by Casey Watson
I thought about how much time had passed – and how many offspring were now involved. This was turning into quite an epic. ‘And then what?’ I said. ‘They had four more children, and you say social services have been involved since Ashton was a baby? So how did we get from there to here?’
Anna cleared her throat. She looked embarrassed. And seeing her expression made me sure that we were about to hear an all too familiar story. But you were damned if you did and damned if you didn’t where social work was concerned. ‘Robert,’ she suggested, ‘why don’t you run through some of the follow-up reports and recommendations?’
Robert duly plucked a file from his briefcase, which was on the table. ‘I know how this will look,’ he said, ‘when you see it in black and white, but there’ve been a succession of different social workers attached to the family over the years, each with their own priorities and agendas. In retrospect, it’s clearly a family that should have been dealt with a long time ago, but you have to remember –’ he looked earnest – ‘that our primary aim, always, is to help parents cope. To give them strategies and tools to assist them. The last thing we want is to break up loving families.’
I stared at him incredulously. I’d barely had them two days, and on that evidence I could hardly believe that he believed – or at least, seemed to – that these kids should still be with their parents. Was that what he was saying? ‘So why did they come into care, then?’ I wanted to know.
‘Well, in the end, we realised they couldn’t cope. They’ve had several warnings and there’ve been lots of interventions, but after year after year of evidence, such as them being sent to school unkempt’ – I smiled wryly: such a benign word to describe the state of them! – ‘and not being fed, running around at all hours of the night … they were stealing and getting into trouble from a very young age. Eating out of bins, pinching the contents of other children’s lunchboxes … I can obviously leave you a full report to read … Anyway, the list went on, and we eventually applied for a court order.’
John had been listening to this intently and scribbling notes. ‘Ah, the court order. I understand this is still ongoing. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Anna confirmed. ‘And, um, it’s just been adjourned again. The final hearing was supposed to be this week but it seems the parents have a new solicitor who is insisting upon new psychological reports being compiled for both parents, plus the children.’
‘Do we know why?’ John asked. ‘Are they mounting a defence? And what does this mean in terms of looking for a placement?’
‘Well, that’s the problem, to be honest,’ Anna admitted. ‘Until it’s ruled that the children are officially in the care of the local authority, it’s going to be extremely difficult to get a full-time placement for them. If we do that, we are obviously pre-judging the outcome of the final hearing, and the parents’ solicitor will have us for that.’
I was a bit lost by now but, thankfully, Mike seemed to understand. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, having been mostly silent up to now. ‘So what you are actually saying is that this “short-term” placement – this “interim” placement – may, in fact, not be that at all.’
John obviously understood the implications too. ‘Yes, Mike,’ he said, as he slammed down his pen. ‘I think that’s exactly what Anna is saying. I’m not at all happy about this. To be frank, it feels like we’ve been duped. Surely you knew this when you contacted me last week?’
Harsh words and apologies began flying around the table then, but, even with one ear on the recriminations and accusations, my other was on the sound of the two little mites in my living room. I could hear them chuckling, presumably at the cartoon they were watching, oblivious of the fact that their future – their stark, uncertain future – was being discussed in the very next room. It seemed clear to me, then. If we didn’t keep them, who else would? And when it then came to light – John was nothing if not dogged – that social services had, in fact, been searching for some where to place them for a whole year, I realised the enormity of the damage they’d probably already suffered; no wonder the two of them seemed so feral.
I knew then that we had to keep them – for as long as was needed. They needed a home and some security; a civilising influence. Why couldn’t we be the ones to give them that? I caught Mike’s eye then, and I could tell, to my relief, that he felt the same. These poor ‘neglected’ tots could at least count on us, I thought.
Though I might have thought differently if I’d known what was coming.
Chapter 5
‘We come bearing gifts!’
It was a week or so later, and my mum and dad had arrived to see the children. Fostering was always going to be a whole-family occupation, but with the two we had currently (and with the knowledge that they might be with us for a while yet) I felt it doubly important that we get all our close relatives on board. They were happy to get involved – they always had been, from the outset – but I also felt the children could really benefit psychologically from being in the thick of a big, loving, ‘normal’ sort of family, their own childhoods, so far, having been so barren in that respect.
‘Oh, Mum, you shouldn’t have,’ I said, grinning at the sight of Dad trailing behind her, carrying a big carrier bag from our local toy superstore.
‘It’s our pleasure,’ she said. ‘Really, love. We thought we could all do some painting. Give you an hour’s break, perhaps,’ she added, kissing me.
Olivia, by this time, had come out of the living room to see who’d arrived, and was jumping up and down with glee and asking to be picked up. She was really so much like a toddler, I reflected. ‘Nan an’ granpa here!’ she shrieked delightedly, while Ashton, now in the doorway, smiled shyly.
We all trooped into the kitchen and I set about making a pot of tea for them while the kids pulled them over to the table. Ashton seemed to take to Mum straight away, and pulled a chair up close beside her almost as soon as she sat down. ‘Now then, young man,’ she said, as Dad placed the bag in front of them. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got for you both, shall we?’
Olivia, meanwhile, having now persuaded Dad to pick her up, was busy stroking his hair and kissing his cheek. I kept an eye on her. Privately, I was becoming a little concerned about Olivia, my fostering antennae already twitching. Much as I was pleased to see her – to see both of them – being affectionate with the family (the opposite, sadly, is often true of damaged kids), I had noticed she tended to behave differently around the men. She was so little, yet there was still this definite sense of flirtation; she wouldn’t be aware of it – how could she, she was six! – but it was there. It was tangible, and slightly unsettling.
And today was no different. ‘Gwandad,’ she was asking him. ‘Can I sit on your knee? Casey got bony knees so I don’t like going on her lap. But can I sit on yours to do the painting?’
Dad laughed, as he settled her instead onto a chair. ‘Much easier to paint on your own chair,’ he suggested. I smiled to myself. And much less chance of him getting paint all down his trousers. ‘Come on,’ he said, as Mum began opening up the pots they’d bought. ‘What shall we paint? How about a picture of your nice bedroom?’
But Olivia was having none of it. She pestered and pestered, till Dad eventually conceded and let her sit on his lap after all. And before long, the noise level had fallen to a hush, as both children immersed themselves in the task at hand.
Leaving them to it, I turned around to find some biscuits for everyone and pour out Mum and Dad’s mugs of tea. But within moments, I heard my dad speaking sternly. ‘No, Olivia,’ he was saying. ‘You mustn’t do that. If you don’t keep still,’ he went on, ‘then you’ll have to get down.’
‘But I was only wiggling for you, Gwandad,’ she said, her expression completely guileless. ‘Don’t you like it when liccle girls wiggle for you?’
Dad looked every bit as horrified as I felt. I rushed across and plucked Olivia from his knees. I could see that he was completely at a loss for words. And with
good reason. ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ I said to a bewildered Olivia. ‘Come and sit here by your brother. Granddad’s going to have his cup of tea now and it’ll be hot.’ She pursed her lips now, clearly miffed to have been relocated next to Ashton, then folded her arms on the table and placed her chin on them. ‘I miss my gwandad,’ she said, pouting. ‘When can I see him?’
‘I don’t know, sweetie,’ I said. ‘But I will try to find out. I know. How about you paint a pretty picture, just for him? Then Anna could take it to him for you.’
This didn’t mollify her. She pulled a face. ‘Gwandad hates Anna. She stoled us from him, an’ we’re not to tell her nuffink!’ She was becoming quite animated, and I knew she had my parents’ full attention. She certainly had mine. She lifted her arms now, waggling them to emphasise how exasperated she was by this. ‘Speshly my special Gwandad cuddles. It’s not right! My poor gwandad don’t have no more liccle girls to wiggle for him. An’ he’ll be lonely!’
Her curious form of words was as arresting as ever, but it was the words themselves that shocked most. I could sense how uncomfortable Mum and Dad were becoming, as the import of what she’d said hit home. ‘It’s okay, love,’ I soothed, stroking her hair. ‘It’s okay. I’m sure your granddad knows how much you love and miss him. Tell you what, why don’t we leave the painting for a bit, and you and Ashton go and play in the garden with Bob, while Nan and Granddad and me have our drinks?
Thankfully, this idea seemed to appeal to Olivia. She jumped down off the chair and grabbed her brother by the hand. ‘C’mon Ash,’ she said. ‘Let’s go play ball with Bob.’ The two off them then trotted off.
Dad shook his head as he watched them go. ‘Dear me, Casey, love. That was just all so wrong. What the bloody hell was she going on about? Special granddad cuddles?’ He was silent for a moment. We all knew exactly what she’d been going on about. Not the extent or the detail, perhaps, but certainly the implication, and I could see it made my father’s flesh creep.
And my mother’s, too.
‘I wonder what’s happened to her?’ she said, as I passed her the mug of tea. ‘What she’s seen …’
‘Way too much, by the sound of it, way, way too much,’ Dad finished.
‘It’s just horrible,’ Mum said. ‘I mean, it’s the most natural thing in the world to give little ones cuddles. But when you don’t know what they’ve been through … had done to them …’ she shuddered. ‘Well, it just makes it all so awkward, doesn’t it? I mean, it shouldn’t do, should it? But it does.’
What it most did for me, though, was answer my unspoken question. This granddad, if Olivia’s innocent comments were based in fact, would appear to have been up to no good. I tried to think if a granddad had been mentioned in any of the reports we’d been given, but I had no recollection of it. I resolved to take another good look later. And to continue to keep a close eye on Olivia. Ashton, too. Just how grim a can of worms had her words inadvertently begun to reveal?
And there was more to come. As we notched up a full second week with the children, I began to realise how knowledgeable they were about their bodies, and how lacking in personal boundaries they were. That they were close was obviously good, but they were physically a bit too close, touching one another in inappropriate places, and with what looked like very clear sexual overtones.
It’s generally not useful to over-analyse sexual touching in young children. It’s normal for little ones to want to explore their whole bodies, and to introduce sanctions, or adult notions of sex and propriety, can only result in creating a tension around it, which can lead to emotional problems later on. But these little ones seemed so sexual, it was confirming my suspicion that whilst their parents might have neglected them in terms of attending to their needs, someone – this granddad, almost certainly, and others? – had actually been paying them quite a lot of attention. Children simply didn’t do some of the things these two were doing, not without there being some adult input.
It was to be Lauren, Kieron’s girlfriend, who’d get the next piece of tangible evidence of what I was fast believing to be a worrying state of affairs.
Lauren was currently on her summer break from college, where she was studying dance and drama, and was often round at the moment, helping Kieron with his job-hunting. It was the following Tuesday, and the two of them were on the computer, in the living room, trawling the internet while the children were playing on the floor with building bricks. Kieron had come out in the kitchen to get a drink, and the two of us were having a chat about progress, when Lauren appeared in the doorway, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘Um, Casey,’ she said. ‘Can you come back in the living room a second? It’s the kids.
They’re … well …’
She didn’t finish her sentence and didn’t need to. I could tell by her expression that something weird must be going on.
I put my mug of coffee down and followed her back in, wondering what it was I might find.
I saw Ashton first. He was lying face down on the sofa, on top of Olivia, who was lying face up. Ashton was busy gyrating his torso, as if simulating sex, while his little sister lay, pretty much passively, beneath him, except for the fact that she was doing something else. She was rhythmically patting his bottom.
‘Ashton!’ I snapped. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? Stop that immediately! Get off your poor sister!’ I crossed the room and pulled the two of them up. I then sat them down, side by side, on the settee. ‘Now,’ I said sternly. ‘I need you to tell me what you were doing.’
There was a predictable silence from both for a moment, Ashton looking doggedly at the floor, his shoulders drooping, though little Olivia was grinning from ear to ear. Then she spoke, and at the same time placed her hand inside her shorts. ‘We were just tickling our pee pees, that’s all.’
I kept my stern face in place, but knelt down to their level. ‘Stop that, Olivia,’ I said. She pulled her hand back out again. ‘We don’t do things like that in front of other people, okay, sweetheart? Your body is private,’ I explained.
‘Yeah,’ said Ashton, who’d suddenly become animated, watching her. ‘We can only do that in our bedroom, Liv, stop it!’ He leaned towards her. ‘Remember – walls have ears!’ ‘An’ eyes, too!’ she answered, dramatically, gesturing to her own now. ‘Sorry, Ash,’ she finished. ‘I forgetted.’
If the implications of what they were saying hadn’t been so awful, their choice of words would have almost sounded comic. As it was, it was chilling, and a picture came immediately to mind: of this ‘Gwandad’ or whoever, making it clear to these poor mites just how important it was to keep their secret.
‘No!’ I said, firmly. ‘We don’t touch people like that at all! Not down here, not in your bedrooms, not anywhere. Walls don’t have ears, or eyes, but other people do. Other people who know it isn’t right to touch others’ private parts.’
They both stared at me in utter confusion. Which made it hit home to me even harder. They simply didn’t understand me. They so obviously thought what they were doing was normal. Except not quite, as they clearly knew – well, Ashton did, anyway – that the adults close to them wanted it kept a secret.
‘Not even family, Casey?’ Ashton asked me, quite innocently, as if he was in a classroom asking a teacher a question. ‘It’s all right if it’s family. It doesn’t matter if it’s family.’
‘Yes, it does matter, love,’ I tried to explain to him. ‘Our bodies belong only to us, d’you understand? Which means it’s wrong to let someone else touch our private parts. It’s wrong of them to do that to you. Even family.’
They both stared at me, two pairs of wide, uncomprehending eyes. They really didn’t understand what I was on about. I stood up again, and glanced across at Kieron and Lauren, who were still framed in the doorway, open-mouthed. We exchanged a look that said it all; if it was as entrenched as it appeared, this was going to be a massive thing to deal with. A five-minute chat with them wouldn’t even scratch the surface.
&nb
sp; Taking my rising as a cue that the lecture was over, the children both got up off the sofa, and began playing with the building blocks again. Whatever they were building, all I could think of was icebergs. And how I’d just got a glance at the great seething mass beneath the tip of this one.
I spent much of the week that followed making notes on the computer, carefully recording every incident I witnessed and reporting it by email to both John and Anna. There was clear evidence here of an even darker family background, and it was vital the authorities know about it, particularly with the hearing coming up. I also recalled the allegation of abuse by their father’s cousin. No smoke without fire? Maybe so.
But it wasn’t just the sexual behaviour that was disturbing. Just as difficult a problem to try and manage was the children’s lack of hygiene and their toileting behaviour.
I had already started waging a war on poo, as it had become clear from the start that the first night’s bout of bed wetting was by no means a one-off, brought on by stress. It was actually the tip of another iceberg in itself – this one composed mainly of excrement. If my nose had been wrinkling in distaste on Day Two, it was positively beginning to curl up now. The children had clearly not had any sort of potty or toilet training. Ashton just always seemed to poo in his pants, and the little one seemed to have no consistent pattern – so I was soon finding bits of faeces everywhere. There would also be smears of it on the toilet walls, and on the walls of the children’s bedrooms – even, on more than one occasion, on my banister. It was sickening and I began to feel nervous about touching anything, not before I’d zapped it with bleach.
And, as with the sexual behaviours, nothing I said seemed to sink in.
‘Olivia,’ I said to her one day, having taken her by the hand, up to the toilet, so that we could together take a look at what she’d used to decorate the toilet wall. The smell was so intense that I was gagging as I did so, but she seemed completely oblivious. ‘Do you know what that is?’ I said, pointing. She nodded and smiled.
