by Cathy Glass
‘Where’s the cows?’ she said, becoming more confident, and wriggling to the edge of the sofa.
‘At this time of day they’re usually in the upper fields. You’ll be able to see them from your bedroom. Would you like to look round now?’
She nodded vigorously, and slid off the sofa. With the doll clutched under her arm, she followed Betty into the dining room, which also overlooked the garden and had a long refectory table and fourteen chairs. Next to this was the office, which the children were not allowed to go into without knocking first. Next door was the playroom, which was as big as the lounge and brimming with toys, beanbags and equipment. There were three computers, various small plastic tables, and cupboards stacked with games, soft toys and books. There was also a ‘home corner’, which was equipped with a toy cooker, a sink, a microwave, a settee and a cot. Around one little table sat half a dozen teddy bears, with plastic cups and plates neatly laid out in front of them. Jodie pointed at it excitedly.
‘We had a teddy bears’ picnic last night,’ said Betty. ‘I bet your dolly would like to join in next time.’ Jodie shook Julie, so that the doll appeared to be nodding. ‘Good, then we’ll lay an extra place.’
We moved on to the kitchen, where a woman was busy at the sink.
‘Shirley, this is Jodie,’ Ron said, ‘and her carer Cathy.’
Shirley was a rotund woman in her late fifties with a kind, open face. She wiped her hands on her apron and came over. ‘Hello, Jodie, nice to meet you. And who’s this?’ She was referring to the doll, but Jodie had hidden her behind Betty’s back.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, shaking her hand.
‘No problem. I expect she’ll show me next time.’
‘Now your bedroom,’ Betty said, sensing Jodie’s eagerness to move on. Jodie released her hand and took mine, and we followed Ron up the winding staircase with an impressive balustrade, along the landing to the door second from last.
‘You go in first, Jodie,’ Betty encouraged. ‘This is your room, and we’re your guests.’
Jodie proudly turned the handle and went in, and we heard her gasp with delight. The room had been freshly decorated in two-tone peach, with complementary flowered curtains and a matching duvet. A new pine bed was against one wall, with a matching wardrobe, chest of drawers and bookcase against the other.
Jodie was at the window. ‘Over there! I can see cows!’
I stood behind her, as we looked out on half a dozen Friesians gathered around a massive oak tree to the right of the property. ‘Cows at last,’ I said, as much to Betty and Ron as to Jodie. But it was a beautiful view, with the grounds stretching to the field on one side and rolling hills on the other. I couldn’t have imagined a better start to Jodie’s recovery than opening the curtains every morning and gazing on such tranquillity.
She stood staring for a while, then turned to explore her room. She opened and closed all the drawers, investigated the wardrobe and then sat heavily on the bed.
‘Next time you come,’ Betty said, ‘you could bring one of your toys and leave it in your room if you like.’
‘I can leave the doll now,’ she exclaimed, holding her up by the arm.
‘Are you sure? If she’s your favourite, you won’t see her again until next week.’
‘I want her to stay,’ she said determinedly.
Betty and I exchanged approving glances, as Jodie pulled back the duvet and tucked Julie in. Clearly, this was a positive sign.
We moved on to the bathrooms, which were each shared by three children. We then walked past the other bedrooms, but we didn’t go in; Betty explained to Jodie that these were private. As we headed downstairs, the front door opened, and the children returned from their walk. The quiet house suddenly erupted into excited chattering, and Jodie grabbed my hand and froze.
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘We’ll say a quick hello,’ said Betty encouragingly, ‘then I think that’s enough for today. You’ve done very well, Jodie.’
I coaxed her down the rest of the stairs but, confronted with so many new faces, she stayed hidden behind me. The children began taking off their muddy boots and hanging up their coats. They all had their own pegs and shoeboxes.
‘This is Jodie and Cathy,’ Ron said.
There was a chorus of ‘hi’s and ‘hello’s, but Jodie said nothing and stayed where she was.
‘Is the hot chocolate ready?’ one boy asked.
‘Shirley’s doing it now,’ replied Ron. It seemed that a long walk followed by hot chocolate was a regular routine, and the children streamed off in the direction of the dining room like one big family returning from an outing. With the hall now clear, Jodie came out from her hiding place.
‘Have you thought of any more questions?’ Betty smiled.
Jodie shook her head and moved towards the front door.
‘OK, well if you do think of anything, you can tell Cathy. We’ll give you a ring tomorrow, and then see you next week.’
I thanked them as we left, and they waved until we were out of sight.
Jodie, having risen to the occasion, was now physically and emotionally exhausted. She lay on the back seat moaning, then stuck her thumb in her mouth, curled into a ball, and was asleep within five minutes. I phoned home to say we were on our way, and told the children the visit had gone well.
‘So she’s definitely going then?’ Paula asked. I could hear the sadness in her voice.
‘Yes. You know, it really is the best place for her, and I think she knows that. I’ll tell you all about it later.’
I settled in the traffic on the southbound carriage, at a steady 65–70 miles per hour. Every now and then I glanced in the mirror, as Jodie slept on the back seat. She’d been so calm and normal today, I was tempted to overlook the months of disturbed behaviour, and believe once again that she could possibly have stayed with us. Maybe with regular therapy, love and patience she could recover and learn to function within a family. In my mind I replayed Dr Burrows’ diagnosis, and wondered if she was ever wrong. Did she make mistakes? Was her conclusion 100 per cent certain, or just the best guess she could make at the time? We were the only family Jodie had, and however good High Oaks might have been, it was still a children’s home. I turned Radio Four on quietly, and focused on the car in front.
Twenty minutes from home, Jodie woke with a cry. She was desperate for the toilet. ‘I can’t wait, Cathy. I’ll wet meself!’ This was at least one area where she clearly had improved; a year ago she would have simply done it on the back seat.
I pulled off the motorway and found a quiet lane, then I spotted an entrance to a field. I pulled in and led Jodie behind a clump of trees. ‘You can squat here. No one can see.’
She lifted her skirt and grinned. ‘Do you want to watch?’
‘No. Of course not.’ I turned my back.
I heard the stream of water, then her voice. ‘My daddy did. I had to pee on his face. He said it was the drink of the gods, warm and sweet.’
I said nothing. Hiding my revulsion had become as much a part of caring for Jodie as showing love and affection.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Overnight Stay
Jodie’s normality was short-lived, and it took all my energy to see her through the following days. The morning after the visit, she woke up expecting to see cows out of her bedroom window, and became angry when I told her that they were at High Oaks, and that she’d see them again the following week.
‘You’ve taken them,’ she sneered. ‘It’s your fault. You hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you, Jodie. I like you very much.’
‘Give me the cows, then,’ she persisted. ‘I want them now.’
‘I can’t, sweet. They’re not here. It’s impossible.’
I wondered if her confusion was due to the impending move. Bringing her to a realization that she would be going was a subtle and gradual process. I had obviously never said, ‘You are going to leave us, Jodie,’ w
hich would have made her felt rejected and negated the positive feelings about High Oaks that we had carefully been nurturing. Instead, we worked on bringing her to an understanding that she would be going to High Oaks in the near future, first for a visit where she would have her own room and stay the night and have lots of fun. It all had to be very positive, which it was. It was moving on, not leaving behind. She appeared to listen as I emphasized all the progress she had made during her stay with us, how much she would enjoy herself at High Oaks with Ron and Betty, how we would all miss her, and that we would still visit.
‘Will my mummy and daddy visit?’ she asked.
‘No. Definitely not.’ But whereas in the past this would have given her some comfort, she now seemed to see it as another rejection.
‘You lot! You’re all the same. I hate you. Get out!’ Reg suddenly appeared and lunged at me, spitting abuse. I hurried out and shut the door, then hovered on the landing. Ten minutes later the door swung open. Amy appeared, with her thumb in her mouth and a wet stain down the front of her pyjamas.
And it was a measure of how strange and distorted our lives had become that I was pleased to see Reg and Amy back. It meant that some level of ‘normality’ had been regained.
As the days brought us closer to Jodie’s next visit to High Oaks, she flipped between acute lethargy and violent anger, so I was administering sympathy and discipline in equal amounts, sometimes within the same minute. I was also struggling to come to terms with my own feelings about her leaving, as well as having to try to keep the rest of the family’s spirits up. I felt I was being stretched in all directions.
Wednesday morning finally arrived, and we found ourselves at High Oaks again, this time with Jodie’s overnight bag. Jodie rang the bell enthusiastically, and Ron and Betty answered. They’d advised me to keep my goodbye as short as possible, but in practice I was given no choice in the matter. Jodie wanted nothing to do with me, instantly transferring her affections and attention to Betty.
‘Bye, then, Jodie,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Have a lovely time and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She said nothing, and met my offer of a kiss and a hug with sullen refusal. Betty gave me a sympathetic smile, as if to say ‘don’t take it personally’, but that didn’t stop the pang of rejection I felt. Jodie and I had been together almost constantly for a year and I felt that everything we’d been through had bonded us and brought us close. It was hard seeing her turn her back on me and walk away without a second thought.
It was not her fault, I reminded myself. Her ability to form attachments was yet another piece of her personality numbed and stunted by the abuse. I was the normal one, not her, and I ought to be grateful to have the capacity to love and miss other people. On the way home, though, I had to stop for a strong black coffee and some quiet time to help me recover.
By the time I arrived back, there wasn’t much of the day left. I made dinner for the children, cleared up the plates, and then collapsed in front of the television.
After a fitful night’s sleep, I returned to collect her at 1.00 p.m. However, as much as our first visit had been a success, this one had not. Ron took me aside on the gravel drive and updated me.
‘She had a couple of tantrums, which weren’t entirely unexpected. Betty had to restrain her once after she attacked one of the boys. But please don’t worry, Cathy. This move is obviously going to cause a reaction. We’re well prepared for it.’
Jodie was due to move there permanently in only five days’ time, and I now had misgivings about the timetable. ‘Do you think we ought to consider pushing the move back, to give her more time to adjust?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he replied firmly. ‘In my experience, delaying it now would only confuse her and make it worse.’
We stepped into the hall, and Betty and Jodie appeared from the playroom. Jodie wasn’t happy. ‘What you doing here?’ she scowled. ‘Why do you always stop me having fun?’
‘It’s time to go home, Jodie,’ I replied patiently.
‘But I want to stay here. Why won’t you let me stay?’
The same old Jodie, with her unfathomable switcharounds and contrary behaviour.
‘You can stay very soon, Jodie, but just not today, OK? Now come on, we have to get going.’
Ron and Betty saw her into the car with her bag.
We were up most of the night. Jodie was scared and disoriented, and adamant that there were people in her room. The next morning I was exhausted, but I was kept busy by a battery of phone calls from the various professionals involved with Jodie’s case, all wanting updates, and arranging their final visits. Sally the guardian came round to say goodbye. Her report was now complete, so her practical involvement with Jodie was over. As she explained this to Jodie, I could see that Sally had developed a genuine affection for her. I realized how difficult her job must be, always having to say goodbye. Jodie, however, couldn’t remember who Sally was, and told her to fuck off.
Jill arrived the next morning and gave Jodie a present for her new bedroom. It was a pretty china ornament of a cat, and Jodie seemed pleased, and even thanked her.
Now that Jodie was leaving me, Jill would end her connection with the case, so she had wanted to come round and say a proper goodbye to Jodie. It was not only that she was a nice person – it’s good social work practice to say goodbye to children when you are no longer going to see them. For a child who is constantly moving and meeting lots of new adults, it can be disorienting if people simply vanish from their lives with no explanation, and it can make them feel even more abandoned and out of control. So when children leave me, there are always visits and goodbyes and a little farewell party.
‘Goodbye then, Jodie,’ Jill said, as she left. ‘Lots of luck.’
‘Say goodbye to Jill,’ I said, and Jodie obediently waved her off. However, as soon as Jill had gone, Jodie threw the china cat on the floor, smashing it into pieces.
Dr Burrows phoned that afternoon, and said she would need to see Jodie one last time before filing her assessment in court. To my relief, she added that she would prefer to leave it until Jodie had relocated to High Oaks, so she could include this in her report.
The final visitor, two days before the move, was Eileen, who breezed in more than an hour late, again offering no apology. In her case it was not goodbye, as Eileen would continue being Jodie’s social worker and should visit Jodie and monitor her progress. I felt a little sad that the only person who was going to stay in official contact with Jodie was the one who seemed to care least about her – but there was not much I could do about that.
‘Are you looking forward to going?’ she asked insensitively. ‘You’ll be living with other boys and girls just like you.’
‘I’m going to kill them all!’ Jodie thundered, rising to the occasion. ‘I’m going to rip their heads off. And yours. You bleeding cow.’
Eileen declined my offer of coffee, and was with us for just fifteen minutes, as usual. It was probably the last time I was going to see Eileen – another social worker might have continued the connection and kept me informed out of courtesy, but I had a feeling that wouldn’t happen in this case. And I couldn’t stifle a sense of relief that I wouldn’t have to deal with her any more myself.
I showed her to the door, and she turned round with a cheery and unconcerned, ‘Bye then!’ There were no words of thanks or gratitude for the hard work I had put into Jodie over the past year, or any sense that we had been bonded by this tragic little girl.
‘Goodbye, Eileen,’ I said. If anyone had needed a damn good social worker it was Jodie, but maybe, between the rest of us – Dr Burrows, Sally, Jill and myself – we had done our best to make up for it.
After Eileen left it took me an hour to calm Jodie down again, and I promised her she wouldn’t be seeing much more of Eileen. Given Eileen’s performance to date, this was probably true.
Despite Jodie’s negative outbursts about High Oaks, she also said on more than one occasion that she wanted to ‘go and l
ive with the cows’. The following afternoon I found her in the kitchen, trying to open the cupboard doors.
‘What are you looking for, Jodie?’
‘Carrier bags,’ she muttered, as if it was none of my business.
‘Can you tell me why? I might be able to help.’
‘I need to pack,’ she answered wearily.
I took her upstairs, fetched the suitcases from the top of my wardrobe, and carried them through to her room. We worked slowly, side by side. ‘It’s like going on holiday,’ she said, stuffing handfuls of toys into the holdalls.
‘Yes, a little. Have you ever been on holiday, Jodie?’
She looked at me blankly, and I realized that, like many deprived children, she’d probably never had a proper holiday, but was simply repeating what she’d heard at school or on TV.
‘This is more like moving home,’ I added, which was something she could relate to. I felt a pang of regret, for, if things had been different, I could have taken her on her first holiday.
During these last few days, Adrian, Paula and Lucy were unusually quiet, and showed enduring patience in the face of Jodie’s tantrums and insults. I knew that they, like me, were finding Jodie’s departure more difficult than that of any other child we’d fostered. To say goodbye when a child is returning to parents who have overcome their problems has an optimistic feeling of success. Even those children who can’t return home, and are found adoptive families or long-term foster placements, leave with a fresh start and the knowledge that they will be welcomed and loved by a new set of parents. The only consolation in Jodie’s case was that she’d be in safe hands, and would finally receive the therapy that I hoped would set her on the path to recovery.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Goodbye
On the morning of the move Jodie refused breakfast and sat at the kitchen table, waiting impatiently. I finished my coffee, then began stacking her cases in the hall. She stood at the bottom of the stairs watching me, but turned her back when I asked her if she wanted to help. Eventually all the bags were piled up in the hallway, just as they had been a year before.
