The Saddest Girl in the World (16 page)

‘Mum's never bought me a present before,’ Donna said again reflectively, while I was still considering what to say. ‘Neither has Chelsea. I think Edna or Gran had something to do with it.’

I paused from reading her cards and looked straight at her. ‘Donna, I think Edna is such a kind person that she wanted to make sure you had the best birthday ever. If she did have something to do with it, then I think that makes your present even more special, doesn't it?’

Donna nodded, and then a smile lit up her whole face.

‘What is it, love?’ I asked. Adrian and Paula were looking too, wondering, as I was, why Donna was smiling if she believed her mother hadn't even managed to buy her a present.

‘I'm glad Edna chose it,’ Donna said. ‘Otherwise my present might have been another load of dirty washing.’

I laughed. Despite everything Donna's humour had surfaced again. ‘Absolutely!’ I said.

The four of us continued to admire Donna's presents. Apart from the table tennis set there was a jewellery-making set from Chelsea, a fashionable girl's handbag with a matching purse from Warren, a large boxed set of scented and coloured bubble baths from Jason, a beautiful silver bracelet from Mary and Ray, a basket-making set from Edna, and a £10 note in a card that was signed ‘Gran and Dad’.

Leaving the children in the lounge gloating over Donna's presents, I went into the kitchen and lit the candles on the chocolate birthday cake. I carefully carried
it through, and Adrian, Paula and I sang ‘happy birthday’ again (no more in tune than the first time). I took another photograph of Donna blowing out the candles. She was becoming quite proficient at blowing out candles now and blew out all eleven candles with one breath. I handed her the knife and she carefully cut the cake and served us each with a slice on a plate. It was raining now and dark at 7.00 p.m., so I suggested to Donna that she left trying out her bike in the garden until the following day, when hopefully it would be dry and, without contact, we would be home earlier.

‘You can take your bike into the garden as soon as we get home from school tomorrow,’ I said.

‘Is it still there?’ she asked.

‘Your bike? Of course. It's in your bedroom where you left it this morning, with your other presents.’ Even now Donna didn't fully believe me when I said that her presents were hers to keep. I had arranged her cards on the mantelpiece in the lounge, but I had left the presents in her room. Adrian and Paula always liked to keep their presents in their bedrooms for a week or so after their birthdays so that they could see them each morning when they woke.

After we had eaten the cake and had a glass of lemonade we had a few games of table tennis. Then it was time for bed. Paula, Adrian and I helped Donna carry her presents upstairs to join the others in her room. Like Adrian and Paula, she liked the idea of having her presents close to her.

‘My bike!’ she exclaimed as we walked into her bedroom, apparently surprised to see it still here.

‘Donna,’ I said after Adrian and Paula had gone to wash and change, ready for bed, ‘I know your mum didn't buy you presents when you were living with her, but didn't Granny Bajan ever give you something on your birthday? Or send you a card? She seems a lovely lady.’

Donna was again slowly running her hands over the length of the bike, apparently still not fully convinced it wouldn't evaporate into thin air. ‘She tried to,’ she said, ‘but Mum stopped her.’

‘What do you mean, “stopped her”?’

‘Mum told Gran not to send me anything, and Gran didn't like to upset Mum 'cos she took it out on Dad.’

I looked at her carefully. ‘How did your mum take it out on your dad? He's a big man and your mum isn't any taller than me.’

‘She hid his tablets and wouldn't let him have them. So he would lose his mind and be locked up. Gran worried about that.’

I stared at her, amazed and shocked. ‘How do you know this?’

‘Mum told me, and so did Gran. Mum said Gran was an interfering bitch because she talked to Edna about our family. If Mum wanted to get at Gran or Dad, she stopped him from having his tablets, so he went mad. Sometimes I found the tablets again when Mum was drunk or asleep, and I gave them to Dad. But Gran worried what Mum would do if she disobeyed her, so she didn't send me any presents. I didn't mind. I just wanted Dad to be well.’

‘Yes,’ I said, absently, contemplating this new disclosure of deviousness. 'I'm sure your dad will be well soon, now he is in hospital. I'm going to let Edna know what you said
about his tablets; then perhaps she can think of a way of making sure he has his medicine.

‘Thanks, Cathy,’ Donna said. ‘It would be great if Edna could help him. And thanks for my birthday. It's been lovely. And no dirty washing!’ We both laughed.

A
week later Donna put the yards of gift paper I had used to wrap her bike to good use. Together with the other sheets of wrapping paper and an old magazine, she tore it up and littered her entire bedroom. Hundreds and hundreds of tiny pieces were once again strewn on every available surface. She did this less often now; it used to be three times a week but recently it had been about every ten days. As usual Donna had spent a productive and silent thirty minutes tearing up the paper and then sprinkling it over her room, ready to clear up later.

‘Very pretty,’ I said dryly as I went into her room. ‘It looks as though it has been snowing coloured paper.’ I could be fairly relaxed about this behaviour now, and even joke about it with Donna. I was aware that this was her way of acting out, and dealing with, her role of cleaner and general dogsbody when at home, and I knew that eventually it would be addressed in therapy.

What I wasn't so relaxed about was Donna's ongoing need to try to dominate and chastise Adrian and Paula, and also trash her bedroom. Her treatment of Adrian and Paula was slowly improving, but despite my earlier optimism, I found that if I relaxed my vigilance and didn't remind Donna not to speak to Adrian and Paula so
harshly, her earlier behaviour quickly resurfaced, and she reverted to chastising them in imitation of the vicious pecking order that had existed at her house. Both Jill and Edna had witnessed Donna ‘sniping’ at and trying to control Adrian and Paula on their visits, and agreed that it was something that would take a long time to go and was something else that should be addressed in therapy after the final court hearing. But the final court hearing wasn't until May, and even then I wasn't expecting a miracle cure. Children can be in therapy for years before there is any sign of improvement.

Trashing her bedroom was something else that I really needed quicker results with, and Jill and Edna both advised me that I should start applying sanctions. Donna had trashed her room four times by the beginning of December and on each occasion it was after contact. Apart from the mess, which I now insisted Donna helped clear up, she had torn down the curtains each time and they were now irreparably ripped, as was a new duvet cover. Anything that could be smashed was, and on the last occasion Donna had thrown the portable CD player so hard against the window that it had chipped the glass; had it been thrown with much more force it would have shattered the window. It was also frightening to witness Donna's loss of control, not only for me but for Adrian and Paula. I always told them to stay downstairs when it happened, but they could still hear Donna shouting and screaming, and the sound of things breaking as they were hurtled against the walls. Donna was so out of control at these times that had her anger turned towards a person instead of property she could have done them real harm. I always waited by her
bedroom door, gently talking to her and persuading her out of the anger before I went in.

Jill had suggested that, as well as making Donna help clear up (which was no great punishment, given her need to clean), I stopped her pocket money to help towards some of the cost of replacing the items that she had destroyed or damaged. I'd had to get Edna's permission to stop Donna's pocket money because there was a small amount included in the foster carer's allowance for pocket money; it was designated as the child's and could not be withheld without the permission of the social worker. Edna fully concurred with Jill's suggestion and we agreed that I would stop two weeks' pocket money each time Donna trashed her bedroom. The small weekly amount was hardly likely to cover the damage she'd done, but its withdrawal was designed to give Donna the message that her actions had a knock-on effect, and that she was culpable and therefore had to take responsibility for her actions and learn to control them.

Having trashed her room twice in a four-week period, she went for a month without any pocket money, but I'm not sure how much good stopping it did. A sanction is more effective if it is applied immediately, but if Donna trashed her room on a Wednesday (as had happened on the previous occasions), she didn't feel the loss of her money until Saturday, which was pocket money day. Also, since her destruction of her room always happened after contact, I felt it was directly related to seeing her mother and having all the bad things that had happened in the past reinforced. But stopping contact wasn't an option, and even reducing it wasn't going to be considered until nearer the final court hearing.

I therefore reverted to the approach I had tried on the first occasion she'd vented her anger on her room: I tried talking her out of it, and then suggested she try to channel her anger in something less destructive, like thumping a cushion or running round the garden shouting. But although Donna was amenable to my suggestions, and when she was calm agreed to try them, when she came in from contact bursting with anger she was invariably in her room, screaming and throwing things, before I had time to intervene and direct her to something else. Once she was out of control it was too late. I could only hope that in time this behaviour might also improve, although I thought the only real improvement would come if contact was stopped.

As far as I was aware, Donna hadn't tried to rub off her skin again when washing, although I knew she retained a poor self-image in respect of her dual heritage. She loved her dad, who was mixed race, and, despite his odd behaviour when he hadn't taken his medication, Donna was proud of him, and of her gran, who was black. But Donna couldn't translate this positive view of their colour to herself. Her mother had been so negative and demeaning of her racial origins that the damage ran deep.

The four of us went shopping together to spend the £10 that her gran and dad had sent her for her birthday, and Donna wanted to go to Boots the chemist to spend it. I assumed she wanted to buy some perfume or even some make-up, as girls of her age often start experimenting with a bit of lipgloss or eye shadow — they were advertised in all the girlie magazines. But once inside the chemist Donna spent ages wandering up and down the aisles without actually telling me what she was looking for. Eventually
we stopped at the display of hair removal creams — depilatories as they are called — and she began examining the various boxed tubes.

‘What are you looking for, Donna?’ I asked. She didn't have excessive hair, and hair removal wasn't something a girl of eleven would normally have contemplated. She shrugged and appeared to be studying the ingredients listed on the boxes, although her level of reading wouldn't have allowed her to make much sense of the long names of the chemicals used in the products. I couldn't even pronounce some of them, let alone identify what they were used for — calcium thioglycolate, lithium hydroxide, disodium lauryl sulfate, to name but three.

‘Does it have bleach in it?’ she asked after some moments. Adrian and Paula were now becoming restless at this lengthy and unproductive shopping trip.

I looked at the ingredients on the box Donna held, containing the tube of cream designed to ‘efficiently and gently remove unwanted hair’.

‘Not as far as I can see,’ I said. ‘But you don't need this. It's for ladies to remove hair from their legs.’

She returned the product to the shelf and picked up a similar one but with a different brand name and manufacturer. ‘Does this have bleach in it?’ she asked again.

‘I don't know,’ I said, not looking at the ingredients. ‘But you're not going to buy hair-removing cream, Donna. You don't need it at your age.’

‘Chelsea uses it,’ she said.

‘Well, she's older than you. I guess at fifteen she might be removing the hair from her legs, but you haven't got any hair on your legs to remove.’ Even at fifteen I would have supervised a girl using these products, as they are
very strong and there was a long list of warnings and contraindications on the packet, and details of when and how one should or should not use them.

‘It's not for her hair,’ Donna said after some moments. Adrian and Paula were really fidgeting now.

I glanced again at the box. ‘This product is for hair removal, Donna. What else could she use it for?’

‘Whitening,’ she said.

I looked up. ‘Whitening? Whitening what?’

‘Some of the hair-removing creams have bleach in them and it can whiten your skin. Chelsea uses it on her face. It makes her lighter.’

Dear God, I thought! Whatever next? ‘Does your mother know she uses it for that?’ The answer to which I could have reasonably guessed.

‘Mum told her to. I want to buy some. Then I can be lighter like Chelsea.’

Chelsea had a different father and therefore different genes to Donna, but that was hardly the issue. ‘Absolutely not,’ I said and, returning the box to the shelf, I moved away from the display. ‘Donna, there is no way you are going to try to lighten your skin. You have inherited some of your looks from your dad and Granny Bajan, and you look lovely just as you are. Whatever would your dad and gran say if they knew? They'd have a fit, and so too would Edna. No way, Donna. You can spend your money another day on something else.’

I led the way out of the shop with Donna trailing behind, sulking. Adrian and Paula asked me what the matter was, and I said I would explain later. Had I been a black carer it would have been easier to try to persuade Donna to a better self-image because she would have had an immediate and
positive example to follow. This is one of the reasons children coming into care are placed with carers who reflect their ethnicity. But there is a permanent shortage of carers from ‘ethnic minorities’ where I live, despite repeated advertising campaigns. In the past I had successfully fostered black children and those with dual heritage but it was in cases like Donna's, where she had such a negative view of her skin colour, that I had the biggest challenge.

I decided that something I could do was to buy some magazines that were aimed at black women and teenagers, and would show Donna positive images of black women and girls. Donna often bought magazines with her pocket money but she usually chose
Girl Talk
,
Amy
or
Go Girl
, in which the pictures were mainly of white girls. She could still buy these magazines, but together with what I had in mind there would be a better balance.

Having left the chemist, we went up the high street and into the newsagent's, where I sifted through the shelves of magazines. Adrian stood smirking at the magazines on the top shelf, which showed pictures of women with their breasts exposed. I couldn't find any magazines catering specifically for black girls of her age, so I took down and looked through
Ebony
, which was aimed at black women, and
Young Voices
and
Right On
, which were aimed at black teenagers. Although the actual articles were a bit old for Donna, there was nothing inappropriate in them, and they contained lots of pictures and feature articles on black women and teenagers, all very positive. I decided to buy
Ebony
and
Young Voice
, and then I let Paula and Adrian choose a magazine each for themselves (though not from the top shelf), and Donna also wanted the latest edition of
Girl Talk.

In the car going home Donna had got over her sulk, and all three children were looking at their magazines, and also glancing at each other's. I would explain later to Adrian and Paula why I'd bought Donna two extra magazines, and why they featured only black women and girls, although I doubt they had even noticed. They were unaware of the issue of Donna's colour — to them she was their foster sister and they appeared to take for granted that she had a slightly darker skin tone and hair.

I had a good friend, Rose, who is dual heritage and that evening I phoned her and told her what Donna had wanted to buy in the chemist. ‘I didn't even know hair-removing cream had bleach in it,’ I said. ‘Did you, Rose?’

‘Yes. And unfortunately I know some women do use it to lighten their skin. There are also products on the market specifically to lighten skin tone, although I've never seen them in the shops around here. I think they're mail order.’

‘Really?’ I said, taken aback. ‘You don't use them, do you?’

‘No, of course not.’ She laughed. ‘Look, we're overdue for a coffee and a chat. Why don't you and the kids come over on Saturday? Daniel was saying only the other day he hadn't seen Adrian for a while, and Libby can educate Donna; they're about the same age.’

‘That would be great,’ I said, for obviously Daniel and Libby were well adjusted and proud of who they were and would be a good example to Donna. But I could only do so much, and the rest was a matter of time and giving Donna ongoing praise and encouragement.

Christmas was fast approaching, and by the end of the second week in December I had done most of the present buying and the four of us had decorated the house. Given what Donna's birthdays with her mother had been like, I hadn't dared ask her about her last Christmas.

Paula asked, though. ‘What did you have for Christmas last year?’ she said, as they wrote their Christmas cards for their school friends; Adrian had finished his and had left the table where we were working.