Too Scared to Tell

by Cathy Glass

  Copyright

  Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

  HarperElement

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published by HarperElement 2020

  FIRST EDITION

  Text © Cathy Glass 2020

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

  Cover photograph © Johner Images/Getty Images (posed by a model)

  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

  Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Find out about HarperCollins and the environment at

  www.harpercollins.co.uk/green

  Source ISBN: 9780008380380

  Ebook Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008380397

  Version: 2019-12-20

  Acknowledgements

  A big thank-you to my family; my editors, Carolyn and Holly; my literary agent, Andrew; my UK publishers HarperCollins, and my overseas publishers, who are now too numerous to list by name. Last, but definitely not least, a big thank-you to my readers for your unfailing support and kind words. They are much appreciated.

  Epigraph

  A third of children who have

  been sexually abused never tell.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Chapter One: Being Watched

  Chapter Two: Anxious

  Chapter Three: Protecting Oskar

  Chapter Four: Stressed and Tense

  Chapter Five: You Know Those Men?

  Chapter Six: Wary

  Chapter Seven: Very Concerned

  Chapter Eight: Preoccupied

  Chapter Nine: A Strange Reunion

  Chapter Ten: Contact

  Chapter Eleven: Not Safe

  Chapter Twelve: Mr Nowak

  Chapter Thirteen: Review

  Chapter Fourteen: Distraught

  Chapter Fifteen: They Made Me

  Chapter Sixteen: Questioned by the Police

  Chapter Seventeen: Sickening

  Chapter Eighteen: Family

  Chapter Nineteen: Therapy

  Chapter Twenty: Family

  Chapter Twenty-One: Good and Bad News

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Adoption

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Photographs

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Break My Heart

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Unsettled

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Court Case

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Retiring?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Leaving

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Unexpected News

  Suggested topics for reading-group discussion

  Cathy Glass

  Moving Memoirs

  Praise for Cathy Glass

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Being Watched

  ‘I feel dreadful,’ the young teacher wept. ‘His uncle is angry with me, Oskar is sobbing, and now he has to live with a strange family.’

  ‘It might not be for long,’ I said. ‘Just until his mother gets back. And we’re not that strange,’ I added, trying to lighten her mood.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ she said, forcing a small smile through her tears. ‘I’m sure you’re very nice, but it’s not Oskar’s home, is it?’

  ‘I’ll do my best to make it home while he is with me,’ I said, touching her arm reassuringly. Erica Jordan, Oskar’s teacher, was blaming herself for Oskar coming into foster care. ‘It wasn’t your decision to bring Oskar into care,’ I pointed out.

  ‘No, but I logged everything he told me and reported it to my Headmistress.’

  ‘Which was right,’ I said. ‘That was the correct procedure. If you hadn’t reported your concerns and something dreadful had happened to Oskar, how would you have felt then?’

  ‘I’d never have forgiven myself. I’m sorry,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘I’m only in my second year of teaching and I’ve never dealt with anything like this before.’

  ‘I understand, and believe me, it doesn’t matter how experienced you are, it’s still upsetting. No one wants to see a child removed from their home, but sometimes it’s necessary to keep them safe.’

  ‘I don’t think Oskar has much of a home from what he’s told me,’ she admitted.

  ‘No, but the social services will thoroughly investigate. I’ve been a foster carer for a long time, and a child who regularly arrives at school unkempt and so hungry that he has to steal food – as Oskar has – suggests they are not being looked after at home. It doesn’t mean he’ll remain in care for good, just until the social services are satisfied that if he goes home he’ll be properly cared for.’

  Being hungry and unkempt weren’t the only reasons Oskar, aged six, was being brought into care. He was pale, withdrawn and so tired he kept falling asleep in class, and sometimes he arrived at school with unexplained bruises on his arms and legs. He had first come to the school in January, so four months previously, and the concerns had been there right from the start, which Miss Jordan had been correctly reporting to the Headmistress. Although Oskar’s mother had first registered him at the school, a series of ‘uncles’ had been bringing and collecting him, sometimes arriving very late. Originally from Eastern Europe, Oskar and his mother had good English, but the uncles claimed to have none.

  Miss Jordan had also told me that the school had set up a number of meetings with his family to try to discuss their concerns, but no one had ever turned up. Now, on the second day back at school after the Easter holidays, Oskar had arrived very late, hungry, in tears and with an angry red mark on his face. The man who had dropped him off at the entrance to the school had gone straight away, when those arriving late were expected to bring the child into the school and sign them in. Now even more concerned for the boy’s welfare, the Headmistress had asked Miss Jordan, who had established a relationship with Oskar, to talk to him privately, one to one, to try to find out as much as possible, while she contacted the social services again. Reluctant at first to say anything about his home, Oskar finally told her his mother had been away for most of the two-week holiday and his uncles had been left in charge of him. He said the mark on his cheek was from one of his uncles, who had slapped him that morning for not doing as he was told. The social services had tried to contact his mother without success, so, not wanting Oskar to return home, they had applied to the court for an emergency protection order to bring him into care temporarily. At the same time, I’d received a phone call from my supervising social worker, Edith, putting me on standby to receive Oskar if the court order was granted. Edith had phoned again at midday to say the order had been granted and I should go to Oskar’s school at three o’clock to collect him.

  It was now nearly 4.15 p.m. and most of the other children had gone home. I was with Miss Jordan in her classroom while Oskar, his social worker, the Headmistress
and the uncle who’d arrived to collect him were in another room. Also with them was a teaching assistant who worked at the school and was now acting as an impromptu translator for the uncle. It was pure luck she spoke his language, having come to the UK from the same country many years before. I’d said goodbye to my previous foster children, Molly and Kit, in very unhappy circumstances a few days before. (I tell their story in Innocent.) Aware that foster carers are in short supply and my spare room never stayed empty for long, I’d given it a thorough clean and prepared it for the next child virtually straight away.

  It’s a strange feeling when a child or children you’ve loved and cared for leave, like a mini bereavement. But as a foster carer you have to be brave and stoical and remind yourself you have done your best and that the children are now able to return home or go to a loving adoptive family so they can move on with their lives. While each child comes with a different story, one thing they all have in common is that they need loads of love, understanding, kindness and reassurance. The last of which Miss Jordan needed too.

  She seemed a bit happier now I’d told her that Oskar’s social worker was sure to arrange contact so he could see his mother. As we talked, waiting for his social worker to finish the meeting in the room next door, my mobile rang. It was Edith, my supervising social worker. ‘I’d better take this,’ I said to Miss Jordan.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Have you got Oskar yet?’ Edith asked.

  ‘I’m at his school now. His social worker is with him. Shall I call you once I’m home?’

  ‘Yes. Leave a voicemail message if I don’t pick up and I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’

  ‘OK.’ Sometimes Edith updated me, but more often I updated her. As a supervising social worker (SSW) her role was to monitor, support, advise and guide the foster carers she was responsible for in all aspects of fostering.

  Just as I ended the call and returned my phone to my bag, the classroom door opened and a tallish man in his thirties with fair hair came in with a small boy beside him.

  ‘Oskar, love,’ Miss Jordan said, immediately standing and going to him.

  I went over too.

  ‘I’m Andrew Holmes, Oskar’s social worker,’ the man said to me. He must have already met Erica Jordan.

  ‘Cathy Glass, foster carer,’ I said, smiling at Oskar.

  ‘This is the lady I told you about,’ Andrew explained to him.

  ‘Hello, Oskar,’ I said gently, my heart going out to him. He was pale, slightly built, small for his age and his eyes were red from crying. He looked at me, petrified. The bruise on his cheek was even more pronounced against his pallid skin.

  ‘Are you OK, Oskar?’ Miss Jordan asked, squatting down in front of him so she was at his height. He gave a small nod, wide-eyed and anxious.

  ‘Cathy is going to look after you for a few days until your mummy gets back,’ she said, which wasn’t strictly true and made it sound as though he would automatically be returned to his mother when she reappeared. I knew Miss Jordan was trying her best to comfort him, but I’d learnt from years of fostering that we have to be careful what we tell children and not give them false hope.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said to him, straightening.

  ‘Will Oskar be coming to school tomorrow?’ I checked with his social worker. It was usual for a child to go to school the day after coming into care, as it offered some routine and familiarity.

  ‘Yes. I don’t see why not,’ Andrew replied.

  ‘You’ll see your teacher in the morning,’ I told Oskar, with another reassuring smile. He stared back at me, lost and bewildered.

  ‘Mr Nowak, the man who came to collect Oskar, says he is able to contact Oskar’s mother,’ Andrew said to me and Miss Jordan. ‘He’s going to call her and ask her to phone me. Once I’ve spoken to her, I’ll have a better understanding of what the situation is at home.’

  ‘Will Oskar be seeing his uncles?’ I asked. I needed to know in case one of them approached me at the school gates.

  ‘Not until I’ve spoken to his mother and got a clearer picture of the set-up at home,’ Andrew said. ‘As far as I can tell, none of the “uncles” is related to Oskar and no one – apart from his mother – is responsible for him.’

  That in itself was worrying and was news to Miss Jordan. ‘I had assumed they were real uncles,’ she said, obviously concerned. ‘I’m sure that’s what his mother said when she first registered him.’

  Andrew gave a non-committal nod, then said to me, ‘I’ll try to get some of Oskar’s clothes, but at present he’s just got what he’s wearing.’ This isn’t unusual. More often than not, if it’s an emergency placement, the child arrives with what they have on.

  ‘I’ve got plenty of spares,’ I said.

  ‘His coat is here,’ Miss Jordan said, and she crossed the classroom to fetch it from a peg.

  ‘Am I going now?’ Oskar asked in a small voice.

  ‘Yes, shortly,’ Andrew said. Then to me, ‘I’ll let you have the placement forms as soon as they’re ready.’ These usually came ahead of the child or with them if the placement was planned in advance, but as this was an emergency there hadn’t been time. ‘As far as Mr Nowak is aware, Oskar hasn’t got any allergies and there are no special dietary or cultural needs,’ he added. This type of information would have been included in the placement forms. ‘Hopefully I’ll know more once I’ve spoken to Oskar’s mother.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. Having so little information wasn’t unheard of, but it was worrying, as I could easily miss something vital while looking after Oskar. ‘He’s not on any medication? Inhalers for asthma?’ I asked.

  ‘Not as far as we know,’ Andrew replied.

  ‘None has been brought into school,’ Miss Jordan confirmed as she helped Oskar into his coat.

  ‘Are you my mummy now?’ Oskar asked his teacher, his bottom lip trembling. Immediately she teared up.

  ‘Miss Jordan is your teacher,’ I said gently. ‘I’m your foster carer. I’m going to look after you for a while in my house. It’s a short ride in my car. You’ll have your own bedroom and my grown-up children will help you too. We also have a cat. Do you like cats?’

  He gave a small nod.

  ‘Great. I know he’s going to like you.’

  ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow,’ Andrew said to me.

  I said goodbye to him and Miss Jordan, and Oskar and I left the classroom. I was still holding his hand and kept talking to him positively as we made our way out of the school. Bless him – six years old, and only in the country a few months, and he was now coming to live with me in a ‘strange house’, as Miss Jordan had put it. I felt his hand tighten in mine. Although I was doing my best to comfort and reassure him, I knew how lost and alone he must feel.

  It was now 4.30 p.m. and, in April, still light outside. We continued along the pavement towards my car. Other vehicles were parked along the kerb and as we approached my car Oskar suddenly stopped and looked across the road. I followed his line of vision and saw a black car parked directly opposite mine. I could see two men sitting in the front and both appeared to be watching us. ‘Do you know those men?’ I asked as I unlocked my car.

  He didn’t reply but was still frozen to the spot, staring at the car and looking worried. ‘Oskar, get in the car, love,’ I said, opening the rear door.

  In silence, he did as I asked. I leant in and fastened his seatbelt. He was craning his neck to look at the black car. I closed his car door, then went round and got into the driver’s seat. As I did, I glanced over again. Now they were studying me.

  ‘Do you know those men?’ I asked Oskar again, turning in my seat to look at him.

  ‘No,’ he said, but I could tell from his expression that he did and also that he was worried, if not scared, by their presence.

  ‘You’re safe with me,’ I said, but before I started
the engine I pressed the central locking system, so none of the doors could be opened from the outside. I wasn’t being paranoid; I had no idea who those men were, why they were taking such an interest in us or why Oskar should be frightened of them. Had he come from a large extended family, I might have thought they were part of his family and wanted to see where he was being taken. It had happened to me before, just as it’s happened to other carers: a child is placed, the carer’s address is purposely withheld and then a family member follows the foster carer home on the school run. However, as far as I knew at that point, Oskar only had his mother, and she wasn’t in the country. Perhaps they were some of Oskar’s ‘uncles’, but then why had he denied knowing them? I couldn’t begin to guess who they were.

  As I pulled away the car remained where it was. Even so, I glanced in my rear-view mirror every so often just to check we weren’t being followed home. There was no sign of the car.

  I talked to Oskar as I drove, telling him about my family and reassuring him there was nothing to worry about. He sat very quiet and still, mainly gazing out of his side window. It was impossible to know what he was thinking or feeling. From the few words he’d spoken, his English seemed to be very good – surprisingly good, considering he’d only been in the country a few months. We arrived home just before 5.00 p.m. and as I parked outside my house I asked him one more time: ‘Do you have any idea who those men were?’

  ‘No.’

  So I let the matter drop. What I didn’t know at the time was that I was going to have to return to the subject very soon.

  Chapter Two

  Anxious

  Only my youngest daughter Paula, twenty-one, was at home when I arrived with Oskar. She was studying for a business degree at a local college and was often in ahead of my other two children – Adrian, twenty-five, and Lucy, twenty-three – who both worked. As soon as Paula heard my key in the front door, she was in the hall ready to greet us.