Читать книгу Trapped: The Terrifying True Story of a Secret World of Abuse - Rosie Lewis - Страница 12

The journey back was stressful, with Phoebe parroting everything Jamie said.

‘Mum, please stop her,’ he groaned, drawing his hands roughly down his face and twisting his lip with agitation.

Phoebe was delighted by his distress.

‘Mum, please stop her.’

‘That’s enough, Phoebe. You’ll go to your room when we get home if you don’t stop,’ I said firmly, regretting the words as soon as I’d said them. Having recently attended a Behaviour Management course, I was aware that threatening to send a child to their room was frowned upon. Apparently it gave the impression that bedtime was a punishment. Any child who had been sexually abused would already harbour negative feelings around night-time and foster carers were supposed to overlook bad behaviour where possible, rewarding good behaviour instead.

Positive praise was all very well in theory, I had found, but in the first few weeks of placement often there was precious little that could be applauded. Of course, most children responded well to praise, but being unable to impose some form of penalty made fostering that much harder. Ignoring bad behaviour didn’t always help it to go away.

As we neared home I decided to pop in to see my mother. She’d only met Phoebe briefly when she came to pick Emily and Jamie up a few days previously, and she was eager to get to know her. During our daily telephone conversations I had regaled her with our struggles so far but I think she thought I had embellished the tales for her entertainment.

When Mum opened the door she greeted us with her usual warm embrace, though rather than wrapping her arms around Phoebe she patted her on the arm, giving it a friendly squeeze.

‘Oh goodness, you’re all skin and bone, girl!’

Phoebe stiffened, staring at her arm as if Mum had rubbed her over with hot coals. If Mum noticed her reaction (which I’m sure she had, as nothing much got past her), she ignored it. I was touched by her ability to welcome the tribes of children I thrust upon her. Over the years she had treated them with as much generosity as she had shown her own grandchildren, something she didn’t have to do.

‘Lovely to see you all – enjoying being off school, are you?’ Cheerfully ushering us all into her cosy living room, Mum launched into her standard routine of listing all the sweet and savoury items available in the kitchen.

Emily and Jamie dived in, grabbed some goodies and then planted themselves firmly on her sofa. They were so comfortable at their grandmother’s house that it was like a second home to them. Phoebe hovered behind me; I could see she felt a bit uncomfortable.

‘Come on, love, don’t be shy. Have a chocolate cookie or something. I made ’em fresh this morning.’

Oh dear, I thought, I should have mentioned to Mum about Phoebe’s food issues. Talk of freshly baked biscuits and the like was bound to set off her retching. But I was wrong. Amazingly, Phoebe smiled shyly as she took Mum’s hand, allowing herself to be guided to an armchair, where she reached out and accepted one of the warm offerings. Although Mum could sometimes be a force to be reckoned with she was naturally kind, a throwback to a gentler age. It was something I think Phoebe could sense.

With the children within earshot our conversation revolved mainly around the latest family gossip, the comings and goings of Mum’s new neighbours and the latest developments on Emmerdale.

‘Oh, and I forgot to tell you what your brother got up to last week.’

‘Oh, and I forgot to tell you what your brother got up to last week.’

I smiled wryly to myself: Phoebe was definitely feeling at home. Mum stared at her with one of her frighteningly stern looks, the type, I’m ashamed to say, which still had a shrinking effect on me. Phoebe looked away.

After a moment, Mum continued: ‘Where was I? Oh yes, Chris. He’s only gone and …’

‘He’s only gone and …’

‘Don’t interrupt adults,’ Mum snapped. ‘It’s rude.’

‘Fuck off, whore!’

Mum’s jaw dropped about two inches. Emily and Jamie spun around, astonished anyone would dare speak to their grandmother in that way. If Mum hadn’t recovered quickly and said, ‘Wash your mouth out with soap,’ I would have laughed at their reaction.

I cringed. ‘It’s alright, Phoebe, she doesn’t mean it.’ And to Mum I growled through gritted teeth, ‘You mustn’t say things like that – you’ll get me struck off.’ What did she think she was doing?

‘Send them social workers around here and I’ll give them short shrift.’ Mum waggled her finger at Phoebe. ‘She’s the one coming into my house with the filthy mouth.’

Despite our close relationship there were days when my mother was capable of driving me nuts. Did she not realise the trouble she could get me in for saying such a thing? I remembered another foster carer telling me that she had a baby removed from her care because during a visit from her supervising social worker, her own mother, who had offered to change the baby’s nappy, exclaimed, ‘Ooh, look at that lovely bottom! Don’t you just want to eat it?’

Horrified, the social worker had stared at the foster carer as if she’d been raised by cannibals. She was reinstated soon after the investigation was completed but the baby had gone through an unnecessary move and the foster carer had almost given up her vocation through the stress of it all.

I suppose I should have been grateful that Mum hadn’t threatened to ‘cut her tongue out’ as she often did when my brothers were young and repeated something they’d heard in the playground.

Mum was still staring at me belligerently. No surprise there, but what did amaze me was Phoebe’s reaction to the whole exchange. Her eyes were filled with amusement as she stared at both of us and then, to my surprise, she began laughing.

We stayed another hour before travelling the short journey home. As I drove, I churned Phoebe’s reaction over in my mind. I had thought that autism affected a person’s ability to appreciate humour since sufferers generally took everything anyone said in the literal sense, but if that were the case, Phoebe would surely have been horrified by Mum’s ‘threat’ to wash her mouth out with soap?

It was yet another anomaly to puzzle over.

When we got home Emily invited Phoebe to sit at the table and do some colouring, freeing me to prepare lunch. I was amazed by my daughter’s fortitude – Phoebe had aggravated both of my children since first light so it was a credit to Emily’s levels of tolerance that she was even prepared to share the same floor space – but I asked Phoebe to go and sit at the top of the stairs for five minutes instead, as penance for winding Jamie up in the car by repeating everything he had said.

As we sat down to eat he was subdued. I couldn’t help but smile to myself as he slipped past a sullen Phoebe, taking a seat at the opposite end of the table. He glanced sideways to make sure she was at a safe distance, wary of getting a wet finger rammed into his ear again.

‘I hate the way you make porridge,’ Phoebe said as she swept her bowl away, arching back in her chair. Her ribs were visible through her T-shirt. ‘I’m not going to eat it.’

Extremely jittery, I got the feeling it was an effort for her to sit at the table, like she wanted to spring up and spin around the house.

‘That’s a shame,’ I said, non-committal, determined not to be drawn into a battle.

‘That’s a shame.’

There was a pause. Nonchalantly, I took a bite of my sandwich.

‘I mean it. I’m not even going to taste it.’

‘Yes, I heard you, Phoebe. Now, let’s decide what to do tomorrow. We could go ice-skating or maybe hire some bikes and go for a ride.’

‘I’ve got to revise, Mum.’ Emily was studying for her GCSEs and so it would be good for her to have the house to herself for a whole day.

Jamie shrugged his shoulders, eyeing Phoebe. A keen sportsman, he usually jumped at the opportunity of an action-packed day out. I guessed that his reticence was probably fuelled by the idea of another disastrous car ride with our new interloper.

Furious that I was showing no interest in her hunger strike, Phoebe glared at me, drumming her fingers on the table. Writhing in her seat, she stirred her porridge round and round, then spun both hands around, hurling porridge through the air. It was then that I decided to stop pandering to her autism and treat her just as I would any other child.

‘Stop that right now,’ I insisted, wondering whether she was so manic because seeing her parents had made her feel extra homesick. Whatever the reason, I knew that being lenient wasn’t going to help.

‘Stop that right now.’ A glimmer in her eyes told me she understood exactly how infuriating her parroting behaviour was. I knew she couldn’t help it – her autism controlled her, not the other way around – but I couldn’t help but feel she was enjoying the effects of it too. Observing contact between Phoebe and her parents had been a telling experience. It was clear that she was allowed to rule the roost at home, with few boundaries in place. Watching her spinning her arms around, I realised that she was also dominating all of us too. I made a mental note to record the interactions with her parents in my daily diary. Regular records might help to paint an overall picture of their relationship.

‘Phoebe, if you don’t stop what you’re doing, I will have to make you stop.’

All at once Phoebe picked up her porridge, throwing it across the table with a screech of delight. The edge of the bowl caught Jamie on the chest, the contents spattering all over the table and into his lap. With a loud crash, the china met the floor, cracking into several jagged pieces. Jamie clapped his hands to his chest, his face reddening with alarm.

‘Can I eat in my room, Mum?’

My heart went out to him but I didn’t want him to sit in his room when he had done nothing wrong. ‘No, Jamie, you stay where you are.’ Grabbing a tea towel, I mopped up around him, determined not to let Phoebe sabotage our time together as a family. Tempted to yell at her, I held my breath, counting backwards from 10 to one. The urge subdued, I spoke with calm firmness, ‘Phoebe, I have asked you not to throw things. It’s dangerous and could hurt someone very badly. I’d like you to leave the table, please.’

With a look of delight, Phoebe scooted off to the sofa, where she sat with her legs clasped to her chest, rocking manically back and forth. Jamie’s shoulders visibly dropped and he picked up his fork, tucking into his lunch with relief. Annoyed that Phoebe had achieved what she’d wanted but determined not to spoil the rest of our meal, I chattered about where we should visit over the next few days, the weather – anything to try and lift the gloom Phoebe had left in her wake.

‘So,’ I said cheerfully, ‘what’s on the menu for this evening, Ems?’ Once a week Emily cooked an evening meal for the family and really went to town, setting the table with candles, embroidered placemats and napkins.

Emily opened her mouth to speak but Jamie butted in. ‘I wouldn’t mind having dinner on my lap again,’ he said drily, raising his eyebrows and staring down at his porridge-splattered trousers.

Emily roared with laughter. I chuckled, burying my head in my hands. It was the first spontaneous laugh the three of us had shared since her arrival. The morose atmosphere lightened in an instant. Thank goodness for a sense of humour, I thought.

Emily offered to wash up while I cleared the table. I was about to make a pile of the plates when I heard Emily gasp. Expecting to find Phoebe nibbling the remote, I spun around, shocked to see her half-inclined on the sofa, legs spread wide, with her jeans hanging at her ankles. With a look of frenzy on her face, she was panting and holding her knickers aside, trying to manoeuvre a pen inside the elastic. She looked like a young actress in a horror movie, the whites of her eyes on full display again. Emily was rooted to the spot, staring at the scene with her mouth gaping.