Too Scared to Tell

by Cathy Glass

  Chapter Nineteen

  Therapy

  The following day Oskar told Miss Jordan and one of his friends, Leo, he was going on holiday, and he finally decided he’d like to invite Leo back to play. Straight away I found Leo’s mother in the playground, introduced myself and asked her if Leo would like to come to play after school one afternoon and have some dinner with us.

  ‘I’m sure he would,’ she said, smiling. ‘Leo has talked about Oskar. You must be his aunt. Oskar said he lives with you as his mother has to work.’

  ‘I’m his foster carer actually, so like an aunt,’ I replied. Many children in care tell their classmates they are living with an aunt or family friend so they don’t have to admit they’re in care. But Leo’s mother was trusting me with her son, so she had a right to know the situation.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ she said easily. That’s neat.’

  ‘I expect Oskar felt more comfortable calling me an aunt,’ I added.

  ‘Yes, that makes sense. I’ve seen you in the playground collecting him. My husband and I have talked about fostering when we have a spare bedroom.’

  ‘I’m sure your application would be appreciated. There’s always a shortage of foster carers.’ We then arranged for Leo to come to play on Friday and swapped contact details. She was called Julia and seemed very pleasant.

  Oskar was excited in the car as I drove us home and I was pleased he now felt comfortable enough to invite a friend home – something he’d never done when he’d lived with his mother, which was just as well, as there’d been paedophiles in the house. I shuddered at the thought of who their next victims might be, for as far as I knew they hadn’t been caught yet.

  That evening Oskar told his mother on the phone Leo was coming to play, and they had something approaching a chatty conversation, as Roksana asked him questions and he replied. On Thursday, when I saw her at contact, I reminded her to let me have Oskar’s passport and she said she would bring it next time.

  On Friday morning I met Julia in the playground and confirmed I’d collect Leo at the end of school and return him to her just after six o’clock. I asked her what he liked to eat and she said most things, although his favourite was chicken nuggets, chips and beans. I said I’d make that. I also checked he wasn’t allergic to anything. As soon as the children had gone into school, I left the playground in a hurry as I had a half day’s foster-carer training starting at ten o’clock. Once that finished, I had just enough time to return home before I had to leave to collect Oskar and Leo.

  They came out of school together, both very excited, but Oskar’s face fell when Leo told me he had been told off in class that afternoon. ‘Never mind,’ I said brightly as we walked to the school gates. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it and won’t do it again.’ Which put a stop to that. Perhaps Leo thought I would tell Oskar off, I don’t know; children of their age can be so quaint, even devious sometimes. It’s all part of learning social interaction skills for later life.

  Once in the car, Leo talked confidently about football to Oskar and how he was going to be a professional footballer. Oskar didn’t really know much about football but replied that he liked gym and was going to be a professional – then didn’t know the correct word. ‘Gymnast,’ I supplied.

  ‘Yes, gymnast,’ he repeated. Which impressed Leo and he listened while Oskar told him about his gym class.

  ‘Wow!’ he said. ‘I want to be a gymnast too.’

  At home I made the boys a drink and a snack and they played in the garden while I made dinner. When it was five o’clock – the time we usually phoned Roksana – I quietly reminded Oskar we should phone his mother.

  ‘No! Don’t want to,’ he said, suddenly angry. ‘I’m playing. I’m not going to phone her.’

  ‘OK, but there’s no need to look like that. I’ll phone her and explain you have a friend here. I’m sure she’ll understand.’

  Oskar returned to play with Leo in the garden while I called Roksana. She did understand and was very reasonable about it, but then she usually was if she didn’t speak to him. Most parents would have created a fuss or even insisted.

  When I returned Leo home that evening, his mother, Julia, thanked me and invited Oskar to play and stay for tea at their house the following week. Oskar was ecstatic. As we came away, he told me, ‘I’m the happiest person in the whole world!’ It brought a lump to my throat. Now he was relieved of the burden of the dark secret he’d carried, he was free to enjoy his life, although the harm done by the actual abuse would still need addressing and I hoped that therapy would help.

  His appointment for CAMHS arrived in the post on Saturday morning and was for the following Wednesday at two o’clock. I explained to Oskar what it was and that he’d have to miss some school on Wednesday afternoons, which he didn’t mind. He wasn’t so enamoured with school now he was being told off and losing playtime for being naughty. I was trying to help him express his anger and frustration in other ways, as was his teacher. He seemed to be naughtier at school than he was at home, but I’d found that before with children I’d fostered. Apart from saying no, scowling and stamping around sometimes, he hadn’t really displayed much anger towards us. He was becoming less wary around Adrian and would sit next to him now, although he was still cautious of Andrew, but then he didn’t spend as much time with him as he did Adrian.

  When I saw Roksana at contact on Tuesday I let her know that the appointment for CAMHS had come through, and then asked her if she’d remembered to bring Oskar’s passport. She hadn’t.

  ‘I forgot,’ she said, rushed as usual. ‘I have so much on my mind. All this stuff with Oskar. I have to see the police again. I’ll bring it on Thursday.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  On Wednesday I collected Oskar from school at 1.30 p.m., having notified them by email that Oskar would be attending CAMHS on Wednesday afternoons. His appointment was at 2.00 p.m. and we arrived with ten minutes to spare. The therapy was held in a separate wing at our local hospital; I knew where it was from having taken other children there. Because CAMHS is part of our National Health Service (NHS), it’s free to the user, providing a service that many wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford.

  Oskar held my hand tightly as we went in and I gave our names to the receptionist, then he let go as we sat in the brightly decorated waiting room. It’s very child-friendly, with collages of birds, butterflies and animals on the walls and plenty of toys and books for all ages of children. Three other children of a similar age to Oskar were waiting with adults. Oskar and I looked at some books and then at two o’clock two women appeared, dressed in smart-casual clothes. One introduced herself as Dr Elizabeth Fernsby and her colleague as Priti Lee.

  ‘We have someone new joining us,’ Dr Fernsby said, smiling at us. ‘Welcome, Oskar.’ The others looked in our direction. ‘As usual I will be leading the children’s session in the art room and Priti will take the adult support group in another room.’

  I put away the books as we all stood. I felt slightly apprehensive, as apparently did Oskar. Although I’d brought children to these sessions before, the format varied, the therapists were new and we appeared to have joined an already established group. He tucked his hand into mine and we all headed down the corridor, following Dr Fernsby. She led the children into the art room to our right. ‘See you later,’ I told Oskar, kissing his forehead. He glanced back at me wistfully as he went in.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ the doctor said, and the door closed.

  I followed the other adults in a room a little further along. It was bright, with a large red carpet in the centre where a circle of chairs had been arranged around a low coffee table. On the table was a jug of water, plastic cups and a box of tissues. Tissues seem to be standard in support and therapy sessions, and in my experience they are often needed. It’s surprising the emotion that comes bubbling up when taking part in a support group. We sat in a circle and Priti began with
basic ‘housekeeping’ rules, which is usual at the start of most meetings. She told us where the fire exits were, that mobile phones should be on silent, and other people’s views needed to be respected and confidentiality maintained. ‘What is said in these sessions stays in the room.’

  She welcomed me and said that a place for Oskar had become vacant partway through the term because another child had left the group. She then suggested that everyone introduce themselves and say a few words about why they were here. I now learnt that two of the other women, Nora and Zoe, were parents, and Chloe was looking after her nephew, Logan, and found his behaviour very challenging. Logan was nearly eight years old, while she was only twenty-five, with no childcare experience, and admitted she really had no idea what she’d taken on but hadn’t wanted him to go into care. When it was my turn, I said I was Oskar’s foster carer and he’d been referred to CAMHS to help him come to terms with the abuse he’d suffered. None of the other children had been abused and the adults were very sympathetic and concerned for Oskar.

  Priti now went round the group again and asked everyone to give a brief résumé of the week they’d had. ‘Positive as well as negative,’ she added.

  Chloe was eager to go first and unburden herself. She said she’d had a shocking week with Logan, one of the worst, and felt it was due to him having to visit his mother in prison. She said she didn’t want him to go, but his social worker insisted he maintain contact with his mother while she served her prison sentence. ‘It’s all very well for her,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t have to deal with his behaviour after. It’s bad on a good day, but he’s been off the wall since he saw his mother on Saturday. He’s not angry with her but me! For fuck’s sake, I wasn’t the one dealing drugs!’ Her eyes filled and she reached for a tissue.

  ‘I understand,’ Priti said sensitively. ‘We’ve talked about Logan’s anger before, and how he can’t show it to his mother as he only sees her once a month, so he directs it at you. You are there and he feels safe with you.’

  ‘You’re an easy target,’ Nora added.

  ‘We see it a lot in fostering,’ I offered, as Chloe wiped her eyes. ‘The child takes out their anger and pain on their carer. It’s very upsetting when you are doing the best you can for the child.’

  ‘Too right,’ Chloe said.

  ‘My son blames me for everything and his father can’t do anything wrong,’ Nora said. ‘Although he only sees his father a few times a year.’ She then said a bit about the week she’d had, which hadn’t been too bad.

  Zoe went next and I learnt that she felt her daughter’s challenging and obsessive behaviour were signs of autism, although the doctor hadn’t agreed.

  So while the children were expressing themselves through art next door, their parents and carers shared their worries in support-group discussion. The fact that I was a foster carer raised some interest, and Chloe saw many similarities between the position she was in – raising her nephew – and fostering. Inevitably, the subject of when a child leaves came up. ‘I’ve thought about fostering,’ Nora said. ‘But I couldn’t bear to say goodbye.’

  ‘It is difficult,’ I agreed. ‘My family and I console ourselves that we have done our best to help the child and hope everything works out for them. Of course, we miss them dreadfully, but some children do keep in touch.’

  ‘Will you have to say goodbye to Oskar?’ Nora asked, clearly concerned. ‘I was watching you in the waiting room and you seem very close. I thought he was your grandson.’

  ‘We are close,’ I said, and embarrassingly I felt myself tear up. ‘He’s like my grandson, and if he can’t return to live with his mother then I hope he will stay with us.’

  ‘Do you love him?’ Chloe asked.

  ‘Yes.’ I took a tissue from the box.

  There was a short silence before Chloe said, ‘I love Logan. His behaviour is dreadful sometimes, but I couldn’t bear to give him up.’

  ‘No, it is painful,’ I agreed.

  ‘He will probably be able to stay with me when his mother comes out of prison,’ she said.

  I nodded, and the discussion then moved on to strategies we were using to deal with negative behaviour.

  At the end of the hour’s session we left the room a few minutes before the children, so we were in the waiting area ready for when they came out. I thought we all seemed a little bit brighter and lighter now, having shared our worries. When the children appeared, they too were smiling.

  ‘See you all next week,’ Dr Fernsby said. ‘Goodbye.’

  I knew from experience I wouldn’t be given any feedback on Oskar’s session, although a report would be sent to the child’s social worker. I would never question a child about what had taken place in a therapy session, but I was always positive and interested if they offered anything.

  As we left the hospital Oskar said, ‘I’m making a model aeroplane.’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘It’s going to take me to Luka so I can live with him.’ Which I thought was very telling. Oskar hadn’t ever said he would like to live with Luka and seemed to have accepted that he only saw him once a year at Christmas. Yet here he was, one session into art therapy, making a plane so he could be with his brother permanently. Art therapy allows a child to express the unconscious thoughts, worries, hopes and feelings they haven’t been able to verbalize.

  ‘Would you like to live with Luka then?’ I asked lightly.

  ‘Yes, and Mummy. So we can all be together as a family.’

  Sadly, I doubted there was any chance of that happening.

  The first week in July, Edith, Andrew and Tamara the Guardian all visited, before the summer holidays began. Sometimes in fostering it seems there is a never-ending procession of professionals, and while it’s necessary it can be disruptive to family life, especially for younger children. The visits tend to be when the child has just arrived home from school and wants to relax and play. Sometimes they are grumpy and uncooperative, and I feel responsible.

  ‘Not again!’ Oskar sighed as I told him of each visit. To him, there was no difference between their roles; they were all social workers who asked him similar questions and looked in his bedroom.

  I told all three of them pretty much the same. That Oskar’s behaviour was a bit shaky at school, that he liked gym and art therapy, had a special friend Leo, got angry sometimes, was less wary of men and black cars, and was settled with us and looking forward to going on holiday. In that connection, I also told each of them I was still waiting for Roksana to give me Oskar’s passport and that she’d promised to bring it to contact a number of times, but hadn’t.

  ‘Perhaps she really doesn’t want you to take Oskar on holiday,’ Edith said unhelpfully.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit late for that,’ I said, even more worried. ‘She was asked before I booked it and she agreed. It’s all paid for and he’s looking forward to it. He’d be devastated if he didn’t go.’

  Edith said she’d speak to Andrew when I brought up the subject with Andrew and Tamara at their visits, they said they’d speak to Roksana and make sure she took Oskar’s passport to the next contact.

  She didn’t. She forgot and promised to bring it next time.

  School broke up the third week in July. On the last day of term, we gave Miss Jordan a flowering potted plant and a thank-you card. I also made a point of thanking her in person for everything she’d done for Oskar. She said she was sad she wouldn’t be his teacher next term but had told him that if he ever needed to talk he could come and find her, and his new teacher was very nice.

  Gym classes and art therapy kept to school-term times, so they stopped for the summer, and I still hadn’t received Oskar’s passport. With ten days before we were supposed to be going on holiday, I was tearing my hair out with worry and thinking that Edith could have been right and Roksana had no intention of letting Oskar come on holiday with me. It was too late for t
he social services to apply for a replacement passport now. Stressed, I telephoned Andrew again and he said he’d speak to Roksana. When he called back, he said she’d promised she would bring Oskar’s passport to the next contact. I also reminded her the evening before when she and Oskar spoke on the phone.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve got so much to worry about. I promise I’ll bring it with me tomorrow.’

  Oskar was now aware his holiday rested on his mother giving me the passport – it had been impossible to keep it from him, as he’d been there when she’d apologized for not bringing it. He was anxious too and the following day, as we entered the contact room, the first thing he said was, ‘Have you bought it?’

  ‘Oh my god, your passport!’ Roksana exclaimed, realizing she’d forgotten it again. My gaze went to a suitcase standing by the sofa. ‘Luka’s in hospital,’ she said. ‘I am flying out tonight. I’ll tell my friend to give you Oskar’s passport. You can go to the house and collect it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ll phone her now and tell her.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Family

  Of course I was sorry that Luka was ill, but my priority lay with Oskar and his well-being. When I collected him from contact that afternoon, Roksana made a point of telling me she had called her friend, Anna, and told her where to find Oskar’s passport and she would give it to me tomorrow.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and hoped she was right. What else could I say? She was clearly very worried about Luka.

  I wished her a safe flight and Luka a speedy recovery. She said she had phoned for a cab during contact to take her to the airport and it would be arriving soon. She hadn’t had a chance to tell Andrew she was leaving and asked me to tell him, and that she’d be back as soon as possible.

  We all left the Family Centre together and the cab was waiting. Roksana gave Oskar a quick kiss goodbye on his forehead and then, passing her suitcase to the driver, climbed into the rear of the cab without looking back.