Four Waifs on Our Doorstep

by Trisha Merry

  ‘We can come back and buy some more tomorrow if we need them,’ I said.

  We put huge tubs of ice cream into the trolleys, and all the other bits they wanted.

  ‘You can go and choose some new biscuits for the biscuit tin, if you like,’ I suggested. You would think I had offered them the moon.

  They raced off to find the right aisle and scrambled their way along, ransacking the biscuit shelves and leaving a trail of chaos in their wake.

  ‘Give me those, you cunt!’ yelled Anita, snatching her favourite chocolate bars out of Caroline’s grasp.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ shouted Caroline, the words coming out clearer than usual, as she aimed a kick at Anita, who managed to dodge, just in time.

  ‘Belt up, you bitches,’ ordered Hamish.

  More disapproving looks and tut-tutting from other customers, but apart from the swearing they didn’t get up to anything particularly bad that first time, thank goodness.

  I made a mental note to talk to them about choosing which words to use where, but I knew this wasn’t the time. Swearing must have been the language they were used to hearing every day in their house, so it was normal to them. They didn’t know they were saying anything wrong. These children’s feelings were more important to Mike and me than any embarrassment they caused us, or the disapproval of strangers who didn’t understand.

  As we queued up to pay at the checkout, Hamish looked uncomfortable.

  ‘What’s the matter, love?’ I asked.

  ‘What are we doing?’

  ‘We’re queuing up. This is the checkout, where we have to pay.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s what we have to do.’

  ‘Well, if you go round to the back, the manager lets you have food. You don’t have to pay because it’s free.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it is. That’s what I used to do. If there was nothing in the bins, I used to knock at the back door at Tesco’s. The manager always gave me some food to take home for the others.’

  ‘Really?’ I was surprised at this revelation, and pleased that Hamish had found a kind friend to help them. We had a lot to learn.

  It was quite a relief to get them all back home again. After unpacking all the shopping and having another chaotic meal, it was early evening and the children began to flag, especially the two younger ones. I don’t know who was more tired, them or me.

  ‘Right, it’s time for a bath,’ I said, and we all clambered up the stairs. I went into the bathroom, ran the water and put lots of bubbles in. Of course, ‘safe caring’ means you’re not supposed to put all the kids in together and I can remember undressing Simon and putting him in first, lowering him into the warm water. He sat there like a lump of dough – no response. Usually, when you put little ones into a bath and you gently splash them, and play peek-a-boo with them, there would be great hilarity. But there was none of that with Simon. Not with any of them it seemed, as I broke rule number two and decided to put them all into the bath together, to make it more fun, and so that I could make sure they all had a good soak.

  Hamish and Anita had shed their clothes all over the landing, where there was more space. Now the two of them ran into the bathroom and climbed straight into the bath, splashing water everywhere in a wild water-fight, with Simon at one end, ignoring them both. But no Caroline.

  While Mike kept an eye on the others, I went to the doorway and looked out to see this forlorn waif standing against the landing wall, fully dressed and trembling so much that her clumps of wispy hair shook.

  ‘Come on, Caroline,’ I said, beckoning her gently. ‘Come and have a bubble bath.’

  ‘No,’ she wailed. ‘No bath.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘You’ll be fine.’ I knew I had to be matter-of-fact. I couldn’t tell her it didn’t matter and she needn’t have a bath. It had to be done. So I picked her up and carried her, struggling, into the bathroom, where she fiercely resisted me taking anything off her. I hated to force her like this, but she was filthy and in desperate need of a soak. I wondered why the hospital hadn’t cleaned her up a bit, but perhaps she put up a fight there too and they had to give up.

  After a bit of a struggle, I got her nappy off and the stench was horrendous. She was rigid with fear, so we had some cuddles as we sat on the bathroom floor, with me gradually taking her clothes off her and trying to pick the lice off her body, one by one. As I revealed her skin, I gulped with dismay. I’m not easily shocked, but I was that day. It was the first time I had seen her completely naked and I had to try not to show my horror at her thin, bony body, covered with bruises of various ages and colours. They were everywhere from the top of her scalp down to her thighs. Many more than I could count. How could this be?

  I gave her a big, gentle cuddle as we sat together on the bathroom floor, watching the others having fun in the bath. With Caroline on my knee, I gave Simon a gentle wash. This didn’t seem to faze him as he sat still and accepted my using the flannel and the sponge, as long as my hands didn’t touch him. All the while, I continued to talk and encouraged them all to play with the plastic ducks and the bubbles, hoping this would help calm Caroline’s irrational fear, although by now I was beginning to wonder if perhaps it wasn’t irrational.

  Finally I had calmed her down enough to lift her into the bath, where she sat trembling between Hamish and Anita, her plaster-casted arm sticking up over the edge. It was quite a squash, and despite the others’ fun, Caroline screwed up her face and flinched every time I made a move towards her or the others splashed her. If my hand or arm strayed too close, she pinched and bit me, desperate to get out. She clearly didn’t like this ordeal one bit.

  Gradually, I washed them all, their skins changing colour from grey to cream, though I had a job scrubbing the thick grime off their feet.

  It was time give the children’s hair and scalps a thorough wash. I reached for the spray attachment and began with the boys, whose heads had been shaved, with just a short stubble coming through, so didn’t take long.

  ‘Your turn next, young lady,’ I said to Anita.

  ‘No, I don’t want my hair washed,’ she protested.

  ‘But I’ve got some special princess shampoo for you.’ I reached to show her the pink bottle with its silver lid. ‘Look at that princess in the picture.’

  ‘She’s got long hair,’ Anita said with a smile.

  ‘Well . . .’ I nodded, ‘this shampoo will make your hair grow like hers.’

  That worked and Anita allowed me to massage and rinse her head. Now I got out the nit comb. I could see this was going to be a challenge.

  ‘No!’ she wailed. ‘You can’t do that.’ She looked with horror at the metal comb. ‘It will break my hair.’

  ‘I’ll be as gentle as I can be,’ I reassured her. ‘But I must get all those nasty lice out, so you don’t have to scratch your head any longer. Then your hair can grow faster.’

  ‘Really?’ She looked uncertain, but she allowed me to drag the comb through her newly clean hair, a few strands at a time. I deposited the lice and nits in a deep tin, along with the body lice I had picked off them all earlier. Eugh!

  Caroline looked on with increasing discomfort. Finally it was her turn. As I aimed the light spray over her bruised and filthy scalp, gently wetting the clumped wisps of thin hair between her bald patches, her horror overcame her. She screamed and screamed. Anyone would have thought I was trying to murder her. I had to hold her steady as I persevered, stroking the baby shampoo all over her head to calm her. When I started to use the spray again, she freaked out and struggled to get out of the bath, splashing us all, and half the bathroom too. Finally I applied the conditioner and combed through her tufts of hair, extricating what lice I could before giving in.

  Now that they were all clean, I could see that they each had a few bruises, but none of them as many as Caroline. Both the girls had black eyes, though Caroline’s was going yellow now. As I picked Simon up out of the
water, I noticed again the deep cigarette burn on his ankle.

  I lifted them all out of the bath, one by one, wrapping a huge, fluffy towel round each of them. Anita beamed with pleasure at having such a large, clean towel, all to herself, against her skin. She was in heaven.

  ‘What’s this, Hamish?’ I asked as he dried himself. ‘This big mark on your hand?’ It was quite an extensive scar across the back of his hand and wrist.

  ‘That’s where I got burnt by a kettle when I was a baby. They used to put me up on the worktops and I played with the wires.’

  ‘Was it just the kettle? It looks as if it was quite a nasty burn.’

  ‘I think there might have been some boiling water as well.’

  ‘It must have hurt a lot.’

  ‘I was too young to remember. But I know somebody took me to the hospital to get it treated.’

  When they were all dried and clean and sweet-smelling, perhaps for the first time since they were born, I got them into their new pyjamas and said, ‘Come on. Let’s go and have a story.’ They looked puzzled. I realise now they didn’t know what I was talking about.

  We all went through to their big bedroom opposite ours, where I thought it best to let them sleep together again, until they had properly settled in.

  ‘Would you like Goldilocks or Cinderella?’

  They all looked at me with blank faces, unable to answer.

  At that moment I felt enormous sadness as I realised that nobody had ever read them a bedtime story, and they were unfamiliar with even these popular childhood tales. Perhaps the younger ones had never seen or handled a book. So I explained what reading a story meant and they seemed quite interested in the idea.

  ‘Let’s start with Cinderella,’ I said. ‘Now we all need to sit together on the bed.’

  I sat down and the older three clambered around me, competing fiercely to climb onto my lap – another rule broken. Meanwhile, Simon sat where I’d put him, on one side of me, but not touching, as I realised that was uncomfortable for him. It was something to work on, but it would take time. He made no eye contact, and did not show any interest in the book at first, though he did begin to look at it as I did the voices and turned the pages.

  Finally the house went quiet and the children were all asleep.

  ‘Why do you think Caroline was like that at bath time?’ asked Mike as we put the plates away. ‘The others were all fine.’

  ‘Yes, something must have happened to her in a bathroom . . . something that frightened her.’

  As we finished clearing up, I looked at the clock – half-past nine. I remember thinking: My God, I’ve got to go to bed. This whole day was a mad jungle. I know I’m not a drinker, but I could drink tonight. It has to get better than this!

  5

  Revelations

  Mrs Merry reports that the children have begun talking to her about events at their mother’s home, indicating some worrying child-care practices.’

  Social work notes, mid-March 1997

  ‘Where are the cornflakes?’ wailed Hamish. He had looked in one cupboard, then another, and was staring into a third, trembling with anxiety.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, opening the pantry door to show him all the boxes he had put into the supermarket trolley the previous afternoon.

  Breakfast passed in a mad blur, spreading food everywhere, and the children were now creating World War Three in the playroom.

  ‘Shall I take the troops across to the park?’ asked Mike with a smile. ‘That way you can get on with cooking Sunday lunch.’ Mike always enjoyed his Sunday roast.

  ‘Yes please! But watch how you get them across the road.’

  The park was opposite our house, so there was just our road to cross. It’s a busy road now, but it wasn’t so bad then.

  ‘Right, kids,’ I said to them as they were clamouring to be first out of the front door. ‘You all have to hold hands to cross the road.’

  ‘I’m good at that,’ boasted Hamish. ‘I taught myself.’ I dreaded to think how.

  ‘Good, you can help Mike look after the younger ones if you all hold hands.’

  ‘We’re back,’ the two older ones yelled as they ran into the kitchen an hour and a half later.

  ‘We’re starving,’ said Hamish with a hopeful look on his face. ‘Is lunch ready?’

  ‘Nearly ready. Go and wash your hands.’

  They scampered off as Mike came into the kitchen.

  ‘Phew,’ he smiled, wiping his brow to emphasise his relief at getting them all home safely. ‘That was the longest, maddest morning I’ve ever had!’

  ‘What were they like crossing the road?’

  ‘Like walking ten puppies without a lead,’ he laughed. ‘Uncontrollable!’

  Lunch was another scramble, with the children snatching morsels from each other’s plates. Caroline got into a real paddy, trying to guard her food from Anita sitting next to her.

  ‘Get off!’ she yelled. ‘Mine!’ she screeched. I was beginning to understand her words better now, including the frequent expletives, which I could have done without! She had a fiery temper and a lot of spunk, despite her babyish ways. Or maybe that was why. Was she going through the ‘terrible twos’ at nearly five? When I thought about it later that day, I wondered whether her temper had been suppressed until now. As if she was letting herself express her feelings for the first time. I have noticed it before with other children. Sometimes, when they are away from the source of their fears, it’s as if they can find their own voice and express their anger at last.

  There was some more shouting and swearing, and their behaviour went downhill from there, throwing food about and making an awful mess of the dining room, where we always ate Sunday lunch. Maybe we’d have to eat in the kitchen until things improved. I’d have to try to get them eating with a knife and fork instead of their hands. And sometime I’d have to start a discussion about inappropriate words, but not yet . . .

  The younger three went off to play downstairs after lunch and Hamish helped to clear up the worst of the mess. Then he stood in the kitchen and watched me stack the dishwasher, looking unsure, as if thinking about telling me something. I waited, then out it came.

  ‘I like it here.’

  ‘Good. Why’s that?’

  ‘Because you have food.’

  ‘That’s good. Is there anything you don’t like, Hamish?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, what do you like best?’

  ‘Chips . . . and cornflakes . . . and pasta. I like the pasta you gave us the night we came.’

  ‘Yes, that was fresh pasta. I’ll cook some of that for you tonight if you like.’

  His eyes lit up. ‘Yes, please. Can you cook lots of it, because Caroline and Anita like pasta too?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I paused. ‘When Mummy gives you food, what does she give you?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing. She doesn’t cook, so we don’t have anything most days.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s why you go to the bins?’

  ‘Yes. And we don’t have a table.’

  ‘So where do you eat?’

  ‘Off the top of the washing machine.’

  ‘What about your mum?’

  ‘She has a lot of her mates round.’

  ‘Women friends?’

  ‘No. They’re all men.’ He hesitated. ‘Different men in and out. They babysit us sometimes.’ Another pause. ‘Anita and Caroline are very frightened of some of them, especially Wayne.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ I tried to keep my expression the same and not show the shock I felt at these revelations.

  Over the years, whenever I’ve been training couples to become foster parents, I’ve always said to them: ‘Keep your fostering diaries handy. You never know where you might be, or what you might be doing. You could be chopping carrots when children suddenly tell you something. You just have to keep chopping the carrots and keep a straight face, while you try to remember the name, so that you can write it down in your diar
y as soon as you can.’

  ‘Is that how Caroline got her broken arm?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, that was Wayne.’

  He stopped for several seconds.

  ‘He put a cupboard in front of the door of the bedroom and Caroline started screaming. That’s when he broke her arm.’ Hamish sniffed. ‘I think he must have been hitting her. I tried to open the door, but I couldn’t.’ He wiped the tears from his cheeks with his sleeve. ‘And she kept on screaming, so I kept trying the door, and sent Anita to get the big man over the road to help us. He was very strong and got the door open.’ He dissolved into tears. ‘I couldn’t stop him,’ he sobbed. ‘I couldn’t protect her.’

  ‘But it wasn’t your fault, love.’ I gave him a cuddle. ‘You did the best you could.’

  ‘Wayne’s the one who sexed Anita,’ he said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘He’s been bad to all of us.’

  ‘Well, he can’t hurt you here,’ I reassured him.

  Just then there was a shriek from the cellar playroom and Hamish dashed off down the stairs, with me following behind.

  I can’t remember the rest of that day. It was a chaotic blur. Somehow, after putting them all to bed, I fought my own fatigue to sort the fast-growing pile of washing and put some in the machine, before going up.

  ‘I’m shattered,’ I said to Mike.

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Yes, anyone would think I’d never looked after a family before. The food is colossal, the washing is huge, and everything is a mammoth task. Even trying to get the kids ready to go to the supermarket, let alone when we get there! It’s full on. Do you think I’m getting too old for all this?’

  ‘Of course not. You’ll get back into the swing again – you always do!’

  ‘Well,’ I yawned. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  Monday morning is another blur. I know it was frenetic, but I don’t remember most of the details, except for one thing. I had been worrying about Simon since he arrived. He was immobile for the first couple of days. But once or twice that morning, down in the playroom, he started to crawl a bit. Not very far, but at least he was moving.