Girl Alone: Joss came home from school to discover her father’s suicide. Angry and hurting, she’s out of control. (11 page)

My family knew that Joss’s father had died in distressing circumstances, but they didn’t know the details.

‘Joss’s father committed suicide,’ I said.

‘By hanging himself in the garage?’ Lucy asked, clamping her hand over her mouth in horror.

‘Yes,’ I said.

I reached in and unpinned the doll from the ceiling and then untied the string from its neck. Paula was still by the door, watching from a distance, and I returned the daddy doll to the miniature sofa in the living room. ‘That’s better,’ I said, hiding my shock and trying to restore normality.

‘I’m not letting Joss play with the doll’s house again,’ Paula said, clearly upset.

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Lucy agreed.

‘I’ll talk to Joss when she’s finished in the bath,’ I said, closing the front of the house. ‘But you know, girls, perhaps this is a positive sign that Joss is getting ready to talk about what happened, which would be a very good thing.’ Although I wished she hadn’t used Paula’s doll’s house to express it. The atrocity had sullied its childlike innocence, and I knew the taint would remain for some time.

When Joss had finished her bath and was in her bedroom, I knocked on her door and went in.

‘What?’ she asked, already on the defensive. I guessed she knew what I wanted.

‘Paula is upset by what she found in her doll’s house,’ I said gently.

‘Not half as upset as I was!’ Joss snapped, referring, I assumed, to her father’s actual death.

‘I appreciate that, love. It must have been absolutely horrendous for you. I can’t imagine how you coped.’

‘I didn’t,’ she said, climbing into bed. ‘But shit happens. There’s nothing you or anyone can do about it. And before you ask me, no, I don’t want to talk about it.’ She picked up a magazine and pulled it open.

I waited. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right, I’ll leave you to it, then, but you know where I am if you need me.’

Joss gave a small nod and I said goodnight and came out of her room.

That night she had a nightmare. It was about her father. As I soothed her back to sleep, she whispered, ‘Daddy. Daddy gone. Dead.’ And a tear slipped from the corner of her eye. It was heartbreaking. I knew she had all that hurt buried deep inside her and it was trying to find a way out. Interestingly, the following morning she remembered some of her dream, which she didn’t usually.

‘I had a really bad dream last night,’ she told me.

‘Do you remember what it was about?’ I asked carefully, aware I needed to handle this sensitively.

‘It was about my daddy,’ she said quietly. ‘I think, the day he died.’

‘Do you remember anything else?’

‘Not sure. Were you there?’

‘I heard you call out and came into your room to make sure you were all right. I always check if I hear one of you call out in the night. You went back to sleep quite quickly.’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t really remember. It’s a blur.’

Joss didn’t offer any more and I left it at that, but my amateur psychology told me that Joss hanging the doll and then starting to remember her dreams could mean that the shocking memories of her father’s suicide were starting to work their way to the surface to be dealt with.

That afternoon Jill came for one of her scheduled four-weekly visits – to make sure I was fostering Joss to the required standard, to give support and advice as necessary and to sign off my log notes. I updated her on events since the last time we’d spoken on the phone, finishing with the incident of the doll and Joss’s most recent nightmare.

‘I’m no psychiatrist,’ Jill said, ‘but it could certainly be a positive sign. Keep doing what you have been doing – providing a safe and supportive environment – and Joss may feel able to start counselling before long and address her demons. Once she comes to terms with what happened and stops blaming herself, she’ll be less angry and her behaviour should start to improve.’

I greatly valued Jill’s opinion, so I was pleased to hear this, but what happened next showed Joss still had a very long way to go.

It was Friday morning, and at 9.30 a.m. I received the now familiar telephone call from the secretary at Joss’s school, informing me that Joss hadn’t arrived and that when she did she would be given an hour’s detention at the end of the day. I apologized for her lateness, confirmed that she’d left for school on time and thanked the secretary for letting me know. If a child who usually arrived at school on time suddenly went missing I would be very worried, but Joss arriving late for school was a regular occurrence, so I knew from previous experience that it wouldn’t be long before the school secretary telephoned again to say Joss had arrived. Sure enough, fifteen minutes later the telephone rang – however, it wasn’t the secretary, but a man with an accent whose voice I didn’t recognize. ‘Is that Mrs Glass?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ I assumed it was a telesales canvasser, but what he said next scared me rigid.

‘I have your daughter, Mrs Glass.’

‘What? What do you mean?’ My heart began drumming loudly in my chest.

‘I have your daughter, Joss, here with me. You need to come and collect her. She is a very naughty girl.’

‘Who are you? What are you talking about? Where is Joss? Put her on at once, please.’

There was a muffled sound as the handset was passed over and then Joss’s voice came on, subdued and without her usual bravado. ‘Cathy, please come and get me – he’s scaring me.’

‘Where are you? Who is he? What’s going on?’ My concerns grew.

‘He’s making me stay here with him until you come. He wants to see you.’

‘Where are you?’

‘The paper shop on the corner of South Road.’

‘The newsagents there?’

‘Yes.’

I knew where it was, although I’d never been in. It wasn’t the newsagents below the flat where Chelsea lived, but one close to Joss’s school.

‘And he won’t let you leave?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

Joss didn’t answer.

‘I’ll call the police,’ I said.

‘No! Don’t do that! Please, Cathy,’ Joss pleaded. ‘I’m in enough trouble already. Don’t get the police involved.’

‘What’s going on, Joss? He can’t keep you there against your will. It’s illegal. Are you hurt?’

‘No. Just come and collect me, please. I’m in his sitting room at the back of the shop.’

‘And you can’t tell me what’s happened?’

‘He wants to tell you when you come for me.’

‘Put him back on, please.’

His voice came on the line again. ‘Mrs Glass, I was going to call the police, but your daughter begged me not to, so I insisted I call you instead. She’s done wrong and I’m not just going to let her get away with it. Are you coming or shall I call the police?’

‘I’m coming,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

‘Very well. My wife will sit with her while I return to the shop. I will see you soon. Goodbye.’ The line went dead.

I had my shoes on and was out of the door and in the car in an instant, still thinking I should call the police. Joss had pleaded with me not to and she’d said she wasn’t hurt, but then perhaps he was standing over her with a knife and forcing her to say that? I’d been fostering for long enough to know that anything was possible, and that unbelievable and horrific events did occur. I was sick with fear and drove faster than I should have done. All teenagers can be volatile and reckless at times, but when it’s your own child whom you know well, you have a fair idea of what they are capable of – good and bad. Joss was another matter entirely, and try as I had I still didn’t have a clue what she was capable of. All manner of thoughts crossed my mind, including that the man might be a dangerous psychopath who was planning to hold me hostage too.

I parked in the side street next to the shop, got out and walked swiftly round to the front door, my stomach churning. A large handwritten notice in the shop window stated:
Only two school children allowed in together.
I opened the door and a bell clanged from inside, and then again as the door closed behind me. A woman customer left the shop and another was looking at a stand containing a display of greeting cards. With my mouth dry and my heart pounding, I went up to the counter at the far end of the shop. A smartly dressed middle-aged Asian man was standing behind the counter, looking at me as I approached. I realized then that I hadn’t asked the man who’d telephoned for his name. ‘Are you the person who telephoned me about Joss?’ I asked. ‘I’m Mrs Glass.’

‘Yes, I am,’ he said sternly. ‘This way, please.’ He lifted the counter top to allow me to pass through. ‘Your daughter is in here,’ he said, lowering the counter again behind me.

I followed him down a short, dimly lit hall, which led into a small, cramped sitting room. The curtains were closed and the room was lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Cardboard boxes were stacked around the edges and the room smelt musty, so I guessed it was usually only used for storage. Joss sat in one of two old-fashioned armchairs, the only furniture, and a middle-aged woman dressed in a sari, whom I took to be the man’s wife, sat opposite her. She stood as we entered, said something to her husband in another language and then went into the shop, closing the door behind her.

Joss stood. ‘Can I go now?’ she asked the man.

‘Not yet. I need to talk to your mother first.’ He turned to me. ‘Do you know how much stock I lose every week from stealing? It’s robbing me of my livelihood. I struggle to support my family as it is. It is not easy, owning a shop. I work all the hours God sends me and then I have the little I earn taken away from me by people like your daughter.’

I now had a good idea what this was all about.

‘I telephone the school and tell them that their pupils are stealing,’ he continued. ‘I’ve even been in to see the headmistress, but nothing happens. She tells me she can’t be held responsible for what their pupils do once they’ve left the school premises. If I call the police, they come eventually, take a statement, and then I see the same kids in here again the next day, and they’re laughing at me. They think stealing from under my nose is a joke. I blame the parents. I have two children of my own and they would never steal. I have brought them up properly. They are trustworthy and polite teenagers. If they are naughty, they know what’s coming. I have taught them respect and honesty, Mrs Glass. Something you need to teach your daughter.’

I remained silent, for I could see he wasn’t finished yet.

‘I’ve even had expensive CCTV fitted in my shop,’ he continued. ‘But the kids get around that by standing in a group and shielding the one stealing from the camera, hence the notice outside about only two being allowed in the shop. What a sad state of affairs that children can’t be trusted to come in and buy a few sweets! I’ve had my suspicions about your daughter for some time – she comes in here a lot – but now I have the proof. She’s not as clever as she thinks. The camera will show her putting a magazine into her bag and trying to leave the shop without paying for it. That’s when I stopped her.’

Joss, who’d remained sitting silently and staring moodily straight ahead of her, now stood.

‘If you’ve finished, can we go now?’ she said disrespectfully.

‘Not yet,’ I said firmly. ‘And you’d better take that silly look off your face and start listening to what this gentleman has to say or I’ll be calling the police.’

The man straightened, clearly a little surprised that I was taking this firm line. Joss had the decency to look slightly abashed.

‘I’m appalled and shocked at your behaviour, Joss,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what you thought you were doing. You know it’s wrong to steal. You can start by apologizing to this gentleman for what you have done, and then we’ll ask him what we can do to compensate him.’

‘I am pleased to hear you say that, Mrs Glass,’ he said. ‘Some parents take the side of their children and make excuses for them. They blame me and call me racist names. I hope you understand, I am only trying to protect my livelihood. I am sure you would do the same.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. Joss’s behaviour is completely unacceptable. She will be saying sorry too.’ I wasn’t going to play the sympathy card and tell him Joss was in care and that she’d had a rough time as a child. He didn’t need to know that, and Joss knew it was wrong to steal. ‘I will punish Joss,’ I said. ‘But I would also like to pay for the goods she has stolen. Does she still have the magazine in her school bag?’

‘No, my wife took it from her. But she has stolen many other magazines in the past. I just couldn’t prove it until now.’ My thoughts went to the stack of magazines Joss had in her bedroom, and the ones strewn across our living room; she was always coming home with a new magazine. I’d assumed she’d bought them with her pocket money, and my heart sank.

‘Do you have any idea how many she may have taken?’ I asked him.

He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t like to guess.’

I looked at Joss. ‘You must know how many magazines you’ve taken?’

‘Dunno. Can’t remember,’ she said belligerently.

‘Do you have any money on you?’ I asked her.

‘No.’

I began rummaging in my shoulder bag for my purse. I thought we should offer something towards the cost of the goods she’d stolen, even if we didn’t know the full amount.

‘There is no need for that,’ he said.

‘Yes, there is,’ I said. ‘Joss needs to learn that her actions have consequences. I shall be stopping the money from her allowance.’ I took a ten-pound note from my purse and began to remove another, unsure of how much to offer him.

‘No, Mrs Glass,’ he said, covering my purse with his hand. ‘I cannot take your money. But thank you for offering. It’s appreciated. Perhaps you would like to make a small donation to the charity I support instead? There’s a collecting tin on the counter in the shop.’

‘Yes, of course, if that is what you’d prefer. Thank you. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

‘Mr Chanda.’

‘I apologize again, Mr Chanda, for Joss’s behaviour. I’ll make a donation on the way out and I’ll be speaking to Joss very firmly when we get home. I’ll make it clear to her that she’s not to come into your shop again.’ He nodded. ‘If she does, telephone me and I will come and collect her straight away. Now, I hope you will accept the apology that she is going to make.’

We both looked at Joss, and either she didn’t understand what was required of her or she was reluctant to say sorry, for she remained stubbornly silent.

‘Joss,’ I said sharply. ‘Say sorry to Mr Chanda and then we’ll go.’

‘Sorry,’ she said quietly.

Mr Chanda nodded.

‘On the way out we will apologize to Mrs Chanda too,’ I told Joss. ‘I assume that was your wife?’ I said to Mr Chanda, and he nodded.

Mr and Mrs Chanda were clearly decent, hard-working people who were doing their best to make a living, and it was appalling that Joss – and, from the sound of it, others from her school – was causing them so much trouble.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

I made to leave and he went ahead and courteously held the door open for Joss and me. We went down the short hall and into the shop, where Mrs Chanda was serving behind the counter. We waited until she’d finished and then her husband said, ‘The girl is going to apologize to you.’

I looked at Joss. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

Mrs Chanda nodded coldly, and who could blame her? She must have been as fed up as her husband with having to deal with thieving.

‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ I said to her. ‘Joss will not come in here any more.’

She nodded again. Mr Chanda then raised the counter and Joss and I went through. I put the ten-pound note into the collecting tin and we left the shop.

As soon as we were outside, Joss relaxed. ‘Phew, that was close,’ she said, all humility gone.

I was furious. ‘I can’t believe how stupid you’ve been!’ I said. ‘Do you realize that if Mr Chanda had called the police you would have been sent to a secure unit for sure? Whatever were you thinking of? You know it’s wrong to steal.’

She gave a nonchalant, couldn’t-care-less shrug.

‘How dare you treat those people like that!’

I unlocked the car and we got in. Before I started the engine I turned to Joss. ‘Don’t ever go in that shop again. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘And don’t be tempted to steal from anywhere else either. If you want a magazine, buy one. That’s what your allowance is for.’

‘But you keep stopping my allowance,’ she said accusingly, as if this was forcing her to steal and therefore it was my fault.

‘Yes, as a sanction for when your behaviour is unacceptable. It’s a punishment, Joss. You go without something, although you know you can always earn it back. So don’t blame me for your stupidity. You need to take responsibility for your actions. Who was in the shop with you?’

‘No one,’ she said moodily.

‘Chelsea wasn’t with you?’

‘No. She waited outside. She can’t afford to get caught any more.’

‘And neither can you!’ I said, my voice rising. ‘And whether you get caught is not the issue. It’s wrong to steal. You don’t do it! That poor Mr and Mrs Chanda. Think of them. They have children too.’

‘He shouldn’t have kept me there against my will,’ Joss said defiantly. ‘He can’t do that. He hasn’t got the right. It’s against the law.’ Which was choice, considering she’d just been stealing.

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ I said. ‘A shopkeeper has the right in law to detain a shoplifter and call the police. You want to be damn grateful he called me instead. And when you get home tonight you’re going to put all those magazines you stole in the bin.’

‘No! You can’t do that. They’re mine!’

‘They’re not yours, Joss. You didn’t pay for them. You stole them. I’m not having you enjoy something you’ve stolen. If Mr Chanda could sell them we’d take them back to the shop, but they’re crumpled and out of date now, so you’re going to throw them away.’

‘Fucking hell,’ she muttered. ‘What a waste.’

‘And don’t swear.’

She turned her back on me and stared out of her side window. ‘Fasten your seatbelt,’ I said. ‘I’ll take you to school now.’