Damaged

by Cathy Glass

I made the appointment, noted it in my diary, and hung up. I wasn’t happy. I had given specific instructions to the hospital that my details should be kept confidential and, to avoid confusion, should be kept separate from Jodie’s parents’. It was clear this hadn’t happened. This time they had called me asking for Margaret, but next time they might just as easily call Margaret asking for Cathy Glass. All she would then need to do would be to ask the receptionist to confirm her latest address, and she and her husband would be led straight to my door. Then, Jodie and I would have bigger things to worry about than my piggy little eyes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Park

  Eileen returned from her holiday, and Dave was finally able to convene his strategy meeting. Jill attended in my place, and things suddenly started to happen. I was told to make a number of appointments for Jodie. First, she would have to be assessed by a child psychologist, to help the Social Services decide how best to proceed with her case. She would also have to have what’s called a ‘memorandum interview’. This is a videotaped interview with a police Child Protection Officer, which in this case would be the starting point for a criminal prosecution of Jodie’s father and, hopefully, the other abusers too. Jodie would also have to see a police doctor for a forensic medical – an intimate gynaecological examination – to verify her claims.

  I immediately started to worry about the forensic medical. It was traumatic enough for an adult to be examined in this way, but for an abused child it could be seen as another assault. I had given Jodie my promise that nothing of that kind would happen to her again, and I was frightened that she would think I’d broken my word and lose her trust in me.

  In the meantime, our days had settled into something of a routine. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Jodie’s tutor would come in the morning, and then in the afternoon we would go out, usually to the park. On Tuesdays and Thursdays we went shopping, although Jodie and I had somewhat differing views about this. Jodie enjoyed shopping more than anything, whereas for me it was perfunctory. Jodie seemed to relish causing a scene in public, aware that there was little I could do in response. These tantrums were designed to bully me into buying her something, but I could never give in, as this would set a precedent by rewarding bad behaviour. However, Jodie had clearly used this technique successfully for years, so I wasn’t expecting her to unlearn it any time soon.

  The sessions with Nicola were improving, in terms of Jodie’s behaviour, but she was making little progress in her education. In my view, this lack of progress was only partly attributable to Jodie’s learning difficulties and delayed development and more likely a result of her emotional state. A further problem was that Jodie seemed to have no interest in learning; she could never see the point of any of Nicola’s exercises, and it was very difficult to motivate her, as she apparently had no desire to win approval.

  My worries increased one afternoon when I did finally receive a call from Mr Rudman’s secretary: he was dreadfully sorry, but he didn’t feel able to offer Jodie a place.

  ‘Back to the drawing board,’ I said to Nicola, and spent the second half of her session on the phone, trying to interest another head teacher, but without success.

  ‘The trouble is,’ Nicola said, ‘she really needs a special school, but unless her statement can be changed to say this, there’s no chance.’

  ‘How long would it take to get it changed?’

  ‘Anything up to a year.’

  We agreed that this wasn’t an option, so after Nicola left I set out more paper, paint and glue, and spent another hour working through the Yellow Pages. It was demoralizing work, but by the end of it I’d found another head who was willing to look at her statement. The school, Elmacre Primary, was five miles away, through the city traffic, but at least they had a vacancy.

  The most enjoyable times I spent with Jodie tended to be our visits to the park. Jodie was less anxious in open spaces, presumably because there were fewer people around. She enjoyed playing on the swings, and I was slowly encouraging her to engage with the world around her, by pointing out pretty flowers and trees, and telling her the names of distinctive birds.

  We often bumped into people I knew, and I hoped this kind of friendly contact would be helpful for Jodie. I’d lived in the same area for twenty years, so we would often run into someone I knew on any trip out. I would introduce Jodie, as I do with all the children I foster, but instead of saying ‘Hi’, or smiling shyly, she’d stick out her chin, screw up her eyes, and cackle like a witch. She had recently developed this cackle, and I wondered if it was a defence mechanism, to stop people getting close. If so, it was certainly effective; only the resolute would try and pursue a conversation. Fortunately, most people knew I fostered, so no one was too offended.

  Despite my various schemes to broaden her horizons – which had included the zoo, the cinema and a local museum – Jodie seemed only to enjoy the park, specifically the park playground. As soon as we reached the gate, she would rush in, and head straight for the swings. She rarely played with other children, or even acknowledged they were there. This was hardly surprising, as she barely interacted with me. Instead, she would swing up and down, muttering or singing to herself, until it was time to leave. She was the same when we tried to play sociable games at home; she preferred to play by herself, in her own little world.

  On the few occasions she did initiate contact with other children, it was usually out of curiosity. She would see a smaller child doing something interesting, or wearing something that caught her eye, so she would walk over and stand in front of them, and stare at their chest; she still had a complete aversion to eye contact. Understandably, the other children would find this quite intimidating, although this didn’t seem to be Jodie’s intention. Nonetheless, it often led to a scene, with the child running to its mother to complain about ‘that girl’.

  On one occasion, we were in the playground, and a young father came in with his two daughters. There’s an area in the playground for very young children, as these two were, so that was where they went to play. For some reason, this piqued Jodie’s interest, so she followed them over and stood there watching as they clambered over the castle-shaped climbing frame. I was a few metres away, keeping an eye on her. At one point, one of the girls was coming down the slide, and Jodie went over to watch, and stood a bit too close to the bottom so that she was in the little girl’s way. The girls’ father marched across, put his hands on Jodie’s shoulders and said, ‘Come on now, out of the way.’

  I thought this was a little over the top, but I came over quickly and apologized to him. ‘Sorry about that. Come on Jodie, come and play on the swings.’

  We turned and walked away, and as we did the man shouted after us, ‘You want to learn to keep your daughter under control.’

  This was definitely uncalled for, but I didn’t respond, and Jodie and I carried on playing. A few minutes later a smartly dressed, middle-aged lady came into the playground, and headed purposefully towards us.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said to me, ‘this is Jodie, isn’t it?’ She leaned down towards Jodie and smiled. ‘Hello, Jodie, it’s lovely to see you again.’ Jodie looked at her, and carried on swinging lazily. She held out her hand to me. ‘Hi, sorry, I’m Fiona. I used to be Jodie’s teacher.’

  I shook her hand. ‘Hello there, I’m Cathy. I’m Jodie’s foster carer.’ I usually wouldn’t mention that I was a foster carer, for fear of embarrassing the child, but in this case it seemed safe to assume that Jodie’s teacher would know she had been taken into care. ‘How long did you teach Jodie for?’

  ‘A year,’ Fiona replied. She smiled at Jodie. Jodie looked back at her, blankly. Did she even recognize her? I wondered.

  ‘I must say,’ Fiona continued, ‘it’s nice to see Jodie looking so well, and so clean. It looks like you’re doing an excellent job.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I replied. ‘Yes, we’re plodding along, aren’t we, sweet?’

  Jodie nodded her head, not really understand
ing.

  ‘How long has she been with you?’ asked Fiona.

  ‘A few months now. She had a number of carers before me, but it looks like she’s settled now.’

  ‘Oh good. I’m sure that’s just what she needs. Well, I’ll let you get on and enjoy your afternoon. Jodie, it was really lovely to see you, and nice to meet you, Cathy.’

  She left, and I stood on the grass verge, watching Jodie play. The father of the young girls started walking towards me, and my anxiety level rose.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to bother you. I just wanted to apologize for my tone.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said, relieved. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I overheard you say you were a foster carer, but I’d just assumed she was your daughter.’

  ‘Not to worry. Sorry we were in the way.’

  He smiled apologetically, and walked back to his girls.

  As we walked home, I marvelled at the double standards. As a foster parent, you often have to deal with strangers who are quick to blame you for a child’s difficult behaviour. If they find out you’re fostering, however, they suddenly take a very different view. But why do they feel the need to criticize in the first place? Being a parent of any kind is difficult enough, without having to deal with strangers’ condemnation.

  A few days later, I received a call from the headmaster of Elmacre: he said he was very sorry, but they couldn’t offer Jodie a place. My spirits sank, but he then explained that he had a colleague at a different school who might be able to offer a place. The colleague was Adam West, of Abbey Green School, and he had now been given my details and would shortly be in touch. I thanked him effusively, and with a grin on my face relayed the good news to Jodie.

  ‘Not going,’ she replied. ‘Hate school. Hate you. Hate everything.’ She stuck out her tongue, and stamped down the hall.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Past and Present

  Iwas woken at around 2 a.m. by screams from Jodie’s room. I pulled on my dressing gown, and staggered along the corridor, feeling like I’d only just gone to sleep. I gave the door the usual quick knock, and went straight in. Jodie was lying in bed, holding the duvet over her head, clutching it tightly with her fingers. I sat on the edge of the bed, and Jodie stopped screaming. ‘What’s the matter, love?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the eyes!’ she moaned, terrified.

  ‘What eyes, sweet? Come out from under there so I can give you a hug.’

  ‘No! They’re everywhere. The eyes in the walls, staring at me.’

  I put my hand on the duvet where her feet were, to try and comfort her. ‘Jodie, love, I know you’re scared, but it’s your imagination. There are no eyes here. No one’s watching you. Please give me a hug.’

  ‘They’re here!’ she shouted back. ‘I can see them, coming at me! I’m not stupid. Make them stop, Cathy!’

  ‘Jodie, shush,’ I said firmly. ‘Now come out from under there, and I’ll show you. There’s nothing there, I promise. I’m here with you, and I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, would I? I’m here to protect you, that’s my job, isn’t that right?’

  She fell silent for a second, and then loosened her grip on the duvet. I eased it down, and she clambered up and hugged me.

  ‘Now look, Jodie. You see, there’s nothing there.’ I walked over to the wall, and rubbed my hand across it. ‘See? There’s no one here.’ I sat back down on the bed. Jodie’s cheeks were red, and her forehead was hot and sweaty. She was genuinely scared; whatever these visions were, they were very real to her. What had started as straightforward nightmares had gradually developed into something closer to hallucinations. Increasingly now, when I went in to her room to comfort her, I would find her in a strange state that seemed somewhere between sleeping and waking; sometimes it would seem as if she were awake but still trapped inside her nightmare. I couldn’t tell if she was truly aware of what was happening but it seemed that whatever she was seeing was taking on a greater reality.

  ‘Will you read me a story?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, OK, but then you have to go to sleep, all right?’

  ‘All right.’

  I read her the story, and put her to bed, but at four o’clock she was screaming again. I went back and resettled her, but an hour later she started up again. There was no chance of getting her back to sleep now, which meant there was no chance of me sleeping, so I went downstairs for a cup of coffee and a much-needed cigarette. I stood on the patio in my dressing gown and slippers. It was still dark and I knew the sun wouldn’t be up for another half hour. I smiled to myself, as I wondered how many other mums knew exactly what time the sun came up.

  It was a cold autumnal day. Summer had now passed us by and Jodie had been living with us for over six months. It was hard to remember a time before Jodie now, or a life that was lived without this intensity. Jodie and her problems occupied me constantly, and there was little in my life that wasn’t filled with looking after her and her needs. Now that the weather had turned cold, it was becoming quite a challenge to persuade Jodie to wear suitable clothes. Later that day, we left the house to go shopping, but as I went to close the door I realized I’d forgotten my own gloves. I left Jodie on the doorstep, while I popped inside to retrieve them. Suddenly the door slammed and Jodie was running up the hall towards me.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘My dad. He’s outside!’

  ‘What? Where is he?’ I felt a rush of fear. It was far from unlikely that Jodie’s parents had been able to track me down, if the usual mistakes and errors had been made. I had a particular dread of seeing Jodie’s father; I wasn’t scared for myself – I didn’t feel that I was in great danger from him – but I was terrified that Jodie’s safe place in my home could be contaminated and threatened if she ever laid eyes on her father while she was here. And what was more, I never wanted to set eyes on him myself. The very thought of him made me feel physically sick. ‘Where did you see him, Jodie?’

  ‘In his van. Driving up the street.’

  ‘Go in the living room and stay put.’ I walked outside, drawing the door to behind me. I looked out from the doorstep but couldn’t see a van. I walked up the path and on to the pavement, peering up and down the street. I knew from what Jodie had said before that her father drove a white van, but I couldn’t see any vans at all. I looked up and down but there were definitely no white vans. I looked once more and then, seeing nothing, I went back inside, relieved.

  ‘It’s OK, Jodie, there’s no van. He’s not there. He doesn’t know where we live, so I’m sure it wasn’t him. It must be someone else’s van.’ I gave her a hug. ‘Shall we go to the shops now, or do you want to wait a bit?’

  ‘I’ll come,’ she said passively.

  I reassured her again and, holding her close, led the way to the car. As we drove into town I watched her in the rear-view mirror, as she anxiously kept watch in every direction, presumably looking for vans.

  I parked in the multi-storey and bought a ticket for two hours. As we entered the shopping mall, we were immediately transported into a fairyland of illuminated trees, sparkling foil garlands and a giant Father Christmas booming ‘Ho ho ho!’ I felt a surge of panic, as I compared the stores’ festive preparations with my own. I’d done nothing yet, and as I counted up the weeks I realized we were only six away from Christmas Eve. I picked up a basket, and we made our way round the department store.

  Jodie was as ever an enthusiastic if not discerning shopper, and she happily grabbed any gaily packaged parcel that came within reach. While we shopped, I talked to her about Christmas and told her about the little traditions that she could expect with us, like decorating the house and the tree, the family service at our church on Christmas Eve, and the pillowcases we all hang on our doors before going to bed. I told her about the glass of sherry and the mince pie that we leave out for Santa, along with carrots for the reindeer. Jodie listened with mild interest but contributed nothing of her own experiences. She d
idn’t even mention her last Christmas with her parents, which is usually very poignant for children in care. Instead she grasped the material aspect of the festival and started telling me a long list of all the presents she wanted this year, which was, in a nutshell, anything brightly coloured – preferably pink and sparkly.

  ‘What did you get last Christmas?’ I asked, interrupting her.

  ‘Shoes,’ she said. ‘Black ones for school. But they wasn’t wrapped.’

  ‘And what did you do on Christmas Day? Did you play games?’

  She nodded. ‘We went up the pub and played darts. Mum had lots of beer and fell over so we had to go home. They went to sleep, so I put a pizza in the oven and after that they felt better.’

  I sighed. What a miserable Christmas – and to think that Jodie had assumed responsibility for her parents like that, particularly with her problems! I’d quickly guessed that she had taken a big portion of running the home on to her seven-year-old shoulders. For all her malcoordination and poor motor skills, she’d told me once how to mix a baby’s bottle and she knew how to cook fish fingers in the oven. But if her Christmas was joyless, it was no worse than others I’d heard of from my foster children who’d never known the excitement and pleasure of waking up on Christmas morning to bursting pillowcases and presents under the tree. ‘Well, Christmas will be very different this year, Jodie, and I know you’re going to enjoy it.’

  ‘Will I, Cathy?’ she said, and her face lit up.

  ‘Yes. I promise.’ As we carried on shopping, I resolved that she would have the best Christmas I could possibly give her – it would be one way that I could try and restore a piece of her childhood to her. I couldn’t wait to see her pleasure on the day itself, even if it was over a month away.

  I found presents for my nieces and nephews, then spotted a pair of Winnie the Pooh slippers which would go into Paula’s sack. Not wishing to have the surprise ruined, I discreetly placed them at the bottom of the basket, and distracted Jodie while I paid. I did the same with the other stocking fillers, including a Tweenies jigsaw for Jodie, and some fancy hair conditioner that Lucy had mentioned. I would be doing all my shopping with Jodie this year, so it would have to be furtive and piecemeal, but it would be worth it.