Another Forgotten Child (5 page)

‘I don’t like dinner,’ Aimee said, swallowing the last of the biscuit with a loud gulp.

‘Try some and you may,’ I said, throwing Lucy and Paula a reassuring smile, for they were both looking concerned.

I served the dinner on to the plates, giving Aimee a small portion, which I placed in front of her. I sat down and Lucy, Paula and I started eating while Aimee sat with her arms folded across her chest and her face set in defiance, scowling and angry. Then after some moments she picked up her knife and fork and plunged them into her dinner, clearly with no idea how to use them. She certainly wasn’t the first child I’d looked after who didn’t know how to use cutlery because they’d only ever eaten finger food at home.

‘Like this,’ I said, showing her how I was holding my knife and fork. ‘Or you can use your spoon if it’s easier.’

I saw Aimee glance at Lucy and Paula and perhaps she wanted to be like them for, to her credit, she picked up her knife and fork and made a good attempt to use them. She managed to get some food into her mouth and, finding the taste acceptable, scooped up some more, so that gradually as Lucy, Paula and I continued eating so too did she.

‘Well done,’ I said as she cleared her plate. Then to all three girls: ‘Would you like pudding now or later?’

‘Later,’ Paula and Lucy said.

‘I want me biscuits now,’ Aimee said.

I nodded to Lucy, who’d tucked the packet of biscuits on to the chair next to her, and she passed the packet to Aimee, who set upon them ravenously. After four biscuits I said, ‘That’s enough for now. You’ll make yourself ill.’

Aimee ignored me and took another biscuit from the packet and began stuffing it into her mouth. I knew I had to start as I meant to carry on and it wasn’t in Aimee’s best interest to gorge on biscuits. I quickly popped into the kitchen and returned with an attractive brightly coloured empty tin on which I’d already printed Aimee’s name.

‘This is your special tin,’ I said with exaggerated enthusiasm. ‘This is where you will keep your biscuits and your sweets, and you can have a few each day. They’ll be safe in here and no one else will eat them.’ Experience had taught me that children from homes where food has been in short supply often hoard and then gorge food once it is freely available in foster care. Having a tin of their own often helps. But although Aimee was looking at the tin with interest, she was also peeling off yet another biscuit. I gently took the packet from her hand and put it in the tin.

‘’Ere! Give ’em to me!’ Aimee demanded. ‘They’re my biscuits.’

‘I know they are, love, and they’ll be quite safe in your tin. You can have another one tomorrow.’

‘I’m gonna tell me mum you took my biscuits and she’ll make a complaint against you!’ Aimee threatened, jutting out her chin.

I saw Lucy and Paula were about to say something in my defence but I motioned to them not to. Aimee was only repeating something she’d heard her mother say, probably in respect of her older half-siblings, all of whom were in care. I now concentrated on my next task, which was to get Aimee clean. ‘Would you like a bath or a shower?’ I asked, remembering to use the closed choice.

‘None!’ Aimee said. ‘I don’t like water.’

Chapter Five

Severe Neglect

‘You’ll like the water here,’ Lucy said, continuing with her philosophy that things were different and better in foster care.

‘No, I won’t,’ Aimee said, folding her arms and sulking.

‘I’m going to do my homework,’ Paula said, and escaped to her bedroom.

‘Come on, I’ll show you the new tiles I put in our bathroom,’ I said to Aimee with excitement out of all proportion to my first attempt at tiling.

Sufficiently intrigued, she finally slid from her chair at the dining table and followed me upstairs and to the bathroom, where I pointed out the blue and white tiles around the bath. ‘They’re nice,’ she said, with genuine admiration.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘We have tiles in my bathroom,’ Aimee said, ‘but they’re dirty and have green stuff growing on them,’ which I assumed to be mould.

‘Well, as you can see ours are all new,’ I said. ‘No nasty green stuff here. Now, would you like a bath or a shower? What did you have at home?’

‘Nothing,’ Aimee said, her face setting again. ‘I don’t have anything.’

I thought she must have had some sort of wash sometimes, so relying on the closed choice I said again: ‘Bath or shower? You choose.’

She didn’t answer but refolded her arms more tightly across her chest like a grumpy old woman. ‘OK, I’ll decide for you, then,’ I said. ‘I’ll run you a nice warm bath.’

Aimee said: ‘I want a shower.’

‘Fine. You can have a shower,’ I said. ‘Undress while I set the shower to the right temperature.’ Aimee was not old enough to be left alone to adjust a shower she’d never used before, so, turning my back on her to give her some privacy, I switched on the shower to a medium temperature.

As soon as the water began spurting from the showerhead Aimee squealed from behind me. ‘I ain’t having that on me!’

I switched off the shower and turned to face her. So far she’d only taken off her navy jumper, which was filthy, to reveal an equally filthy T-shirt. ‘Aimee,’ I said carefully, ‘you need to have a shower or a bath tonight. Then once you’re clean you’ll be able to watch some television. It would be a great pity if you lost television time on your first night, wouldn’t it?’ This may have seemed harsh but Aimee was used to having her own way and I could see how determined she could be. For hygiene’s sake alone she needed to have a bath or shower; her skin and clothes were filthy and she smelt. Also if I didn’t start to put in place a routine and boundaries now it would become more difficult the longer I left it.

‘Can I watch me telly in bed?’ Aimee asked.

‘Once you’ve had your bath, yes,’ I said. Not blackmail but positive reward.

‘I’ll have your bath, then,’ Aimee said, scowling.

‘Good girl.’ I turned to the bath and switched on the taps, adjusting the temperature as the water ran. But by the time the bath was ready Aimee still hadn’t undressed and seemed to be waiting for me to do it for her. ‘Take off your T-shirt,’ I encouraged.

‘Can’t,’ Aimee said, not attempting the task. ‘You do it.’

‘Aimee, you are eight years old, love. I’m sure a big girl like you can undress herself.’ Children are usually taught self-care skills by the time they’re five and go to school, but Aimee shook her head.

‘I’ll help you,’ I said. ‘But I would like you to learn how to dress and undress yourself. How did you manage to change for PE and swimming at school?’ For I knew the teachers wouldn’t have undressed her.

‘Didn’t do them,’ Aimee said.

‘What, you never did PE or swimming?’

‘No.’

I was sure Aimee must be wrong – physical exercise is an essential part of every school curriculum – but I’d mention it the following day when I took Aimee to school. Now I began easing up her T-shirt and showing her how to undress. ‘Like this,’ I said. Aimee raised her arms cooperatively but had no idea what to do next.

‘Who dressed you at home?’ I asked.

‘Mum.’

Underneath the T-shirt was an equally dirty and torn vest. ‘You like your layers,’ I smiled. ‘Aren’t you hot with all this on?’ The rest of us wore one layer in our centrally heated house.

‘It’s cold at home,’ Aimee said. ‘What makes your house hot?’

I didn’t answer, for having taken off Aimee’s vest I was now staring at the small bruises dotted all over her chest. I stepped around her so I could see her back and that too was covered in the same small bruises, as were her arms and neck. The bruises were all roughly the same size, small and round, about the size of a small coin. They were in various stages of healing: some were old and faded while others looked new.

‘How did you get all these bruises?’ I asked carefully, pointing to the ones she could see on her arms and chest.

‘I fell,’ Aimee said. ‘I keep tripping over things.’

It was possible the bruises were a result of falling, I supposed. Some children are accident prone, and it’s often the overweight children who aren’t used to physical activity and have never developed good coordination and balance as more active children do. It was possible, yet there was something about the size and shape of the bruises that I couldn’t identify and unsettled me. The bruises didn’t require medical attention, but I’d obviously make a note of what I’d found in my fostering log and then tell Jill and Kristen the following day.

‘Sit on the floor and take off your socks now, good girl,’ I said to Aimee, sure she could do this simple task without help. She did as I asked and sat down, and then very clumsily managed to pull off both her filthy and holed socks. ‘Now step out of your joggers,’ I said, testing the bath water with my hand. ‘They’re easy to take off. You just pull them down.’

Aimee yanked down her joggers and stepped out of them, to reveal more bruises running down both legs, from her thighs to her ankles – there were even some bruises on her feet. Most of the bruises were the same size and shape as those on her body and arms – round and small – although there were some larger ones on her knees and shins, consistent with falling over.

‘How did you get all these?’ I asked.

‘I fell over.’

She stepped out of her pants to reveal more small round bruises on her buttocks. ‘And the ones on your bottom?’ I asked. ‘How did you get those?’

‘Same,’ Aimee said, tossing her pants on top of the pile of smelly rags that were her clothes. She stood at the side of the bath, making no attempt to get in.

‘Get into the bath while the water is nice and warm,’ I said.

She reached out to my hand for me to help her and I steadied her while she climbed into the bath. Then she stood looking at me.

‘Sit down,’ I said.

‘What, in the water?’ Aimee asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘So you can have a bath and wash all over.’

Very gingerly and slowly Aimee began to lower herself into the bath, and as the warm water lapped against her skin she gave a little sigh of pleasure. ‘This is nice,’ she said.

‘Good,’ I said, relieved. I passed her a new sponge and fresh bar of soap. ‘Now rub the soap on to the sponge and then all over your body.’

But she just sat there with a smile on her face, enjoying the feel of the warm water without actually washing, despite my further encouragement.

‘This is nice,’ she said again. ‘I like the warm water.’

‘Aimee,’ I said suspiciously, ‘have you ever had a bath before?’

‘No.’ She grinned sheepishly.

‘So did you usually have a shower at home?’

‘No. All the water was cold and I don’t like cold water.’

‘Wasn’t there any hot water in your flat at all?’ I asked, aware that this was not as uncommon in poor homes as one might think.

‘No,’ Aimee said, shaking her head.

‘So you never had a hot shower or bath?’

‘Never. I stood in the kitchen and Mum used one of those.’ Aimee pointed to the face flannel draped on the rail at the side of the bath. ‘But the water was cold, so I didn’t like it.’ From which I deduced that Aimee had been given a stand-up wash in cold water and had never had a bath or shower in her life.

‘Did your social worker, Kristen, know there was no hot water in your flat?’ I now asked.

‘Of course not!’ Aimee said, surprised at my ignorance. ‘Me and Mum told her the meter had just run out and we were going to get some more tokens, but we never had the money.’ She giggled at the deceit she and her mother had perpetrated on the social worker, and not for the first time since I’d begun fostering I was shocked by the ease with which a social worker had been duped.

‘Why didn’t you tell Kristen there was no money for hot water?’ I asked. ‘She could have helped you.’

Aimee looked at me, confused, and I guessed it was because she wasn’t used to hearing that a social worker could help. So often parents view social workers as the enemy.

‘Mum said if we told Kristen I would be taken away and put in care like my brothers and sisters,’ Aimee said. ‘Mum said I wasn’t to tell her about the water. There were lots of things I couldn’t tell Kristen.’ She suddenly stopped.

‘Like what?’ I asked gently, lathering the soap on to the sponge for her.

‘Nothing,’ Aimee said. ‘They’re secrets and I’ll get shouted at if I tell.’

‘Who will shout at you?’ I asked.

‘No one,’ Aimee said, clamming up.

‘All right. But sometimes it helps to tell a secret. Bad secrets can be very worrying, not like the surprises we have on our birthdays. When you feel ready to tell me I will listen carefully and try to help,’ I said, although I knew it could be months, possibly years, before Aimee trusted me enough to tell me. I also knew that ‘secrets’ when the child had been threatened into not telling always involved abuse.

The bath water turned grey as Aimee washed; indeed the water was so dirty that I drained the bath and refilled it with fresh water. I explained to Aimee that I would just comb her hair before bed and then wash it in the morning after the lotion had done its job properly. I helped her out of the bath, wrapped her in a towel and left her to dry herself while I went to the ottoman in my bedroom for some clean pyjamas that would fit her. When I returned she was still standing with the towel around her, having made no attempt to dry herself.

‘Come on, dry yourself,’ I encouraged.

‘No, you do it,’ she said.

‘I’ll help you. But you need to learn to dry yourself at your age.’ I showed her what to do – how to pat and rub the towel over her skin – but I didn’t do it for her. I guessed that the reason Aimee didn’t know how to towel dry herself was that, never having had a shower or bath, she’d never had to do it. This level of neglect – of even the most basic requirements – is a form of child abuse.

After about ten minutes, and with a lot of encouragement, Aimee had dried herself. ‘These should fit,’ I said, and held out the nearly new clean pyjamas I kept as spares for such an emergency.

‘Not wearing them!’ Aimee sneered, pulling a face and shrinking from the pyjamas I held. ‘They’re not mine.’