Читать книгу Too Scared to Tell: Part 2 of 3 - Cathy Glass, Cathy Glass - Страница 6

Whatever had happened between Roksana and Oskar to make them so cautious of each other? I wondered as I drove home from the Family Centre. It wasn’t normal. Having been separated for three weeks, neither of them had anything to say to each other and apparently felt nothing on being reunited. Or possibly they had felt plenty, but for whatever reason weren’t able to show their emotions, with neither willing to make the first move. Hopefully they were getting along better now.

I had just enough time to go home for half an hour before I had to leave to return to the Family Centre to collect Oskar. Paula arrived home while I was there and I left her instructions on when to put the fish pie I’d made earlier into the oven so it would be ready for dinner.

I arrived at the Family Centre five minutes early, signed the Visitors’ Book and then waited in the corridor. I knew that every minute was precious to families who are separated, so I never interrupted before their time was up. As I waited, I could hear children’s voices coming from other contact rooms and a baby crying. At exactly 5.30 p.m. I continued along the corridor to Green Room. The door was closed, so I knocked and went in. The silence hit me.

Andrew had gone, the contact supervisor was at the table, writing, and Oskar and his mother were sitting side by side on the sofa, close but not touching. I assumed that whatever they’d been playing with had been packed away, for clearly they hadn’t just been sitting there for one and a half hours.

As soon as Roksana saw me she stood and began putting on her coat. ‘Good, you’re here,’ she said intensely. ‘Can you give me a lift to work? I’m going to be late.’ Oskar remained sitting on the sofa.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t today,’ I said. ‘I’ll need Andrew’s permission and he won’t be in the office now. We can ask him tomorrow and perhaps I can help you out next time.’

She tutted, picked up her handbag and threw it over her shoulder, clearly stressed at being late for work.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I’ll ask Andrew, although if you explain the problem to him he may be able to alter the times of contact to fit around your work.’

‘I have to rush,’ she said and, throwing a kiss at the top of Oskar’s head, called goodbye as she ran out the door. Oskar stayed where he was on the sofa.

I would have liked to help her, but if she and Oskar were in my car it would have constituted a form of contact, so I needed Andrew’s permission. I knew that Roksana worked as a cleaner in various offices, and if they were on my way and Andrew agreed then I’d been happy to drop her off next time. Alternatively, as I’d suggested to her, contact arrangements might be adjusted to fit around her work, although the centre was only open from 9.00 a.m. to 5.30 p.m., Monday to Friday. I appreciated it was difficult for parents who worked full-time, but seeing their children was usually a priority.

Oskar stood, picked up his jacket and came to me, tucking his hand into mine. I gave it a reassuring squeeze said goodbye to the contact supervisor, and we left. ‘Did you have a nice time?’ I asked Oskar as we walked down the corridor.

He shrugged.

‘Did you play some games with your mother?’ I tried.

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ I signed out of the Visitors’ Book. ‘What did you play?’

‘The games you got from the shelf.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I can’t remember. What’s for dinner?’

‘Fish pie and green beans.’

Usually when I collected a child from contact they were brimming over with excitement, wanting to tell me what a fantastic time they’d had with their parents and then counting off the days until their next contact. Oskar didn’t mention seeing his mother all evening, and his reaction was worrying. I hoped I would be given some feedback from the contact. My experience in the past was that this was sporadic. Sometimes the social worker passed on feedback and other times they didn’t. It’s very useful if the foster carer is given a brief résumé of what happened in contact so we are better able to deal with any issues that may arise from it or questions the child might ask.

After dinner, when there was just Oskar and me in the living room, I asked him, ‘Were you happy to see your mother?’ For I really didn’t know.

‘Yes,’ he said, but his face was expressionless, as it often was.

‘Are you happy to see her again?’ I asked. It wouldn’t be his decision, but it was important we knew his feelings.

‘Yes, but she has to work,’ he replied, his voice flat.

‘I know, but she and Andrew can make some arrangements that suit her. It’s important you see each other, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’ he asked.

I hid my shock. Most children would know how important it was to see their parents.

‘I think so. She loves you, and you love her, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but she has to work,’ he said again. ‘Can I go to bed? I’m tired.’ Which was Oskar’s way of telling me he didn’t want to talk about his mother any more. But then he never wanted to talk about her.

I read him a bedtime story and took him up for his bath. That night I asked him – as I had been doing every night – if he wanted a goodnight kiss. To my surprise, he gave a small nod. ‘Here, like Mummy did,’ he said, pointing to the top of his head. I knew then how much that fleeting goodbye kiss from his mother had meant to him.

‘Does your mother kiss you goodnight?’ I asked.

‘No, she’s at work.’

‘What about your aunts and uncles?’

He shook his head.

‘So who sees you into bed?’

‘No one. I have a wash and get into my sleeping bag.’

A lump rose to my throat at the image of little Oskar, so young and vulnerable, taking himself off to his sleeping bag every night without a loving goodnight kiss or hug. ‘Do you want a hug as well?’ I asked as he snuggled down, but he shook his head shyly. I kissed the top of his head and, saying goodnight, came out and closed the door. It would be another month before he wanted a hug.

The following morning, the Guardian ad Litem (or Guardian as they are often referred to in child-care proceedings) telephoned me. Tamara Hastings had also been the Guardian for the two children I’d looked after just before Oskar and whose story I tell in Innocent.

‘I thought I recognized your name,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well, thank you, and you?’

‘Yes, good. How is Oskar settling in?’

I told her more or less what I’d told Andrew, so she was up to date. We didn’t discuss the previous case as it wouldn’t have been appropriate. The Guardian is usually a qualified social worker and is appointed by the court in child-care proceedings for the duration of the case. They are independent of the social services but have access to all the files. They see all parties involved in the case, including the children, their parents and social services, and report to the judge on what is in the best interests of the child. The judge usually follows their recommendation.

Once I’d finished updating her, she made an appointment to visit us after school the following Monday. I noted it in my diary.

Andrew telephoned that afternoon and asked how Oskar had been after contact. He said he had stayed for half an hour and had also spoken to the contact supervisor this morning. I said Oskar had been quiet but that wasn’t unusual, and when I asked him what he and his mother had done he said they’d played with some board games. I then paraphrased the rest of what Oskar had said, including his comments about his mother working.

‘It appears that Roksana has always worked very long hours,’ Andrew said. ‘It may have impacted on their relationship. I appreciate that supervised contact isn’t a natural environment, but Roksana struggled to relate to her son and he to her. The contact supervisor said that Roksana was very worried about being late for work and mentioned this a few times, which worried Oskar.’

‘Yes, he told me that. I think Roksana is going to ask you about changing the times of contact.’

‘I haven’t spoken to her yet today, but I’m proposing contact will be three times a week, four to five-thirty. I’ve left a message on her voicemail to phone me. I think she’s seeing her solicitor this afternoon. If you don’t hear from me, assume the next contact will be on Friday at four o’clock.’

I made a note. ‘Roksana asked me if I could give her a lift to work after contact. I told her she’d need to speak to you first.’

‘OK, I’ll talk to her and let you know. Has Oskar said anything about his uncle hitting him?’

‘No.’

‘The contact supervisor said Roksana told Oskar not to say bad things about his uncles.’

‘I see. No, he hasn’t said anything to me.’

‘OK. Thank you.’

Roksana should have known better than to say that at contact. One of the reasons contact is supervised when there has been an allegation of abuse and care proceedings are current is to stop a parent threatening or coercing their child into withdrawing an allegation. Roksana wasn’t doing herself any favours.

An hour later Andrew telephoned again. I was now in the playground, waiting for the end of school. I moved away from the others so I couldn’t be overheard.

‘I’ve spoken to Roksana,’ Andrew said. ‘Because of her work commitments she can only see Oskar on Tuesday and Thursday for an hour – from four to five. Then she has to start the evening shift. I’ve checked with the Family Centre and there is a room free then. She has asked for phone contact on the other days, which I have agreed to, but I would like you to supervise it, so put your phone on speaker.’

‘All right. When does this new arrangement begin?’

‘Start the phone contact this evening, and then they will see each other next Tuesday and Thursday. Do you have Roksana’s mobile number?’

‘Yes, it’s in the placement information forms. What time should Oskar phone her?’ I asked.

‘Between five and five-thirty is good for her, or after ten, but I’m guessing Oskar will be in bed by then.’

‘Yes, he goes up around seven. And the lift home she wanted?’

‘It won’t be necessary with these new arrangements.’

‘OK.’

I ended the call with a heavy heart. A parent who was fighting to get their child back should be demanding more contact, not less. Andrew had offered Roksana three ninety-minute sessions a week and she’d cut it to two sessions of an hour each. Yes, she had to work and she was gaining phone contact, but it wouldn’t be viewed in a positive light. The inference could be drawn that if Roksana wasn’t able to make time to see her child while he was in care then she was unlikely to have the time to successfully parent him if he was returned to her.

I obviously didn’t tell Oskar this when he came out of school. I began by asking him if he’d had a good day, and he replied, ‘Yes. I like school.’

‘Excellent.’

As we walked to the car I told him I’d spoken to Andrew and then explained the new contact arrangements in a positive light. ‘So you will be seeing your mother twice a week and speaking to her on the phone on the other days,’ I said.

‘Will I have to speak to my uncles?’ he asked quietly.

‘No. Just your mother.’ I unlocked the car door. ‘Why? Do you want to speak to your uncles?’

‘No.’

Before I started the engine, I swivelled round in my seat so I could see Oskar. ‘I’ve looked after a lot of children,’ I said. ‘And I get a sense when something is wrong. If there is anything worrying you, I think it would help if you could tell me.’

He shrugged.

‘I know when you saw Mummy yesterday she asked you not to talk about when your uncle slapped you, but it is important you tell.’

‘He did slap me!’ Oskar blurted. ‘I told Miss Jordan the truth.’

‘Yes, I believe you, so did she.’

‘Mummy doesn’t,’ he said, his face falling. ‘She thinks I made it up.’

‘I know, it’s difficult for her. Why do you think she would say that?’ I asked.

‘Because I don’t like being left alone with those men. Some are nice, but others aren’t.’ It was the most Oskar had said and I wanted to learn as much as possible before he clammed up again.

‘Which men are nice?’ I asked.

‘Uncle Nowak.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Some are OK.’

‘Who isn’t nice?’

Silence.

‘Do you know their names?’

He looked thoughtful and then shook his head. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘OK. If you do, tell me, please.’

Andrew had said we should telephone Roksana between 5.00 and 5.30, so shortly after 5.00, with Oskar sitting beside me, I made the call, blocking the caller identity on my landline. Roksana wasn’t to be given my contact details. It went through to voicemail, so I left a message. ‘Hello, it’s Cathy, Oskar’s carer. Andrew said to phone. I’ll call you back in ten minutes.’ I knew that many people didn’t answer their phones if the number was withheld. I explained this to Oskar.

Ten minutes later I called again and Roksana answered straight away. ‘It’s Cathy. Oskar is here, ready to talk to you.’

‘Andrew said you were going to listen in,’ she said. ‘Are you recording this call?’

‘No, it’s just on speakerphone. Only Oskar and I are present.’

I passed the phone to Oskar. I’d had to supervise phone contact before and it’s never easy to begin with. I felt uncomfortable listening in and obviously it’s not nice for the parents, but this was worse than most. I didn’t know if it was the fact that Roksana knew I was listening or whether their conversation would have been stilted anyway, but they hardly said a word to each other, so that I was left wondering if Roksana knew how to engage with her son at all.

‘Oskar, it’s Mummy.’

‘Yes.’

Pause. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Yes.’

Another pause. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’

More silence. ‘I’m going to work now.’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell Mummy about school,’ I prompted Oskar.

‘I went to school,’ he said uninspiringly.

‘I know. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Be good. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

The line went dead and Oskar passed the phone back to me. It was probably the shortest, saddest telephone conversation I’d ever heard between a mother and her son. There was so much they could have said. Clearly it wasn’t only Roksana who’d had difficulty in talking; Oskar had been equally inhibited. However, as the parent, Roksana bore the responsibility for trying to engage with him, if she knew how, which I was doubting. Most parents, even those who have neglected or abused their children, can talk to them on the phone. In the past I’d often had to wind up a conversation or it would have gone on all night. I hoped that the next telephone contact – on Friday – would be better.

It was no different. Then, on Saturday evening, Oskar refused to speak to his mother at all and went to his bedroom. I explained to Roksana as tactfully as I could that Oskar didn’t feel able to talk to her right now, and I didn’t think it wise to insist.

‘It’s OK,’ she said, far too accepting.

‘We’ll try again tomorrow. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault. He can be like that sometimes.’ Most parents would have blamed me.

That night, I tried talking to Oskar about his mother and the phone calls, his life at home with her and whether there was anything worrying him, but I got no further than I had all the other times. Nods, shrugs and silence.