Too Scared to Tell

by Cathy Glass

‘I got your text, Mum. Hi, Oskar,’ she said brightly. We had a family WhatsApp group so my children and I could message each other collectively. It had largely replaced leaving notes. I’d texted our group earlier to let them know Oskar was coming to stay with us. Having grown up with fostering, my family were used to children and young people suddenly arriving.

  ‘This is my daughter, Paula,’ I told Oskar as I helped him out of his coat. He looked at Paula with the same mixture of angst and bewilderment as he had when looking at me.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Oskar,’ Paula said, smiling at him.

  ‘He’s a little quiet at present,’ I told her when he didn’t respond.

  ‘That’s OK, he’ll get used to us.’ She threw him another reassuring smile.

  At that point Sammy, our rescue cat, strutted into the hall to see who had invaded his territory. He’d been a bit feral when we’d first had him but could now be relied upon not to eat the children.

  ‘Your cat,’ Oskar said, staring at the cat.

  ‘Yes, he’s called Sammy,’ I said. ‘Would you like to stroke him?’

  He was showing the same reluctance to greet Sammy as Sammy was to him. Paula picked up the cat and presented him to Oskar. He tentatively stroked him.

  ‘Sammy likes you,’ Paula said, and finally Oskar’s expression gave way to a tiny smile. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Oskar stroked Sammy a few more times and then our cat, a little short on patience, jumped from Paula’s arms and disappeared down the hall. Oskar looked after him but didn’t try to follow him as another child might.

  ‘Let’s take off your shoes,’ I said, undoing the Velcro. I helped him out of his shoes and left them with ours in the hall. His shoes, like his clothes, were in poor condition, as were those of many of the children I’d fostered.

  Before I’d left home to collect Oskar from school, I’d set out some toy boxes in the living room ready for our return. I’d found that playing can often distract a child from their worries and help them to feel at home and start to relax.

  ‘Let’s go and find some toys,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘Would you like a snack first to see you through till dinner?’

  He shook his head, so taking his hand we went into the living room. It’s at the back of the house with large glass patio doors that overlook the garden.

  ‘Would you like to play?’ Paula asked encouragingly, going over to the toy boxes.

  Oskar looked at them and then at me. ‘Where do I have to sleep?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘You have your own bedroom upstairs,’ I said. ‘It’s not bedtime yet, but would you like to see your room now?’

  He nodded.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘This way.’ It was slightly unusual for a child of his age to be more interested in their bedroom than toys. Teenagers can’t wait to chill out in their own rooms, but not so with younger children.

  ‘Shall I put dinner on?’ Paula asked. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Yes, please. There’s a casserole in the fridge that just needs popping in the oven.’

  While Paula went to the kitchen, I took Oskar upstairs. Children react differently to the stress of coming into care: some are very loud and display challenging behaviour, while others, like Oskar, are quiet and withdrawn. The latter is more worrying, as it suggests the child is internalizing their pain, rather than letting it out.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ I told him as we followed the landing round to his bedroom. He was holding my hand – in fact, gripping it quite tightly. ‘Do you have your own bedroom at home?’ I asked him as his gaze travelled warily around his room. He looked at me, confused. ‘Or do you share a bedroom?’ Information like this would usually have been available on the placement forms, had the move been planned in advance. It would have helped me build up a picture of Oskar’s home life before coming into care so I could better meet his needs; for example, if a child is used to sharing a bedroom with siblings, they might need a lot of reassurance on their first few nights of sleeping alone.

  ‘I sleep with Mummy,’ Oskar said.

  ‘OK.’ Although I wouldn’t have expected a child of Oskar’s age to be sleeping with a parent.

  ‘And Maria, Elana and Alina,’ he added.

  ‘Who are they?’ I asked, puzzled.

  He shrugged.

  ‘Are they your sisters?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Cousins? Friends?’

  He shrugged again and began to look very worried, so I didn’t pursue it. Perhaps he was just confused by all the changes, but I’d have to tell his social worker. He would be checking Oskar’s home and seeing the sleeping arrangements for himself before he returned Oskar to his mother’s care.

  ‘We’ve got a nice big garden,’ I said, drawing him to the window. His room was at the rear of the house and overlooked the garden. He was just tall enough to see over the windowsill. ‘You can play out there when the weather is nice, and we also have a park nearby.’

  Oskar turned from the window to survey the room. ‘Do you like your bedroom?’ I asked. He didn’t reply. ‘Once we have some of your belongings from home in here it will feel more comfortable.’ Still no response. ‘Would you like to see the rest of the upstairs?’

  He gave a small nod.

  He slipped his hand into mine again and I showed him the toilet first, and at the same time asked him if he needed to use it, but he didn’t. ‘This is Adrian’s room,’ I said, moving to the next door along the landing. ‘He’s grown up now, but you’ll meet him later when he gets in from work.’ I opened Adrian’s bedroom door just so Oskar could see inside. ‘All our bedrooms are private,’ I said. ‘Just for us.’ I closed Adrian’s door and went along the landing, opening and closing the girls’ bedroom doors, the bathroom and finally my bedroom.

  ‘There is where I sleep,’ I said.

  He looked in. ‘Do I sleep in here?’

  ‘No, love, in your own bedroom, the one we went in first. If you need me in the night, just call out and I’ll come to you.’

  He looked puzzled and then asked, ‘Do you sleep by yourself?’

  ‘Yes. I’m divorced. Do you know what that means?’

  He nodded. ‘Mummy is.’

  ‘OK. Come on, let’s find something to do,’ I said, and closed my bedroom door.

  ‘Shall I go to bed?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a bit early yet. Come downstairs with me and you can play, then we’ll have dinner, and later you can go to bed.’

  Oskar did as I asked, and once we were downstairs he came with me into the kitchen-diner where Paula was laying the table ready for dinner later. ‘Thanks, love,’ I said to her.

  ‘I need to get on with some college work now,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, you go. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘I’ll see you at dinner,’ she told Oskar and, with a smile, left.

  The casserole was cooking in the oven and wouldn’t be ready for half an hour, so I suggested to Oskar that we go into the living room and play with some toys. He came with me, obedient and compliant but not enthusiastic. We sat on the floor by the toy boxes and I began taking out some of the toys, games and puzzles, trying to capture his interest. He watched me but didn’t join in. I wasn’t wholly surprised. It might take days, if not weeks, before he relaxed enough to play. Children vary.

  ‘Do you understand why you are in care and staying with me for now?’ I asked him. Although his social worker would have explained this and I had talked to Oskar about it in the car, there was so much to take in that, when stressed and anxious, it’s easy to forget.

  He didn’t reply, so I said, ‘I’m a foster carer and I live here with my family. We are going to look after you, as your mummy can’t at present.’

  I would have expected a child of his age to understand the concept phrased this way. Miss Jordan, his
teacher, had said Oskar had a good grasp of English and his learning was above average. But Oskar looked at me blankly and then asked, ‘Does Mummy look after me?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Usually.’ That was the impression I’d been given and what his social worker and teacher believed. But Oskar was looking bewildered, and given we knew so little about him, I thought I should try to clarify this. ‘Did your mummy look after you before she went away?’ I asked.

  ‘Looked after?’ he repeated questioningly.

  ‘Yes, made your meals, washed your clothes, played with you.’

  ‘No. Maybe. Sometimes,’ he said, confused.

  ‘Who else looked after you?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know all their names.’

  ‘The uncles who took you to school?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  The set-up at Oskar’s home seemed even more complex than his social worker or school had realized. Most children who come into care have a bond with and are loyal to their main care-giver, usually a parent or relative, even if they’ve been neglected or abused. They often try to portray them in a more positive light than they deserve out of loyalty, but not so with Oskar. He seemed to be struggling with the idea of being looked after at all.

  ‘When Mummy is at home, does she make your meals and spend time with you?’ I asked lightly, picking up a toy and approaching the matter from a different angle.

  ‘She works,’ he said, watching me.

  ‘OK, but when she doesn’t work, is she the one who takes care of you?’

  He shrugged and began to look anxious, so again I let the subject drop. Once he was feeling more at ease, hopefully he’d begin to talk.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and see how the casserole is doing.’ I offered him my hand and we went into the kitchen, where Oskar waited a safe distance from the hot oven as I opened the door and gave the casserole a stir.

  ‘Hmm, that smells nice,’ he said.

  ‘Good. Another fifteen minutes and it will be ready to eat. What would you like to drink with your meal?’

  ‘Water, please.’

  I poured a tumbler of water and set it at his place on the table. We tend to keep the same places at the meal table, as many families do. I showed Oskar his place. I was expecting Adrian and Lucy to arrive home at any moment and I’d just begun telling him a little bit about them when I heard Lucy let herself in the front door. ‘Hi, Mum!’ she shouted, making Oskar start.

  ‘Quietly, Lucy,’ I called. She bounced into the kitchen.

  ‘Hi, Oskar,’ she cried, delighted to see him. She was a qualified nursery assistant and I knew that sometimes she’d been asked to quell her exuberance at work, but I was pleased she was so outgoing and happy. It had been very different when she’d first come to me as a foster child, withdrawn and with an eating disorder. (I tell Lucy’s story in Will You Love Me?) She’d done amazingly well and was now a permanent member of my family. I’d adopted her and loved her as much as I did my birth children – Adrian and Paula.

  Having said a few words to Oskar, Lucy went upstairs to change out of her work clothes. Five minutes later Adrian arrived home, making a slightly more reserved entrance. He came in, said hello to Oskar, kissed my cheek, asked if I’d had a good day and then went upstairs to change. I gave him and Lucy a few minutes and then called everyone to dinner. I dished up and we settled around the table to eat.

  I always anticipate that our new arrival may feel uncomfortable for the first few days, surrounded by new people and customs, especially at the meal table when we are all in close proximity and the noise level rises as we talk about our day. Lucy entertained us with a funny story about a child at nursery, and Adrian said a little about his day at work as a trainee accountant. Paula talked of her day at college, and I of fostering and the part-time clerical work I did mainly from home.

  As we chatted and ate, I watched Oskar but he didn’t seem to mind all the talking or being surrounded by new people. He ate well and had seconds, and a pudding. It was later, after dinner, when I began his bedtime routine, that his anxiety set in again. I’d read him a story in the living room and at seven o’clock I said it was time for bed.

  ‘Do I have to sleep upstairs?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, love, that’s where the beds are.’

  ‘Can I sleep on the floor downstairs?’

  ‘No, that would be very uncomfortable,’ I said. ‘Do you sleep in a bed at your home?’ I’d fostered children before who’d had to sleep on the sofa or a mattress on the floor because there wasn’t money for a bed.

  He didn’t reply but came with me to the bathroom, where I’d set out a fresh towel, toothbrush, soap, sponge, clean pyjamas and so forth from my spares.

  ‘I don’t want a bath,’ he said as soon as we went in.

  ‘Would you like a shower instead?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’ He began to look worried again.

  ‘OK, just have a good wash tonight. I expect you’re tired. You can have a bath tomorrow.’ I never usually insist a child has a bath or shower on their first night; I wait until they feel more comfortable with me.

  I ran water for him in the washbasin and then waited while he washed his face, going carefully over his cheek where the bruise was. ‘That looks sore,’ I said.

  He shrugged. I thought Miss Jordan had done well to get Oskar talking about how he got the mark on his face, as he was saying so little to me. But she’d had a term – four months – to gain his trust, while I’d only had a few hours. I hoped in time he’d start to trust me and open up. He washed his hands and brushed his teeth, then I handed him his pyjamas.

  ‘Do you need help changing into your pyjamas or shall I wait outside?’ I asked him, respecting his privacy.

  ‘I want to sleep in my clothes,’ he said, immediately growing anxious. ‘Please let me sleep in my clothes.’ His eyes filled.

  An icy chill ran up my spine. I hoped I was wrong, but a child not wanting to undress can be a sign that they’ve been sexually abused.

  Chapter Three

  Protecting Oskar

  Preoccupied with Oskar’s reaction to changing into his night clothes, I picked up his pyjamas and we went round the landing to his bedroom. I certainly wouldn’t be forcing him to change, but I hoped to be able to persuade him, and also to find out the reason for his reluctance to undress. There might be a perfectly innocent explanation, although as a very experienced foster carer I had my doubts.

  It was still light outside and I asked Oskar if he liked to sleep with his curtains closed, open or open a little. On their first night I always ask a child this and other questions regarding how they like their bedroom. It’s small details like this that help them settle in a strange room. He replied, ‘I think they’re closed.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Do you like to sleep with your bedroom light on or off? Or I can dim it a little if you wish.’ I thought if I made his room as he was used to then he’d start to feel more secure.

  He didn’t reply so I showed him what I meant by switching the light on and off and then dimming it. ‘On or off?’ I asked again. ‘Or dimmed?’

  ‘It goes on and off a lot,’ he said. ‘It wakes me up.’

  ‘You mean the light flashes?’ I asked, slightly baffled. I wondered if he lived in a built-up area where car headlights caught his bedroom window, or possibly a neon shop sign flashed on and off late at night.

  ‘They keep switching it on,’ Oskar said.

  ‘Who do?’ I asked.

  ‘The people in the house.’

  ‘Oh. What people are they, love?’

  He clammed up again. So often in fostering the child is reluctant to confide to begin with and foster carers (and social workers) have to become detectives, gently easing the information from them. We also have to be receptive if a child starts to tell us something, as wh
at they are really trying to say may not be obvious.

  ‘This room is your bedroom and only you sleep here,’ I emphasized, hoping to make him feel safe. ‘I won’t come into your room and switch on the light unless you want me to. You can have your door open or closed, just as you wish. When it is time to get up for school, I will knock on your door to wake you and then you can call out, “Come in.”’

  ‘Knock on my door,’ he repeated, as though he hadn’t a clue what I was talking about.

  ‘Yes, like this.’ I stepped outside, drew the door to, knocked on it and said, ‘It’s Cathy, can I come in? Then you say, “Yes, come in.”’

  I demonstrated again and on the second try he called out, ‘Yes, come in.’

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Well done. Remember, it’s your room. You’re in charge of it. OK?’

  He nodded, and at that point I think he began to accept that he was going to be safe, for his face lost some of its unease and he started looking around the room. There wasn’t really much to see without his possessions: furniture, posters on the walls, and I’d put in a toy box and some soft toys. Now he was more relaxed I thought I’d ask him to change. I really needed him to change into night clothes so I could wash his school uniform, and I didn’t want him to start a habit of sleeping every night in his day clothes.

  ‘Oskar, I’m going to wait outside while you change into your pyjamas and get into bed. Then, once you are ready, you can call out “come in”.’ Without waiting for a refusal, I stepped outside the door, drew it to and waited. A few minutes later his little voice rang out. ‘I’m in bed. You can come in.’ I smiled.

  Even so, I knocked on the door before I went in. ‘Well done,’ I said, and scooped up his day clothes. ‘I’ll wash these ready for school tomorrow.’

  ‘Will you take me to school?’ he asked, his little face peeping over the duvet.

  ‘Yes, and collect you. Now I want you to try to get some sleep. You’ve had a very tiring day. Would you like a goodnight kiss?’ I always check, otherwise it can be an uncomfortable invasion of the child’s personal space and terrifying for those who have been abused.