Too Scared to Tell

by Cathy Glass

  ‘Thank you,’ the IRO said to the Head, and he turned to Edith, my SSW. ‘Would you like to add anything? Then we’ll hear from Oskar.’

  Edith said, as she usually did, that her role was to supervise, support and monitor my fostering. ‘I visit her every month, when we discuss the child in placement,’ she continued. ‘Cathy is an experienced foster carer and I am satisfied Oskar is receiving a good standard of care.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the IRO said. ‘Any complaints from anyone?’ It was another standard question and those present either shook their head or said no.

  ‘Would you like to fetch Oskar now?’ the IRO asked Miss Jordan. She stood, as did the Head. ‘School ends soon,’ Elaine Summer said. ‘I like to be in the playground as the children leave. Miss Jordan can tell me what I miss. Can you send the school a copy of the minutes, please?’

  ‘Yes,’ the IRO confirmed. It was usual for minutes of the review to be circulated to all those who had been invited, whether they had attended or not. I wondered what Roksana would make of what had been said.

  Both teachers left the room, and as the rest of us waited the bell sounded for the end of school. Five minutes later Miss Jordan returned with Oskar by her side. He was now looking even more worried and sad than usual. It must have been daunting for him to suddenly have to face us adults in the formal setting of the meeting room.

  ‘Hello, love,’ I said. ‘Come and sit down.’

  Oskar came over, head slightly bowed, and sat in the chair beside me. He looked so small in front of the large table.

  ‘Welcome to your review,’ the IRO said gently with a smile.

  Oskar looked up cautiously.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ I told him. Miss Jordan was smiling encouragingly at him too.

  ‘How are you doing, Oskar?’ the IRO asked.

  ‘OK,’ Oskar said quietly.

  ‘Thank you for coming to your review. This is about you, so I’d like to ask you some questions to hear your views. Is that all right?’ He gave a small nod.

  ‘Do you like school?’

  ‘Yes,’ Oskar replied in the same small voice.

  ‘Do you like living with Cathy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s good. Thank you for completing your review form.’ The IRO had it open in front of him and turned the pages. Oskar was watching him. ‘You’ve put that you feel sad most of the time. Can you tell us why?’

  Oskar shook his head.

  ‘Shall I read out what you have put in your form?’

  ‘No,’ Oskar said quietly.

  ‘That’s all right.’ The IRO wasn’t taking notes but concentrating on Oskar. So were the rest of us.

  ‘Do you have everything you need at Cathy’s?’ the IRO asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There are some more of your belongings in reception and Cathy will take them home with you. Is there anything else you want from home?’

  ‘No,’ he said. Then, taking a deep breath, he found the courage to say, ‘I don’t want to go home.’

  Miss Jordan caught my gaze.

  ‘I know you don’t,’ the IRO said encouragingly. ‘You wrote that on your form, and that you didn’t feel safe at home. Can you tell us why?’

  Oskar thought for a moment and then shook his head.

  ‘Do you know who you can tell if you want to?’ he asked. Oskar nodded, but the IRO said, ‘Your social worker, Andrew; your foster carer, Cathy; your teacher, Miss Jordan, or another adult you trust.’

  Oskar gave another small nod. While he clearly wasn’t going to add anything more to what he’d put on his review form, the fact that he had been able to speak out suggested we were slowly inching closer to the point where he could tell someone. It was important he did, for, like other children I’d fostered, he clearly carried a huge burden, which would scar his life until he shared it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Distraught

  On our way out of the school I collected the bag Mr Nowak had left with the school secretary. Oskar tucked his hand into mine and we crossed the playground and headed towards my car. As we walked I praised him and said he’d done well to attend his review. He didn’t reply. I then asked him, ‘Have you ever seen your Uncle Nowak waiting outside the school?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied easily.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, love?’

  ‘He’s nice. I don’t mind him here.’

  I unlocked the car. ‘Have you ever seen anyone else you know, apart from him, waiting outside the school? Those two men in the black car?’

  ‘No. I don’t see them any more.’

  ‘All right. You must tell me if you do.’

  ‘I just see Uncle Nowak and he tells Mummy I’m OK,’ Oskar said, clambering into the back seat.

  ‘How do you know that?’ I asked.

  ‘Mummy told me at contact,’ he said and fastened his seatbelt.

  I let the matter drop and closed his car door. But why on earth had no one thought to tell me what Roksana had told Oskar during contact? Foster carers don’t receive a copy of the contact supervisor’s reports, but here was a good example of why we should. Information sharing has improved since I first began fostering, but it still has a long way to go.

  Once home, I took the bag of Oskar’s belongings up to his room to sort through later and then set about making dinner. Oskar, never far from my side, sat at the table in the kitchen-diner looking at some books as I worked. He would go to Lucy and Paula sometimes, but never Adrian. I assumed the reason he liked to keep me in sight was because I was his main care-giver.

  After we’d had dinner and Oskar had telephoned his mother (it was their usual short exchange), I suggested to him that we go upstairs and unpack his bag. ‘It will be nice for you to have some more of your toys from home,’ I said.

  He didn’t reply but, always compliant, came with me. He wasn’t excited at the prospect of being reunited with his toys as most children would have been.

  ‘What you don’t want I can put away,’ I said. Ultimately these items would be returned to his mother, whether Oskar went home or not, as legally they were hers.

  Oskar followed me into his bedroom, where I unzipped the laundry-style bag and began taking out his clothes, which were neatly packed at the top. Oskar stood, watching me. I laid the clothes in little piles on his bed. These clothes were much newer than the ones that had previously been sent from home while Roksana had been away. I remembered her telling me that the friend who’d packed Oskar’s belongings hadn’t included his good clothes that she’d worked so hard to afford.

  ‘These are nice,’ I said, holding up a pair of jogging bottoms. ‘You’ll be able to wear them.’ Oskar wasn’t interested, but I wouldn’t have expected a six-year-old to show much interest in clothes. He’d be more interested in the toys I had now uncovered at the bottom of the bag. I started taking them out and setting them on the floor. ‘Wow!’ I said. ‘A remote-controlled car. A talking, walking robot. Star Wars models. And your very own tablet!’ They were all brand new and two were still in their boxes.

  ‘You’ll have fun playing with these,’ I said, glancing at him. But he was backing away, staring at them, horrified.

  ‘Whatever is the matter?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t want them,’ he said, his face crumpling.

  ‘Because they remind you of home?’

  ‘No. They hurt me.’

  ‘The toys hurt you?’ I looked at them, puzzled. I couldn’t see how they might be dangerous. They were for children his age, including the tablet, and didn’t have any sharp edges.

  ‘Throw them away!’ he cried, bursting into tears. Then he wet himself.

  I immediately went to him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he wept.

  ‘It’s all right. Don’t upset yourself.’ I took his hand. ‘A
ll children have accidents. Let’s get you into the bath.’

  ‘Shall I clear it up?’ he asked in a small voice.

  ‘No, of course not. I’ll do that. Do you need to go to the toilet now?’

  ‘No,’ he mumbled through his tears.

  ‘Come on, it’s OK. Don’t worry,’ I reassured him and led him towards the bathroom.

  As we passed Paula’s bedroom I knocked on her door. ‘Could you give me a hand, please?’

  She must have heard Oskar crying, for she opened her door straight away, looking concerned. ‘Can you stay with Oskar, please, and start running his bath while I pop downstairs and get a bucket?’ It was obvious he’d wet himself as the front of his trousers were wet.

  Paula can sometimes be a bit squeamish about these matters, unlike Lucy, who is used to dealing with children having accidents at the nursery, but Lucy was out with Darren. Paula stepped up to the mark and, taking Oskar’s hand, went with him to the bathroom.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ I heard her say kindly as I hurried downstairs.

  In the kitchen I half-filled a bucket with hot water, added some disinfectant, grabbed floor cloths and returned to Oskar’s bedroom. As I cleaned the carpet, I could hear water running in the bathroom as the bath filled. Then Adrian’s bedroom door opened. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s all under control,’ I replied.

  ‘Good.’ And his door closed again.

  But I was worried. Not because Oskar had had an accident, but because of the reason behind it. There was no doubt in my mind that seeing those toys had triggered a memory, which had caused him to wet himself. Children have accidents, but his expression had been one of pure terror. I’d had experience before of abused children having a flashback triggered by something apparently innocent, which had resulted in them losing control of their bladder and sometimes their bowels. I was convinced these toys meant far more than a reminder of home.

  The water stopped running in the bathroom and Paula called, ‘Mum, Oskar’s bath is ready!’

  ‘Thanks, love.’ I left what I was doing and, taking Oskar’s pyjamas from under his pillow, I went to the bathroom. Oskar was standing by the bath, still holding Paula’s hand.

  ‘Oskar, we’ll wait outside while you take off your wet clothes and pass them to me,’ I said, giving him the privacy he needed. ‘Then get into the bath.’

  Paula and I waited on the landing with the door slightly ajar as Oskar undressed and then pushed his clothes through the gap. ‘Thanks, love,’ I said. ‘Get into your bath and Paula will wait on the landing while I finish in your bedroom.’

  Paula knew I waited on the landing every evening while Oskar had his bath. ‘I won’t be long,’ I told her.

  I put Oskar’s clothes in the washing machine, then finished cleaning his bedroom carpet and patted it dry with clean cloths. I tipped away the dirty water and took the toys out of his room and put them in my bedroom. I thanked Paula for her help and took over.

  As I waited for Oskar to finish his bath, I wondered how best to approach the subject of his toys, or if I should mention them at all. I would certainly make a note of Oskar’s reaction in my log and advise Andrew, but what, if anything, should I say to Oskar? He was on the waiting list for therapy and the significance of the toys might come out then, but that could be months away.

  I heard him get out of the bath, and once he’d dried himself and changed into his pyjamas he opened the bathroom door.

  ‘Good boy. I’ll fetch your dressing gown and you can come downstairs for a while. It’s not your bedtime yet.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘Can I go to bed now?’

  ‘Yes, if you wish.’ He looked tired and pale, I guessed from the upset.

  I waited while he brushed his teeth and then went with him round the landing to his bedroom. ‘I’ve put those toys away in my room for now,’ I said. ‘Was that the right thing to do?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Tell me if you want them.’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said quietly. ‘Not ever.’

  He climbed into bed and snuggled down with his teddy bear, Luka, pulling the duvet right up to his chin. I looked at him. ‘Oskar, love, is there anything you can tell me about those toys?’

  He shook his head and screwed his eyes tightly shut, blocking me out.

  ‘Tell me when you can, please. Goodnight, love.’

  There was no reply, so I kissed his forehead and came out, drawing his door to behind me.

  Downstairs I wrote up my log notes and then emailed Andrew:

  The bag of Oskar’s belongings Mr Nowak left at school contained clothes and some new toys. Oskar seems fine about using the clothes but wants nothing to do with the toys. When he saw them he looked horrified and wet himself. I’ve put them away. Do you know who gave him those toys? Best wishes. Cathy

  That night, Oskar had another nightmare and as usual I went straight to his room and sat with him until he was asleep again. I returned to my bed, where I lay awake worrying about him. How could I break through and release the demons that were taunting him? Just when I thought we were making progress, he closed down again. He needed to confide in someone, even if it wasn’t me.

  The following morning, tired from a broken night’s sleep, I stumbled into our usual weekday routine. Oskar didn’t mention the toys or the nightmare, but his expression said it all.

  ‘Cheer up, Oskar, it might never happen,’ Lucy said lightly as she passed him on the stairs.

  Oskar looked even more downcast than normal this morning, while Lucy was in a permanent state of euphoria due, in part at least, I suspected, to her relationship with Darren. She’d never been a morning person, but now she was positively bouncy and couldn’t wait to get to work. I just wished some of it could rub off on Oskar, but that wouldn’t happen until he disclosed what was making him so sad. He ate his breakfast with the same gloomy expression and then I took him to school.

  It was Tuesday, so we had contact that afternoon. Andrew hadn’t replied to my email of the evening before, but it became obvious at the Family Centre that he had read it and acted upon it. Roksana was already in Green Room and it was clear from her expression she was angry with me.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss,’ she exclaimed as soon as we walked in. ‘My friends give Oskar toys. What’s wrong with that? When he has an accident he clears it up and puts his clothes in the washing machine. It’s nothing to do with the toys. Why are you causing all this trouble?’

  She made my worries sound almost farcical, as if I had completely overreacted. However, now wasn’t the time for me to try to explain – in front of Oskar.

  ‘I didn’t intend to cause you any trouble,’ I said. ‘But it’s probably best if we don’t discuss it now.’ I glanced at Oskar, who was looking anxiously at his mother.

  Roksana huffed, clearly annoyed, but let the matter go. I hoped she wouldn’t quiz Oskar about it during contact, and if she did that the contact supervisor would intervene and stop her. I said goodbye to them both and came away, now having doubts that I might have got it wrong. Perhaps the toys were innocent gifts and had nothing to do with Oskar wetting himself. A foster carer’s life is full of doubts as we examine our actions, try to do our best and hope for good outcomes but realistically expect the worst.

  When I collected Oskar, Roksana was cool with me but didn’t say anything more about the toys. The evening continued as normal with dinner, Oskar reading, then a bath and bed. The following morning Oskar was quiet and pensive as usual. I took him to school, but then just before one o’clock, as I sat working at my computer, the house phone rang. It was the school secretary.

  ‘Erica Jordan has asked me to call you,’ she said. ‘Can you come and collect Oskar, please? He’s been crying all lunchtime but won’t tell us what’s wrong. She’s with him now.’

  ‘Yes, of co
urse. I’ll come straight away, although it will take me about fifteen minutes to get there.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll let Miss Jordan know.’

  Leaving the computer, I quickly pushed my feet into my shoes, grabbed my bag and went out the door. There are many reasons for a child being upset at school, including sickening for something, being bullied, fretting for their family, worrying about school, but usually a few kind words from a member of staff puts them right and I’m only told at the end of the day. Oskar was close to Miss Jordan and had confided in her before. That she hadn’t been able to console him worried me even more.

  A sickly feeling settled in my stomach as I parked the car outside the school and got out. It was lunchtime and the children were in the playground, running, laughing and playing – a complete contrast to what Oskar was going through. Because the children were in the playground the gate was security-locked, so I pressed the buzzer. It clicked open and I crossed the playground, weaving my way around the children. As I approached the main door it released. The school secretary would have seen me on the monitor in her office.

  ‘Oskar is with his teacher in the medical room,’ she said as I went in. ‘It’s down the corridor, third door on the left.’

  I thanked her and headed along the corridor, my concerns growing. The school was strangely quiet with all the children playing outside. I knocked on the door of the medical room.

  ‘Come in!’ Miss Jordan called.

  Oskar was sitting on a child’s chair by the couch, while his teacher sat beside him on an adult chair. She had a box of tissues open on her lap. Although Oskar wasn’t crying, he clearly had been; his eyes were red and his cheeks blotchy. He looked at me sadly.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Miss Jordan said. ‘Oskar is feeling a bit better now he’s been able to tell me what’s wrong.’

  ‘He’s told you?’ I asked. ‘Thank goodness. What is it?’ I went to him.