The Girl Who Just Wanted to Be Loved

by Angela Hart

  ‘Twenty? You said ten.’

  ‘It’s ten per treat.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that’s easy. I can do that.’

  After dropping Keeley at school I came straight home to do some housework for an hour or so before taking over from Jonathan in the shop, as he needed to go to the wholesalers. Although we had a part-time helper and employed a relief manager to cover holidays, generally speaking Jonathan and I juggled the shop between us. It was a very well-established and successful business when we took it over from my parents in the mid-eighties. Profits had dropped off over the years as supermarkets sprang up on the outskirts of town, all of which sold flowers at competitive prices, but we’d continued to tick over. Thankfully, we had a loyal customer base and a very good reputation supplying wedding flowers. Jonathan and I both enjoyed running the business, and most of the time the work fitted around our fostering commitments really well.

  On this particular morning, I decided to start the housework on the top floor of the house where the children slept, and the first thing I did was go into their bathroom. The boys usually kept it in a fairly decent condition, but with Keeley now sharing with them I was making a point of checking and cleaning it more frequently than normal.

  I was dismayed by what I saw. The toilet roll holder was empty and when I looked down the loo I saw that the cardboard roll was shredded and floating in the water. Not only that but lumps of wet toilet paper were stuck up the sides of the washbasin, and splattered all around the shower cubicle. I cleaned the mess up with a heavy heart. The boys had never done anything like this, and I felt sure it had to be Keeley’s work. Unfortunately, I also had a good idea how she would react when I brought it up after school. If her past performances were anything to go by, no doubt she would deny all knowledge, blame someone else, or simply say ‘dunno’ and scowl.

  When I’d cleaned up the bathroom I went into Keeley’s bedroom to fetch her washing, which was something I’d told her I would be doing that morning, so she had some warning that I would be entering her personal space. My heart sank a little more. Keeley had chopped the long hair off one of her dolls and scattered the black tresses all over the floor. I fetched the vacuum cleaner and began clearing up, and as I did so I found two pairs of wet knickers, wrapped in layers of toilet roll and stuffed behind her dolls. Then, as I lifted the rug to shake out the doll’s hair, I found several of Phillip’s football cards stashed underneath it.

  I wasn’t too concerned about the wet underwear. It isn’t uncommon for a child of primary school age who has an accident to try to cover it up, particularly in the early stages of a placement. I wondered if perhaps this had something to do with the mess that had been made in the bathroom with the toilet roll, and I imagined it might well be. I would have to talk to Keeley and explain that it was not a problem if she had an accident, but that she must tell me, so I could wash her clothes and keep her room fresh. It was also important that she kept herself clean too, of course, which I’d noticed she wasn’t particularly good at. Even after taking a shower, in my experience Keeley didn’t seem to smell very fresh and perhaps this was the reason, if she had a problem keeping her knickers dry. The shower issue was something I’d have to keep my eye on, in case she simply wasn’t washing properly. I’d seen this with countless other foster children, too many of whom had never been taught how to shower properly and take care of their personal hygiene, and just didn’t know how.

  However, the hidden football cards were a different matter. I recognised them immediately as being part of a collection Phillip had been painstakingly putting in an album for months on end, throughout the football season. Every weekend he spent some of his pocket money buying several new packets of cards. He was always delighted if he was lucky enough to get one or two that he was missing, or a special shiny one, and he enjoyed swapping any duplicates with his friends, who were all competing to be the first to complete the set.

  There did not seem to be any other explanation but that Keeley had taken the cards from Phillip’s room without him knowing. This was more than an invasion of privacy; she had effectively stolen from him, and I’d have to have some serious words with her about this.

  ‘How did Keeley react to the star chart?’ Jonathan asked when I went to take over from him in the shop. ‘Only I was just looking in the wholesalers’ catalogue at some of the trimmings on sale. I spotted some glitter stars, little plastic sticky ones that sparkle and come in all colours. They’re meant for decorating cards, but I was wondering whether to get some for Keeley’s chart?’

  ‘Well, she’s quite delighted at the prospect of treats,’ I replied, thinking how thoughtful this was of Jonathan. ‘But I have to say, I’m wondering if it’s a bit ambitious to be thinking about rewarding her for good behaviour.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because I’m not really seeing any good behaviour.’

  I told Jonathan about what I’d just found upstairs in the bathroom and in Keeley’s bedroom and he nodded sagely. ‘I see what you are saying. A few sticky stars are perhaps not going to do the trick with Keeley, are they?’

  ‘Exactly. It was a lovely idea to get some special ones, but I think we’d be clutching at straws to imagine they’d do much good. Perhaps we need a completely different plan.’

  It was a fairly quiet morning in the shop and I had time to take stock as I busied myself with tidying up the drawers where we kept the floristry ribbon and gift cards.

  I thought about how much Keeley enjoyed colouring in, and I started to wonder whether engaging her in a creative project might be a better way of keeping her in check. ‘Time in’ rather than ‘time out’ is how I would describe it today, although back then I don’t think I knew that phrase and I was simply following my instincts.

  Keeley clearly enjoyed having my attention and, as the morning wore on, amongst other things I wondered whether there was some kind of artistic project we could do together. My eyes fell on a stack of leaflets one of the neighbours had left on the counter that morning. There was a carnival coming up in the town, which was an event I was involved in every year. It was a big fundraiser for the community and all the local business owners helped out. Jonathan and I always donated flowers to decorate the parade floats, and this year I had volunteered to make paper mache bonnets decked with spring flowers for a group of young singers who were putting on a performance. I’d already made a start, and I thought Keeley would love to help me make them.

  ‘That’s it!’ I said to myself. ‘Keeley can help me make them!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Jonathan asked.

  I’d been so deep in thought I’d barely registered that he was back from the wholesalers and was now lifting boxes into the storeroom at the back of the shop.

  ‘Keeley!’ I said. ‘She can help me make those bonnets, the paper mache ones I’ve been working on.’

  ‘What a good idea,’ he called through. ‘She’d love that. Let’s hope it keeps her out of mischief.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m thinking. Did you get plenty of pink ribbon?’

  ‘I did indeed,’ Jonathan replied, and with that he stuck his head around the door of the storeroom and added, ‘what d’you think?’

  I burst out laughing. Jonathan had looped a length of baby pink ribbon around his neck and tied it in an elaborate bow.

  ‘Perfect!’ I said. ‘Though I’m not sure you’ll get a place on a carnival float. I think the image needs a bit of work!’

  ‘Spoilsport!’

  Jonathan has a knack of lightening the atmosphere at just the right moment, which I’m very grateful for. It’s easy to feel burdened by the pressure of dealing with a child’s difficult behaviour, and having a sense of humour and a playful nature is crucial in helping to put things in perspective, and to keep you feeling optimistic.

  While Jonathan had been out I’d also been thinking about our summer holiday, and once the two of us were behind the counter, enjoying a cup of tea, I told him I’d been ha
ving a few ideas, as I thought this would help keep our spirits up.

  ‘Now that doesn’t surprise me!’ he teased. ‘You, Angela? Thinking about a holiday? Well I never!’

  I’m typically the one who does the research and drives the booking through, as I’m more patient and determined than Jonathan when it comes to trawling through brochures and filling in booking forms and so on. However, the truth is we both love our weekend breaks and trips away, and we always try to have one or two things in the diary to look forward to.

  Caring for children means we have to be very organised around school holidays, and often there are long-winded processes to go through to obtain permission from parents or legal guardians, so forward planning is essential. With this in mind, we had already asked Carl and Phillip’s families if we could potentially take them away for a fortnight in the school summer holidays, and they had agreed. On top of this, we had a weekend in Wales booked in June, after Carl’s exams, when we would take our touring caravan, stay on a campsite and do some walking, sightseeing and fishing, which was something Jonathan and the two boys were particularly interested in.

  All we had to do now was decide where we wanted to go in the school summer holidays, and see if we could take Keeley with us too. It wasn’t set in stone that she would still be living with us in August, when we were planning to go, but it was looking likely and so we had to plan for the possibility. We’d learned from experience that you couldn’t wait and see when it comes to taking kids on holiday. Bookings have to be made, even if they subsequently have to be altered or even cancelled, or otherwise you might never get away. In the past we’ve lost hundreds of pounds in cancellation and amendment fees because kids have moved out between the time of booking and the actual trip, or because their parents have changed their mind and decided to withdraw their permission. Sadly, this is typically for no other good reason than that they don’t want us to give their kids something that they can’t.

  Jonathan and I had already talked about the possibility of driving to the south coast with Carl and Phillip. Both boys would have been happy to chill out on a rural campsite, but with Keeley now involved I’d had a good idea.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, what about splitting the trip between a theme park break and staying on a campsite?’ I said. ‘Then we’d have the best of both worlds. Could suit everybody?’

  Jonathan nodded approvingly. ‘As usual, you’ve come up with a perfect plan,’ he smiled. ‘It sounds ideal. Let’s look into it and get it booked. Hopefully it will be a good incentive for Keeley, to encourage her to improve her behaviour.’

  ‘Quite. I’ll get on to it today.’

  7

  ‘Mum went mad lots of times’

  When Keeley was home from school I told her all about the carnival bonnets I wanted her to help me with.

  ‘I’d love to do that!’ she said excitedly. ‘What do we have to do?’

  I explained that I had already experimented with the paper mache, sticking it on balloons of different shapes and sizes to get the shape and structure of the hats right, and now I was ready to go into production. We needed eight bonnets, and once they were dry we’d have to paint them in bright colours before adding ribbons and bows and finally the fresh flowers, which might have to be laced or tied on with more ribbon, or floristry tape.

  ‘They sound lovely!’ Keeley enthused. ‘Can I have one?’

  ‘I tell you what, why don’t we see how we get on? If it goes well I’m sure we could make one for you too. What do you say?’

  Keeley was thrilled, and she behaved impeccably as she helped me cover the dining table with an old cloth to set up our little bonnet-making factory. I asked her to take off her school uniform to keep it clean, and she happily obliged, returning in a long-sleeved top and jeans, over which she put on an apron.

  It was fun sticking the glue-smothered newspaper strips onto the balloons I’d lined up. Keeley was engrossed, and out of the blue she suddenly started talking about her mother.

  ‘My mum was horrible,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear your mum was horrible, Keeley.’

  ‘She was, but she still let me do stuff like this though!’

  ‘You did paper mache with your mum?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. I used to make stuff in my room, sticking and colouring and that. Sometimes I made a mess. One time a pen leaked all over my quilt cover, but Mum didn’t go mad like I thought she would. She didn’t shout or anything. It was weird.’

  ‘You thought she would go mad?’

  ‘Yes. Mum went mad lots of times. She used to hit me for no reason, but then when I thought I’d been bad she didn’t do anything.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear you say your mum hit you for no reason, Keeley.’

  She shrugged. ‘That’s just the way she is. You never know what she’s going to do. I still love her though. She’s still my mum. It’s not her fault, that’s what she said sometimes. Granddad hit her, she told me that. I think it’s Granddad’s fault.’

  Keeley had been absent-mindedly massaging the same piece of newspaper into the bowl of glue, and before I could reply she suddenly looked down and noticed her cuffs were covered in the sticky paste.

  ‘Urgh!’ she said, pushing her sleeves up to her elbows. ‘Look, I’m all sticky. Urgh! That feels horrible, and it smells!’

  Not only had the moment been lost for Keeley to say any more about her background, but also, when she pushed her sleeves up, I noticed that both of her arms were dotted with lots of tiny purple bruises.

  ‘Keeley! Whatever has happened to your arms?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bruises. Where did they come from?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Keeley, please have a think. Do you know how you got them?’

  ‘No. How would I know?’

  I asked her if she had bruises anywhere else on her body and she told me she didn’t. I recorded all of these details in my diary and vowed to keep a close eye on this. Keeley herself didn’t seem in the slightest bit concerned, and moments later she turned her focus back to the paper mache as if this conversation, and the disclosures about her family, had never happened.

  ‘When can we go swimming?’ she asked shortly afterwards.

  ‘Funny you should mention that. I was talking to Jonathan about it. How would you fancy going on Saturday early evening, after we shut the shop?’

  ‘Yippee!’ she said, punching the air. ‘Will it be me and you?’

  ‘I’m sure Jonathan will come too, but the boys will both be out. Does that sound all right?’

  ‘You bet!’

  The next morning I had terrible trouble getting Keeley ready for school. She seemed to invent dramas out of thin air, and appeared hell bent on making herself late.

  ‘I can’t put my shoes on,’ she complained, making a terrible fuss as she tried to prise her feet into her patent leather shoes without unfastening the buckle across on the top.

  ‘I think the problem is you need to unbuckle them, Keeley, like you normally do.’

  She did this, but then went through a charade of making it look as if the shoes were too small for her, which wasn’t the case. She slammed her narrow feet awkwardly into them, catching her toes on the sides and complaining repeatedly about the ‘stupid shoes’.

  ‘Can’t do it!’ she said, before hurling both shoes at the front door in a fit of temper.

  ‘Keeley, please don’t do that,’ I said. ‘Just do what you normally do to put your shoes on, and let’s not have so much fuss. We need to hurry up. I’m worried you’re going to be late.’

  As soon as I’d said this she gave me a smug look, and I realised I’d made a mistake and played right into her hands. I had reacted to her button pressing and had let her know I was feeling under pressure of time because of her, which was exactly what she wanted. Then, predictably, she started being even more difficult, spilling the contents of her book bag as she lifted it upside down from the bottom stair, and ref
using to wear a coat even though showers were forecast.

  Don’t react! I was telling myself, but it was difficult not to as the clock was ticking and I really didn’t want her to be late.

  In the end we missed the bell but, after a stressful drive through rush hour traffic, I managed to get Keeley to the school office before the end of registration.

  ‘We really need to leave the house a bit earlier tomorrow,’ I told her, finding it difficult to hide my irritation.

  Keeley didn’t apologise or seem in the slightest bit bothered by the consequences of her behaviour. If anything I think she quite enjoyed the little drama she had created unnecessarily. The fact I’d got a little hot under the collar worked like a dream. It had meant Keeley received extra attention from me, and, as I’d started to understand more and more, that was precisely what she wanted. This wasn’t necessarily malicious or spiteful, I reasoned. This was probably a default position Keeley found herself in as a result of her upbringing. Though nobody had officially spelled this out to me, it seemed that the lack of bonding with her mother had very seriously affected how Keeley interacted with people. She wanted my attention, which is perfectly natural in an eight-year-old girl living in a new foster home, but she didn’t know how to get in in a positive way. It was the same with the kids on the rec. Every time she played out Keeley found it impossible to just go outside and join in with the other children without putting herself at the centre of some kind of scene.

  The next day she pulled all the same stunts, but I was better prepared this time. The shoes were thrown at the door again, her packed lunch was ‘accidentally’ tipped out of her bag and she argued about taking a coat. Then, when we finally headed to the car, she claimed she could only walk very slowly, as she had a sore leg that was making her limp.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ I said very calmly, ‘but never mind. What can we do? If you’ve got a sore leg, you’ve got a sore leg.’

  ‘But won’t we be late?’

  ‘Quite possibly, which is a shame. If the main gate is shut you will have to go to the office and then tell the teachers why you missed the bell again.’