Terrified

by Angela Hart

  ‘Thanks, Angela. You too. Give my love to Jonathan and your mum.’

  We had a similarly upbeat conversation the following Sunday, and this time I had some news for Vicky.

  ‘We’ve got a little girl coming to stay next week,’ I said. ‘Her name’s Melanie and she’s nine. She’ll be with us for a few weeks, just to help her mum out.’

  ‘Ah! That’s nice,’ Vicky said.

  ‘Yes, I’m very pleased. Jonathan and I had been wondering whether to have a little break from fostering, but it’s been way too quiet in the house for my liking!’

  Vicky laughed and so did I, but what I said was no joke. Though Jonathan and I had enjoyed having a week or so to catch our breath after Vicky’s departure, we both admitted we felt there was something missing from our lives, without having any kids at all in the house. One night I’d made a huge cottage pie and, after Jonathan and I ate less than half of it between us, we both looked at what was left.

  ‘Did you think you were catering for more?’ Jonathan said kindly.

  ‘Habit,’ I said. ‘I like having more people round the table. What do you think?’

  After several long and searching conversations we both agreed not to make any rash decisions about our long-term future as foster carers. However, to my delight we settled on continuing to make ourselves available to take in kids on short-term placements, which is how we came to agree to have Melanie. This seemed like a good compromise. Jonathan did not want to commit to fostering indefinitely but he was very happy to provide respite care. This also suited me for the time being. I didn’t feel ready to commit to a long-term placement so soon after Vicky, but my feelings hadn’t changed and I was more determined than ever that I wanted to carry on fostering.

  ‘Er, exactly how long is Melanie staying?’ Vicky asked.

  ‘Two-and-a-half weeks if all goes to plan. It’s just respite care.’

  ‘Oh that’s good,’ she replied wistfully.

  ‘Is everything all right, Vicky?’

  ‘Well, it’s like this, Angela. I do like it at my dad’s but I’m not sure I want to stay here forever.’

  ‘Oh, I see. It’s very early days. Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, not really. I mean, I don’t really like Matty, or should I say Matty doesn’t like me. He hasn’t made me feel welcome, which isn’t very nice.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Has something else happened?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. He’s just a bit off with me generally, that’s all. He makes it obvious he’d rather I wasn’t here.’

  ‘I see. I suppose it’s a big adjustment for him too. What about your dad and Carol? How are they?’

  ‘Absolutely lovely. I really like them and they are very kind. I can’t believe the things my mum told me about my dad. He’s the opposite of the way she described him.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it. So is something else bothering you?’

  ‘Everything is different. I’m just such a long way away from home. I miss Lorraine and James, I miss all my friends and I miss you and Jonathan, and your mum. The girls at school are OK, but they all have their groups and have grown up together. I’ve got a different accent to them and I just feel like I don’t belong.’

  ‘It’s a huge change, Vicky, so I’m not surprised you’re still settling in. I’m sure things will improve in time. Have you spoken to your dad about how you feel?’

  ‘Yes. He’s brilliant. He told me he’s had some training in talking about problems, because he had to go through a lot of counselling when he lost his leg. He helps counsel other soldiers sometimes, and he’s a great listener and a really easy person to talk to. He’s told me everything I’m feeling is normal and, like you, he says it will take time for me to settle, but . . .’

  ‘But what, sweetheart?’

  ‘But I’m really not sure it’s what I want. I’ve met my dad now, and I know I can visit him whenever I want, but I think I’d rather live with you.’

  ‘OK, Vicky. I hear what you’re saying and you need to talk to your dad and your social worker about this, but I would recommend you give it a bit more time, and don’t make any impulsive decisions.’

  ‘OK, Angela,’ she said. ‘I’ll try my best.’

  Vicky struggled through the summer term at her new school feeling incredibly homesick and, after visiting us in the holidays for three days, she said she missed her dad but had made up her mind that she wanted to move back.

  ‘Can I live with you again?’ Vicky asked me outright on the last night of her visit.

  ‘I’d love to have you back,’ I replied immediately, though I quickly added that it wasn’t just up to me.

  I didn’t want to give Vicky any false hopes and had no idea if this were possible. I also wasn’t entirely sure how Jonathan would react, but in the event he didn’t think twice about having Vicky back, if it were possible. We both agreed she felt like one of the family and, after discussing her situation with Social Services, it was decided that Vicky could come back for the start of the autumn term, as long as her old school or a suitable alternative could accommodate her.

  Vincent was incredibly understanding throughout, telling Vicky that if she changed her mind she could return to live with him at any time. Hayley was very supportive and helpful too. In the event she secured Vicky’s place back at her old school at lightning speed and dealt with all the necessary paperwork extremely efficiently. In the meantime, Jonathan and I fostered two more young children after Melanie’s short stay, both of them for a week or two of respite care. They filled the house with noise and clutter and were fun to be around, but it wasn’t the same as having a teenager in the house.

  ‘I enjoy looking after the little ones, but it’s very different to having Vicky here, isn’t it?’ I had said more than once.

  ‘Definitely,’ Jonathan agreed. ‘I never thought I would say this, but I miss the challenges involved in having a teenager in the house. I think it suited us.’

  We didn’t know it at the time but this was a prophetic conversation, because a few years later Jonathan and I went on to train as specialist carers for teenagers. For the time being, however, we continued to make ourselves available as short-term respite carers, while also welcoming Vicky into our home and lives once again. It was a great joy to have her back.

  After the few months spent apart we could see that Vicky had come on in leaps and bounds since we first met her, which was very satisfying indeed. The swaggering slip of a girl who’d arrived at our door in the oversized purple tracksuit, swinging her carrier bag of clothes, was now fast approaching her fifteenth birthday. She was quite the young lady, and her youthful cockiness had turned into impressive poise and self-confidence.

  ‘I’m extremely grateful to you and Jonathan,’ she said as she unpacked her suitcases in her old bedroom. ‘I’m not sure I would have come back if I couldn’t stay with you again.’

  ‘Well we are thrilled to have you here,’ I told her. ‘We missed you so much.’

  ‘I missed you too! You gave me my first proper home. My mother’s house was never a home. I’m so happy to be back.’

  I never stopped worrying and wondering about the level of abuse Vicky had suffered at the hands of her mother, but the more experienced I became as a foster carer the more I understood that I couldn’t ask. It had to come from Vicky, and I resigned myself to the fact that maybe she would never tell.

  Vicky’s return was a great success. She lived with us for almost two more years, during which time her episodes of freezing and going into shock reduced and became much less severe. She left us again when she had finished school and was nearly seventeen, and we have kept in touch ever since.

  Vicky didn’t talk about her mother for more than twenty years, but one day she did open up, completely unexpectedly. By then Vicky was in her thirties, married to her lovely husband, Keith, and their two daughters were aged nine and eleven. Vicky had brought the girls over to our house for a visit when I made a remark about their bea
utiful long hair.

  ‘What lucky girls you are!’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such pretty hair!’

  Both of Vicky’s daughters had flowing blonde hair that was clearly very well cared for, and it was glistening in the sunshine as they bounded around my garden, playing with our pet rabbits and guinea pigs. Ever since the girls were born I had noticed that Vicky was very particular about their appearance. They were always immaculately dressed, and if they got the slightest mark on their clothes Vicky would change them immediately. You didn’t need to be a genius to work out why, and even though I sometimes worried that Vicky may be overcompensating because of her neglected background, ultimately I was very proud of her and would never have criticised her parenting skills. She was a caring and devoted mum, and she could not do enough for her daughters.

  ‘I could never have my hair long and loose like that,’ Vicky said wistfully, in reply to my compliment.

  ‘You always had yours in a ponytail, didn’t you?’ I said, glancing at the neat pixie crop she had had ever since she became a mum.

  ‘Yes. That was because of my mother, Angela. I had it down for her funeral though, remember?’

  ‘I do remember, very clearly. And afterwards you told me you couldn’t wear it down after all.’

  ‘That’s right. I didn’t tell you why though, did I?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  There was a momentary pause and Vicky looked me in the eye, holding my gaze as she spoke softly but purposefully.

  ‘My mother used to swing me around by my hair, Angela, when she was drunk. There was no warning. She’d suddenly make a grab for me, and then I’d be bouncing off the walls and the banisters and the furniture. I tied my hair up so it was harder for her to snatch hold of it when I tried to run away, but she usually still managed to get me.’

  I felt like a door had been opened into a world I hadn’t been allowed into before, and I was gripped with sorrow.

  ‘And so . . . that is the reason you always tied it up?’ I said, trying to take in what I’d heard.

  ‘Yes, and because if she grabbed my hair when it was loose it hurt more, and it ripped out more easily.’

  ‘That’s just dreadful,’ I whispered.

  ‘I know. Even when she was dead I was still scared of having my hair down. I felt like I always had to be looking over my shoulder.’

  ‘Oh, Vicky. That’s very sad.’

  ‘Sad? That’s one word, Angela. Cruel, I’d say. She was evil, pure evil. It wasn’t until I had my own kids that I realised how bad she was.’

  We sat in silence for a few moments, watching the girls, who were now picking daisies.

  ‘Can I ask, why didn’t you tell anybody, Vicky?’

  ‘I was too scared, Angela. It was as simple as that. She threatened to kill me if I told anyone, and I believed her.’

  I remembered how Vicky had said to me, many years before, that she thought her mother might murder her. It was heartbreaking to even think about how scared she must have felt.

  After a few moments, Vicky went on to tell me that when she was eight years old she had found her mother surrounded by flames in bed. Brenda had knocked over a candle when she was drunk and Vicky had to beat out the fire.

  ‘She told me it was my fault, and after that I was always afraid that my mother might kill us both, if not with fire, by some other means, like cutting us with broken glass in the way she cut her fingers, only worse. I thought she was mad enough to do it, especially as she hated me so much.’

  Vicky made a sound halfway between a snort and a laugh and, as I had seen her do many times before, she then swiftly pulled on a brave face and attempted to lighten the atmosphere.

  ‘My God, Angela, do you remember that haunted house we went in, in Disney World?’

  ‘Oh dear, I do indeed. You were petrified!’

  ‘I know, but it wasn’t the ghosts and skeletons that frightened me. It was that freaky psychic woman with the candle. Remember her? She was meant to be doing some kind of spooky seance. Honest to God, Angela, I thought it was my mother coming back to haunt me! How daft was I?’

  ‘Not daft at all. In hindsight it wasn’t a very good idea to take you into a haunted house! I’ve always felt guilty about it.’

  ‘You? Guilty? You have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about, Angela! You gave me the only childhood I ever had.’

  Squeals of delight came from the bottom of my garden, and Vicky and I both looked over to see her daughters putting daisy chains in each other’s hair.

  ‘Look at them!’ Vicky said proudly. ‘I haven’t told them yet, but Keith and I are planning to take them to Euro Disney. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, as I loved our Disney trip so much. We’ve finally saved up enough money and we’re going to go next Easter!’

  ‘Euro Disney, hey? Oh Vicky, that’s great news! They’ll love it, and you and Keith will too!’

  ‘I know. I think the girls are both at the perfect age to enjoy it. I can’t wait to see their faces when we tell them!

  Thanks, Angela.’

  ‘What are you thanking me for?’ I asked, puzzled.

  Now it was Vicky’s turn to look a little perplexed.

  ‘None of this would be happening without you, Angela. I was unwanted and unloved when I first came to your house. You made me feel welcome and loved when I didn’t think anybody cared. I wouldn’t be the person I am today if it wasn’t for you.’

  Epilogue

  It has been a privilege to see Vicky blossom into a wonderful wife and mother, and she has also achieved well in her chosen career. Looking back over the years, I feel very proud of her success.

  Social Services placed Vicky in ‘supportive lodgings’ a few months after she had finished school at sixteen-and-a-half. This was common practice for teenagers in care in our region in the early nineties. The houses were council-owned properties shared by several youngsters, and typically supervised by a local foster carer or warden who made regular visits and was on call should any problems arise. Supportive lodgings were meant to provide a stepping stone, but in retrospect it was not the best idea to place a lot of teenagers under one roof with few boundaries and a great deal of freedom. Vicky shared her house with four teenage boys who held frequent parties and often had the police or council officials knocking at their door, investigating complaints from neighbours about the noise.

  ‘It’s a bit untidy,’ Vicky remarked when I took her to the house for the first time. ‘I don’t mind my own mess but I hate other people’s.’

  The kitchen and bathrooms were grubby, the lounge carpet was threadbare and stained and Vicky’s room had mould growing up the wall underneath the window.

  ‘Come on!’ I said. ‘Let’s do our best.’

  I had given her some bedding and towels and I helped her to make the bed and unpack. I also placed a vase of her favourite flowers on the windowsill, which she really appreciated. I was naturally upset leaving her there, but Vicky was already turning into a very capable and independent young woman and I felt sure she would be fine. I told her she could visit us whenever she wanted to, and that she only had to pick up the phone if she needed anything, as we were just a ten minute walk away. Somehow, even then, I knew we would always keep in touch; we had a bond that I think we both felt very strongly.

  Vicky had maintained a very good relationship with her dad and it was comforting to know that not only did she have Jonathan and I nearby to support her, but she could turn to her father for help if need be. Vincent had continued to tell Vicky his door was always open should she ever want to stay, and she and Lorraine were closer than ever too.

  After exceeding her predicted grades in most of her exams, Vicky secured a place at the local technical college, where she embarked on a two-year catering course. I invited her round for Sunday lunch every week, and she arrived on the dot of noon without fail each time. My mother was now suffering from rheumatism and arthritis and no longer wanted to entertain, so she would come over
too, and we always had a good time, often playing board games together for hours on end. On many occasions Vicky asked if she could stay over, and several times she asked if I could help her out with money. I never refused her a bed for the night if we had the space, even though Jonathan and I had continued to foster, taking in many other children and teenagers. I didn’t give Vicky any cash though, instead offering to do her washing or giving her some groceries, as I felt this was more helpful to her in the long term.

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’ she would say, giving me a cheeky look.

  ‘I do, Vicky, but you’re still very young and learning to stand on your own two feet. When I was sixteen and seventeen any money in my pocket went on a new top or a record. I want to make sure you’re eating properly and looking after yourself.’

  ‘Boring!’ she always teased.

  ‘I only have your best interests at heart, Vicky,’ I said one time.

  ‘I know, Angela,’ she replied. ‘And I am very glad you do. I don’t know where I’d be without you.’

  After finishing her catering course, Vicky took a live-in job at a hotel about seventy miles away. Once again I told her to keep in touch, and I knew that she would.

  ‘As if I wouldn’t!’ she said. ‘You’re my family.’

  Vicky phoned several times a week and visited often, even spending Christmas with us for many years to come, which we all thoroughly enjoyed. Lorraine had another baby and would often come over with her two boys when Vicky visited. She and her husband had been re-housed onto the estate where Vicky lived as a child and unfortunately, even after all this time, Vicky was still terrified to venture anywhere near her mother’s old house. This is still the case to this day. Lorraine completely understood and so the sisters would often meet up at my place, which was always a joy for me. It was wonderful to see how far they had both come. Lorraine was fit and well and clearly loved being a mum, just as Vicky did.

  There is a supposed truism I’ve heard repeated many times since I started fostering, the one that suggests children who have suffered neglect or abuse typically choose one of two paths, either continuing the cycle or completely breaking free. I agree with this observation to a point, and Vicky was certainly a very positive example of a survivor, as the life she created for her family was so very different to the one she endured as a young girl. Her friend Izzy is another success story, incidentally: like Vicky, she married a good man and became a mother of two, and she now runs a successful business in our town.