her head. ‘No. His father. Anyway, it’s not your problem.’ She blew her nose and tucked the tissue into the sleeve of her cardigan.
‘Do you have someone you can talk to?’ I asked, returning to my chair.
‘Yes, but talking doesn’t do any good.’ There was a few moments’ silence, which I broke by telling her Max was coping well and enjoying the summer holidays – something most parents of children in care want to hear. But Caz’s face clouded again and her bottom lip trembled. I made a move to go to her, but she waved me away.
‘It’s OK. You’re doing a good job with Max. Better than me.’
‘I’m doing my best to look after him until you are better,’ I said. ‘But I won’t ever replace you. You’re his mother.’ For I wondered if this might be contributing to her upset – that I was fulfilling her role. It worries many parents with children in care. ‘Max misses you very much, although he puts on a brave face. He seems to take everything in his stride, but I know he’ll be pleased when he can come home.’
She managed the faintest of smiles. ‘He’s certainly a deep one, that kid. I don’t know where he gets it from, but I think he’ll do well, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do.’
She looked thoughtful for a moment and I saw pain in her eyes. ‘Does Max ever talk to you about his father?’
‘Not really,’ I said honestly.
‘He doesn’t tell you about how he treats me?’
‘No.’ I looked at her carefully and waited.
‘It’s not right, him seeing his father treat me like he does. It sets him a bad example.’ I nodded and waited again. ‘I’m unhappy, Cathy, dreadfully unhappy, so I comfort eat. I have done most of my life.’
‘Because of Dan?’ I asked gently.
‘He’s one of the reasons. He treats me like crap.’ Her brow creased.
‘Does he hit you?’ I asked.
‘Sometimes, but it’s what he says that hurts more. That does the real damage. He calls me names, horrible dirty names, and in front of the kids, like slut, bitch and whore. He says I’m worthless and I should be grateful he stays because no one else would.’
‘Those are dreadful things to say,’ I said. ‘Especially in front of the children. It’s abusing you and them. You don’t have to put up with it.’ Yet even as I said it I knew it wasn’t that simple.
‘But he’s right. I am a slut. Not just because of how I am now, but because of who I was.’ Her voice shook and she took a deep breath. I waited until she could continue, wondering what on earth she could mean. ‘You see, I’ve got a past, a nasty one. Dan and me were seventeen when we started going out. He was my first boyfriend, although I wasn’t a virgin. I told him everything, confided in him, and I was so grateful he still wanted me. Part of me still is. I was damaged goods, soiled. My stepfather had been having sex with me since I was nine.’
‘Oh Caz,’ I said, and instinctively reached out to touch her arm, but she withdrew it.
‘When I met Dan my stepfather was still abusing me. I didn’t know how to stop it. Dan did. He gave him a right thrashing and said if he came near me again, he’d finish the job. I don’t like being touched,’ she added. ‘Not even by my children.’ Which explained why I’d never seen her hug them. Adults who have been sexually abused can shy away from physical contact and showing affection until they work through it in therapy.
I was reeling from what I’d heard and trying to think of what to say that might help. ‘Did you tell anyone apart from Dan that your stepfather was abusing you?’ I asked. ‘You know it’s never too late to go to the police.’
She shook her head. ‘It is. He’s dead. I told my mother at the time, but she didn’t believe me, although I’m sure she must have had her suspicions. Then, when I told Dan and he beat up my stepfather, she threw me out of the house. I lived with Dan’s family until we got our own council house. My mum is dead now, but look at what she’s left me with – a life sentence. And my kids too.’ Her face clouded and she began to cry again. I felt helpless just sitting there watching her and unable to offer her any physical comfort. ‘Pass me the box of tissues, will you?’ she said, nodding to the shelf beneath the coffee table.
I handed her the tissues and, taking a handful, she wiped her eyes.
‘Does Jo know any of this?’ I asked quietly. ‘She may be able to offer you some counselling.’
‘Some of it. But not about Dan and Paris.’
An icy chill ran down my spine. ‘What about Paris?’
‘Oh, he won’t touch her again,’ she said. ‘He knows what will happen if he does. But she’s his favourite. He’s all over her, spoils her – it’s not fair on the others.’
‘Touch her again?’ I asked. ‘What did he do to her?’
‘He tried to touch her breast. He was always making comments about her breasts. Paris said he kept going into her bedroom without knocking. Then one night before I went into hospital he came home drunk and staggered into her room. He claimed he thought he was in our bedroom. Anyway, she woke to find the duvet pulled back and him with his hand on her breast. Her boyfriend fitted a lock on the bedroom door, so it won’t happen again.’ Caz seemed pretty unfazed by this, but I heard alarm bells ringing. This was sexual abuse and a father who abuses his child once is likely to do it again. He would have had plenty of opportunity while Caz was in hospital.
‘You need to tell Jo,’ I said.
‘Do I?’ Caz asked naively. The poor woman had so many issues to deal with she was struggling, but protecting her children was paramount.
‘Yes, Caz, you must,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t want the same thing happening to Paris that happened to you.’
She looked horrified. ‘Good grief, no. He wouldn’t do that. But if I tell Jo, he’ll be furious and may leave us. I couldn’t cope alone.’ Unacceptable though this reason was, fear of being left alone and unable to cope is a reason why many women fail to report an abusive partner.
‘Your children must come first,’ I said.
‘I know. I’ll tell her,’ Caz said too easily. She rested her head back with a heavy sigh, overwhelmed by all she was having to face. She was very different now from the controlling woman who’d sat propped up on her pillows in a hospital bed with her daughters in attendance and issuing her complaints and orders. Cocooned, looked after, and away from the problems at home, I could see why she’d been in no hurry to return.
‘Is there anything I can get you?’ I asked.
‘You could make me a nice cup of tea,’ she said.
‘Sure. How do you like it?’ I stood and crossed to the kitchen.
‘Milk and two sugars. There should be some clean mugs in the cupboard above the sink.’
I opened the cupboard door, took out the mug – there was only one that was clean – and then filled the kettle and switched it on. As I moved around the kitchen making tea, Caz struck up a conversation from her chair at the other end of the room. ‘Did you see that programme the other night about eating disorders?’ she asked.
‘No, I don’t think I did.’
‘It said that many people who have an eating disorder have experienced some form of abuse. It doesn’t have to be physical abuse, it can be emotional – where a person puts you down the whole time. I wasn’t always fat, you know. I started comfort eating because I was so unhappy at home and it’s continued. My friend, Bet, says if I don’t do something soon I’ll eat myself to death. I think she could be right. How is Max doing with his diet?’
‘Good,’ I said, glancing in her direction. I couldn’t see her face as the chair was facing away – towards the television. ‘He’s been losing about three pounds a week. He’s eating well,’ I reassured her, ‘but taking more exercise.’
‘Which I can’t do,’ she said flatly. ‘Even if I went on a diet, I wouldn’t lose weight. I can’t even walk, let alone exercise.’ She had a point.
‘I know it must be difficult for you at present,’ I said, placing a tea bag into the mug. ‘But I’m sure the health centre would be able to suggest a diet and fitness plan to suit you. Did Kelly and Paris go?’
‘Yes, but the classes aren’t running now. They start again in September when the staff are back from their holidays.’
I concentrated on pouring the boiling water into the mug, then found some milk in the fridge. There was an opened packet of sugar on the work surface and I added two teaspoonfuls as Caz had wanted. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her why she didn’t use a sweetener instead, but that may have sounded rude. I carried the mug of tea to her. ‘Don’t you want one?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
‘You couldn’t fetch me a biscuit as well, could you?’ she said with a guilty smile. ‘I find tea a bit wet without one,’ she joked. ‘There should be a packet of chocolate digestives on the work surface somewhere.’
I returned to the kitchen, found the open packet of biscuits and took it to her.
With her tea in one hand and the biscuits on her lap, she deftly took the top biscuit out of the packet and dunked it into her tea before taking a bite. ‘Hmm,’ she sighed, savouring the melting chocolate on moist biscuit. ‘I know I shouldn’t, but you need a few treats in life, don’t you? Would you like one?’
‘No, thank you.’
Taking a sip of tea, she peeled off the next biscuit and, dunking it, ate it with the same pleasure, then the next. As I watched her pop one in after another, absorbed in the pleasure, I saw the comfort eating of the abused child. With her shoulders always slightly rounded and her head hung forward, her posture was that of the victim, which she had been for most of her life. It was pitiful and demeaning, and as one biscuit quickly followed another I saw that Caz could no more stop eating them than she had been able to stop her stepfather’s abuse.
‘Here, take them away,’ she said eventually when there was one left, and threw the packet to me.
I returned it to the kitchen. ‘Shall I get Max a drink?’ I asked. He hadn’t appeared since we’d arrived.
‘He’ll come out and get one when he’s ready,’ she said.
I sat with her again, wondering if I should go now. There was still forty minutes of contact left, not enough time for me to return home, but I didn’t want to outstay my welcome.
‘Do you need anything?’ I asked.
‘New feet.’ Her smile was bittersweet. Then suddenly she froze as the front door could be heard opening and then banging shut. ‘Dan?’ she said under her breath.
‘I’ve forgotten me fucking wallet,’ he cursed from the hall. ‘None of them wankers at the bar would stand me a round. Supposed to be me fucking mates!’
‘He’s been drinking,’ Caz whispered. ‘You’d better go.’
Dan came into the living room with a lit cigarette between his fingers. ‘Not more bleedin’ social workers,’ he cursed, referring to me. ‘Haven’t you got better things to do?’
‘This is Max’s foster carer,’ Caz reminded him timidly and clearly unsettled.
He grunted an acknowledgement and, placing the cigarette between his lips, began searching the living room, presumably for his wallet.
‘I don’t think it’s in here. I would have seen it,’ Caz said. ‘Try the bedroom.’
With another grunt he went out, leaving a trail of smoke behind him.
‘You’d better go,’ Caz said again. ‘Take Max with you. There’s not long left.’
‘I could come back later for him?’ I offered.
‘No. I’ll see him tomorrow and I need to lie down. Max!’ she then called. ‘Time to go.’ And to me: ‘If he doesn’t appear, shout upstairs for him, will you?’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ I said. ‘You’re sure you’ll be OK?’
‘Yes. You go,’ she said, clearly wanting me out.
I went into the hall and to the foot of the stairs. Dan could be heard cursing as he searched the main bedroom. ‘Max, we’re going!’ I called.
A moment later a door opened and then Max came down the stairs, carrying a bag of sweets. ‘I only ate half of them,’ he said proudly, holding the bag up for me to see.
‘Good boy.’
‘I like to treat him,’ Caz called from the living room. ‘Bye.’
‘Bye,’ we returned. ‘Bye, Dan,’ I added. There was no reply.
We went down the dark hall and I let us out. The fresh air greeted us and I drew a deep breath – to rid myself not only of the cloying smell of cigarette smoke, but also the oppressive atmosphere of unhappiness that pervaded the house, which could only be alleviated, it seemed, by comfort eating. It was depressingly sad.
Chapter Eighteen
Reporting Concerns
I drove home with a very heavy heart and my thoughts coursing with all that I’d seen and heard at Max’s house. The living and kitchen area could have done with a good clean and tidy, but it wasn’t the worst I’d seen – far from it. I was irritated that Caz had been leaving Max bags of sweets as treats in his bedroom when she had agreed to him being on a diet. I assumed this was because she was still refusing to truly acknowledge and address the connection between over-eating and obesity, so giving Max sweets wouldn’t be seen as counterproductive to his diet. Of course she would want to treat him, but to be honest, from what I knew, I thought the best treat she could give him was her company: to find time to sit and talk with him about what he’d been doing and was interested in, or play a card or board game, instead of letting him go to his bedroom every visit.
But the thoughts that dominated most and were of greatest concern were those of abuse: all those years when Caz had been raped by her stepfather, and now Dan’s abuse of Paris. Caz was afraid of Dan; it had shown in her eyes and demeanour when he’d come home unexpectedly. A woman who is afraid of her partner is not going to be able to stand up to him and protect her children. What was she going to do? Not throw him out. She’d said herself she couldn’t manage without him. The dismissive language she’d used when describing his abuse of Paris had a normalizing element: ‘He was always making comments about her breasts … he kept going into her bedroom without knocking … Anyway, she woke to find … his hand on her breast.’ It had fallen to Paris’s boyfriend to fit a lock on her bedroom door. Also, when Caz had told me of the terrible abuse she’d suffered at the hands of her stepfather I noticed she hadn’t used the term rape, but had said her stepfather had been having sex with her. This has a different connotation and implies that it was in some way consensual, which rape never is.
Last but not least in my doom-laden
thoughts was that as Caz was the victim of domestic violence so, too, were her children. What parents often don’t realize is that domestic violence has as much – if not a greater – impact on their children as it does on the adult victim. Children, scared witless, have to stand by and watch their parent being abused and are powerless to intervene and protect them. It often leaves a lasting legacy and the social services view domestic violence as a form of child abuse in itself, with grounds for removing the child from the home.
Deep in thought, I suddenly found myself outside my house and I pulled onto the driveway. Max hadn’t said anything during the journey home either.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked, glancing at him in the mirror.
He nodded, but as we got out he said, ‘It’s strange without Adrian and Paula.’
‘Yes, it is,’ I agreed.
I unlocked the front door and as we went in Max passed me his bag of sweets for safekeeping. ‘I think I’ve had enough today,’ he said.
‘Good boy. You can have some more tomorrow.’
It was even stranger in the house without Adrian and Paula than it had been in the car, and to be honest I didn’t like it. Max didn’t either. ‘Four sleeps until they’re home again,’ he said gloomily. Adrian and Paula were either side of his age, so he always had someone to play with.
‘Roll on Sunday when we collect them,’ I said, then caught myself. ‘But we are going to have a nice time before then. Think about what you would like to do. Tomorrow we just have the morning, as you have contact in the afternoon, so we can go somewhere close.’
‘Library?’ he suggested, without giving it much thought.
‘Or would you like to go to a museum? There is a small one not far from here.’
His eyes lit up. ‘Yes. I like museums. I went to one with the school on a coach.’
‘That’ll be the City museum. This is a smaller one, not far away and worth a visit.’
‘Can I take my sweets with me?’ he asked.
I smiled. ‘Yes, a few. And we could have lunch out. There’s a café next to the museum.’ I had brightened, too, at the prospect of an enjoyable day out rather than sitting at home, missing Adrian and Paula. Although I would have liked them to come too, I knew they were having a fantastic time with their grandparents. I’d phone them in the morning to say hi.
