by Mia Marconi
Once we had all agreed, I got a little buzz of anticipation. I was ready to love another child again. India needed all the love she could get and I told myself that our family would do our best to help her get over the trauma she had suffered. We would treat her like one of the family and do everything we could to help her.
Social services thought it was a good idea, too, so it was time to tell India. Martine and I were in the park with Ruby, Francesca, Jack and Jill when we broke the news and her little round face lit up. Martine looked crushed momentarily, then looked at me with sad eyes and smiled.
‘I like your dogs, Mia,’ India said quietly.
‘And they like you too, darling. Would you like to take them for a walk on a lead one day?’
India nodded her head vigorously and then skipped off to play on the swings with Ruby and Francesca.
It was a planned move, which I knew was rare in the world of emergency placements, and we began having conversations with India about Martine having to go to Romania to rescue some babies.
Chapter Three
The whole prospect of moving really thrilled India, and it was lovely to see her showing some emotion. She knew our home and she knew me, but her excitement wasn’t because she was coming to live with me – I was realistic about that; it was because she loved playing with the girls. She felt safe around children; you could tell that immediately.
The week before India was due to come and live with us was really exciting. The girls helped me get her room ready: Ruby picked out a Barbie doll she thought India would like, and Francesca picked out a jigsaw puzzle with dogs on it and helped me put India’s My Little Pony duvet cover on her bed.
The minute the bed was made, Jack and Jill jumped onto it.
‘Naughty dogs!’ giggled Ruby, before picking Jill up and cuddling her. Then the questions started.
‘Does India like Winnie-the-Pooh videos?’
‘Does she like making cakes? Can we make one with her tomorrow? Please, Mummy, please!’
After school the following day, Martine knocked at the door and Ruby and Francesca ran to answer it.
‘Hello, India,’ they chorused, as India hid nervously behind Martine.
‘Come in, India,’ I said.
She arrived with one small suitcase, which also had My Little Pony on it, and I thought to myself, ‘That’s all her worldly possessions.’ I thought about Ruby and Francesca’s bulging toy box, full of things their grandparents, aunts and uncles had bought them, and felt sad that not all children knew what it was like to be at the heart of a loving family.
India ran upstairs with Ruby and Francesca to look at her bedroom, which was full of pink frills, cuddly toys and a bookshelf full of books, and I could hear their excited chatter as I made Martine a cup of tea.
When she came down I said, ‘Did you like it?’
‘Yes, Mia,’ she said shyly.
Martine and I exchanged glances, chatted for an hour over a cup of tea, then she said, ‘Time for me to go, India.’
If India was going to cry at all it would have been then, but her eyes were dry and all she said was, ‘Bye, Martine.’
‘Bye, India.’
And that was it. She turned and left. What else could she do?
India came back inside and sat down quietly on the sofa.
There was no need to give her a list of rules; she was coming from another carer, not directly from a chaotic home, and Martine would have highlighted to me if she punched, kicked or swore – all reasons to lay down the law. And she would learn how we did things in our house from Ruby and Francesca, like shutting the toilet door and taking your wellies off before coming into the house.
The girls would be her safety net, her soft beanbag, to lean on when she needed to. She would rarely have to be on her own with me – I understood from Peter and Martine that this could be uncomfortable for her – so I chatted to her from a distance and didn’t move into her space unless she wanted me to. India felt safe at our house, I could tell, but I wondered if I would ever see her really relax and let go.
I would have to do some unravelling, because India never spoke about Amy, or Martine for that matter – she had blocked them from her mind, so I had little to go on.
I wait for children to talk about things when they feel comfortable, and they do that when you least expect it. The important thing is to leave colouring pens and spare paper out, where they can easily access it if they need to. Often they find it easier to draw what is bothering them than to talk about it. Talking about feelings is a skill you develop over time, but most children don’t have it. If a child has something to say about a trauma it usually starts with something like, ‘Mummy gets cross if I don’t wash up properly.’ It’s a simple statement, which you need to investigate gently with questions like, ‘Does Mummy shout when she gets cross or does she smack?’ That’s when you can find out whether parents are really abusive or not. There was no simple statement from India, for now, Amy was firmly packed away in a box. India made no move towards the pens and paper and she didn’t talk about what happened at home either.
First, I concentrated on the basics. Amy had never provided India with any structure or routine, so for Martine, and now me, the first job was to try to turn that around.
Martine had worked hard to introduce her to routines and it was up to me to continue what she had started, but unlearning set behaviours is much harder than learning them.
Martine had managed to get India to sit at the table, but at dinnertime she was quieter than a sleeping baby, as eating at the table with a family was a new experience for her. She was so different to my family, who chatted noisily about their school day, laughing and occasionally crying. She’d had no mealtime routine with Amy at all; Amy had no dinner table or chairs, no clean plates, cutlery or glasses, so how could she have? India had no experience of family chat, no one to squabble with over the last roast potato, there had been no laughter and no tears. Dinner for India would have meant sitting in a corner with a packet of crisps or a slice of bread, and some days she might not even have had that. If it hadn’t been for her family network, she could have starved to death.
At dinnertime in our house there was no corner India could hide in and it was a frightening time for her. Little by little she got used to it, but it was months before her confidence grew sufficiently so that she would actually speak.
Then came bedtime. After I’d put Isabella down, it was time for India’s bath. I filled it full of Barbie dolls so I never had a problem getting her in. She might have found getting undressed awkward, but the girls were nearby so she could hear them laughing, singing and getting ready to go to sleep, and that reassured her.
A clean bed was something India had never experienced until she lived with Martine and she absolutely loved it. At Amy’s she slept on a bare mattress with no sheet and a duvet with no cover, and pillows were alien – she never saw one until she moved into foster care.
Once in bed, I would sit next to her on a chair (mindful that she hated anyone getting too close) and read her a story, and she would listen intently, her bright blue eyes getting wider and wider every time I turned a page. I loved bedtimes, as it was one-to-one time that India didn’t find threatening.
India absolutely loved books, almost more than any child I have ever seen. Her favourite stories were The Velveteen Rabbit, the classic story about the rabbit who wants the love of his owner to bring him to life, and the Brambly Hedge books about families of little mice – happy books, where she could escape from memories of her chaotic and sad world.
She trusted books. They never let her down. She could cuddle them in bed, but they showed no emotion back so were safe for India. Once her eyes closed, I would creep out, leaving the night light on, as she hated being in the dark. Then I would go and read to Ruby and Francesca. The experience was so different as they would cuddle up to me, asking questions about the story and laughing at the funny bits.
India was a pretty, chubby little girl who
always looked anxious and apprehensive, but it was her mop of waist-length hair that you noticed first.
Head lice loved India’s hair and resolutely set up camp there. I remember Martine explaining to me in grisly detail how it took her months and months to get rid of the lice when she’d first arrived. She said she could literally see them jumping out of her hair, and the social worker said it was the worst case of nits she had ever seen.
It was no surprise that India had a problem with her hair being brushed. Anything to do with her hair was traumatic, in fact; she hated hairbands, clips, bows, but especially hairbrushes. Growing up with Amy she would not have been bathed or washed very often, and even if she tried to wash herself, at age three she was too little to tackle her hair.
She still had nits when she came to me, and going near her with a hairbrush was a major exercise. It didn’t matter whether I got princess brushes, pink brushes or soft brushes; India did not want one near her head. Consequently, washing her hair was a nightmare. She screamed from start to finish and afterwards it took about thirty minutes to brush the knots out, and by the end of it we were all exhausted. The irony was that hair-wash night was the only time India would get emotional as most of the time she was very quiet, so it was doubly distressing to see her get so upset.
Eventually, we solved the problem with a trip to the hairdresser, who cut India’s hair into a lovely, manageable bob. This may sound obvious, and Martine had tried to do just that, but as India had been placed in care voluntarily, Amy had to give her permission for India to get a haircut, and she’d absolutely refused. Eventually, after weeks of asking, I got her to see sense and she agreed.
Playtime is so important to children for all sorts of reasons. It’s sociable, teaches them various skills and, above all, makes them happy. It’s lovely to watch little girls absorbed playing with a dolls’ house or a cooking set and to hear their chatter as they decide what to make for dinner or which doll is sleeping where. They act everything out through play and I was keen for India to start, especially as she had spent so little time with other children.
Francesca and Ruby were excited to include her in their games, but at first, India watched them from a distance, occasionally smiling and giggling to herself with her face hidden behind a book. The girls didn’t push her to play; they simply showed her how to do it. Little by little, India made small steps, joining in their dressing-up games and playing babies and animal hospitals with all their cuddly toys, or they would read together, discussing and laughing at the story. The girls had had to coax her at first, but before long she was enjoying her first real experience of being a child.
India eventually took up their offer to dress up as ET, or an imaginary model. Make-up was always involved and practically every night I found India looking like ET in drag.
Having make-up put all over her was a huge step forward because she was being touched and enjoying it. Getting it off was slightly trickier – I made sure I did it as gently as I could with cotton wool and make-up remover.
India was an easy child in a lot of ways because she demanded so little attention. Once she was happy playing with Francesca and Ruby, my job was relatively painless. But because she showed so little emotion – a mechanism she had learned to survive – she was also a closed book, which made it tough to read what she was thinking and feeling. She was also fearful of doing anything wrong, so scared of making a mistake that she wouldn’t even try. No doubt Amy had screamed and shouted if India hadn’t done what she asked, and I had to teach her that it was okay to make mistakes and okay to try, even if you had no idea of the outcome.
When she was about five, it was so hot we planned a day at the beach. It was a typical family day, with Francesca and Ruby singing and arguing in the car, and Martin getting more and more frustrated. We got there just in time and the girls jumped onto the beach, pulling off their dresses and rushing down to the sea in their mermaid bikinis. India refused to move, clinging to the steps as if her life depended on it.
‘Come on, darling, take off your sandals.’
‘I’m not!’ she screamed.
‘Come on, I’ll carry you.’ But each time I tried to put her down it was like I was putting her feet on hot coals.
It was getting embarrassing now and people were beginning to stare.
I carried India into the sea and she began screaming that the water was burning her. I couldn’t work out what she meant but carried her back, dried her off and took her for a long walk.
We walked for miles but she wouldn’t hold my hand, as she could tell I was getting annoyed. We sat on the grass.
‘You okay, India?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, but her sullen face suggested otherwise.
The penny finally dropped. She had never experienced sand beneath her feet or sea water on her body. It was a new experience – the crowds, the heat, the idea of a family day out.
‘Let’s get an ice cream,’ I said, and stuck a huge 99 Flake in it and covered it with strawberry sauce.
India looked lost.
‘Next time, we can build a sand castle,’ I said, and realised that on this occasion I hadn’t got it right.
However inexperienced she was, she did want to join in with family life. India loved the dogs, and followed me round, watching me with her large, soft, inquisitive eyes, and if I was hanging out the washing or doing the hoovering she would imitate me. I made sure she had her own mini-hoover that was exactly the same as mine, and we set up a washing line in her bedroom that she could hang her dolls’ clothes on.
India was eager to learn and eager to please, which sounds ideal, but people-pleasing was a habit she had acquired in order to survive. The easy option was to let her stay quiet and compliant, but I knew I had to get her to show the person she really was.
Sometimes I caught her unawares, and the first time she had a birthday cake was one. When she saw her cake come through the door covered with pink icing and candles, her blue eyes began to sparkle and she could not help smiling, but she found it daunting, too, and pretty soon burst into tears.
Kids being kids, the girls took over, blew India’s candles out and opened her presents as she sat at a distance, watching. Anyone looking on would have thought it was their birthday, but she learned from them how to act and eventually got the hang of celebrations.
Chapter Four
When Martine said she was going to Romania, I was genuinely happy to support her in any way that I could, and taking India had been part of that. Secretly, I wanted to board the plane with her and rescue as many of those poor orphaned children as I could. It was such a big story and every week in the news lorries left the UK headed for Eastern Europe, loaded with food, toys and blankets to take to far-flung corners of Romania. It wasn’t just the usual charities sending aid, either; the whole country got involved. The only silver lining when it came to Romania was watching the human spirit unfold as we all reacted and rose to the challenge.
Martine was so brave. The humiliation inflicted on her by her ex-husband needed courage and determination to repair, and she was convinced that this was the way to do it.
Months went by without any news. People asked around but no one had heard anything of Martine. Then one day, out of the blue, walking down my path with a double buggy, was a beautiful woman with her head held high. It was Martine, almost unrecognisable, as she looked so happy, pushing two tiny bundles, one wrapped up in a pink blanket and the other in a blue. She was back from Romania and had adopted twins: a boy and a girl, just six weeks old. She introduced me with a smile that said, ‘I’m so happy I could burst.’
I hugged her so tightly I thought I might crush her.
‘These are my babies,’ she said.
‘They are so gorgeous, and do you know something? I think they look like you.’ Laughing, I opened the door and pushed the double buggy inside, ecstatic that her dream had come true. India was excited, too, although you might have thought she would react badly.
Children are more
clued-up than we imagine, and India had worked out and accepted that she was not the child for Martine. So when she met Martine’s two Romanian orphans her only reaction was joyful.
Poor India had no biological dad around. In fact, she had no idea who he was; Amy claimed not to know, which was perfectly possible because she was in such a state of drunkenness most of the time she did not always remember who she had slept with. Pregnancy had made no difference to the way Amy lived her life. You would have thought she might swap vodka for herbal tea, just for nine months, as she knew drinking alcohol could harm her baby, but she didn’t. She didn’t give up smoking, either. She would wake up in the mornings, and instead of a cup of tea, she would have vodka and orange and a cigarette. To Amy, orange juice in her vodka represented her five-a-day.
I was amazed that India had been born unscathed; she could have suffered all sorts of defects. I’ve always said that drinking while you’re pregnant is like playing Russian roulette; you never quite know if you will get away with it.
Although India had been born physically healthy, her emotional development was topsy turvy. Amy had always treated her the same as an adult and I knew I would have to teach India how to be a child. Childhood is the one time in your life when you should have no worries, but India had never known that. So over those first few months, the first thing India had learned was to play without fear. When Amy was hungover, which was most days, if India had a noisy toy it could be whisked off her at any moment. And in any case, social services only found two things in Amy’s flat suitable for a child to play with – a grubby Bob the Builder doll and a single saucepan – so toys had no good associations for India.
Bedtime had also been very difficult for her at first – more than for most children – and she needed to learn to sleep without getting angry.
‘Time for bed,’ I’d say in a sing-song voice, so that it sounded like fun.
