by Angela Hart
‘Right,’ I said. ‘That’s what I do anyway. I was hoping for advice or some insight that might help me prevent Danielle from trying to harm herself. That’s one of my biggest concerns at the moment, given what just happened with the roasting fork, and of course with her drinking the handwash. I’d like to understand as much as I can about her psychological make-up, so I can be as prepared and able as I possibly can be to look after her.’
Susan told me she understood my concerns but said she didn’t have any further information from the psychologist. I asked if she could at least tell me if Danielle had been officially diagnosed with any kind of attachment disorder, or anything else? I asked this because by now I was starting to wonder if she perhaps had some other mental illness I was not aware of.
‘If there has been an official diagnosis of any kind, it would be really useful to know about it,’ I said.
‘As I say, I don’t have any further information, Angela. If the psychologist had anything she felt needed to be shared with Social Services, rest assured we would know about it and I would share it with you. But this is all I can tell you for the time being. Danielle is not a straightforward case, and her psychological assessments are ongoing. Of course, if you and Jonathan feel you’d like her to have another spell in respite care, that can certainly be arranged.’
I felt conflicted. I was not convinced Jonathan and I had the necessary skills to deal with Danielle, but then again, who did? The fact was, if she wasn’t with us, she would just be with another set of foster carers – probably people she didn’t know, who would be in the same boat as us in terms of their ability to deal with her. Therefore Danielle might possibly be at an even greater disadvantage, and that was the last thing any of us wanted. The upheaval of respite care just didn’t seem worth it, although I didn’t want to rule it out and it wasn’t just my call in any case. If Social Services wanted to arrange it, they would have the final say.
‘I’m open-minded about respite care,’ I told Susan. ‘I do recognise we need all the support we can get, but for now we’d like to carry on as we are. Please don’t worry. I won’t hesitate to ask for help if and when I think we, or Danielle, need another break.’
‘That’s sensible, Angela. I don’t want you and Jonathan to burn out. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. As I know you’ve heard before, it’s not a sign of weakness or failure – quite the opposite.’
‘We have to keep going and doing our best,’ I said to Jonathan later.
‘We do. Surely to goodness we can turn things around.’
‘Yes. Surely we can?’
I said this with a question in my voice. It was wishful thinking, but was I being realistic?
That morning Danielle had offered to clean the bathroom, which I was delighted about. I praised her for being helpful and willing, and then I asked her if she wouldn’t mind doing the vacuuming instead, as that was the next job that needed doing.
‘You’re a slave driver,’ she said, her mood instantly shifting. ‘You’re the one who’s supposed to be looking after me. You should be doing everything for me.’
‘Danielle, you offered to help. I cleaned the bathroom yesterday and it doesn’t need doing again this morning, so I thought you could do the vacuuming instead, seeing as you’ve made such a kind offer to help.’
‘It does need cleaning again. Scooter messed in there.’
‘Did he?’
‘Well, no, but he might have, because I let him go in there when I was cleaning my teeth.’
‘OK. I’ll check that. But if you are offering to help me, it would be great if you could vacuum the living room and the landing.’
‘Oh, have it your way! Why don’t you just get a whip or a big stick or a gigantic metal pole and hit me with it!’
Danielle said this in a confrontational way and she was clearly in one of her wind-up moods, but at the end of her outburst she suddenly had her faraway look on her face and appeared more uneasy than combative. In fact, she even seemed a little scared.
‘Hit you?’ I said, sensing she’d triggered a memory.
I wanted to add, ‘I would never hit anyone, and nobody should ever hit you,’ but I was being hyper-cautious about what I said, as I wanted Danielle to talk to me as freely as she possibly could, without being steered in any way at all.
‘OK, I’ll do the stupid vacuuming,’ she said, gazing into space.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘Don’t mention it!’
Danielle went to fetch the vacuum cleaner from the cupboard in the utility room and lugged it up the stairs, clattering it on every step as she did so. I didn’t tell her off; it wasn’t worth the scene I thought she might be trying to create.
I heard her switch the vacuum cleaner on and I heaved a heavy sigh. Danielle had such a knack of making even the simplest conversation or chore difficult. It was very draining, and her moods and the worrying things she said set me constantly on edge and made me very concerned about her. I felt stressed and nervous and protective towards her, all at the same time. It was like being outside when dark clouds gather, not knowing what will happen next. Will the clouds clear and let the sun shine through? Or will they explode into thunder and lightning, creating chaos and pouring cold water on everyone in their path?
‘The vacuum cleaner’s blown up!’ Danielle suddenly yelled down the stairs.
She’d only been using it for a matter of minutes and I’d just heard it go off.
‘Are you sure it’s not the plug? Check it hasn’t come loose in the socket. It happens sometimes.’
‘No, it’s blown up.’
I went upstairs to investigate, and sure enough the vacuum cleaner had packed up. There was a hot, rubbery smell, and I asked Danielle if she’d picked up anything that might have got stuck underneath and had maybe put a strain on the motor.
‘Don’t know what you mean,’ she said, adding an unconvincing ‘Oops’ as she looked at the vacuum cleaner and shook her head mournfully.
I told her not to worry and said that Jonathan would have a look at it later, as he was handy with electrical things.
‘No wonder Deirdre fancies him,’ Danielle said, raising her eyebrows in a cheeky, goading way.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Deirdre, you know, my family-aid worker? She told me she fancies Jonathan.’
‘Danielle, I think you’ve said quite enough.’
I did not for one moment think there was any truth in this and I did not want to discuss it further. I would have to tell Deirdre what Danielle had said, so everyone was in the picture, but I wasn’t going to fall for Danielle’s latest attempt at trouble-making, which I was sure it was. Deirdre was my friend as well as my colleague. I knew her well and it was completely unthinkable – outrageous, in fact – to even suggest she had said such a thing to Danielle.
‘Anyway,’ Danielle went on, sitting herself down on the carpet on the landing, crossing her legs. ‘When I was little, my dad used to hit me, did you know that?’
‘Your dad used to hit you?’
She cupped her chin in the palms of her hands and rested her elbows on her knees.
I sat down next to her, winding up the cable of the vacuum as I did so.
‘He didn’t like doing the cleaning, not like you! The house was dirty and messy. He hit me with lots of things. He hit me with the kettle once. It was lucky it had cold water in it, wasn’t it? Or he might have burnt me too.’
‘He might have,’ I said softly, giving her a brief look in the eye and then averting my gaze, so as to make her feel as comfortable as possible, to encourage her to carry on talking.
‘It hurt when he hit me. It hurt so much I blacked out. Can you imagine that? I don’t suppose you’ve ever blacked out from being hit, have you, Angela?’
She didn’t wait for a reply. Instead she stared straight ahead and continued her monologue.
‘Another time he hit me with a shovel, in the back yard. He said I’d come out of the shed when I should have
stayed in it. But I didn’t like the shed. It was cold and dark and I could hear a mouse scratching around. It freaked me out. I wanted to get out of there. Dad said the nosy old bag from next door might see me, and if he told me to stay in the shed, that was what I had to do, mouse or no mouse. “I don’t care if there’s a fuckin’ grizzly bear in there, you stay put, geddit?” That’s what he said. And when he said it he growled and he sounded scarier than a grizzly bear.’
Danielle glanced sideways at me, as if to check I was still listening. I tried to look calm and attentive, though inside I felt rage rising in my chest. I believed what she was telling me and I wanted to hug her and tell her she needed to tell me absolutely everything, and that her life would never be like that, ever again. Of course, I had no proof that any of what she said was actually true, but my gut reaction was very strong. This sounded like a genuine disclosure to me, and she was not finished yet.
‘When he hit me with the shovel I had to go to A & E. He told the nurses I climbed on the shed roof and fell off and hit my head on the concrete path. I didn’t. I don’t like heights, and I was only four anyway. He told me I had to lie to the nurses or he’d do something worse. I believed him. Once, did you know, a man took me to the top floor of a really high car park? He said he would throw me off the top. I would never climb on the shed roof. Dad hit me with the shovel, that’s how my head got hit. I remember it. I remember what happened just before. He called me a “little bitch” and he swung the big shovel at me. I screamed. I saw the rusty metal right up close, like this, and then I can’t remember anything else.’ As she said the last sentence Danielle held her hands in front of her face to show how close the shovel got, and then she clapped her hands and said, ‘BANG!’
I actually jumped. My nerves were jangling; I had a very vivid image of a four-year-old version of Danielle being hit by the big shovel.
‘I was in hospital when I woke up. Afterwards Dad tried to make me feel better, or so he said. He gave me “grown-up medicine” to drink at home. It was vodka or gin, one of those clear ones. He put it in my beaker.’
She put her hand up to her mouth and pretended to drink.
‘Glug glug glug. “Go on, Danni, drink it all up. It’ll make you feel better.” I didn’t like the taste. I was sick lots of times, but I drank it anyway, because I didn’t want to make him angry. I drank it before I went to work with my dad, because . . .’ She looked up to the ceiling, a frozen expression on her face.
‘Because?’
‘I. Want. To. Forget. Geddit, Angela?’
Danielle turned to look at me. Her eyes were as black and hard as granite, with flinty flashes of light reflecting off them.
‘You want to forget, Danielle. I heard what you said.’
‘Good, because it wasn’t just him, you know. He had a knife. He said he’d cut my throat if I told anyone, but I’m telling you. I’ve told her too. Maybe I’ll have to kill you now I’ve told you. I can’t kill her though. I wish I could.’ She gave a hollow laugh, throwing her head back. Then she stared straight ahead again and went very still. ‘And his friends had knives and other weapons.’
‘Other weapons?’
‘One had a screwdriver. He was so nasty, the worst of them all. He had tattoos and was scruffy and smelly. His beard was dirty and he had teeth missing. He held the screwdriver to my head and said he’d stab me with it if I told. He said all his friends had guns and they could kill me too. He said, “They wouldn’t think twice, my girl. You ’ear me? You’re nuffink.”’ Danielle put on a deep, gruff voice as she said this. ‘“You’re nuffink but a little tramp. You’re the lowest of the low, you ’ear me? Nobody would believe ya.”’
I immediately realised I’d heard Danielle use similar words before, when she spoke about the homeless man she accused of raping her. He’s a tramp. He’s the lowest of the low. Nobody would believe him anyway. When she said that, Jonathan had questioned whether Danielle herself had been spoken to in that way, and it seemed his instincts were correct. This was devastating, and Danielle was still not done. Now she folded her arms in front of her and said bossily, ‘I’ll tell you another thing, Angela! This is not everything, oh no it isn’t! I told you, you know nothing about me. You don’t know me at all. You haven’t got a clue. What do you know about what happened to me in the children’s home?’
‘The children’s home? I know you were there in between your two foster placements. It was after leaving Granny and Pops, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. But do you know what they did to me?’
‘What they did to you?’
‘The older kids. They were so mean. They burnt me with their cigarettes. They put them out on my arms and legs. Nobody believed me. The older kids said I did it myself, but I didn’t. They had it in for me. They said I deserved it. They said I was a little slag.’
Danielle brushed her skirt down and got to her feet.
‘Slag? How could I be a slag? I was ten years old. Fucking cheek. Now, where were we?’ With that, she looked around in an exaggerated way, like a pantomime actress might when she wanted the audience to participate. ‘What was it we were doing here, Angela? I can’t remember? What happened here?’
I got to my feet too, and Danielle pointed to the vacuum cleaner.
‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘I can’t help you any more I’m afraid.’
‘You can’t help me?’
‘That’s right. I can’t do any more because the vacuum cleaner has blown up, remember?’ She rolled her eyes and swaggered towards her bedroom.
‘Get Jonathan to fix it, will you?’ she said as she reached her bedroom door. She looked for all the world like she might click her fingers and tell me to jump to it.
I let her go, and I took hold of the broken vacuum cleaner and carried it down to the landing on the floor below, standing it in the corner outside my bedroom. Then I went into my room and made a note of everything Danielle had told me.
When Jonathan heard all about it later, he cried.
‘Did she cry?’ he asked. ‘When she was telling you all this?’
‘No. Not a tear.’
We gave each other a knowing look. It seemed obvious Danielle had learned to hold her emotions in check when it came to dealing with the major traumas she had suffered.
‘At least she’s talking,’ Jonathan conceded. ‘It can only be a good thing, can’t it?’
Despite all her previous lies and tall stories, Jonathan didn’t doubt this was genuine disclosure either.
I nodded uncertainly.
‘I hope you’re right, Jonathan. I hope it’s a good sign, that she’s talking and letting go of things, but who knows?’
Normally when a child is going through a disclosing period it is considered progress. With Danielle, however, nothing was ever straightforward, and I wondered where this might lead to next.
Social Services took note of everything I passed on. I spoke to both Susan and Nelson, and two days later Susan came to visit us.
‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ I asked as soon as she arrived. I’d got to know Susan quite well by now. She looked like she’d been rushing, and she sank into a chair.
‘Would love one, thanks, Angela. It’s been one of those mornings, where I haven’t got everything done that I wanted to, or at least that’s what it’s felt like.’
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Milk, no sugar. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing. There’s been one problem after another. Ah, the joys of being a social worker!’
Fortunately, the two of us were able to have a talk before she saw Danielle. We carried on making general chit-chat while I made the tea, then Susan explained that she had spent several hours working on Danielle’s disclosures.
‘I’ve checked all the files, and none of the things Danielle has told you are down on any of our records. There’s nothing about the physical violence she described at home, nothing about her being given alcohol by her father and no record of any threats to kill her from her dad or anybody else. Similarly,
there is no report of her being taken to hospital.’
‘Really? Surely a hospital visit would have been recorded. What do you think? Do you think Danielle has invented all of this?’
‘It’s very difficult to say, Angela, but we can’t be certain she’s telling the truth. However, what I can tell you is that the part of her story about her dad and his associates, about the violence and threats, is very similar to that of another girl she met at the children’s home. Maybe it’s a false memory or she’s simply got muddled up? It can happen, especially when a child has been traumatised. Some children genuinely lose track of what is fact and what is fiction.’
‘I see. She did seem to recall a lot of information about what happened to her. I guess perhaps too much detail for it to be credible, considering she’s talking about her life at the age of five and under. I did believe her, although I guess I did wonder, too. It’s very difficult, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ Susan said, sipping her tea and putting the mug down purposefully. ‘Usually, as time passes, children start to have a rose-coloured view of what happened to them, wrongly remembering and believing that their childhood was good, or at least better than it actually was. In Danielle’s case, she seems to be adding more distressing detail to what we already know and to what is on record. There is no doubt about the sexual abuse, of course. The men are in prison. But these other details, who knows?’
‘And there’s not even anything about her allegations of being burnt at the children’s home?’ I said, remembering how Danielle had talked in some detail about being burnt with cigarettes.
‘Nothing. She was certainly unhappy there, that’s clear. There are notes on file that state she was bullied, but not to the extent she is describing now. It was nasty name-calling and hair-pulling, according to the records. If she’d been burnt, that would need to be recorded and she’d have had medical treatment, but there’s nothing on the file.’
