Читать книгу Damaged: The Heartbreaking True Story of a Forgotten Child - Cathy Glass, Cathy Glass - Страница 13

‘You mustn’t thump, kick, bite or push,’ I said, for the third time that morning. ‘Not Lucy, Paula, me or anyone. It hurts. It’s bad. Do you understand?’

She said nothing. It was nearly 11.30 on Saturday, the day after Jodie had arrived, and the girls had come downstairs after their weekend lie-in. Lucy was greeted with a kick from Jodie.

‘I don’t want to have to tell you again, Jodie. Do I make myself clear?’

She pulled a face and stomped off down the hall.

‘Sorry, Lucy,’ I said. Lucy shrugged. We all knew there was not much to be done about Jodie’s vicious behaviour except to keep reinforcing that it was bad and that she mustn’t do it.

A moment later Jodie reappeared, her fists clenched and flaying the air. ‘It’s them! I’ll kick you to death! Get out! I hate you all!’

Her eyes blazed as she tried to kick Paula this time, who deftly stepped out of the way. I went towards her, and avoided the kick aimed at me. ‘Jodie,’ I said evenly, ‘Jodie. Calm down and come here.’

She screamed, then dropped to her knees and started thumping her face and head viciously. She badly wanted to hurt herself. As Jodie pounded her head with her fists, I knelt down behind her and took hold of her arms, crossing them in front of her body. She was still screaming, and her legs were thrashing, but with her arms enfolded she couldn’t harm herself or me. I held her close, so that her back was resting against my chest. The screaming and thrashing reached a peak, and then eventually subsided. I waited patiently until she was calm, then slowly relaxed my hold.

‘OK?’ I asked gently, before I finally let go.

She nodded, and I turned her round to face me. We were both still on the floor. Her cheeks were red and blotchy, and she looked surprised, probably because I’d managed her anger, rather than fleeing for safety into another room. A moment later I helped her up, then took her into the kitchen, where I sponged her face and gave her a drink. She was calm now, calmer than I’d seen her since she first arrived. I hoped she’d got something out of her system.

Paula reappeared in the kitchen. ‘Jodie, would you like to do a jigsaw puzzle with me?’ she asked casually.

‘That’s a lovely idea,’ I said, amazed at Paula’s resilience and generosity. She understood that Jodie’s violent behaviour wasn’t directed at her personally; Jodie wanted to strike out at the whole world because she was hurting so much, and whoever was standing in her way would bear the brunt of her pain. Paula could sense this, and was prepared to forget and offer friendship and time. I was very proud of her.

‘Shall we go to the cupboard and choose one?’ Paula asked.

We found a jigsaw and went through to the lounge, where Paula and Jodie settled down to assemble the puzzle. I left them to it and returned to the kitchen to prepare lunch. I could hear Paula suggesting where the pieces should go, and Jodie replying, ‘That’s it, my girl. You can do it.’ She was like a little old woman, but at least she was relating to Paula in a positive way.

With her short attention span, it didn’t take long for Jodie to become bored, so Paula laid out some paper on the kitchen table, and tried to help her paint, while I made a cup of tea. Jodie could barely grip the paintbrush, and couldn’t grasp the concept of painting a picture ‘of ’ something.

‘What’s that you’re painting, Jodie?’ Paula asked.

‘Dark.’

‘Is it a sheep, or a horse? That looks a bit like a big horse.’

Jodie didn’t respond, intent on her clumsy project.

‘Maybe you could paint the sky with this nice blue?’

‘No. Black,’ Jodie said.

Despite Paula’s encouragement, Jodie continued to paint nothing but large, dark splodges, with no interest in the other colours, and no apparent desire for the paintings to represent anything. I’d seen this before; children who have been abused and are hurting sometimes only use very dark colours. It’s as if their senses have shut down and they don’t notice anything about the world around them, so they don’t see colours and shapes in the same way normal children do.

We ate lunch in relative calm, although it felt more like dinner to me, having been up for so long. The peace lasted into the afternoon, and I thought now would be a good time to take the photograph of Jodie that was required for the Social Services’ records. I fetched my camera, and explained to Jodie why I was taking it.

‘Is it all right to take your picture, sweet?’ I asked. It was important to give Jodie as much control as possible, to increase her feeling of stability and security.

She shrugged, which I decided to take as consent. Paula moved to one side, so I had just Jodie in the picture. I looked through the lens, and framed her head and shoulders against the wall, centring her in the viewfinder.

‘You can smile, Jodie,’ I said. She was looking very stern.

I saw her mouth pucker to a sheepish grin, then an arm came up, and she disappeared from view. ‘Very funny, Jodie. Come on, stand still.’ I was still looking through the lens. Then her other arm came up, and with it her jumper.

I lowered the camera. ‘Jodie, what are you doing?’

‘Taking off my clothes.’

‘Why?’ asked Paula, and quickly pulled Jodie’s top back into place.

She didn’t answer. She was staring at me, but not scowling, so I quickly took the photograph and closed the camera. ‘Jodie, we don’t normally take our clothes off for a photograph,’ I said. ‘Why did you do that?’

She took a piece of the jigsaw and tried to place it. ‘Want to,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘Want to. My clothes.’

‘I know, sweet, but why take them off for a photograph? I didn’t ask you to.’

She turned to Paula. ‘You helping, girl, or not?’

I smiled at Paula, and nodded for her to continue. I went over to my filing cabinet under the stairs and unlocked it. I wasn’t going to jump to conclusions about Jodie’s behaviour, but I had to make a note of it in the log. I took out the desk diary that the fostering agency had supplied and settled down to write everything that had happened so far. The ‘log’ is a daily record of a child’s progress, and is something that all foster carers keep. It is used to update the social workers and to monitor the child’s progress, and it’s sometimes used as evidence during care proceedings in court. I was assiduous about keeping it up to date because I knew only too well how one incident could blend into another and how disturbed nights could all seem the same after a while. Detail was important: only with careful notes could a pattern of behaviour start to emerge. I made a note of exactly what had happened: the self-harming in the night and the strange detachment; the lashing out at other people and violent tantrums marked by Jodie’s desire to hurt herself; and this strange and unsettling response to having her photograph taken. Why had she started to take her clothes off?

I was resolute that I would not rush into any hasty judgements. I needed to accept Jodie exactly as she was for the time being and then see what came from the pattern of her behaviour. I was uneasy, though, and also found it cathartic to be able to put it down on paper.

With the other two out for the day, Paula and I took it in turns to entertain Jodie throughout the afternoon, but despite this, and for no apparent reason, she threw another full-scale tantrum. I allowed her to continue for a few minutes, hoping it would run its course. When it didn’t, and the high-pitched screaming became intolerable, I enfolded her in my arms as I had before, until she had calmed down. Later, I made another note of Jodie’s erratic behaviour in the log. I was doing a lot of writing.

Our first weekend with Jodie was an exhausting and disturbing experience. Although none of us said anything, it was obvious that we were all thinking the same thing. But it was early days and we all knew from experience that children can settle down after an initial bout of odd behaviour.

‘She’s a very troubled child,’ I said to Jill when she phoned the following Monday to see how things were going. I told her about the self-harming and the violent and aggressive tantrums.

‘Yes, that is bad,’ said Jill. ‘It’s very disturbed behaviour, particularly in such a young child. Do you think you can cope with her?’

‘I’m determined to try,’ I said. ‘She’s hardly been here five minutes. I want to give her as much of a chance as possible. Besides, we knew she was not going to be easy from the start so we can’t be surprised if she’s a handful at first. I’m keeping detailed notes of everything that happens, though.’

‘Good. We’ll just have to monitor it and see how it goes. You’re definitely the best person she could possibly be with, so as long as you’re happy, I know she’s in safe hands.’

I listened out for Jodie – she was occupied watching a Tiny Tots video – and then went through my log for Jill, trying to think of something positive to say. ‘She eats well. Actually, she gorges. I’m having to limit her intake. She nearly made herself sick yesterday. Apart from a healthy appetite, she doesn’t have much else going for her at present, I’m afraid.’

‘Do you think she can be contained within a family, Cathy? If she can’t, the borough will have to start looking for a therapeutic unit, and they’re few and far between. I have every faith in your judgement.’

I appreciated the compliment, but it was small comfort. I was already exhausted. I was worried about whether or not I’d be able to see this through and the prospect of failing before I’d even begun did nothing for my stamina. ‘She’s got contact with her parents tomorrow and her tutor’s coming for a couple of hours next week. Perhaps a familiar face might help settle her. She’s been seeing her tutor since September.’

‘OK, Cathy, we’ll see how it goes. I’ll update Eileen. What are you going to do with her today?’

‘Retail therapy. Courtesy of Tesco’s.’

Jill laughed. ‘I’ll give it a wide berth.’

Jodie apparently loved food shopping, unlike the rest of my family who could think of nothing worse than a trip to the supermarket. She was in her element, pushing the trolley up and down, telling me what we should or shouldn’t buy. In fact, she was so enthusiastic I had to limit her exuberance, and return some items to the shelves.

This wasn’t unusual; children in care often seem to feel that all their problems can be solved by a bottomless purse. Children I’d looked after often had a desperate need for material goods. In the homes they had come from money was often short, and when there was any it was frequently spent on drink, drugs or cigarettes. When I started buying my foster children little treats, they would often find it very exciting and pleasurable: treats were something they had very little experience of. But I always had to be careful about managing their expectations, as they could very quickly become demanding and assume they’d be given anything they wanted. Jodie was a different case, though; from the looks of her luggage and her weight, treats had never been in short supply – which meant that she was used to getting anything she fancied. I hoped it wasn’t going to be too much of a struggle restricting her to a sensible limit, but experience was already teaching me to expect a battle.

‘Three packets of cereal is plenty,’ I said. ‘Choose one you’d like and we’ll put the others back.’

She wanted them all, of course, and every packet of biscuits, and every dessert in the freezer cabinet, so I was spending as much time taking things out of the trolley as I was putting them in, but at least she was occupied and content.

It took nearly two hours to complete the weekly shop, and as we finally reached the check-out Jodie spotted the display of sweets, tantalizingly placed at the side of the aisle. I started unloading the trolley on to the belt, and told her to choose a bar of chocolate as a treat, because she’d been such a good girl and helped.

‘One,’ I repeated, as the bags of sweets started raining into the trolley. But I could see her previous cooperation was waning fast. ‘Take the chocolate bonbons, you like those.’

‘Want them all!’ she shouted, and then sat on the floor defiantly.

The woman queuing behind us was clearly unimpressed by my parenting skills, and shot me one of those looks. I unloaded the last of the shopping, including the bonbons, onto the conveyor, and put the other sweets back on the rack. I watched Jodie out of the corner of my eye. Her anger was mounting, as she crossed her legs, folded her arms and set her face in a sneer. She kicked the trolley so that it jarred against my side. I clenched my teeth, pretending that it hadn’t hurt. I pulled the trolley through the aisle and positioned it at the end, ready to receive the bags of shopping.

‘Are you going to help me pack?’ I said, trying to distract her. ‘You were a big help earlier and I could do with your help now.’

She refused to make eye contact, and I began to wonder how I was going to remove her from the aisle, but I was determined that she wouldn’t get what she wanted by making a scene in public.

‘Don’t want those sweets,’ she suddenly yelled. ‘Don’t like them.’

I looked at her. ‘Don’t shout, please. I’ve said you can choose one, but hurry up. We’ve nearly finished.’

People were now openly staring. Petulantly, Jodie hauled herself to her feet, picked up a family-sized bag of boiled sweets and threw them at the cashier.

‘Jodie!’ I turned to the cashier, who was busy exchanging meaningful glances with the woman behind us. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I paid, apologized again, and we left.

Outside, I ignored Jodie’s screams for the sweets and pushed the trolley fast towards the car. I unlocked the doors and strapped her under her belt. ‘Stay there while I load the bags into the boot. I’m cross, Jodie. That was very naughty.’

I watched her through the rear window. Her jaw was clenched as she muttered to herself and thumped the seat beside her. I knew how she felt; I was in the mood for thumping the seat myself. It had been a draining experience already and all I could do was prepare myself for more hurricanes and hysteria. Giving in to tantrums wouldn’t help her or me in the long term.

I took the trolley back, then got into the front seat.

‘Give me the sweets,’ she growled. ‘Want them now.’

‘When you’ve calmed down and apologized, Jodie. I’m not having that behaviour in public.’

‘Give me them, or I’ll poo on your back seat,’ she threatened.

‘I beg your pardon? You most certainly will not!’ So, I thought, she was prepared to soil herself if I didn’t give her exactly what she wanted. Is that what had happened on the first day? Was this her trying to exert her will, rather than anxiety or poor bowel control? And much as I didn’t want her to make a mess on the back seat, I wasn’t prepared to give in to this kind of blackmail.

‘Jodie, if you mess on the back seat deliberately you won’t get any sweets all day. You can’t just make a fuss and get everything you want. I’m sure you didn’t at your previous carers.’

‘Did. Everything. I made them.’

I started the car and pulled towards the exit. I didn’t doubt that what she was saying was true. Given Jodie’s appalling behaviour, it was no wonder her previous carers had given in to her demands, just to keep her quiet. Presumably, this was how she’d acquired the piles of clothes and toys that she’d arrived with. I glanced in the rear-view mirror. She stuck out her tongue, then started kicking the back of my seat.

‘Jodie, I know it’s a hard lesson, pet, but being naughty won’t get you what you want. Just the opposite, in fact.’

‘I had everything I wanted at home,’ she said, suddenly more coherent.

‘Really,’ I replied, unimpressed.

‘I made them, or I’d tell.’

I hesitated. ‘Tell what, Jodie?’

There was a long silence. ‘Nothing. Can I have my sweets now, Cathy? I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.’

‘OK, just as soon as we get home.’

As we pulled into the driveway, the sour smell coming from the back seat made me realize that she had made good on her threat. It would be another unwelcome date with the shower for us as soon as we got through the front door.