Another Forgotten Child (11 page)

It was then I realized, with a shudder, what had struck me as odd about the bruises: they were all the same size and shape – round and the size of a small coin. I now realized they were finger- and thumbprints. They were all over her body, including her bottom, the tops of her thighs and across her lower stomach, close to her private parts. I knew Aimee’s abuse was now a matter for the police and that once I’d told the social worker she’d call child protection; I therefore had to be careful that I didn’t ask her ‘leading questions’, which could contaminate her evidence. But I also knew from experience that children often disclose when they feel safe and comfortable with a foster carer.

‘Aimee, love,’ I said, ‘you’ve done very well telling me this, but why didn’t you tell me last night when I asked you about the bruises? You said you’d fallen in the playground.’ I knew this would be one of the first questions the social worker would ask: why had Aimee changed her mind? Was she making up the story about Craig?

Aimee’s reply was simple and plausible: ‘I feel safe with you,’ she said. ‘Last night I thought Craig might come to your house and hurt me. But at contact Mum said she didn’t know where you live, and the social worker won’t be telling her. So I thought if she doesn’t know then she can’t tell Craig.’

‘I understand, love.’ I smiled. ‘And yes, you are safe with me. On Monday morning I’ll phone your social worker and tell her what you have told me, and she will decide what to do for the best. It’s possible you will have to speak to a police lady, but don’t worry: I’ll explain all about it nearer the time.’ I knew there was no point in phoning the out-of-hours duty social worker now (Friday evening) or over the weekend, because Aimee was in care and therefore removed from her abuser she wasn’t at risk from further harm, so it wouldn’t be classified as an emergency. I would be told to wait until Monday and speak to her social worker. That was normal practice. However, Aimee’s bruises could have faded by Monday, so my evidence would be crucial. As soon as I got the chance during the evening, I’d write up my log notes detailing what Aimee had told me.

‘Will Craig be punished?’ Aimee asked, standing in the well of the seat and peering at me. ‘Will he have to say sorry like he made me say sorry to him?’

‘I hope so, love. He certainly should do.’

‘Will my mum have to say sorry too?’ Aimee asked.

‘For what?’

‘For letting Craig hurt me. I think she should have stopped him, don’t you?’

I swallowed hard. ‘Yes, love. I do. Hopefully she’ll say sorry too.’

That evening as I was seeing Aimee into bed she asked if she could watch some television. Although it was her bedtime we didn’t have to get up for school in the morning, so I said she could as she’d been good.

Aimee looked at me sheepishly. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, of course. Why do you ask?’

‘You said I’d lost ten minutes’ television time for swearing in the car at contact.’

With all that had happened in the interim I’d forgotten, but Aimee had remembered and reminded me, which was a good example of how much children appreciate boundaries – they’re safe and reassuring. I didn’t feel like punishing Aimee, given all that she’d told me about Craig, yet I knew I couldn’t simply let her off either – it would have undermined my authority.

Quick thinking from years of fostering saved me: ‘You’ve earned back your lost television time,’ I said, ‘because you sat at the table and ate your dinner nicely.’

Aimee grinned. ‘That’s good.’ And just for a moment I thought she was going to reach out and hug me, but the moment passed.

Saturday morning saw no sign of the vulnerable and engaging child I’d established a rapport with the evening before. From the moment Aimee got out of bed she was rude, confrontational and verbally aggressive.

It began with the clothes I’d taken from my emergency supply and laid on her bed. She didn’t want to wear them; she wanted to wear her school uniform – indeed she demanded it. I explained that she’d only wear these clothes until we’d been shopping and bought her new clothes, which we would do that morning, and that her school uniform had to be kept for school. But Aimee persisted in her demands, folding her arms across her chest defiantly and refusing to dress. As a compromise I suggested she might like to choose her own clothes from the ottoman in my bedroom and eventually she agreed to do so, stomping off round the landing with giant steps that made the floor shudder, so that I reminded her to tread more quietly.

‘Won’t!’ Aimee shouted.

The skirt and top she chose from my emergency supply were too small but rather than risk further confrontation over something relatively minor, I decided they’d do for now. Then Aimee didn’t want to brush her hair and she refused to allow me to brush it either.

‘We’ll do it after breakfast, then,’ I said, hoping she’d be in a better humour after she’d eaten.

Downstairs she demanded biscuits for breakfast, adding: ‘If you don’t give me biscuits I’ll tell me mum!’

‘You can have a biscuit later with a drink of milk,’ I said, ignoring the threat. ‘For breakfast you have a choice of cereal, toast or egg.’

‘Nothing!’ she growled, arms folded and glaring at me, which I ignored. Then a few minutes later: ‘Cereal.’

‘Good. Would you like cornflakes, wheat flakes, Rice Krispies or porridge?’ I asked politely.

‘Give me porridge,’ Aimee demanded rudely.

‘Could I have porridge, please,’ I corrected, while taking the packet from the cupboard.

‘Porridge!’ she said gruffly, and plonked herself at the table, where she began kicking one of the chairs.

‘Don’t kick the chair, please,’ I said. ‘You’ll damage it.’

‘Can if I want to,’ Aimee said, her eyes blazing defiantly.

‘If you continue to kick the chair you’ll lose your television time,’ I said evenly.

‘Hate you,’ Aimee said, but the kicking stopped.

Aimee had every right to be angry, having been badly neglected and abused, and an abused child’s anger isn’t selective – indeed they are often most angry with those they feel safe with and who they know won’t retaliate and hit them.

Ignoring Aimee’s ill humour as best I could, I finished making her porridge and placed the bowl with a spoon in front of her.

‘Yuck,’ she said, screwing up her face. ‘I ain’t eating that muck.’

‘Don’t be rude,’ I said. ‘It’s the porridge you asked for. Now eat up and then we can go shopping to buy your new clothes.’

Aimee sat at the table scowling for a while longer while I concentrated on eating my own cereal; then she finally picked up her spoon and began eating. A few minutes later her bowl was clear. ‘That was nice,’ she said quite pleasantly, smacking her lips. ‘I’ll have porridge again tomorrow.’

‘Good. It’s nice to try new things,’ I said. ‘Now let’s go upstairs and clean your teeth and brush your hair.’

‘Later,’ Aimee said.

‘We need to do it now, so we can go shopping,’ I said.

‘I’ll do it after shopping,’ Aimee said, used to having her own way.

I didn’t say anything but busied myself in the kitchen. Aimee watched me for a while and then asked, ‘I thought you said we were going shopping?’

I looked at her surprised. ‘I did, love. I said we’d go shopping just as soon as you’d cleaned your teeth and brushed your hair.’ I continued with what I was doing as though Aimee’s refusal was of no consequence and it didn’t matter if we went shopping or not. Having met Susan, I guessed Aimee and her mother had thrived on the drama of confrontation and I wasn’t going to be drawn down that path. Aimee needed to learn to do as the adult looking after her asked, as it was for her own good.

Aimee watched me for a while longer and then muttered, just loud enough for me to hear, ‘Come on, then, I’ll do it. You always get your own way.’

‘That’s because as an adult I usually know what’s best for you,’ I said with a cheerful smile.

‘My mum don’t,’ Aimee said, following me out of the kitchen. Which was doubtless the truth.

Upstairs Aimee brushed her teeth nicely and then let me help her brush her hair. Once we were ready we left Paula and Lucy in bed for a Saturday morning lie-in, and I drove into town.

Buying clothes was a whole new experience for Aimee, and one that she had to learn. I’d parked the car in the multi-storey and we went down the stairs and into the high street.

‘I want to go in that shop,’ Aimee said, drawing me to a halt outside a charity shop.

‘Why? It sells second-hand clothes,’ I said. ‘I’m going to buy you new clothes.’

‘Oh,’ Aimee said, dumbfounded. ‘Mum and me always go in the charity shops. They don’t put security tags on their stuff so the alarm won’t go off.’

‘You mean you stole things from the charity shops?’ I said. I’d fostered children before who’d stolen but not from charity shops.

‘It’s not stealing,’ Aimee said. ‘The stuff was for me.’

‘It’s stealing,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter who it’s for. If you take something from a shop without paying for it, it’s stealing, and it’s wrong.’

Aimee gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Say what you want but I believe my mum and dad and they say it’s OK to take stuff for me. How else am I supposed to get me things?’

‘We pay for them,’ I said, drawing Aimee along the pavement and away from the charity shop. ‘People work hard and get paid money which they use to buy the things they need.’

‘My dad don’t,’ Aimee said. ‘He can do as he likes.’

‘No one can do exactly as they like,’ I said, and continued into the clothes shop.

It wasn’t Aimee’s fault she’d had such bad role models as parents; she was only repeating what she’d been brought up to believe, and it would take a long time for her to change. In most big towns and cities, there exists a parallel society; drug-fuelled and feral in its existence, such societies defy the normal rules of a civilized society. Many of the children who come into care come from these backgrounds. It’s a different world but the only one Aimee had known.

Once inside the shop, Aimee entered into the spirit of choosing and trying on new clothes, although she told me more than once that she didn’t see the point in buying the clothes when they could easily be taken. She was an expert on security tags, pointing out how, and the ease with which, a security tag could be removed. In fact her expertise dominated her choice of clothes. ‘We don’t want that one,’ she would say, returning an item to the rail. ‘The tag’s in the arm and the hole will show when you pull it off. This skirt’s OK – the tag’s on the label. Have you got scissors in your bag so we can cut it off in the changing rooms?’ I dreaded to think what other shoppers were making of Aimee’s comments, and the sales assistants who were dotted around the store.

Eventually, nearly three hours later, we had all the items Aimee needed, including a new winter coat, casual clothes for weekends, trainers, school shoes, pyjamas, vests, pants, socks, dressing gown and slippers. We were laden down with bags but on the way back to the car Aimee asked, disappointed: ‘Is that it? Aren’t you getting stuff for you? Mum always did.’

‘That’s sweet of you, dear,’ I said, touched. ‘But I don’t need anything at present, and I’ve spent enough for this week.’

‘If you’ve run out of money we could go to the charity shop and take it,’ Aimee suggested.

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I will save up for what I need.’

‘OK,’ Aimee said. ‘I thought you might say that so I got you this.’ Thrusting her hand into her jacket pocket she took out a necklace, still on its card, and pushed it at me.

I looked at it, horrified, and stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. There was no need to ask where the necklace had come from: it still had the shop’s price tag affixed. ‘After everything I’ve said about stealing, Aimee!’ I exclaimed. ‘And you’ve taken this!’ I’d no idea how or when she’d slipped it into her pocket. She was clearly an expert on thieving.

‘Stay cool. It’s not for me, it’s a present for you,’ Aimee said, as though this justified it. ‘Mum and me always got each other a present when we went shopping.’

‘By stealing it! Aimee, you didn’t pay for this,’ I began. ‘Therefore you stole it. It doesn’t matter who it is for. We don’t steal, as I’ve told you over and over again this morning. Now, we’re going to take the necklace back to the shop, and you’re not to do it again. Understand?

Aimee shrugged. Touching her arm to indicate follow me, I turned and led the way back to the shop. Inside my first inclination was to return the necklace to one of the cashiers at the checkout, but the shop was very busy and there was a long queue at the tills. I didn’t want to wait in the queue; I wanted to get this over and done with as quickly as possible. Also I didn’t want to shame Aimee in front of other shoppers – she was, after all, an eight-year-old girl who didn’t know any better and I didn’t want to humiliate her; but neither could we keep the necklace. I spotted a young sales assistant wandering aimlessly between the lines of garments without a lot to do and I went up to her. Aimee followed, not meekly or repentant, but interested in what I was going to say.

‘Excuse me,’ I said to the assistant. ‘I’m afraid my daughter has accidentally taken this without paying for it.’ I showed her the necklace. ‘Can you return it to the display, please? She’s very sorry and promises it won’t happen again.’ I quickly dropped the necklace into the assistant’s hand, turned and left the store, thinking it would be a long while before I returned.

‘What a waste!’ Aimee said outside. ‘I could have given it to me mum.’

I sighed. ‘Aimee, while you are with me you won’t be taking anything without paying for it. I shall give you pocket money, if you’re good, so you can save up and buy things, not steal them.’

‘Cool,’ Aimee said. ‘Pocket money.’ Then she looked at me thoughtfully. ‘In that shop you said I was your daughter. Why?’

‘It was easier than giving an explanation as to who you were.’

‘OK,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Just as long as you know you ain’t me mum. Although I guess it would have been better for me if you had been.’

Chapter Eleven

The Phone Call

Once home we had lunch and then Aimee helped me hang and fold her new clothes into the drawers and wardrobe in her bedroom. I could see from the expression on her face that she was pleased with all her new things, but she didn’t tell me and she wasn’t grateful. I didn’t expect her to be. I thought she probably resented the fact that I had provided for her when her parents had not; in her eyes this would have underlined their failure to look after her, and her loyalty to her parents would have dominated.