Читать книгу Cruel to Be Kind: Part 3 of 3: Saying no can save a child’s life - Cathy Glass, Cathy Glass - Страница 8

I drove home with a very heavy heart and my thoughts coursing with all that I’d seen and heard at Max’s house. The living and kitchen area could have done with a good clean and tidy, but it wasn’t the worst I’d seen – far from it. I was irritated that Caz had been leaving Max bags of sweets as treats in his bedroom when she had agreed to him being on a diet. I assumed this was because she was still refusing to truly acknowledge and address the connection between over-eating and obesity, so giving Max sweets wouldn’t be seen as counterproductive to his diet. Of course she would want to treat him, but to be honest, from what I knew, I thought the best treat she could give him was her company: to find time to sit and talk with him about what he’d been doing and was interested in, or play a card or board game, instead of letting him go to his bedroom every visit.

But the thoughts that dominated most and were of greatest concern were those of abuse: all those years when Caz had been raped by her stepfather, and now Dan’s abuse of Paris. Caz was afraid of Dan; it had shown in her eyes and demeanour when he’d come home unexpectedly. A woman who is afraid of her partner is not going to be able to stand up to him and protect her children. What was she going to do? Not throw him out. She’d said herself she couldn’t manage without him. The dismissive language she’d used when describing his abuse of Paris had a normalizing element: ‘He was always making comments about her breasts … he kept going into her bedroom without knocking … Anyway, she woke to find … his hand on her breast.’ It had fallen to Paris’s boyfriend to fit a lock on her bedroom door. Also, when Caz had told me of the terrible abuse she’d suffered at the hands of her stepfather I noticed she hadn’t used the term rape, but had said her stepfather had been having sex with her. This has a different connotation and implies that it was in some way consensual, which rape never is.

Last but not least in my doom-laden thoughts was that as Caz was the victim of domestic violence so, too, were her children. What parents often don’t realize is that domestic violence has as much – if not a greater – impact on their children as it does on the adult victim. Children, scared witless, have to stand by and watch their parent being abused and are powerless to intervene and protect them. It often leaves a lasting legacy and the social services view domestic violence as a form of child abuse in itself, with grounds for removing the child from the home.

Deep in thought, I suddenly found myself outside my house and I pulled onto the driveway. Max hadn’t said anything during the journey home either.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked, glancing at him in the mirror.

He nodded, but as we got out he said, ‘It’s strange without Adrian and Paula.’

‘Yes, it is,’ I agreed.

I unlocked the front door and as we went in Max passed me his bag of sweets for safekeeping. ‘I think I’ve had enough today,’ he said.

‘Good boy. You can have some more tomorrow.’

It was even stranger in the house without Adrian and Paula than it had been in the car, and to be honest I didn’t like it. Max didn’t either. ‘Four sleeps until they’re home again,’ he said gloomily. Adrian and Paula were either side of his age, so he always had someone to play with.

‘Roll on Sunday when we collect them,’ I said, then caught myself. ‘But we are going to have a nice time before then. Think about what you would like to do. Tomorrow we just have the morning, as you have contact in the afternoon, so we can go somewhere close.’

‘Library?’ he suggested, without giving it much thought.

‘Or would you like to go to a museum? There is a small one not far from here.’

His eyes lit up. ‘Yes. I like museums. I went to one with the school on a coach.’

‘That’ll be the City museum. This is a smaller one, not far away and worth a visit.’

‘Can I take my sweets with me?’ he asked.

I smiled. ‘Yes, a few. And we could have lunch out. There’s a café next to the museum.’ I had brightened, too, at the prospect of an enjoyable day out rather than sitting at home, missing Adrian and Paula. Although I would have liked them to come too, I knew they were having a fantastic time with their grandparents. I’d phone them in the morning to say hi.

Max had a bath and then read in bed while I went downstairs and wrote up my log notes. I included the details of contact and what Caz had told me, using her words as far as possible when she’d described Dan’s sexual abuse of Paris. Once I’d finished I returned the folder to the lockable drawer in the front room. Max sometimes fell asleep with the light on and his book open on his bed, so I always checked on him after an hour. Sometimes he was still awake and I had to tell him it was time to go to sleep or he would be tired in the morning, but tonight he was fast asleep. Flat on his back, snoring lightly, his cherub-like features relaxed in sleep. My heart went out to him, as it often did; he was such a lovable, unassuming and good-natured child who asked for very little. Odd that in so many ways he was very different from the rest of his family, although I could see a likeness, especially between Max and his mother. His sisters clearly cared for him, but I didn’t see a lot of warmth from Caz, but then, of course, she was having to deal with a lot of problems of her own, including being abused and her present poor health and limited mobility.

I placed the book Max had been reading quietly on his bedside cabinet, repositioned Buzz Lightyear so that his arm wasn’t digging into Max and then came out of his room, drawing the door to behind me. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought Max’s snoring was becoming less pronounced. I doubted he’d lost enough weight to make a significant difference, but the time he was spending playing outside in the fresh air would certainly be helping, as would living in a smoke-free household.

Despite ending the day on a positive note, I didn’t sleep well that night. As soon as I lay down Caz’s words about abuse came back to haunt me. All those years of suffering – from the age of nine. How had she survived? It was horrendous. Little wonder she’d taken to comfort eating – it had probably been her only solace. I assumed from what she’d said that her stepfather had died before he had been brought to justice. Had his death allowed her some closure or had it left a gaping wound? Some survivors of abuse find that seeing their abuser prosecuted helps set them on the road to recovery, but Caz had been denied that. My thoughts then went again to Paris and what Caz had said about Dan’s abuse of her. Summer had told me in the car when I’d given her a lift home from the hospital that Paris was their father’s favourite. Apart from thinking that a parent shouldn’t show favouritism, I hadn’t given it any more thought. It certainly hadn’t crossed my mind that there was a darker, more sinister implication. Were Kelly and Summer aware of their father’s abuse of their sister? If so, had they been told not to say anything? When I’d told Caz that Jo needed to know she’d agreed – too readily, I thought – but what if she didn’t tell her? Jo had to know. I’d never forgive myself if Dan’s abuse wasn’t reported and he went on to do it again or was even still abusing her now. I shivered at the possibility. As well as feeling responsible on a personal level to report the abuse, I had a duty as a foster carer to report any safeguarding issues. It was a part of fostering I didn’t like, but it had to be done. The social services would then decide what action, if any, needed to be taken.

After a restless night I rose early, fed Toscha, got the laundry on, had breakfast with Max and then at nine o’clock settled him with some puzzles at the table in the kitchen-cum-diner, while I went into the living room to use the phone. Jill and Jo had both returned from their holidays now, although I hadn’t heard from either of them. I knew there would be staff at the fostering agency, so I phoned there. A colleague of Jill’s answered and passed the phone to her.

‘Sorry, Cathy,’ Jill said straight away. ‘I was going to call you later. It’s been manic here since I got back.’

‘Don’t worry. Did you have a good holiday?’

‘Yes, but the day we returned my son managed to fall out of a tree and break his arm. Today is my first day back at work.’

‘Oh dear, I am sorry to hear that. How is he?’

‘Fine now. He thinks it’s great fun having a plaster cast on his arm, although he was in a lot of pain at the time. Just as well it wasn’t a foster child or I’d have had a lot of explaining to do!’

Jill was right. If your own child accidentally hurts themselves you’re obviously concerned, you seek medical help and possibly blame yourself for not being more vigilant, but that’s usually where it ends. When a foster child has an accident there are wider ramifications. As well as informing the fostering agency of the incident as soon as possible, it has to be entered in detail in the carer’s log, then an accident report form has to be completed, a copy of which is sent to the agency and the child’s social worker. The child is spoken to by their social worker to check that your account tallies with theirs, and if there are any inconsistencies or a suggestion that the carer(s) may have been negligent then more questions will be asked and their safer-caring policy reviewed. If doubts remain, the carers could be suspended from fostering or even barred completely, although this is unusual. In addition, the child’s parents, already angry and upset at having their child in care, are often quick to blame the carer for negligence or even of intentionally harming the child. It’s extremely stressful and worrying for the carer(s), who are probably already blaming themselves. Consequently some activities – for example, contact sports – are not usually offered to foster children to minimize the risk of an accident. The children are kept ultra-safe – safer than the carer’s own children.

‘So are you having a nice summer?’ Jill asked.

‘Yes. We’ve having some days out and activities at home on the other days. Adrian and Paula are staying with their grandparents for a few days just now. I collect them on Sunday.’ I wasn’t just making conversation; Jill, as my supervising social worker, should know what we were doing and of any changes in my household, even temporary ones.

‘They’ll enjoy that,’ she said.

‘Yes. Jill, there is something I need to make you aware of in respect of Max.’

‘Yes. Go ahead. What is it?’

‘Yesterday evening, when I took him for contact, only his mother was at home and she invited me in.’

‘That’s progress.’

‘Yes. In a way. Unfortunately her other foot is causing problems now and she may need another operation; her mobility is very limited. I made her a cup of tea and sat with her. She wanted to talk and at one point she was quite upset. She told me she’d been badly abused as a child by her stepfather, who has since died. She also said that her husband, Dan, the children’s father, has been making comments about Paris’s breasts and one night he’d gone into her bedroom and touched her breasts.’ I heard Jill take a sharp breath.

I continued by telling Jill all that Caz had told me and Summer’s comment about Paris being their father’s favourite. I then said that Caz had admitted Dan hit her sometimes, and I’d seen how scared she was of him when he’d suddenly arrived home unexpectedly.

‘Thanks, Cathy,’ Jill said as I finished. ‘I know there are some ongoing safeguarding concerns around the amount of supervision the children have at home, but I’m sure Jo isn’t aware of Paris’s allegation against her father. Nor of the domestic violence. Indeed, the last I heard the care plan was to return Max home before the start of the new school term.’ She was silent for a moment, then, ‘Max hasn’t said anything to you about his father’s behaviour?’

‘No. He hardly talks about his family.’

‘All right. I’ll phone Jo now. She’ll probably want to speak to you later.’

We said goodbye and I replaced the receiver with some relief that I’d made the call. It was out of my hands now. Jo and the social services would investigate further and take any necessary action.

I went to check on Max doing his puzzle at the table and told him I was going to quickly phone Adrian and Paula, then we’d go to the museum.

‘Can I talk to them?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course, love.’

Leaving the puzzle on the table, he came with me into the living room and sat beside me on the sofa. I keyed in my parents’ telephone number and Dad answered. Even before I asked he said that Adrian and Paula were fine and keeping them busy. Mum was making them all a cooked breakfast before they went out for the day. He called Adrian to the phone first. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he said.

‘Hi, love. How are you?’

‘Great. Nana and Grandpa are taking us to a model village today. It has a real working train set.’ I could hear the excitement in his voice. I knew the place he meant; we’d been there some years before when he’d been much younger. The model village was the life’s work of a railway enthusiast. It was situated in his back garden and he had opened it to the public to raise money for charity. Adrian then asked how Max was, so I put him on and Max said a shy and polite, ‘Hello, Adrian. How are you?’

They only spoke for a few moments. Max seemed a bit awkward and self-conscious using the phone, so I guessed he hadn’t had much opportunity to use it at home. But he was satisfied and smiled as he passed the handset back to me. My father then put Paula on to speak and she said, almost in a whisper, ‘I miss you lots, Mummy,’ which choked me up.

‘I miss you too, love,’ I said. ‘But you’re having a nice time at Nana and Grandpa’s, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but I still miss you. I told Nana I missed you last night when it was bedtime so she read me lots of stories and cuddled me until I went to sleep.’

‘Good. So that was fine then, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. Nana is cooking eggs and sausage. Can you smell it?’

I smiled. ‘No, love, not down the phone. But I’m sure it smells and tastes delicious.’

‘Can I speak to Max like Adrian did?’ she asked, not wanting to be left out.

‘Yes, of course. He’d like that.’

I passed the phone to Max again and in his best telephone voice he said, ‘Hello, Paula, how are you?’

She must have said well for then he said, ‘I am well too.’ And handed the phone back to me. ‘She’s gone to have breakfast,’ he said.

Dad came to the phone and I thanked him for all he and my mother were doing, said I hoped the children weren’t wearing them out and wished them a pleasant day.

Before Max and I left for the museum I locked the back door, put Toscha out for a run and remembered the bag of fruit for Max to take to contact, as there wouldn’t be time to return home after we’d been to the museum.

The museum is on the other side of town. It’s only small and is staffed mainly by part-time elderly volunteers who are happy to explain all about the artefacts on display, many of which were discovered locally. Max loved it, as I thought he would. He liked facts and history and this was history coming alive. Children can complete a questionnaire if they wish, the answers to which are somewhere in the museum; for example, What was a corn flail used for? The answer was on a card beside the exhibit: The corn flail was used to separate the grain from the husk, circa 1850. The children were awarded a sticker at the end for completing the questionnaire.

At one o’clock we left the museum and went next door to the café for lunch, and from there I drove straight to Max’s home for contact. It was with some nervousness and trepidation that I approached their house and then rang the doorbell. Had Jo had time to speak to Caz about the concerns I’d reported, and if so, how had she taken it? I was expecting the worst and when Kelly answered the door and said, ‘Mum wants to talk to you,’ I assumed my fears were about to be realized.

With mounting anxiety, I followed Kelly down the dark hall (the light bulb hadn’t been replaced) and into the living room. To my surprise, Caz was sitting in her armchair with her feet up, watching the television. ‘Hello, Caz,’ I said tentatively.

‘Hi,’ she called. ‘I love this programme.’ Without taking her eyes from the screen, she waved for me to go over. I crossed to her chair. Meanwhile, Max had put the fruit on the work surface in the kitchen and Kelly was eating it.

‘Can you do me a favour?’ Caz asked, her gaze momentarily shifting from the screen as she passed me a slip of paper. ‘That’s the name and address of Max’s dentist. He has an appointment next week. Can you take him? I won’t be able to.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said, relieved. ‘Anything else?’

‘He could do with a haircut.’

‘Yes, I agree. I was going to ask you about that. I’ll take him to our barbers.’ Carers should generally ask the parent first if they can take the child to have their hair cut, as it can be a contentious issue. A child suddenly arriving at contact with a haircut, new hairstyle, or wearing new clothes or shoes are stark reminders to the parent that they are no longer looking after their child.

‘Is there anything else?’ I asked.

‘No.’ Her gaze had returned to the television and she laughed heartily. ‘I love this programme,’ she said again. I felt dreadful, for clearly she hadn’t been told of the concerns, and I knew her happiness would be very short-lived.