The Girl Who Just Wanted to Be Loved

by Angela Hart

  ‘Angela, you and I both know that this is not our fault and it is no reflection of our capabilities as foster carers. Granted, it is not a good situation to be in and I would certainly rather not be in it, but what have we done wrong? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. We’ve been telling Social Services for ages that Keeley needs to be looked after as the only child in a placement, and we’ve persevered against the odds. We’ve bent over backwards trying to give all the kids the best holiday we possibly could, but we are not magicians. We’re honest, hard-working foster carers, trying our very best in extremely difficult circumstances.’

  Jonathan spoke with passion and authority, and I looked at him with admiration. I knew he was right, deep down, but I didn’t allow myself to fully believe his wise words until I spoke to Sandy, and heard her offering support and praise too.

  It took just over a month for Keeley to move in with her dad. She went to him for three weekend visits beforehand, all organised by a social worker who arranged for Keeley to be picked up and returned to us by car. It was a blessed relief when she was out of the house, because her behaviour had become even more unbearable when she was with us.

  Sorting out the paperwork before handing it back to Social Services, I was reminded of a catalogue of incidents we coped with in those latter weeks. Among my notes were the following entries:

  Keeley spat on Phillip’s cutlery at the dinner table . . . Keeley called the lads dickheads and bastards . . . Took Keeley to apologise to the neighbours for pulling up their flowers . . . Keeley punched a boy in the stomach at break time . . . Called up to school again; Keeley put another girl’s PE kit down the toilet . . . Keeley stuck two fingers up at my mother . . . Found large lumps of Keeley’s hair blocking up the washbasin . . . Keeley told me I was a sad old woman and she could not wait to get away from me . . . Keeley chalked on the back seat of the car . . . Keeley cut holes in some of her dresses.

  As I read them I thought about some of the good things that had happened too, most of which I’d also noted down, to show the positive progress she was making. Keeley had learned how to make fairy cakes, which she really enjoyed, and she decorated them beautifully with icing and edible silver baubles. She told me I was kind for teaching her to bake, and one morning she got up early and made me breakfast, to say thank you. She knew she wasn’t allowed to use the kettle or any other appliances unless I was in the kitchen to supervise her, so she made me a large glass of cold milk and a jam sandwich on thick white that was plastered with butter. I was on a diet, as I often was, and this was not my ideal breakfast, but Keeley looked so thrilled with herself for making it for me that I ate and drank the lot. Seeing her smile when I did so was priceless. She didn’t smile nearly as much as she should have done, so I cherished those happy moments, and I will never forget them.

  Unfortunately, the hours immediately before and after seeing her dad were particular trouble spots at our house. Keeley became cocky and boastful in advance of each visit, often rubbing Phillip’s nose in the fact she was seeing her father and was due to move in with him, while he was ‘stuck in foster care, like a sad loser’. Afterwards, she delighted in telling me how everything was so much better at her dad’s house. ‘He’s got a bigger telly. My dad’s a better cook than you, Angela! He makes nice chips. My dad is funny. My dad could beat up any other dad in the world! My dad has loads of coke and crisps for me to have!’

  However, when Keeley spent time with her friend Ellie, she never failed to behave impeccably. The two girls sang and looked like little angels when they took part in the musical theatre show they had rehearsed hard for, and Ellie’s mum, Hazel, put her hand on mine as we sat beside each other, clapping and waving as the final curtain dropped.

  ‘Angela, I don’t know how you do it,’ she said. ‘I would be in pieces doing your job. How are you going to cope, saying goodbye to Keeley?’

  Hazel, like every other person in my life bar Jonathan and the social workers, was in the dark about the finer details of our life as foster carers. All she knew was that I often had children coming and going, and that Keeley was due to move in with her dad and change to a school near his home very soon. The bruising on Keeley’s face after the punch had healed very quickly, though Hazel had seen her when she still had a trace of a black eye.

  ‘Oh dear, what happened?’ she had asked.

  ‘In the wars on holiday,’ I’d said vaguely, while thinking to myself: Hazel, you really would not believe your ears if I told you the full story.

  I told her that I would miss Keeley, of course, but that I was happy to see her go, as she was moving in with her father, which was the truth. ‘I can only be happy for the kids when they are returned to their family,’ I said. ‘It’s all about them, not me. I get my reward from seeing their life improve.’ Incidentally, I made a point of asking after Jake regularly, and I had no further worries that Keeley may have pinched him or harmed him in any way on the day she visited their house and he was out of sorts. Hazel always reported that he loved having the girls fussing over him, which of course I was very relieved about. You can never jump to conclusions as a foster carer, and this was a good reminder of this rule. Instead you must approach each day with an open mind and never, ever make judgements that are based on opinion rather than fact.

  I helped Keeley pack her belongings before her move, and she told me she couldn’t wait to leave.

  ‘It would have been good if it was just me and you, Angela,’ she said wistfully, ‘but the boys spoilt everything. Boys! I hate boys.’

  ‘I hope you’re very happy living with your dad,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks, Angela. I know I will be. He loves me. He told me.’

  My heart swelled. I’d suspected it for a long time, but now I felt certain I had worked out what really made Keeley tick. It wasn’t spite and aggression, and she didn’t want to make other people angry or upset. She just wanted to be loved, but she simply didn’t know how to go about it. Her mother hadn’t shown her the love she should have done, and the results were catastrophic for Keeley.

  ‘I’m very pleased for you, Keeley,’ I said. ‘I really hope it all works out.’

  ‘It will. He’s really cool, like you!’

  I thought I’d misheard for a moment, and then Keeley reached in her bag and gave me a very neat and detailed picture she had drawn on a blank page in one of her colouring books. It showed the two of us together, holding hands, and she had written on the top:

  To Angela, thank you for being the kindest person in the world, and thank you for having me.

  Hugs and kisses and lots of love, Keeley XXX

  Epilogue

  Keeley refused to say a proper goodbye to Jonathan or the boys and, after waving her off for the last time outside our house, I didn’t hear anything about her for more than ten years. Then, out of the blue, a social worker I knew very well mentioned to me that she had heard on the grapevine that Keeley had finally spoken to the police about her grandfather, Eric, accusing him of raping her from the age of four to six.

  My heart bled for Keeley. She’d had an unbelievably rough start in life, and it was no wonder she was such a disturbed little girl. The social worker told me that Keeley still lived in the region, but that she had no details about her life now, or the outcome of her case.

  I hoped to goodness that Keeley got the justice she deserved, but I resigned myself to the fact I might never know what became of her. Most of the foster children we are still in touch with left our care as teenagers, but with Keeley being just eight years old when she moved out the contact had been long since lost, despite the fact Jonathan and I had told Keeley’s father that we were happy to stay in touch if he or she wanted to.

  Then last year we found out more, after Jonathan and I unexpectedly bumped into Keeley at a pub on the outskirts of town, where we were attending a family birthday party. Keeley was sitting at a table outside along with her mum and a man we didn’t know. I spotted Tina first, as she’d hardly changed a bit. She was still platinu
m blonde and was wearing bright clothing and talking very loudly on a mobile phone.

  ‘Oh, hello!’ I said, glancing first at Tina and then looking directly at Keeley, who still had a mane of black curls and looked very beautiful, dressed in pretty clothes and wearing immaculate make-up. I was taken aback for a moment; had we not walked right in front of their table I’m not sure I would have made myself known like this at all.

  ‘Angela?’ Keeley said slowly, her eyes widening.

  ‘Yes, and do you remember Jonathan?’

  He smiled and said hello, and Keeley stood up, gasped and put her hands over her mouth.

  ‘Oh my God! I was such a little madam when I lived with you! Oh my God!’

  She looked at her mum, but Tina indicated that she couldn’t end her call and stepped away from the table, cackling at something she’d heard on the phone.

  The man got to his feet, and Keeley politely introduced him.

  ‘Dad, I lived with Angela and Jonathan for a bit before you moved back.’

  ‘Frankie,’ he said, bobbing his head and offering his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. Thanks for all you did.’

  I was surprised to see that Keeley’s dad was very slightly built and could not have been more than about five foot four or five. In my mind’s eye he was a big, strapping man, and I realised later why this was the case. I remembered Keeley writing about him in her literacy book at school, and describing him as very tall, muscular and strong. I could see where Keeley got her looks from now, though: Frankie appeared to be of Spanish or Italian descent with thick, black hair, and Keeley’s deep brown eyes were perfect copies of his.

  ‘Very pleased to meet you, Frankie,’ I smiled. ‘It’s a long time ago now. You must be, what, nineteen, Keeley? How have you been?’

  ‘Nineteen, yes. You’ve got a good memory! I’m very good, thanks, Angela. Still living with Dad. Had a few boyfriends but it always goes wrong! Mum lives round the corner; she’s all right, I guess. You know what she’s like. Life’s good for me though. I’m at college now. I started a bit late with one thing and another, but I’m doing art and drama and loving it. How about you?’

  I told her that we were still fostering, which she was amazed at.

  ‘I thought I’d have put you off,’ she joked.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘not at all. It’s really lovely to see you.’

  ‘It’s lovely to see you too. What happened to the two boys? Poor lads, I think I terrorised them!’

  ‘Both doing well, both in touch. Carl’s happily married to a local girl, Phillip’s moved away, working for a construction firm. We have reunions from time to time, if you ever fancy joining us.’

  ‘Are you sure I’d be welcome?’

  ‘Keeley, you would be most welcome. We’ve never forgotten you.’

  ‘I’m not surprised to hear that,’ her dad quipped, and she slapped him on the back and started to laugh.

  ‘He loves me really, don’t you, Dad?’

  ‘I do, as a matter of fact, Keeley. You’re the best daughter anyone could wish for.’ With that he gave her a big cuddle and she hugged him back lovingly.

  I wrote down our phone number and handed it to Keeley. In return she gave me her email address so I could let her know about the next reunion, and then we said our goodbyes. One day I hope she will take us up on our invitation, and that we can catch up properly.

  Jonathan and I were so pleased to have bumped into her. This was a tiny snapshot into Keeley’s life, but it was a very positive and reassuring one. It was clear that she was loved by her father, and it was heart-warming to see her enjoying what she had craved for so many years. Love was all Keeley needed, and all she every really wanted was to be loved. I hope she finds a lot more love in her life ahead.

  Other stories from foster mum Angela Hart . . .

  Terrified

  The heartbreaking true story of a girl nobody loved and the woman who saved her

  Available now in paperback and ebook

  Vicky stared through the windscreen, her eyeballs glazed like marbles. She was sitting completely rigid in her seat, frozen with fear.

  I took a deep breath and then asked Vicky, as gently as possible, if she was all right. ‘I’m here, right beside you, Vicky. Can you hear me? I’m here and I can help you. Take a deep breath, love. That’s what I’ve just done. Just breathe and try to calm yourself down. You’re with me, Angela, and you’re safe.’

  Vicky seemed all self-assurance and swagger when she came to live with Angela and Jonathan as a temporary foster placement. As Vicky’s mask of bravado began to slip, she was overtaken with episodes of complete terror. Will the trust and love Angela and her husband Jonathan provide enable Vicky to finally overcome her shocking past?

  The Girl with No Bedroom Door

  A true short story

  Available now in ebook

  Fourteen-year-old Louise has been sleeping rough after running away from her previous foster home. Unloved and unwashed, she arrives at foster carer Angela Hart’s door stripped of all self-esteem. Can Angela’s love and care help Louise blossom into a confident and happy young woman?

  First published 2016 by Bluebird

  This electronic edition published 2016 by Bluebird

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-5098-0713-0

  Copyright © Angela Hart 2016

  Cover images: Girl © Offset, Seb Oliver / Image Source, Curly hair © Shutterstock

  The right of Angela Hart to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

  Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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