by Rosie Lewis
Archie walked slowly around the room, stopping to examine the framed pictures on the wall that I’d put up when he was referred. I wasn’t a fan of stereotyping but sports tended to be more or less a safe bet when it came to boys of Archie’s age, and several of the pictures around the top bunk were football related. ‘It’s such a cool room,’ he said, straightening one of the slightly lopsided frames. ‘Thanks, Rosie.’
I smiled at him and he made an attempt at smiling back, though his eyes once again refused to join in. My stomach contracted with pity. I was beginning to get the sense that his compliments were driven by panic, as if his survival depended on them.
‘I thought you could have the top bunk, Archie. Happy with that?’
He nodded. ‘We have bunk beds at home.’
I had dotted a few soft toys around the bottom bunk and one of them, a pink rabbit, seemed to take Bobbi’s fancy. She dived onto the mattress, grabbed it in her mouth and then rolled back onto the rug with it dangling from her jaws. ‘This is the best bedroom in the whole world!’ she declared, rolling around. I smiled, wondering what her bedroom at home was like. I looked at Archie, but his expression was unreadable.
After the tour we all sat in the living area to watch Paddington. When I say ‘sat’, Megan, Archie and I sat. Bobbi spun in circles on the rug, threw herself into kamikaze-style forward rolls and snatched every soft toy that Megan chose to sit on her lap. Every time I intervened, she asked if she could have more food.
Megan lost patience about twenty minutes into the film and began throwing herself around as well. Mungo watched the rumpus from beneath the coffee table, growling softly whenever Bobbi got too near. ‘Tell you what,’ I said, ‘let’s get you into your coats and shoes and you can have a bounce on the trampoline while I prepare dinner, okay?’ It was only two o’clock, but I had a feeling that late afternoon held the potential for trouble. I wanted to prepare something to throw in the oven so that I’d be free to deal with whatever cropped up.
I watched them through the kitchen window as I fried some mince and peeled potatoes for a cottage pie. Megan and Bobbi dived crazily around the trampoline, giggling and bumping into one another. I felt a jolt of encouragement as I watched them. Archie bounced to one side, slowing protectively whenever they veered close.
After a particularly violent collision Megan fell awkwardly and bumped her ear on one of the posts holding the safety net. She clamped a hand to the side of her head and looked mournfully towards the house. I slipped my shoes on, but by the time I’d reached the door Archie had already given her a cuddle.
About twenty minutes later she climbed, rosy cheeked, through the net and pulled Archie by the hand to the house. ‘She wants to show me how to draw a cloptikler,’ he said with a wry smile as they came into the house.
‘Oh, brilliant!’ I mouthed a thank you over the top of Megan’s head. He gave me a slow eye roll and shook his head, the sort of reaction I’d expect from someone much older. I tried to remember being nine years old. Shy and home-loving, I knew I wouldn’t have coped with such a momentous move the way Archie seemed to have done.
I realised then what Joan had meant when she said that Archie was an unknown quantity. Was it possible that he possessed enough resilience to cope with what the last few days had thrown at him, without the tiniest crack in his composure? As I stood at the sink washing up, my eyes drifted back to the trampoline at the end of the garden. Bobbi was still there but her movements had slowed. She was bouncing lethargically, without the faintest glimmer of enjoyment on her face. All alone, she looked completely bereft.
Abandoning the saucepan I was holding, I was about to go outside and talk to her when Megan shot past me, back into the garden. ‘Bobbi, we’re back!’ she yelled, running towards the trampoline with her arms in the air, jazz hands shimmying all the way. Bobbi’s expression brightened. She ran over and parted the net for Megan to pass through, and the pair stood grinning at each other.
‘Here we go again,’ Archie said, trudging past me. I laughed, but again I was struck by the sense that his words mismatched his age. It was as if he were acting a role, one he didn’t have much heart to play.
‘Archie, just a second. I thought I might sort your clothes out now. Are you happy for me to go through your suitcase? Or would you prefer to do it yourself?’
He shrugged. ‘Not really. You can do it. Not my rucksack though, I can do that.’ He went to the door but then stopped and turned. ‘Thank you, Rosie.’
A slow shiver ran across the back of my neck as I watched him walk down the path. I took to mashing the boiled potatoes, trying to shake the uncomfortable feeling away. I puzzled over my reaction. I couldn’t quite fathom why his apparent maturity should make me feel so uncomfortable.
His sister’s struggles were clear to see. Bobbi was in ‘flight’ mode, so that she literally couldn’t keep still. I told myself that, being that bit older, Archie had perhaps managed to devise better coping strategies in dealing with the stress.
At a little after half past four, when I put the cottage pie in the oven, there was still no sign of their play fizzling out. I decided to make the most of the time by sorting through their clothes to see if anything needed to be washed. When children arrive in placement I usually wash most of their clothes straight away, only holding a few items back to retain the comforting smell of their home. I carried their suitcases into the kitchen and set them down in front of the washing machine, but when I opened them up, the fresh scent of washing powder rose to greet me. Joan had washed everything. It was a lovely, welcome surprise.
I watched the children from the upstairs window as I put everything away in their room. They were still playing happily and I began to feel quietly confident that the placement would be manageable, and that everything was going to work out just fine.
Chapter Three
‘But I’m still hungry-y-y-y, Rosie,’ Bobbi whined an hour later, after making short shrift of two helpings of cottage pie. I could tell she was full because her voracious gorging had slowed to a sort of lethargic nibble, but she didn’t seem able to admit to herself that she had had enough. ‘I am, I am, you know, Rosie.’
‘There’s plenty of food on its way to your tummy,’ I said cheerfully from across the table. ‘You need to give it a chance to go down.’
Reluctant to concede defeat, she was still sitting at the table five minutes later as I rinsed the plates under the tap in the kitchen. Crouched on her haunches on the chair with her knees touching her chest, she kept dropping her head to the table and making loud groaning noises. ‘Give it a rest, Bobs, you’re doing our heads in!’ Archie shouted from the other side of the room. He was sitting on the floor with a mixed box of Lego and Duplo in front of him. Megan was sitting on the other side of the box, Mungo resting his chin on her leg.
I squirted some washing-up liquid into the sink and turned the hot tap on, vaguely aware though my back was turned of Archie’s approach. ‘Come on, Bobs,’ I heard him say cajolingly. ‘Come and play.’ The yelp came seconds later. I spun around and saw Archie cradling one of his hands in the other, his face contorted with pain. Behind him, Bobbi was looking thoroughly pleased with herself.
‘What happened?’ I looked from one to the other. Across the room, Megan wrapped her arms around Mungo’s neck, looking startled.
‘Nothing. S’okay,’ Archie mumbled, though his cheeks were chalky white.
I strode over and drew his forearm towards me. A row of small, angry looking welts had bubbled up across the back of his hand. ‘Oh goodness, Archie, she bit you! That must really have hurt.’
‘It’s nothing,’ he snapped, snatching his hand away. ‘It’s okay, Rosie, don’t worry,’ he added as he walked back across the room, his polite tone recovered. My gaze fell disapprovingly on Bobbi. She stared up at me, a trace of the gloating smile still on her lips.
‘We don’t bite in this house, Bobbi,’ I said firmly. I pulled out a chair and sat next to her. She sprang frog-like onto the next
chair. ‘Did you hear me, Bobbi? We use our mouths for eating food, not biting people. Now, would you like to play Lego with the others? Or you could help me with the washing-up.’
‘But I’m so hungry-y-y-y,’ she moaned, banging her head down on the table again.
I winced. ‘Bobbi, do you know what? I don’t think you are hungry right now. I think you’re worried that you might feel hungry later.’ She stilled and turned her head to the side so that one ear rested on the table, the other pointed upwards. ‘I wonder if that might be because there wasn’t always enough food for you at home,’ I added softly.
She lifted her head and looked at me. I leaned closer, my head level with hers. ‘It’s good to know they’ll always be enough food for you at Rosie’s house, isn’t it?’
She frowned, her fair eyebrows knitting together. After a moment she nodded, her mouth offering the faint glimmer of a smile. I stood up and held out my hand. ‘Great! Now, how about we go and play with that Lego?’
At that moment, Megan charged across the room. ‘Mummy!’ she shouted, breathless with enthusiasm. ‘We need to put our pictures up in our rooms. Can I have some of that sticky stuff?’
Having used the prospect of playing Lego to tempt Bobbi away from the table, I hesitated for a moment. Thankfully, Megan’s excitement seemed to be infectious. ‘Can I as well?’ Bobbi asked, her eyes brightening as she looked at Megan. Mungo wagged his tail excitedly, though I noticed that he was keeping his distance, staying a few feet away. Archie crouched next to him and stroked his head.
‘Of course you can.’ I gave them each some Blu Tack and followed them upstairs. ‘Stay in your own rooms!’ I called out from the bathroom. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’
‘We will, Mummy!’ Megan shouted. I felt a small flip in my chest. It still thrilled me to hear her calling me that.
Worn out from the excitement of the day, Megan was asleep by 7 p.m. From what Joan had said I suspected that bedtime for Archie and Bobbi might not go quite as smoothly. Most people found it difficult to settle in a strange bed, so I anticipated an unsettled evening. What followed, however, took me by complete surprise.
As Archie was quite a bit older than Bobbi, I gave him the option of staying up to read or watching TV. He seemed pleased with the offer and, after showering, went downstairs to watch You’ve Been Framed. The sound of his laughter drifting up the stairs as I ran a bath for Bobbi made me smile, but it had the opposite effect on his sister. ‘Why can’t I watch it?’ she howled, stamping her feet on the tiled floor. Her cheeks were puce, her eyes red and goggling.
‘You know why, Bobbi,’ I said, keeping my voice even. While many of the children I have looked after have been largely ignored by their birth parents, they’ve also rarely been taught what the word ‘no’ means. Kneeling on the bathmat, I leaned over and swished some bubble bath around in the water. ‘I warned you that there’d be no more television today if you bit Archie again.’ I hadn’t seen it happen, but Archie’s yowls had reached me while I washed my hands in the bathroom. He had defended her again, claiming that it hadn’t hurt much, but the welts on his arm where she’d bit him were red and angry looking, and his eyes were glassy with tears. I turned to face her. ‘Besides, he’s much older than you. It’s right that he stays up a little bit longer.’
After only a few hours in her company, I already had a strong suspicion that she wasn’t going to take any sort of discipline lying down. She stamped her foot again. ‘I am going down to watch it!’ she growled, rocketing out to the stairs.
‘Your bath is nearly ready,’ I said, staying where I was. I preferred to avoid chasing her around the house if at all possible. ‘I have some special toys here somewhere. Now, where did I put them?’
I leaned over and opened one of the low cupboards, sensing that she was back, somewhere behind me. I made a thing of rummaging through the bottles of shampoo and tubes of toothpaste. ‘They’re there!’ Bobbi screeched from the doorway. ‘Right there!’
‘Where?’
‘There!’
‘Oh right!’ I pulled them out. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’
She giggled, her eyes settling on the water pistols, ducks and little sail boats in the box I was holding. Relieved, I closed the door behind her.
‘No-o-o-o-o!’ she bellowed, spinning around. ‘I’m going to watch the telly!’
‘I think we have some bubbles here somewhere.’
She let out a growl of fury and banged her fists on the door, pummelling with all her might. Lots of children in the care system struggle with an overwhelming, almost pathological need to be in control. I suddenly thought of Taylor, a ten-year-old girl I had cared for about a decade earlier. The witnessing of severe domestic violence against her mother by her abusive father had left Taylor desperately anxious. She was so badly affected that she wouldn’t even leave school at the end of the afternoon; even when the building was empty and the cleaners had finished doing their rounds. Though frustrated by her behaviour at the time, I came to realise that Taylor was clasping onto the only things in her life that she had any control over, because everything else was falling apart. As the months passed and her trust in me grew, she allowed me to take over the reins and mother her. She’s a grown woman now and sometimes when she writes to me she mentions her ‘sit-ins’. They’re a standing joke between us.
Some people remain convinced that the relatively new diagnoses of pathological demand avoidance (PDA) and oppositional defiance disorder (ODD) are invented labels demanded by ineffectual parents who are simply incapable of providing consistent boundaries. You mean they’re just not doing as they’re told is a common response to any conversation involving PDA and ODD.
When I first started out as a foster carer it was a view I shared as well. Having cared for chronically inflexible children though, I’ve become convinced that trauma, both pre- and post-birth, has a profound impact on the brain. In recent years, scientific evidence involving the use of brain scans has confirmed altered brain functioning in children who have been abused or neglected in early infancy.
‘Hey, come here, sweetie.’ I crawled until I was alongside her then wrapped my arm around her back, holding her close to my side. It was a non-violent resistance (NVR) technique designed to promote a feeling of solidarity rather than confrontation. ‘I know you’re upset about missing out on TV, but if you come and have a bath nicely we can watch some in the morning, okay?’
Naming a child’s feelings sometimes helps to take the sting out of their tantrum, but with Bobbi it only seemed to fan the flames. With a roar of fury she shook her arms loose. ‘I WANT TELLY NOW!’ she screeched, ramming home the message by whacking me on the top of my head.
I couldn’t help but cry out and she stilled, watching me intently. Her eyes shone and her lips twitched. So much for solidarity, I thought.
‘Kind hands, Bobbi,’ I warned, but she lashed out again, catching my cheek with one of her nails. Her survival mechanism had kicked in again; the ancient safety net that programmes us to react to perceived threat in a fight, flight or freeze mode. This little girl, it seemed, was going to fight.
I felt a flare of annoyance but I swallowed it down. There was no sense in matching her anger with my own – trying to regulate a child’s emotions while in a dis-regulated state was like ironing clothes using a pack of frozen peas – it was never going to work. I cuddled her close, fending off her blows with my arms.
It took a while, but slowly she relaxed, her small body slumping against mine. She allowed me to undress her without further complaint and what followed was the quickest bath I had ever supervised. Her eyelids grew heavy afterwards, when I wrapped her in a warm towel, but when I switched on the hairdryer to dry the damp ends of her shoulder-length hair, she flew into alert, her eyes goggling with distress. I did my best to towel dry it and tucked her into bed, passing her the soft rabbit she had taken to earlier. ‘Where’s Mummy?’ she asked suddenly, her chin wobbling.
‘She’s at home, sweetie. You’ll
see her soon.’
She blinked as I covered her with the duvet, then rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. As I stroked some blonde strands behind her ears, I noticed for the first time the picture she had drawn earlier, now stuck on the wall between the bunks. I felt a prickle of unease. It was a childish drawing of several men and women, but what unsettled me were the angry expressions on their faces and the private parts drawn in graphic detail between their legs.
Chapter Four
‘Do I have to go to bed now?’ asked Archie when I walked into the living room five minutes later. He was sitting on the sofa, Mungo resting contentedly at his feet. A few feet away the credits of You’ve Been Framed were rolling across the television screen.
‘What time do you usually go to bed on a school night?’ I asked distractedly, still unsettled by the sight of Bobbi’s drawings. Mungo nuzzled my hand as I joined Archie on the sofa. I stroked his head and gave myself a mental shake. It was perfectly possible that the drawings were entirely innocuous. Children with older siblings often demonstrated behaviour that was beyond their years.
Jumping to conclusions was one of the pitfalls of fostering that I tried to avoid. Like social workers, when foster carers ratchet up lots of experience it’s easy to make assumptions. ‘Oh, I forgot to ask earlier, Archie. Which school do you go to?’
There was a pause and then he said: ‘I don’t go to school.’
I frowned at him. ‘Oh. You’re home schooled then?’
‘Mostly,’ he muttered, his eyes downcast. I had found a single navy-blue jumper in his case with the letters ‘MP’ embroidered onto it. A quick Google search had offered a couple of possibilities, but if Archie were to be believed, he wasn’t registered with either of them.
