Читать книгу Damaged, A Baby’s Cry and The Night the Angels Came 3-in-1 Collection - Cathy Glass, Cathy Glass - Страница 32

It was mid-January. After a brief lull, the weather had turned bitterly cold, and we had three full days of snow. Jodie relished the excitement, and on the few occasions when I couldn’t immediately take her out into the snow, she would gaze out of the window, transfixed.

The children’s moods had lifted too. Now that they were back at school they seemed to have found a new burst of empathy for Jodie. Paula, in particular, appeared to have benefited from venting her frustrations before Christmas. We hadn’t actually arranged the sleepover yet, but she had had a number of friends round, and had made a point of encouraging Jodie to join in as part of the group, bless her.

One such afternoon Paula’s friend Olivia came for lunch, and they decided to go for a walk in the snow. My street is on the rim of a large valley, and the views are quite spectacular. Jodie pouted when she realized they were leaving, so Paula asked if Jodie and I would like to join them. Jodie was thrilled, so the four of us wrapped ourselves in coats, scarves and boots, and headed out.

As we walked up towards the high street, Paula and I each took one of Jodie’s hands, as the pavement was icy. However, despite our best efforts Jodie kept slipping over, each time falling on her bottom. The third time it happened, she remained sitting on the pavement. She crossed her arms, rolled her eyes, and sighed theatrically, ‘Here we go again!’

Paula and I grinned at each other in delight. Jodie’s usual response to this kind of adversity would have been a bitter tirade: ‘Who put that bloody ice there? Why are they doing that to me? It’s your fault! Hate you!’ and so on. Instead, she’d seen the funny side, and actively made an effort to try to make us laugh. It might not sound like much, but for us it felt like progress, and we joined in gratefully.

Jodie’s first day of school was approaching, so I took her shopping for her new school uniform. We bought two navy skirts, two jumpers with the school logo printed on them, and three white short-sleeved shirts. Jodie had behaved well in the shop, enjoying the attention, but she became angry when I opted for knee-length socks rather than tights. She wanted to have tights like Lucy and Paula wore, but I knew she’d have difficulty putting them on again after P. E. In the end, I came up with a sensible compromise, and bought Jodie a pair of white, lacy tights that she could wear at weekends.

As we arrived home, Jill phoned and told me apologetically that the couple she had been considering for respite wouldn’t be able to do it. Reason left unstated.

‘Great,’ I said tetchily. ‘I’m promised regular breaks because of the high level of Jodie’s needs, but because of that high level of needs it’s impossible to find a carer.’

‘I’m sorry, Cathy. I’ll keep looking.’

‘Yes, please do. Outside the agency if necessary.’ What I meant by this was that Jill should approach a different fostering agency for a carer. This wasn’t ideal, as standards varied, and the carers could be some distance away, but it was only one weekend and I needed a break.

On the Friday of that week we had arranged a visit to Jodie’s new school. The visit wasn’t till the afternoon, but Jodie was up early, as usual, and she immediately got dressed in her new uniform. I didn’t think this was a good idea, but I was anxious to avoid any unnecessary confrontation, so I let her keep it on, and tucked an apron round her while she ate. Despite my efforts, by the time she’d had her breakfast and lunch her uniform contained a good helping of both. I sponged off the stains as best I could, and we arrived at the school gates looking reasonably smart for the afternoon session.

Abbey Green hadn’t been my first choice, but as we arrived I was immediately impressed. The small, carpeted reception area was bright and welcoming, and the smiling receptionist greeted us warmly.

‘Hello there, Jodie. It’s very nice to meet you,’ she said, and then phoned through to the Head, who appeared with courteous promptness.

‘Adam West,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘Hi, Jodie. Very pleased you can join us.’

He could only have been in his mid-thirties, but his friendly, informal manner quickly put me at ease. ‘I thought we’d start with a tour of the school, then you can spend some time with Jodie’s class, if that sounds all right?’

‘Fine,’ I said, then turned to Jodie. ‘That sounds good, doesn’t it?’ She hid behind me, clinging to my skirt, all her bravado evaporated.

He led the way through the double doors and along a short corridor. ‘There are six classrooms leading off the main hall,’ he explained, ‘which doubles as a canteen and gym.’ As we went in, I could smell the residue of boiled greens and gravy, one constant factor shared by thousands of schools all over the country. The walls of the hall, like those of the corridors, were lined with examples of the children’s work, and Mr West proudly described the various projects that had inspired this work. There were paintings, drawings, essays, poems and computer printouts, all based on a handful of themes, such as faraway lands, water, animals and designing a house. He was so enthusiastic and child-centred in his approach that I thought to myself: if this school can’t cater for Jodie’s needs, then no one can.

We arrived at Jodie’s classroom, and the Head knocked before we went in. A sea of faces looked up curiously, before returning to their work.

‘Caroline Smith,’ he said, leading us to the class teacher. ‘This is Cathy Glass, and this is Jodie.’ We shook hands. ‘The lady over there is Mrs Rice, the classroom assistant. She’ll be helping Jodie.’

I glanced over to the table and smiled. Mrs Rice was a homely woman in her early fifties, wearing a floral patterned dress. She gave us a little wave. Jodie’s confidence had increased during the tour, and she started wandering between the tables, peering over the children’s shoulders. One boy shifted uncomfortably.

‘Jodie, come here,’ I called. But she ignored me.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘They’re just finishing a piece of creative writing from our literacy hour. She can look.’

Mr West took his leave. ‘If you have any questions, I’ll be in my office at the end of the day.’

I thanked him, then spent some minutes with Mrs Smith, as she explained how the tables were grouped. She suggested I have a look around, so I did, feeling intrusively conspicuous. I felt like a giant as I walked among the miniature tables and chairs. The blue group was obviously the brightest; their writing was neat and detailed, with few grammatical mistakes. Mrs Rice’s table, the orange group, was a different matter. These children were struggling to produce a handful of legible lines, and their work was full of corrections. Nonetheless, even the weakest of these was well above Jodie’s standard. Jodie could barely write her own name.

‘Would you like to join your table now?’ Mrs Smith called to Jodie, from across the room. ‘The spare chair beside Mrs Rice is your place.’ Her request was gentle but firm. Jodie, who apparently wasn’t quite ready, sized her up. I could see Jodie had one of her take-me-on-if-you-dare expressions, and my heart was in my mouth. Not now, Jodie, I thought, please let’s not have a refusal and a tantrum on your first visit.

Now the other children were looking too; presumably they were used to responding immediately to any request from their teacher. Jodie stared at Mrs Smith, but then, to my relief, she lowered her gaze and plodded heavily over, flopping in her chair with a dramatic sigh.

Mrs Rice gave Jodie a pencil and paper. I crept round the edge of the room and perched myself on a stool by the window. The classroom overlooked the playground, and an older class was in the middle of a P.E. lesson. The room was quiet save for the occasional scraping of a chair and the hushed voice of Mrs Rice giving assistance to her group. I noticed that there were more boys than girls, and wondered whether, with their friendships already established, the girls would allow Jodie in. The poor girl needed to make friends just as much as she needed the education, and children can be very forgiving if they feel it’s justified.

The children finished their essays, and Mrs Smith asked who would like to read one out. Half a dozen hands shot up, including Jodie’s. A boy called James was chosen first, and he’d written about the night-time adventures of a fox called Lance. The story had a clear structure, and used lots of adjectives, and when he was finished the other pupils gave him a big round of applause. Next came Susie, whose story cleverly centred around the observations of a wise owl, from his vantage point high up in the trees. I gathered, from the content of the essays, that they’d been told to write about nocturnal animals. Susie was given her round of applause, and the teacher said they had time for one more. Jodie’s hand flew up again, waving for all she was worth.

Mrs Smith exchanged a glance with Mrs Rice. ‘Come on then, Jodie. Let’s hear yours.’

I cringed with embarrassment; I could see she’d only produced a handful of scribbles. ‘Class, this is Jodie,’ said the teacher. ‘She’ll be joining us from Monday.’

Jodie stood up, and proudly held the paper at eye level, as she’d seen the others do. She pretended to read loudly and confidently, but her story was simply a string of unrelated words, punctuated by the occasional ‘owl’ and ‘fox’, with nothing intelligible in between.

’I saw the fox, to see, and I say don’t, and the fox was him, and he … No. And then the owl. Where he was … He got far, and Mr Owl. Watch it. I told you, over there. So the fox went and in the night, you see, I said! Then they went. Then the fox was at night and the owl, but he was not, and I said. So I go to fox, and the owl …’

Fortunately Jodie was oblivious to the nonsense she was producing. I looked at the blank stares of the other children, and prayed they wouldn’t laugh. After a couple of minutes, with no end in sight, the teacher thanked Jodie and told her to sit down. There was no applause, but neither was there any sniggering, and for that I was truly grateful. Jodie didn’t appear to notice anything amiss at all – in fact, she was full of high spirits and rather triumphant.

The last hour was given over to self-chosen activities, during which the children worked on any aspect they liked of the topics covered during the week. I walked round the classroom once more. Some of the children were on the computers, adeptly cutting and pasting, while others were devising crosswords, stories, or producing pictures to complement their writing. Jodie was drawing a series of large boxes, and colouring them orange, blue, green, red and yellow. She explained to me that these were the class’s different groups. I praised her, impressed that she’d picked up this much, then I wrote the names of the colours beneath them for her. Five minutes before the bell, the children packed away their things, and sat on the carpet in front of the teacher. They chanted, ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Smith!’ and the teacher wished them a happy weekend. As they collected their bags and coats and filed out, the teacher asked Jodie how she’d enjoyed her first afternoon.

‘Brilliant,’ she said. ‘I want to come every day. For ever and ever!’