Copyright

Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

HarperElement

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperElement 2012

FIRST EDITION

© Cathy Glass 2012

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN 9780007486779

Ebook Edition © September 2012 ISBN: 9780007486786

Version 2017-01-17

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One: The Child from Hell

Chapter Two: Awaiting Aimee

Chapter Three: A Challenge

Chapter Four: ‘I Want Biscuits’

Chapter Five: Severe Neglect

Chapter Six: ‘I’ll Tell Me Mum!’

Chapter Seven: Should Have Done More

Chapter Eight: Meeting Susan

Chapter Nine: ‘He’s Horrible’

Chapter Ten: Poor Role Models

Chapter Eleven: The Phone Call

Chapter Twelve: Craig

Chapter Thirteen: More Trouble

Chapter Fourteen: Keep Asking

Chapter Fifteen: Quiet and Withdrawn

Chapter Sixteen: Serious Allegation

Chapter Seventeen: Problem Family

Chapter Eighteen: Flashback

Chapter Nineteen: Hatchet

Chapter Twenty: ‘Father Christmas Didn’t Come to My House’

Chapter Twenty-One: Going for Gold

Chapter Twenty-Two: Perfect Christmas

Chapter Twenty-Three: A New Year

Chapter Twenty-Four: Jason

Chapter Twenty-Five: A Winner Now

Chapter Twenty-Six: Progress

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Chance Meeting

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Peter Rabbit

Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Visit

Chapter Thirty: An Incredible Family

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Exclusive sample chapter

Cathy Glass

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The Child from Hell

Aimee is aggressive. She kicks, bites, screams in her mother’s face, and pulls out her mother’s hair. Her mother states she is afraid of Aimee and has to lock herself in the bathroom or run to neighbours for protection when Aimee attacks her. Her mother states that Aimee killed the kittens their cat had by strangling them.

‘What!’ I gasped, glancing up from reading the referral.

Jill nodded sombrely. ‘Read on. It doesn’t get any better.’ Jill was my support social worker (also known as a link worker) from Homefinders, the agency I fostered for. We were in my sitting room and Jill was watching me carefully as I read the details of the eight-year-old girl the social services were bringing into care and looking for a foster home for.

I continued to read:

Aimee’s parents live apart and Aimee lives mainly with her mother. The flat is always dirty and freezing cold, and there is never any food in the cupboards. Aimee and her mother sleep on a stained mattress on the floor in the living room, as the one bedroom is too damp to use. Aimee is often unkempt, grubby, and has head lice. She refuses to go to school. Her mother is unable to cope with Aimee and often leaves her with other adults, many of them men and registered drug users. Susan (Aimee’s mother) is unable to set boundaries or routines for Aimee and states that Aimee becomes violent if she is not allowed to do what she wants. A family support worker was put in to try and help, but Susan was unable to stand up to her daughter. Aimee’s mother and father have been intravenous drug users. It is likely they still use. Both parents have served prison sentences for drug dealing.

I turned the page and under the heading ‘Family members and other related persons’ I read that Aimee had five older half-brothers and -sisters, all of whom had different fathers and all of whom had been taken into care as young children. The eldest of the siblings was now twenty-seven and the family had been known to the social services since he was born – twenty-seven years ago!

‘So why didn’t the social services bring Aimee into care sooner?’ I asked, looking up at Jill. ‘With the mother’s history of drug abuse and being unable to care for her children, why leave Aimee at home for eight years?’

‘It looks as if Aimee fell through the net,’ Jill said. ‘She was on the child protection register at birth.’

‘At birth! All that time – eight years – and no one intervened?’

‘I know,’ Jill sighed.

I leant back in my chair and stared at the referral in my hand. In the twenty-five years I’d been fostering I’d looked after children before who’d ‘fallen through the net’, which meant they had been overlooked or simply forgotten by the social services and society generally. How many more children were going to be left unprotected before sweeping changes were made to our social services system? A child is placed on the child protection (CP) register, also known as the ‘at risk’ register, when there are serious concerns for his or her safety. Such a measure is supposed to be a short-term one to allow help to be put into the family, resulting in either the child being removed from the register when the concerns have gone or, if no improvements are made, the child being brought into care. Clearly in Aimee’s case neither had happened; and while what I’d read about Aimee’s background was bad, it wasn’t enough to explain the disturbed and aggressive behaviour Aimee was exhibiting.

Jill seemed to think so too. ‘The social services are applying for a care order based on severe neglect,’ she said, ‘but there’s a good chance Aimee has been abused as well. She’s very angry.’ I nodded. ‘A new social worker took over the case two months ago and couldn’t understand why Aimee hadn’t been brought into care sooner. Questions are now being asked in the department.’

‘I should think so!’ I said. ‘I dread to think what has gone on at home to make Aimee behave as she does.’

Jill nodded. ‘The case is in court on Thursday, and in view of Aimee’s reported cruelty to children and animals the social worker is looking for a foster family with no young children and preferably no pets.’

‘And I fit the bill,’ I said with a knowing smile.’ For my children – Adrian, Lucy and Paula – were twenty-one, nineteen and seventeen respectively, and our cat, Toscha, had died from old age a few years previously.

‘Obviously it has to be your decision as to whether you offer to take Aimee,’ Jill said. ‘She’s a very damaged child.’

‘Very,’ I said, and we both fell silent. Jill looked at me as I sat deep in thought. I knew I had to make a decision now. It was Tuesday and Jill had said the case was in court on Thursday, when the social services would have to show the judge that they had a suitable foster carer ready to take Aimee if the judge granted a care order. At present Aimee was still living at home.

‘The mother’s flat is on the other side of town,’ Jill offered, after a moment. ‘So you are unlikely to bump into her. I understand Susan can be aggressive and has threatened the foster carers of the older siblings – so much so that all the children have been moved to foster homes out of the county.’

‘I’m not so much worried about bumping into Aimee’s mother,’ I said. ‘It’s happened before with other children I’ve fostered. But I am concerned about the impact looking after Aimee will have on Paula. As you know, Adrian is away at university, and Lucy has finished studying and is often out with her friends after work in the evening. But Paula is at home and has her A-level exams in six months’ time.’

‘I am sure you will be able to settle Aimee quickly,’ Jill said with far more confidence than I felt.

‘I have big reservations. I have a nasty feeling something dreadful has happened to Aimee to make her behave so cruelly.’

‘Agreed,’ Jill said. ‘Do you know who Aimee reminded me of when I first read the referral?’

‘No. Who?’

‘Jodie.’

I held Jill’s gaze and my heart sank. Jodie (the girl whose story I told in Damaged) was the most disturbed child I’d ever looked after. I’d fostered her for a year, three years previously, before a psychiatrist recommended that she should live in a therapeutic residential home. Jodie’s highly disturbed behaviour was the result of years of abuse, including being passed around a paedophile ring. Jodie had been eight when she’d arrived – the same age as Aimee.

‘What makes you say that?’ I asked after a moment, as a cold shiver ran down my back. ‘There’s no suggestion in the referral that Aimee has suffered the level of abuse Jodie did, and there’s no mention of sexual abuse.’

‘No, but I think there’s a lot the social services don’t know in this case, and Aimee’s violent behaviour is very similar to Jodie’s. There’s a reason why she’s behaving as she is.’

I had to agree. My thoughts returned to Jodie. Her behaviour had been so violent that in the four months she’d been in care before coming to me, she’d had five foster carers, all of whom had been unable to cope with her aggressive behaviour, and my family and I had struggled to cope as well.

‘At least Aimee won’t have been moved around,’ I said, thinking out loud. ‘She’ll be coming from home straight to me.’

‘So you’ll take her?’ Jill asked eagerly.

I nodded. ‘I just hope my children are as understanding with Aimee as they were with Jodie.

‘I’m sure they will be,’ Jill said.

Chapter Two

Awaiting Aimee

‘You’ve done what!’ Paula cried, staring at me in disbelief. ‘You’ve never agreed to take her? I don’t believe it! You haven’t thought about me at all! What about my feelings? I won’t be able to have any of my friends round and I won’t be able to study. How could you, Mum? There’s nothing else for it, you’re forcing me to move out.’ Paula turned and flounced out of the room and upstairs.

Well done, Cathy, I thought. You handled that well. Full marks for tact and diplomacy. ‘Paula!’ I called after her, but she’d disappeared into her bedroom and had shut the door. I knew better than to follow her; to try to talk to her now would do more harm than good. She needed some cooling-off time – as I did, too.

I was in the sitting room and I went over to the patio windows and looked out. It was the beginning of November and the garden was bare. The trees had lost their leaves and the sky was grey and overcast. Another English winter had begun and this year I would be spending it with a highly disturbed child, I acknowledged despondently. Perhaps Paula was right and I had made the wrong decision. For while I thought Paula had over-reacted – understandably, as she was seventeen and anxious about her forthcoming exams – I knew fostering Aimee would have a huge impact on us all. Supposing she didn’t settle as quickly as Jill had hoped; supposing the damage done to her was so great that I couldn’t help her. What then? Would Aimee follow the same downward spiral into mental illness as Jodie had, resulting in her going to live in a residential therapeutic unit? I didn’t think I could face all that again. It had been a nightmare for us all – to watch Jodie’s decline and not be able to do anything to help her.

Then, as if to darken my thoughts further, the phone rang and when I answered it was Aimee’s social worker, Kristen, with more horrors to share.

‘I thought I’d introduce myself,’ she began brightly, clearly relieved that she’d found a foster carer daft enough to take Aimee. ‘I’ll give you some more background information and also explain the arrangements for bringing Aimee to you on Thursday if we are granted the court order.’

‘If?’ I repeated. ‘Surely with Aimee’s history there’s no doubt you’ll be given the care order.’

‘We were in court two weeks ago but the case was adjourned,’ Kristen said. ‘Susan, Aimee’s mother, has a good barrister, but fingers crossed we’ll be granted the order this time.’

I sighed but didn’t say anything. Adjourning a case in care proceedings is not uncommon, and essentially means that the child stays at home to suffer more neglect and abuse, for longer.

‘Aimee’s parents won’t be told your contact details,’ Kristen continued. ‘Susan is opposed to her daughter coming into care and is angry. She’s also been working on Aimee and poisoning her mind against the move, and now Aimee is determined she won’t be taken away from her mother. Removing Aimee on Thursday is going to be fraught and I’ve notified the police. Aimee is likely to arrive at your place very upset and angry. She’ll need a bath – she’s filthy – and she has a bad infestation of head lice, which will need treating straightaway. She wouldn’t let her mother treat her hair and kicked her if she tried to comb it. But you’re a very experienced foster carer, so I’m sure you’ll find a way round this.’ Kristen stopped, expecting confirmation.

‘I expect I will,’ I said. ‘But why is Aimee so angry with her mother and behaving so badly? There’s always a reason why children behave as they do.’

‘I agree,’ Kristen said. ‘There’s a lot we don’t know in this case. I only took it over two months ago and I couldn’t understand why Aimee had been left at home for so long.’ Hearing a social worker admit that a case should have been handled differently – better – wasn’t unique; neither was shifting culpability. But Kristen wasn’t wholly to blame for Aimee not being brought into care sooner, as she’d only taken over the case recently. Doubtless, prior to her there had been many other social workers, all of whom had done their best and then, for any number of reasons, moved on. Frequent changes of social worker is not unusual but can be one of many reasons why children fall through the safety net of care.

‘Aimee has been spending time at both her parents’ flats,’ Kristen continued. ‘We believe that both flats have been used for drug dealing. The last time the police raided her mother’s flat they found used syringes close to where Aimee was sleeping on a mattress on the floor, but no drugs. Both flats are dirty and poorly furnished. When Susan can’t cope with Aimee she leaves her with anyone who will have her. Aimee can’t wash or dress herself, she wets the bed, and will only eat biscuits – she demands them. She can’t read or write – unsurprisingly, as she hardly ever goes to school. And a word of warning.’

‘Yes?’ I asked, wondering what else there could possibly be.

‘Aimee’s mother makes allegations against foster carers and she’s good at it, so practise your safer caring.’

‘I will,’ I said, as I realized this was going to be something else I’d have to contend with on top of looking after Aimee and trying to change her appalling behaviour.

‘Now, on Thursday,’ Kristen continued, ‘assuming we are granted the care order, we’ll take Aimee from school and bring her straight to you. She’ll just have the clothes she’s wearing. I’ll try to get her things another day when her mother is less angry, but don’t count on it. Her clothes are in shreds anyway. I assume you’ll have some emergency clothes to put her in?’

‘I should think so,’ I said. ‘What size is she?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t have kids.’

‘Is she of average build and height for an eight-year-old?’

‘I guess so, although she’s a bit overweight.’

‘OK. I’ll find something for her to wear, and then I’ll take her shopping on Friday for new clothes.’

‘We want her in school on Friday,’ Kristen said, ‘to keep some continuity going. Aimee hasn’t been at school much but she says she likes her teacher. It will be reassuring for Aimee to see her on Friday after all the trauma of Thursday.’

‘Which school does she attend?’

‘Hayward Primary School. It’s on the opposite side of the town to you. Do you know it?’

‘No, but I’ll find it.’

‘Well, I think that’s all for now,’ Kristen said. ‘I’m sure your support worker told you that you will need to set firm boundaries and a routine for Aimee. She’s had neither.’

‘I understand.’

‘Roll on next Thursday,’ Kristen sighed, as we wound up the conversation. ‘I’ll be pleased to get rid of this case. The mother is impossible to work with.’

‘You’re leaving, then?’ I asked, surprised.

‘No, but once Aimee is in care, the case will go from the children in need team to the children in care team.’ Which, although I knew to be current practice, would mean another change of social worker. It used to be that the social worker who had worked with the family stayed as the child’s social worker after the child was brought into care, but that changed some years ago with restructuring, resulting in further discontinuity.

With my thoughts even darker now after hearing more about Aimee’s neglect and her parents’ drug-fuelled background, Kristen and I said goodbye and I replaced the handset. I went upstairs. Paula should have had enough time to cool off now, and I tentatively knocked on her bedroom door. There was no reply, so I knocked again, and then slowly opened the door.

‘Can I come in?’ I asked, poking my head round the door. Paula was sitting on her bed, facing away from me and towards the window.

‘Don’t mind,’ she said with a small shrug, which I knew meant yes.

I continued into her room and sat on the edge of the bed next to her. She was looking down at her lap and fiddling with her hands, looking very glum.

‘I love you,’ I said, which I find is always a good icebreaker and can’t be said too often.

‘Love you too,’ she said quietly but without looking at me.

Now I knew she was receptive and willing to hear what I had to say, I was ready with my explanation as to why I’d agreed to look after Aimee. I would also reassure Paula that I’d do all I could to minimize the disruption that Aimee staying with us would cause. I took a breath, ready to speak, but before I had a chance Paula said quietly: ‘It’s OK, Mum. I understand about Aimee coming.’

‘Do you? I’m not sure I do,’ I said with a small nervous laugh. ‘I think I’m too impulsive sometimes and I make decisions before I’ve properly thought them through.’

‘Only when it comes to fostering,’ Paula said. ‘You let your heart rule your head. The rest of the time you’re quite sane.’

I gave another small laugh and Paula managed to raise a smile too. ‘Look, love,’ I said, taking her hand in mine. ‘I know you have an important six months coming up with your A-level exams and I promise you I’ll keep things as calm as I can here. Also I want you to feel comfortable bringing your friends home, and I’ll make sure Aimee doesn’t interfere. You work hard and need to relax sometimes. I’ll keep Aimee amused.’ It sounded as though I was ostracizing Aimee, but we’d looked after children before with complex needs and I knew, as Paula did, just how demanding such children can be.

‘There’s no need to worry,’ Paula said, with another small shrug. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Good.’ I patted her hand. ‘Your feelings are very important to me,’ I said. ‘I hope you know I would never knowingly do anything I thought would upset you. I wouldn’t have agreed to look after Aimee if I thought you, Adrian or Lucy were really opposed to it.’ Fostering is always a balancing act between the needs of the foster child and those of the carer’s own children.

‘I’m not opposed to it,’ Paula said. Then she slipped her arms around my waist and laid her head on my shoulder, ready for a cuddle and to make up. I put my arms around her and we held each other for some time before she said, ‘You know, Mum, Aimee sounds a bit like Jodie.’

I looked at her, surprised that she too had made the connection. ‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘But if she is, then at least I’ll be better prepared to deal with her problems this time. I learnt a lot from looking after Jodie and I won’t make the same mistakes again.’ Although in truth I doubted I could have done much more to help Jodie, so deep was the damage that had been done to her. She needed specialist help.

Paula and I hugged each other for a while longer and once I was satisfied she’d recovered I left her to relax and listen to her music before she began her homework, while I went downstairs to make the dinner. I was grateful my children were so understanding and I was pleased that although we had disagreements – like any family – no one sulked and the air soon cleared.

At 5.30 p.m. Lucy, my adopted daughter, arrived home from her work as a nursery assistant.

‘Hi!’ I called from the kitchen as she let herself in the front door.

‘Hi, what’s for dinner?’ she returned from the hall.

‘Chicken and pasta bake.’

‘Great.’

I smiled to myself, for when Lucy had first arrived as a foster child seven years previously, she’d been borderline anorectic: she had been very thin and had hardly eaten anything. Now she was a healthy weight and enjoyed her food, as we all did. I’d adopted Lucy five years ago, so she was a permanent and much-loved member of my family.

Having taken off her coat in the hall Lucy came into the kitchen and as usual greeted me with a big kiss on the cheek.

‘Have you had a good day?’ I asked, as I always did when my children came home.

‘Yes, although the four-year-olds were over-excited after their visit to the fire station. So was my manager – by the firemen.’

I laughed, and decided I’d better tell Lucy straightaway about Aimee. ‘It’s possible we might be having an eight-year-old girl coming to stay on Thursday,’ I said.

‘Cool,’ Lucy said, helping herself to a biscuit.

‘She’s been badly neglected and has behavioural problems,’ I clarified.

‘OK. What’s her name?’

‘Aimee.’

‘That’s nice. Have I got time for a shower before dinner? I’m going to the cinema later.’

‘Yes, a quick one. Dinner will be fifteen minutes.’

‘Cool,’ Lucy said again, and planting another kiss on my cheek hurried off for a shower. Older than Paula, with a more robust constitution from her own experiences before coming into care, and with a life outside our home, Lucy had taken Aimee’s proposed arrival in her stride.

We ate at six o’clock and Aimee wasn’t mentioned again, and the evening progressed as usual, with Lucy out socializing and Paula doing her homework in between MSNing and texting her friends.

I didn’t hear anything further from either Jill or Kristen until Thursday morning, by which time Aimee’s room was prepared, even if I wasn’t. I’d already given the bedroom a good clean after Reece (the little boy whose story I told in Mummy Told Me Not to Tell) had left the month before. Now I changed the Batman duvet cover for one with pictures of butterflies, which I hoped would appeal to Aimee, and I arranged some cuddly toys on the bed. As well as the bedroom furniture there was a toy box in the room with some games and puzzles; the rest of the toys were kept in cupboards downstairs. I’d sort out some clothes for Aimee once she arrived, when I’d have a better idea of her size. I kept an emergency supply of clothes (for both sexes and in most sizes) in the ottoman in my bedroom.

At lunchtime Jill telephoned and asked if I’d heard anything from Kristen. I hadn’t, so we assumed the case was still in court. An hour later Kristen phoned and said she’d just come out of court and the judge had granted the care order, which was clearly a relief. Kristen said she and her colleague, Laura, were on their way to Hayward school to collect Aimee. ‘Susan, Aimee’s mother, was very upset in court,’ Kristen said. ‘And her barrister was good, so I had to agree to let Susan see Aimee for half an hour at the end of school to say goodbye.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘See you later.’ I put down the phone and thought of Susan going to school to say goodbye to her daughter.

I felt sorry for her, as I did for many of the parents whose children I fostered, for none of them started life bad with the intention of failing and then losing their children. I guessed life had been cruel to Susan, just as it had to Aimee.

Chapter Three

A Challenge

Despite all the years I’d been fostering I still felt nervous when anticipating the arrival of a new child. Will the child like me? Will I be able to help the child come to terms with their suffering and separation from home? Will I be able to cope with the child’s needs? Or will this be the one child I can’t help? Once the child arrives there is so much to do that there isn’t time for worrying, and I simply get on with it. But on that Thursday afternoon while I waited for Aimee to arrive, which I calculated would be between 4.30 and 5.00 p.m., my stomach churned, and all manner of thoughts plagued me so that I couldn’t settle to anything. Jill had phoned to say she’d been called to an emergency so wouldn’t be able to be with me for moral support when Aimee was placed. I’d reassured her I’d be all right.

Paula arrived home from school at four o’clock and, having had a drink and a snack, went to her room to unwind before starting her homework; Lucy wouldn’t be home until about 5.30. My anxieties increased until at 4.40 the doorbell rang. With a mixture of trepidation and relief that Aimee had finally arrived, I went to answer it.

‘Hello,’ I said brightly, with a big smile that belied my nerves. ‘Good to see you.’ There were two social workers, whom I took to be Kristen and her colleague Laura, and they stood either side of Aimee, who carried a plastic carrier bag. ‘I’m Cathy. Do come in.’ I smiled.

It was clear who thought she was in charge, for, elbowing the social workers out of the way, Aimee stepped confidently into the hall and then stood looking at me expectantly.

The social workers followed. ‘Hello, Cathy,’ they said and introduced themselves.

‘Shall we leave our shoes here?’ Kristen said thoughtfully, slipping off her shoes, having seen ours paired in the hall.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘And I’ll hang your coats on the hall stand.’

As Kristen and Laura took off their shoes and coats I looked at Aimee, who was doing neither. ‘Shall we leave your shoes and coat here?’ I said encouragingly.

‘No. Not taking ’em off,’ Aimee said, jutting out her chin in defiance. ‘And you can’t make me.’ My fault, I thought, for giving her a choice. What I should have said was: ‘Would you like to take off your coat first or your shoes?’ It’s a technique called ‘the closed choice’ and would have resulted in action rather than refusal.

‘No problem,’ I said easily. ‘You can do it later.’

‘Not taking ’em off at all,’ Aimee said challengingly. The two social workers looked at me and then raised their eyes.

‘You can keep your shoes and coat on for now,’ I said, aware I needed to be seen to be in charge. ‘And we’ll take them off later. Come on through.’ Before Aimee could give me another refusal I turned and led the way down the hall and into the sitting room. My thoughts went again to Jodie. Although Aimee was the same age as Jodie, with similar blonde hair and grey-blue eyes, she wasn’t so badly overweight and also seemed more astute. I knew I would need my wits about me in order to gain her cooperation.

In the sitting room Aimee plonked herself in the middle of the sofa, which left the two social workers to squeeze themselves in either side of her. ‘This is nice,’ Aimee said, running her eyes around the room. ‘It ain’t like this at my house. My ’ouse is a pigsty.’ I smiled sadly at her heartfelt and innocent comparison – she was simply stating it as she saw it.

‘No,’ Kristen agreed, seizing the chance to demonstrate what an improvement coming into care was. ‘Cathy’s house is clean and warm and has lots of nice furniture. You’ll have your own room here – we’ll see it soon. And there’ll always be plenty of food and hot water.’ All of which I assumed had been missing from Aimee’s house.

‘It’s nice, but it ain’t me home,’ Aimee said.

‘It will be for now,’ Laura put in.

‘No it won’t,’ Aimee said, louder, turning to Laura and jutting out her chin. ‘Me home’s with me mother and neither you nor your bleeding lawyers can change that.’

Kristen and Laura both looked at me. ‘I can guess where that’s come from,’ Kristen said. I nodded. It was a phrase an adult would have used, not an eight-year-old child, so I assumed Aimee was repeating something her mother had said.

‘Cathy will be taking you to school and collecting you,’ Kristen continued, unperturbed. ‘And tomorrow you’ll be able to see your mother after school.’ Then, looking at me, Kristen said: ‘I’ll speak to you later about contact arrangements.’

‘OK,’ I said. Then I offered them a drink, as I hadn’t done so before.

‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ Kristen said. ‘We’ll settle Aimee and then get back to the office.’ Laura agreed.

‘What about you, Aimee?’ I said. ‘Would you like a drink?’

She shook her head, more interested in the objects in the room, which she was gazing at in awe, like a child in a toyshop. My sitting room was nothing special, but it clearly was to Aimee, who seemed mesmerized by the framed photographs on the walls, the potted plants, ornaments, etc. like those that adorn most sitting rooms.

‘Aimee has one bag with her,’ Kristen said. ‘It’s in the hall.’ I nodded. ‘We’ll try to get some more of her things when Mum has calmed down, but I’m not sure how much use they’ll be.’ I nodded again, as I understood what she meant. If the clothes Aimee wore now were representative of the rest of her clothes, the others were likely to be suitable for the ragbag. The jacket she’d refused to take off was far too small, dirty and badly worn; the faded black jogging bottoms were too short and badly stained; and her plastic trainers had split at both toes, so that her socks poked through. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a child so poorly dressed.

‘Is she in her school uniform?’ I asked, mindful that Aimee had come to me straight from school.

‘What there is of it,’ Kristen said. ‘You’ll need to buy her a whole new uniform. I’ll arrange for you to have the initial clothing allowance.’ This allowance – approximately £80 – is a payment made to foster carers when a child arrives with nothing and needs a whole new wardrobe. It is often weeks before the money is paid and it only goes some way towards the clothes a child needs, but at least it is something.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Is there somewhere private where we can go to talk?’ Kristen said to me. ‘Laura could stay here with Aimee.’

‘Of course,’ I said, standing. ‘We can go in the front room. There are some games over there,’ I said to Aimee and Laura, pointing to the boxes of games I’d brought in.

Laura stood and went over to select a game while Aimee remained on the sofa, studying its fabric as though she’d never seen anything like it before. Then she began struggling out of her jacket. ‘It’s bleeding hot in ’ere,’ she said. ‘I’m gonna take me coat off.’

‘Good choice,’ I said, throwing her a smile.

Kristen took some papers from her briefcase and as we left the room we heard Laura suggest to Aimee they do a jigsaw together and Aimee ask what a jigsaw was.

‘Aimee is eight,’ I said quietly to Kristen in the hall. ‘And she doesn’t know what a jigsaw is?’

‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ Kristen said. ‘She’s been so neglected. There were never any toys at her mother’s flat, so Aimee watched television all day and night. Susan said the toys were at Aimee’s father’s flat but he wouldn’t let me in, so I could never substantiate that. I doubt there were toys there, though. All their money went on drugs.’

Once we were in the front room with the door closed Kristen confided that Aimee’s was one of the worse cases of neglect she’d ever come across, and repeated that she couldn’t understand why she hadn’t been removed from home sooner. Then she said again that Aimee had very bad head lice, so my family and I should be careful not to catch them.

‘I’ll treat her hair tonight,’ I said. ‘I have a bottle of lotion.’

‘Good,’ Kristen said. ‘She needs a bath as well. She smells something awful.’

I nodded, for I had noticed as she’d walked in. ‘I’ll do that as well before she goes to bed.’

‘You know Aimee used to kick and bite her mother when she tried to wash her?’ Kristen reminded me.

‘Yes, I know. I read it in the referral.’

‘There’s a high level of contact with her mother,’ Kristen said, moving on. ‘Face-to-face contact will be supervised at the family centre and it will take place after school on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. There will be telephone contact every night they don’t see each other, including weekends. Can you monitor the phone contact, please, on speakerphone?’

‘Yes,’ I said. This was something I was often asked to do. ‘So is the care plan eventually to return Aimee home?’ I asked. That was the most likely explanation for the very high level of contact – so that the bond between Aimee and her mother would be maintained for when Aimee was eventually rehabilitated at home.

‘Good grief! No!’ Kristen exclaimed, shocked. ‘There’s no chance of Aimee being returned home. Her mother has been given enough chances to sort herself out in the past. The care plan is to try to find Aimee an adoptive home or, failing that, a long-term foster placement.’

‘So why is there so much contact?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘It seems cruel if there’s no chance of her going home.’

‘Susan’s barrister pushed for it in court and there was a good chance that if we hadn’t agreed the judge wouldn’t have granted us the care order.’

‘What?’ I asked, amazed. ‘With this level of neglect?’

‘I know, it’s ludicrous.’ Kristen sighed. ‘But the threshold for granting care orders is so high now that children are being left at home for longer than they should.’

Not for the first time I thought how badly the whole child protection and care system needed reviewing and revising. While no one wants to see a family split, early intervention can give a child another chance at life. By the age of eight most of the damage is done and it is very difficult to undo.

‘As mentioned in the referral,’ Kristen continued, checking the essential information forms she’d taken from her briefcase, ‘Aimee wets the bed.’

‘I’ve put a protective cover on the mattress,’ I said. ‘It’s not a problem.’

‘Good. It was at home. The mattress Aimee and her mother slept on in the lounge stank of urine. It was disgusting and you could smell it as soon as you walked into the flat. Now, as you know, Aimee needs firm boundaries and routine,’ Kristen continued. ‘There were none at home. And as I mentioned on the phone Susan is very good at making allegations and complaints against foster carers, so be careful. She seems to think that if she gets her children moved enough times they will eventually be returned to her, but of course it doesn’t work like that.’

‘Susan has contact with her other children?’ I asked.

‘Some. A lot of it is informal. Once kids become teenagers you can’t stop them getting on a bus and going to see their natural parents, and many of them seem to gravitate home.’ Kristen sighed again, and then, turning to the back page of the set of forms, said: ‘Can you sign this, please, and then we’ll show Aimee her room and I’ll be off.’

We both signed the relevant form which gave me the legal right to look after Aimee, and then we returned to the sitting room. Laura and Aimee were on the floor poring over a large-piece jigsaw. It was obvious Aimee hadn’t got a clue what to do and had been relying on Laura to do the puzzle for her – a puzzle for pre-school children aged two to four years.

‘Aimee,’ Kristen said brightly, ‘Cathy is going to show us your room now. Won’t that be nice?’

Aimee seemed to agree that it would be nice and hauled herself to her feet. I noticed she hadn’t got Jodie’s hyperactivity; if anything Aimee’s movements were very slow, lumbering almost. Laura stood and I led the way out of the sitting room, down the hall and upstairs. As we passed the bedrooms I said, ‘This is my daughter Paula’s bedroom. She’s seventeen. You’ll meet her later. And this is Lucy’s. She’s at work now.’

‘That’ll be nice, won’t it, Aimee?’ Lauren enthused. ‘Two grown-up girls to play with.’ I wondered if Paula had overhead this comment and what she thought of it!

Aimee didn’t say anything until we got to her room, when her face lit up. ‘Cor, this is nice. Is it all for me?’ she said with touching sincerity.

‘Yes. This is your room. Just for you,’ I said.

‘Can me mum come and stay with me? She’d like it ’ere,’ Aimee said, running her hands over the duvet on the bed.

‘No,’ Kristen said. ‘You’ll see your mum at the family centre. She won’t be able to come here.’

‘I know that,’ Aimee snapped. ‘You told me already. I ain’t thick.’

Kristen let it go but I could see how easily Aimee could change from being polite and engaging to confrontational and aggressive.

‘This is where you keep your clothes,’ I said, opening the wardrobe door, and then the drawers, to show her.

‘I won’t be needing all that,’ Aimee said. ‘I ain’t got many clothes.’

‘I’ll be buying you some,’ I said positively, with a smile.

‘No you won’t,’ Aimee said sharply. ‘That’s me mother’s job.’

‘Aimee,’ Laura said evenly, ‘while you are living here with Cathy she will buy your clothes and cook your meals, like your mother did at your house.’

‘But she didn’t,’ Aimee said, quick as a flash. ‘That why I’m in bleeding foster care. She didn’t buy me clothes. They were given to us. She didn’t take me to school, and she didn’t give me any boundaries, whatever they are. And she gave me too many biscuits, so me teeth got bad. That’s why I’m in foster care and not wiv me mum. You know that!’

I turned to stifle a smile as Aimee finished her lecture. Clearly Aimee didn’t miss much and she had such a quaint way of putting things – a mixture of child-like honesty and middle-aged weariness. I didn’t know if Aimee’s explanation of why she was in care was something that had been said to her, possibly by a social worker, or if it was a deduction Aimee had made, but it was accurate. Laura and Kristen were smiling too.

‘Is that telly mine?’ Aimee said, pointing to the small portable television on top of the chest of drawers.

‘Yes, it’s yours to use while you’re here,’ I confirmed. ‘But I limit its use. If you’ve had a good day you can watch it for a little while in bed before you go to sleep, but it’s a treat.’

‘And what if I ain’t had a good day?’ Aimee asked, turning to meet my gaze.

‘Then you won’t be watching it,’ I said clearly.

‘How you gonna stop me?’ Aimee challenged. Her eyes flashed in defiance and I saw the social workers looking at me, waiting for my reaction.

‘Very simple,’ I said. ‘I don’t turn on the television, or I remove it from the room.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Aimee said, her voice rising. ‘It ain’t allowed. I’ll tell me mum and she’ll have me moved from ’ere.’

Kristen and Laura exchanged another meaningful glance, for very likely Susan, employing tactics she’d used to disrupt the foster placements of her older children, had put this idea into her daughter’s head. I relied on my usual strategy of trying to defuse confrontation by focusing on the positive. ‘But I’m sure you won’t be losing your television time, Aimee,’ I said brightly. ‘I’ve heard you’re a good girl.’

I half expected her to say ‘No, I ain’t,’ but she didn’t. Indeed she looked quite taken aback that I’d suggested she could be good.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘That’s kind of ya.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I said.

I was warming to Aimee. I liked her spunky repartee when she stated her thoughts simply and directly. I liked the fact that she could look me in the eyes. So my first impression was that all was not lost and I hoped I could work with her and eventually make a difference. I was relieved and grateful that Aimee didn’t appear to have Jodie’s problems, which had resulted from horrendous sexual abuse. Yet while I now thought Aimee had little in common with Jodie, beyond hair and eye colouring, I still felt there was something that reminded me of Jodie, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. That was until I stopped outside my bedroom and pushed open the door, so Aimee could see where I slept if she needed me in the night.

‘Do you have a man?’ she asked, peering in.

‘No, I’m divorced,’ I said.

‘So who gives you one?’ she asked with a knowing grin. It was then I knew that Aimee, like Jodie, had a sexual awareness well beyond her years: a knowledge she should not have had, and which could only have come from watching adult films or sexual abuse.

Chapter Four

‘I Want Biscuits’

I ignored Aimee’s remark, as did Kristen and Laura, and we made our way downstairs, but Aimee’s words worried me deeply, as I knew they would the social workers. Kristen and Laura returned briefly to the sitting room for their bags, and then unhooked their coats from the hall stand and slipped on their shoes. Aimee was by my side, watching them. I knew it would be difficult for her as the social workers said goodbye and left. Then reality would hit her: that she was now in foster care and living with me, not with her mother or father. For no matter how bad things are at home children usually do not want to be parted from their parents, whom they have known all their lives and love despite everything that has happened.

‘Well, goodbye then,’ Kristen said to us both.

‘Goodbye,’ Laura said, then added ‘Thank you’ to me.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ Kristen said.

‘Where you going?’ Aimee asked.

‘To our office,’ Kristen said. ‘Then home.’

‘Am I seeing me mum tonight?’

‘No, you saw her after school,’ Kristen said. ‘It’s evening now. You’ll see your mum again tomorrow after school.’

‘What’s tomorrow?’ Aimee asked, confused.

‘After one sleep,’ Laura said, using an explanation one would normally use with a much younger child.

Aimee looked blank.

‘You’ll sleep here for one night,’ Laura explained. ‘That is tonight. Then in the morning you’ll go to school and after school you will see your mum.’

Aimee nodded, although I wasn’t sure she understood. I’d explain again later. Clearly she had a poor grasp of time, well behind the understanding an average eight-year-old should have.

As the social workers left I reached for Aimee’s hand to offer comfort but she snatched it away. I noticed the social workers hadn’t tried to hug her as they’d said goodbye, as social workers often did, and I could understand why. Aimee wasn’t a child who seemed to want to be hugged, held or even touched. There was a sense of ‘keep away’ in her body language, as though an imaginary line had been drawn around her, over which you wouldn’t dare step.

As the social workers left, Lucy appeared.

‘Hi,’ I called as she came down the front garden path. ‘This is Aimee.’ Then to Aimee: ‘This is my eldest daughter, Lucy.’

‘Hello, how are you?’ Lucy asked Aimee as she came in and kissed my cheek.

Aimee shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘Welcome to the world of foster care,’ Lucy said brightly. ‘Your life just got so much better.’

I smiled, grateful for Lucy’s positive approach. Having come to me as a foster child herself, she knew what it felt like to be in care. But Lucy’s welcome didn’t touch Aimee and she just stared blankly at Lucy.

‘We’ll be eating a bit later tonight,’ I said to Lucy. ‘I need to get the lotion on Aimee’s hair first.’

Lucy knew what I was referring to, as she too had been plagued by head lice before coming into care, as had many of the children we’d fostered. There seems to be an ongoing epidemic of head lice in England, with many school-age children affected. And while not life-threatening they’re very unpleasant.

‘You’ll feel much better once they’re all gone,’ Lucy said to Aimee. ‘All that nasty itching will stop.’ For even in the few minutes since Lucy had come in Aimee had been scratching her head, as she had been doing on and off since arriving.

‘Me mum didn’t do it properly,’ Aimee said to Lucy. ‘The social worker gave her the bottle but it didn’t work.’

‘Don’t worry, mine always works,’ I said positively, aware that the most likely reason for the lotion not working was that its application had been interrupted by Aimee kicking her mother, as had been stated in the referral.

‘See you later, Aimee,’ Lucy said, disappearing up to her room to relax after her day at work.

‘Come on,’ I said to Aimee. ‘Let’s get rid of those nasty lice. The lotion smells but it won’t hurt you.’

As I led the way upstairs I wondered what plan B would be if Aimee refused to have the lotion applied or if she got angry, as she had done with her mother, and kicked me. Clearly I couldn’t forcibly apply the lotion, but nor could I not apply it. A bad infestation of head lice requires more than combing or brushing to get rid of it – not that she’d allowed her mother to do that either. Adopting my usual approach of being so positive that there was no room for refusal I went into the bathroom, took down the bottle of lotion, unscrewed the cap and then turned to Aimee, ready to apply the lotion.

‘Good girl, lean over the sink so it doesn’t run in your eyes,’ I said. ‘We’ll soon have you feeling better.’

There was a moment’s hesitation when Aimee looked at me, clearly deciding if she was going to do as I’d asked or not. ‘Come on, be quick,’ I encouraged. ‘Then we can have our dinner.’

There was another hesitation before Aimee took the couple of steps to the basin and bent her head over. ‘Good girl,’ I said. ‘Now stay as still as you can while I put on the lotion.’ I began separating out the hair at the back of her head and on her crown and liberally applying the lotion.

Quite often the only indication a child has head lice is the minute white eggs that are glued by the adult head lice to the root of the hair, close to the scalp, where they incubate and hatch; very rarely does one actually see head lice, as they fix themselves to the hair and camouflage themselves. But now as I massaged the lotion into Aimee’s hair and scalp head lice began appearing, drawn out by the toxic lotion. There were dozens and dozens, grouped in clusters, large adult lice that had been allowed to breed untouched for months. It was disgusting and my stomach churned. There were so many that they were crawling over each other in the thickest parts of her hair. It was one of the worst cases of head lice I’d ever seen and must have caused her untold misery. There were sores and scabs on Aimee’s scalp where she’d been scratching and had broken the skin. I thought the lotion would sting the open sores but she didn’t complain; she just stood with her head bent over the sink, quiet and still. ‘Good girl,’ I said repeatedly as I continued to apply the lotion. ‘This will feel much better.’

‘It does already,’ Aimee said, which I could appreciate. Although it would take two hours for the lotion to kill all the lice, and the lotion would need to stay on overnight to kill the eggs, many lice were already coming out and dying and therefore not biting her scalp, which must have given her considerable relief.

Once I was sure all areas of her hair and scalp had been saturated in the lotion I praised her again and said she could stand up straight now, and I washed my hands in the sink.

‘We need to leave the lotion on overnight,’ I said. ‘It will have dried by bedtime and I’ll comb your hair with a special fine-tooth comb before you go to bed. Then in the morning we’ll wash your hair before we go to school.’

Aimee nodded and I smiled. ‘You were a very good girl standing there all that time,’ I said pleased (and surprised) by her cooperation.

‘That’s OK,’ she said amicably. ‘I wish me mum had done it. Can I play in me bedroom now?’

‘Yes, of course, if that’s what you’d like to do. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.’

I saw Aimee into her room and made sure she was all right. She wanted to play with the box of games I’d put in there. ‘It’s a nice room,’ she said, squatting down on the floor by the toy box. ‘I like me bed. I’ll be comfortable in here.’

‘Yes, you will, love,’ I said, touched. I would have liked to put my arms around her and given her a hug, but I knew I would have to wait until she was ready and came to me for a cuddle.

I went downstairs, pleased that things were going smoothly so far. As I neared the foot of the stairs the phone began ringing and I picked up the extension in the hall. It was Jill, my support social worker, calling from her mobile.

‘Has Aimee arrived?’ she asked.

‘Yes, and I’ve treated her head lice without a problem. But Jill, I’ve never seen so many. It must have been months since she was last treated, if at all. There are sores and scabs on her scalp from where she’s been scratching. It’s a wonder they weren’t infected.’

‘Poor kid,’ Jill said. ‘Make a note in your log and obviously tell Kristen when she phones. That’s shocking neglect. What’s Aimee doing now?’

‘Playing in her room.’

‘Good. I’ll phone tomorrow to arrange a visit. I hope you have a good evening.’

‘And you.’

Having said goodbye to Jill, I went into the kitchen to continue with the evening meal. I was feeling pretty confident and buoyed up that things were going well, given Aimee’s history of violence towards her mother. I knew that Paula, shyer, quieter and more introverted than Lucy, and also concentrating on her exam work, would say hello to Aimee in her own time. When I called the girls down for dinner I heard Paula’s bedroom door open first and her footsteps go round the landing and into Aimee’s room. I heard Paula introduce herself and then they came downstairs together, with Lucy following a few steps behind.

I was aware just how grubby and smelly Aimee was and had she arrived earlier I would have given her a bath before dinner, but now I felt she should eat first, as it was getting late. I therefore suggested she just gave her hands a wash before we ate.

‘Why?’ Aimee asked.

‘It’s hygienic to wash your hands before a meal,’ I said. ‘It gets rid of all the germs and stops you from getting sick.’

‘I ain’t never sick,’ Aimee said. ‘So I don’t need to wash me hands.’

Ignoring this questionable logic I led the way to the kitchen sink, where I turned on the taps and told Aimee to give her hands a quick wash. She looked at the running water and then at me and I saw the same hesitation loaded with determination as I’d seen before in the bathroom. ‘Come on, be quick, good girl,’ I said. More hesitation and then she pushed her hands under the running water just long enough to wet them. It was better than nothing and I held out the towel for her to dry her hands on, but she ran them down the sides of her (filthy) joggers instead.

‘This is your place,’ I said to Aimee, showing her to the dining table, where Lucy and Paula were already sitting.

Aimee stared at the table and her chair but made no attempt to pull out the chair and sit. ‘Sit down, good girl,’ I said. ‘Then I can bring in the hot dinner.’

‘I can’t!’ Aimee said, slightly annoyed and glaring at me.

‘Why not?’

‘There ain’t enough room.’

I looked at the dining table with its six chairs, only four of which were being used. Of course there was plenty of room. I saw Lucy and Paula looking questioningly at Aimee too.

‘I can’t fit in there,’ Aimee said, pointing to the small gap where the chair was up against the table. ‘I ain’t that thin.’

Unable to believe that Aimee hadn’t realized that the chair needed to be pulled out from the table in order to allow enough room for her to sit down, I gently eased it away.

‘The chairs move!’ Aimee said, surprised. ‘They ain’t like that in McDonald’s. They’re glued to the floor.’

Lucy and Paula knew better than to say anything but stared at Aimee in disbelief. Could her only experience of eating at a table be at McDonald’s? It was possible. Aimee finally sat in her chair but made no attempt to draw it in close enough to the table so that she could eat. I slid the chair to the table.

‘I guess your mum and dad didn’t have a table at their flats?’ I asked Aimee.

‘No. We sit on the mattress on the floor.’

Children with parents who didn’t own a dining table certainly wasn’t unique; I’d looked after many children who’d come from homes where meals were eaten on the sofa in front of the television. But what did surprise me, indeed it took my breath away, was Aimee’s reply to my next question.

‘But surely when you’re at school, you eat your school dinner at a table with everyone else?’ I asked.

‘I never get to school in time for dinner,’ Aimee said matter-of-factly.

‘What, never?’ I asked, feeling I must have misunderstood. Aimee was in her fourth year of schooling, so it was inconceivable she had never done a full day in school which included lunch. ‘I know you were often late for school but you must have got there on time some mornings, surely?’

‘No, never,’ Aimee said adamantly, shaking her head. ‘Mum never woke up until it was too late. I tried shaking her but it weren’t no good. She was out of it.’

Probably from drugs, I thought. But I still wasn’t convinced Aimee had never been in school for a full day. Surely the school’s head teacher, the social services or the education welfare officer would have acted? In the UK it is illegal not to send a child to school or provide an acceptable alternative education, which clearly Aimee’s parents hadn’t done. I would be taking Aimee to school the following day, when I would, I hoped, find out more. Now I went into the kitchen and returned with a cottage pie, which is a favourite of ours as well as all the children I’d fostered; I’d never come across a meat-eating child who didn’t like cottage pie. Until now.

‘Yuck! What’s that?’ Aimee asked rudely as I placed the dish on the table.

‘Cottage pie. Mum’s special,’ Lucy said. ‘It’s yummy.’

‘Ain’t having it. I don’t like cottage,’ Aimee said, clearly having no idea what a cottage pie was. ‘I have biscuits for me tea.’

‘This is dinner,’ Paula said. ‘We have a cooked meal at dinner.’

‘It’s potato and minced meat,’ I said.

‘I want me biscuits,’ Aimee said. ‘Me mum packed ’em.’

Aimee slid off her chair quicker than I’d seen her move before, and going into the hall returned with the dirty plastic supermarket carrier bag she’d arrived with. She dumped it on the table where we were about to eat and began taking out its filthy contents, all of which were grey and stank of stale smoke: a dirty threadbare pyjama top; a chewed and filthy teddy bear; a pair of torn faded knickers; one filthy sock; and a half-eaten packet of chocolate biscuits. I moved the cottage pie to one side, away from the disgusting pile of rubbish that was Aimee’s belongings. Aimee quickly peeled off the top biscuit from the packet and began stuffing it in her mouth.

‘No more,’ I said. ‘You can have another biscuit after your dinner.’ I quickly gathered up her belongings and returned them to the plastic carrier bag, which I put on the floor.

‘Biscuits are me dinner,’ Aimee said, her mouth full.

She was about to take another biscuit from the packet when, to her utter amazement and my surprise, Lucy leant across the table and whisked the packet out of Aimee’s hand. ‘Cathy said no more,’ Lucy said with a sweet placatory smile.

‘Give ’em back!’ Aimee demanded aggressively.

‘Later,’ Lucy said. ‘Things are different in foster care. They are much better. I used to have biscuits for my dinner before I came into care. Now I eat all the nice meals Cathy cooks, just as you will.’

‘No, I ain’t,’ Aimee said.

‘You can have another biscuit after your dinner,’ I said.

‘I don’t like dinner,’ Aimee said, swallowing the last of the biscuit with a loud gulp.

‘Try some and you may,’ I said, throwing Lucy and Paula a reassuring smile, for they were both looking concerned.

I served the dinner on to the plates, giving Aimee a small portion, which I placed in front of her. I sat down and Lucy, Paula and I started eating while Aimee sat with her arms folded across her chest and her face set in defiance, scowling and angry. Then after some moments she picked up her knife and fork and plunged them into her dinner, clearly with no idea how to use them. She certainly wasn’t the first child I’d looked after who didn’t know how to use cutlery because they’d only ever eaten finger food at home.

‘Like this,’ I said, showing her how I was holding my knife and fork. ‘Or you can use your spoon if it’s easier.’

I saw Aimee glance at Lucy and Paula and perhaps she wanted to be like them for, to her credit, she picked up her knife and fork and made a good attempt to use them. She managed to get some food into her mouth and, finding the taste acceptable, scooped up some more, so that gradually as Lucy, Paula and I continued eating so too did she.

‘Well done,’ I said as she cleared her plate. Then to all three girls: ‘Would you like pudding now or later?’

‘Later,’ Paula and Lucy said.

‘I want me biscuits now,’ Aimee said.

I nodded to Lucy, who’d tucked the packet of biscuits on to the chair next to her, and she passed the packet to Aimee, who set upon them ravenously. After four biscuits I said, ‘That’s enough for now. You’ll make yourself ill.’

Aimee ignored me and took another biscuit from the packet and began stuffing it into her mouth. I knew I had to start as I meant to carry on and it wasn’t in Aimee’s best interest to gorge on biscuits. I quickly popped into the kitchen and returned with an attractive brightly coloured empty tin on which I’d already printed Aimee’s name.

‘This is your special tin,’ I said with exaggerated enthusiasm. ‘This is where you will keep your biscuits and your sweets, and you can have a few each day. They’ll be safe in here and no one else will eat them.’ Experience had taught me that children from homes where food has been in short supply often hoard and then gorge food once it is freely available in foster care. Having a tin of their own often helps. But although Aimee was looking at the tin with interest, she was also peeling off yet another biscuit. I gently took the packet from her hand and put it in the tin.

‘’Ere! Give ’em to me!’ Aimee demanded. ‘They’re my biscuits.’

‘I know they are, love, and they’ll be quite safe in your tin. You can have another one tomorrow.’

‘I’m gonna tell me mum you took my biscuits and she’ll make a complaint against you!’ Aimee threatened, jutting out her chin.

I saw Lucy and Paula were about to say something in my defence but I motioned to them not to. Aimee was only repeating something she’d heard her mother say, probably in respect of her older half-siblings, all of whom were in care. I now concentrated on my next task, which was to get Aimee clean. ‘Would you like a bath or a shower?’ I asked, remembering to use the closed choice.

‘None!’ Aimee said. ‘I don’t like water.’

Chapter Five

Severe Neglect

‘You’ll like the water here,’ Lucy said, continuing with her philosophy that things were different and better in foster care.

‘No, I won’t,’ Aimee said, folding her arms and sulking.

‘I’m going to do my homework,’ Paula said, and escaped to her bedroom.

‘Come on, I’ll show you the new tiles I put in our bathroom,’ I said to Aimee with excitement out of all proportion to my first attempt at tiling.

Sufficiently intrigued, she finally slid from her chair at the dining table and followed me upstairs and to the bathroom, where I pointed out the blue and white tiles around the bath. ‘They’re nice,’ she said, with genuine admiration.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘We have tiles in my bathroom,’ Aimee said, ‘but they’re dirty and have green stuff growing on them,’ which I assumed to be mould.

‘Well, as you can see ours are all new,’ I said. ‘No nasty green stuff here. Now, would you like a bath or a shower? What did you have at home?’

‘Nothing,’ Aimee said, her face setting again. ‘I don’t have anything.’

I thought she must have had some sort of wash sometimes, so relying on the closed choice I said again: ‘Bath or shower? You choose.’

She didn’t answer but refolded her arms more tightly across her chest like a grumpy old woman. ‘OK, I’ll decide for you, then,’ I said. ‘I’ll run you a nice warm bath.’

Aimee said: ‘I want a shower.’

‘Fine. You can have a shower,’ I said. ‘Undress while I set the shower to the right temperature.’ Aimee was not old enough to be left alone to adjust a shower she’d never used before, so, turning my back on her to give her some privacy, I switched on the shower to a medium temperature.

As soon as the water began spurting from the showerhead Aimee squealed from behind me. ‘I ain’t having that on me!’

I switched off the shower and turned to face her. So far she’d only taken off her navy jumper, which was filthy, to reveal an equally filthy T-shirt. ‘Aimee,’ I said carefully, ‘you need to have a shower or a bath tonight. Then once you’re clean you’ll be able to watch some television. It would be a great pity if you lost television time on your first night, wouldn’t it?’ This may have seemed harsh but Aimee was used to having her own way and I could see how determined she could be. For hygiene’s sake alone she needed to have a bath or shower; her skin and clothes were filthy and she smelt. Also if I didn’t start to put in place a routine and boundaries now it would become more difficult the longer I left it.

‘Can I watch me telly in bed?’ Aimee asked.

‘Once you’ve had your bath, yes,’ I said. Not blackmail but positive reward.

‘I’ll have your bath, then,’ Aimee said, scowling.

‘Good girl.’ I turned to the bath and switched on the taps, adjusting the temperature as the water ran. But by the time the bath was ready Aimee still hadn’t undressed and seemed to be waiting for me to do it for her. ‘Take off your T-shirt,’ I encouraged.

‘Can’t,’ Aimee said, not attempting the task. ‘You do it.’

‘Aimee, you are eight years old, love. I’m sure a big girl like you can undress herself.’ Children are usually taught self-care skills by the time they’re five and go to school, but Aimee shook her head.

‘I’ll help you,’ I said. ‘But I would like you to learn how to dress and undress yourself. How did you manage to change for PE and swimming at school?’ For I knew the teachers wouldn’t have undressed her.

‘Didn’t do them,’ Aimee said.

‘What, you never did PE or swimming?’

‘No.’

I was sure Aimee must be wrong – physical exercise is an essential part of every school curriculum – but I’d mention it the following day when I took Aimee to school. Now I began easing up her T-shirt and showing her how to undress. ‘Like this,’ I said. Aimee raised her arms cooperatively but had no idea what to do next.

‘Who dressed you at home?’ I asked.

‘Mum.’

Underneath the T-shirt was an equally dirty and torn vest. ‘You like your layers,’ I smiled. ‘Aren’t you hot with all this on?’ The rest of us wore one layer in our centrally heated house.

‘It’s cold at home,’ Aimee said. ‘What makes your house hot?’

I didn’t answer, for having taken off Aimee’s vest I was now staring at the small bruises dotted all over her chest. I stepped around her so I could see her back and that too was covered in the same small bruises, as were her arms and neck. The bruises were all roughly the same size, small and round, about the size of a small coin. They were in various stages of healing: some were old and faded while others looked new.

‘How did you get all these bruises?’ I asked carefully, pointing to the ones she could see on her arms and chest.

‘I fell,’ Aimee said. ‘I keep tripping over things.’

It was possible the bruises were a result of falling, I supposed. Some children are accident prone, and it’s often the overweight children who aren’t used to physical activity and have never developed good coordination and balance as more active children do. It was possible, yet there was something about the size and shape of the bruises that I couldn’t identify and unsettled me. The bruises didn’t require medical attention, but I’d obviously make a note of what I’d found in my fostering log and then tell Jill and Kristen the following day.

‘Sit on the floor and take off your socks now, good girl,’ I said to Aimee, sure she could do this simple task without help. She did as I asked and sat down, and then very clumsily managed to pull off both her filthy and holed socks. ‘Now step out of your joggers,’ I said, testing the bath water with my hand. ‘They’re easy to take off. You just pull them down.’

Aimee yanked down her joggers and stepped out of them, to reveal more bruises running down both legs, from her thighs to her ankles – there were even some bruises on her feet. Most of the bruises were the same size and shape as those on her body and arms – round and small – although there were some larger ones on her knees and shins, consistent with falling over.

‘How did you get all these?’ I asked.

‘I fell over.’

She stepped out of her pants to reveal more small round bruises on her buttocks. ‘And the ones on your bottom?’ I asked. ‘How did you get those?’

‘Same,’ Aimee said, tossing her pants on top of the pile of smelly rags that were her clothes. She stood at the side of the bath, making no attempt to get in.

‘Get into the bath while the water is nice and warm,’ I said.

She reached out to my hand for me to help her and I steadied her while she climbed into the bath. Then she stood looking at me.

‘Sit down,’ I said.

‘What, in the water?’ Aimee asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘So you can have a bath and wash all over.’

Very gingerly and slowly Aimee began to lower herself into the bath, and as the warm water lapped against her skin she gave a little sigh of pleasure. ‘This is nice,’ she said.

‘Good,’ I said, relieved. I passed her a new sponge and fresh bar of soap. ‘Now rub the soap on to the sponge and then all over your body.’

But she just sat there with a smile on her face, enjoying the feel of the warm water without actually washing, despite my further encouragement.

‘This is nice,’ she said again. ‘I like the warm water.’

‘Aimee,’ I said suspiciously, ‘have you ever had a bath before?’

‘No.’ She grinned sheepishly.

‘So did you usually have a shower at home?’

‘No. All the water was cold and I don’t like cold water.’

‘Wasn’t there any hot water in your flat at all?’ I asked, aware that this was not as uncommon in poor homes as one might think.

‘No,’ Aimee said, shaking her head.

‘So you never had a hot shower or bath?’

‘Never. I stood in the kitchen and Mum used one of those.’ Aimee pointed to the face flannel draped on the rail at the side of the bath. ‘But the water was cold, so I didn’t like it.’ From which I deduced that Aimee had been given a stand-up wash in cold water and had never had a bath or shower in her life.

‘Did your social worker, Kristen, know there was no hot water in your flat?’ I now asked.

‘Of course not!’ Aimee said, surprised at my ignorance. ‘Me and Mum told her the meter had just run out and we were going to get some more tokens, but we never had the money.’ She giggled at the deceit she and her mother had perpetrated on the social worker, and not for the first time since I’d begun fostering I was shocked by the ease with which a social worker had been duped.

‘Why didn’t you tell Kristen there was no money for hot water?’ I asked. ‘She could have helped you.’

Aimee looked at me, confused, and I guessed it was because she wasn’t used to hearing that a social worker could help. So often parents view social workers as the enemy.

‘Mum said if we told Kristen I would be taken away and put in care like my brothers and sisters,’ Aimee said. ‘Mum said I wasn’t to tell her about the water. There were lots of things I couldn’t tell Kristen.’ She suddenly stopped.

‘Like what?’ I asked gently, lathering the soap on to the sponge for her.

‘Nothing,’ Aimee said. ‘They’re secrets and I’ll get shouted at if I tell.’

‘Who will shout at you?’ I asked.

‘No one,’ Aimee said, clamming up.

‘All right. But sometimes it helps to tell a secret. Bad secrets can be very worrying, not like the surprises we have on our birthdays. When you feel ready to tell me I will listen carefully and try to help,’ I said, although I knew it could be months, possibly years, before Aimee trusted me enough to tell me. I also knew that ‘secrets’ when the child had been threatened into not telling always involved abuse.

The bath water turned grey as Aimee washed; indeed the water was so dirty that I drained the bath and refilled it with fresh water. I explained to Aimee that I would just comb her hair before bed and then wash it in the morning after the lotion had done its job properly. I helped her out of the bath, wrapped her in a towel and left her to dry herself while I went to the ottoman in my bedroom for some clean pyjamas that would fit her. When I returned she was still standing with the towel around her, having made no attempt to dry herself.

‘Come on, dry yourself,’ I encouraged.

‘No, you do it,’ she said.

‘I’ll help you. But you need to learn to dry yourself at your age.’ I showed her what to do – how to pat and rub the towel over her skin – but I didn’t do it for her. I guessed that the reason Aimee didn’t know how to towel dry herself was that, never having had a shower or bath, she’d never had to do it. This level of neglect – of even the most basic requirements – is a form of child abuse.

After about ten minutes, and with a lot of encouragement, Aimee had dried herself. ‘These should fit,’ I said, and held out the nearly new clean pyjamas I kept as spares for such an emergency.

‘Not wearing them!’ Aimee sneered, pulling a face and shrinking from the pyjamas I held. ‘They’re not mine.’

‘They’re yours for now,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll buy you some new ones after school tomorrow.’

‘Ain’t wearing them,’ Aimee said again, her face setting. ‘I want me own.’

‘You haven’t brought any with you,’ I reminded her gently.

‘Yes I have!’ Aimee snapped, jutting out her chin. ‘They’re in me bag downstairs.’ I now remembered the threadbare and filthy pyjama top Aimee had tipped on to the dining table when she’d been looking for her biscuits.

‘There was only the top, love, no bottoms, and it needs washing.’

‘I want me top,’ Aimee demanded rudely. ‘I’ll wear me knickers with it, like I do at home.’ She made a move to retrieve her knickers from the pile of filthy clothes she’d taken off before her bath.

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘You can’t wear those pants. You are nice and clean now. If you put on those you’ll be dirty again. Wear these pyjamas for now and I’ll wash your clothes tonight, and then you can have them in the morning.’ I knew children were often attached to their own clothes and felt secure wearing them when they first came into care, and I always tried to use them whenever possible. But I was also aware that dirty clothes can harbour and transmit parasitic diseases such as scabies and ringworm; not only to Aimee but to the bed linen and anyone else who came in contact with the infected clothes. ‘Put on these,’ I said firmly, placing the pyjamas into her arms. ‘You dress while I put your things in the washing machine.’

Before she had a chance to refuse I’d scooped up the ragged clothes and was hurrying downstairs and into the kitchen, where I threw the clothes in the washing machine. I took the pyjama top and knickers from the plastic carrier bag and put those in too. Then I added a generous measure of detergent and set the machine on a hot wash. I would have liked to have washed Aimee’s teddy bear, which was in the plastic carrier bag, but I knew Aimee would need that tonight for security. I thoroughly washed my hands and then returned to the bathroom, where Aimee had made a good attempt to dress herself. The pyjama top was on back to front but that didn’t matter.

‘Well done. Good girl.’ I smiled, and instinctively went to hug her, but she drew back.

‘Don’t you like hugs?’ I asked.

‘Not from you,’ she said defiantly. ‘You ain’t me mum.’

‘I understand. Let me know when you’d like a hug.’

‘Never!’ Aimee scowled.

Mindful that the evening was quickly passing and I would need to get Aimee up early for school the following morning, I continued with the bedtime routine. Now she was clean and in her pyjamas I gave her a new toothbrush and tube of toothpaste and told her to squeeze a little paste on to her brush and clean her teeth well. It soon became obvious that Aimee didn’t know how to take the top off the toothpaste, let alone squirt some paste on to the brush, so I did it, showing her what to do so that she’d know for next time. ‘Now give your teeth a very good clean,’ I said, handing her the toothbrush.

She put the toothbrush into her mouth, sucked off the paste and swallowed it. ‘Ahhh!’ she cried, spitting the rest into the bowl. ‘You’re trying to kill me!’

‘Aimee, love,’ I said stifling a smile, ‘you’re not supposed to eat it. Just brush it over your teeth and then spit it out. Didn’t you have toothpaste at home?’

Aimee shook her head.

‘Didn’t your mum and dad brush their teeth?’

‘Mum ain’t got many teeth,’ Aimee said. ‘And Dad takes his out and puts them in a jar.’ From which I gathered that both her parents had lost most of their teeth and her father had false teeth. Her parents were only in their mid-forties but one of the side effects of years of drug abuse is gum disease and tooth loss.

‘Do you know how to brush your teeth?’ I asked Aimee. ‘Did you brush them at home?’

Aimee shook her head.

Horrified that a child could reach the age of eight without regularly brushing their teeth, I took the toothbrush and said, ‘Open your mouth, good girl, and I’ll show you what to do.’

There was a moment’s hesitation when Aimee kept her mouth firmly and defiantly closed; then, thinking better of it – perhaps remembering her parents’ lack of teeth – she opened her mouth wide. ‘Good girl,’ I said, and I began gently brushing. Many of her back teeth were in advanced states of decay or missing. As I gently brushed Aimee’s remaining teeth, showing her how to brush, her gums bled – a sign of gum disease.

‘Did you ever see a dentist?’ I asked as I finished brushing and Aimee rinsed and then spat out.

‘Yeah. And I ain’t going back. He put a needle in me mouth so he could pull me teeth out. I’ll end up like me mum if he keeps that up.’ So that I thought at least some of Aimee’s missing teeth had been extracted by the dentist because of advanced tooth decay. The poor kid had really suffered and my anger flared at parents who could so badly neglect their daughter; but then drug-addicted parents would be more concerned with obtaining their next fix than making sure their daughter brushed her teeth.

Before we left the bathroom I told Aimee I wanted to fine-tooth comb her hair and I asked her to lean over the sink while I did it. She didn’t object and ten minutes later the white porcelain basin was covered with hundreds of dead head lice. The lotion would stay on overnight so that it could complete its job and I would wash it off in the morning. When we’d finished I praised Aimee for keeping still.

‘Will I have friends at school now?’ Aimee asked.

‘I’m sure you will. Why? Has there been a problem with your friends?’

‘I ain’t got none,’ Aimee said bluntly. ‘The other kids call me “nit head” and “smelly pants”. When I try and play with them they run away.’

‘Well, not any more,’ I said, my heart going out to her. ‘Now you’re in foster care you will always be clean and have lots of friends.’

‘Promise?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you never break a promise?’

‘Never.’

‘Cor, I’m looking forward to going to school.’

Chapter Six

‘I’ll Tell Me Mum!’

Aimee settled easily that first night. She was so pleased to be sleeping in a bed and in a room of her own that she forgot her anger at being in care. She sighed as she snuggled beneath the duvet and felt the caress of the soft clean pillow against her head.

‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘I like me bed.’

‘Good. I’m pleased. You’ll be fine in care, here with me until everything is sorted out,’ I said, and she didn’t disagree.

I had read her a bedtime story downstairs and I now tucked her into bed and reminded her I would need to wake her early in the morning so that I could wash her hair before school. I asked her if she’d like a goodnight kiss but she said she wouldn’t, so I told her to call me if she woke in the night and needed anything. Then I said goodnight and came out, closing her bedroom door as she’d asked.

When I checked on her ten minutes later she was sound asleep, lying flat on her back with her mouth slightly open and holding her teddy bear close to her chest. With her features relaxed in sleep and her blonde hair fanned out on the pillow she looked angelic, and I dearly wished I could have waved a magic wand and taken away all the bad that had happened to her and make everything all right. But realistically I knew, from what I’d seen of Aimee so far and from the referral, that it was going to be a long uphill climb to undo the harm that had been done to her before she could come close to leading a happy and fulfilling life.

Once Aimee was asleep I went downstairs, tidied the kitchen, wrote up my log notes and then watched a bit of television with Paula, while Lucy was on the computer MSNing her friends. When I asked the girls how they felt the evening had gone they agreed with me that Aimee’s behaviour hadn’t been as bad as we’d anticipated, although of course it was only the first night. Paula and I were in bed at ten o’clock and Lucy followed a little while afterwards.

I was expecting Aimee to wake in the night – her first night in a strange room – but she slept soundly and was still asleep when I went into her room to wake her for school the following morning. I’d also been expecting her to wet the bed, as the referral had stated and the social worker had confirmed she did, but she was dry.

‘Good girl, well done,’ I praised her as she climbed out of bed, yawning and stretching. ‘We’ll wash your hair before you get dressed, so go into the bathroom.’

‘Ain’t wearing those,’ Aimee said, now fully awake and pointing to the skirt and jumper I’d taken from my emergency supply and laid ready at the foot of her bed. ‘They ain’t mine!’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘but I thought you could wear those while we go to school. I’m going to buy you a new uniform from the school but you need to wear something to get there.’

‘I want me own clothes,’ Aimee demanded, her face setting defiantly.

‘No problem,’ I said lightly. ‘There they are.’ I pointed to the clothes she’d arrived in, which I’d also laid on the end of her bed, half anticipating they might be needed.

‘Me clothes are clean!’ Aimee exclaimed, astonished, as though some trickery had been done. ‘How did you do that?’

‘I washed and dried them in the machine last night,’ I said. ‘You know the washer/dryer in the kitchen?’ I added as Aimee looked blank. ‘Perhaps your mother used a launderette?’

‘What’s a laundry-net?’ Aimee asked.

‘A launderette is where you take your clothes for washing and drying if you don’t have a machine at home.’

‘We don’t go there,’ Aimee said, still eyeing the clean clothes suspiciously.’

‘Perhaps there is a washing machine at your flat.’

‘No. Me mum didn’t wash clothes.’

I thought their clothes must have been washed sometimes by someone, but it clearly wasn’t a regular occurrence, which didn’t surprise me, given the filthy state of Aimee’s clothes when she’d arrived.

‘So I’m wearing me own clothes, then?’ Aimee clarified.

‘Yes, if you wish. Then you can change when I buy your uniform at school.’

Although I would have preferred Aimee to wear the clothes I’d provided rather than the threadbare and far too small clothes she’d arrived in, I knew I could surrender this smaller point for bigger issues. Looking after a child with behavioural problems is a balancing act between what I can reasonably let go and what I have to insist on, as Aimee was about to prove.

‘Don’t want me hair washed,’ Aimee now said. ‘It’s stopped itching, so it don’t need washing.’

‘It does need washing,’ I said. ‘We have to wash out the lotion and the dead lice and eggs.’

‘No, we don’t!’ Aimee said, making a move towards her clothes.

‘You can’t go to school with your hair smelling of nit lotion,’ I said. ‘And although the lice are dead your hair is still dirty.’

‘No it ain’t!’ Aimee said again.

I wasn’t going to enter into a ‘yes it is, no it ain’t’ argument, for in this matter she needed to do as she was told. Visions of us arriving late for school on our first morning, or Aimee arriving with unwashed hair, if she didn’t cooperate, flashed through my mind. Not only would it create a bad first impression of my fostering, but it would also set a precedent that would allow Aimee to continue to do exactly what she wanted, as she had been doing at home.

‘Aimee, I need to wash your hair, love,’ I said evenly but firmly one last time.

‘No!’ Aimee said, plonking herself on the bed and folding her arms tightly across her chest.

‘Then I’m afraid you won’t be watching your television this evening, or tomorrow evening, or for the rest of the week, until I wash your hair. Now, get dressed and come down for breakfast.’ I turned and began towards the bedroom door.

Loss of television time was a sanction I’d found very effective in the past, for nearly all children like to watch some television, and Aimee was no exception. As I placed my hand on the door and was about to leave the room I heard Aimee’s voice from behind.

‘All right! You win!’ she shouted. Grabbing her clothes, she stomped past me and into the bathroom.

‘Good girl,’ I said, taking every opportunity to praise her. ‘Sensible decision.’

‘No it aint! I’m telling me mum what you did.’ Which I ignored.

Washing Aimee’s hair was no small achievement. Whereas the evening before when I’d applied the lotion I’d had Aimee’s cooperation, now she worked against me. Part of her agitation was because she wasn’t used to having her hair washed and part of it was sheer bloody mindedness – she was having to do something she didn’t want to do, although it was for her own good. She refused to lean over the bath properly, so that when I turned on the shower it was difficult to wet her hair without it running down her back; she wouldn’t keep the flannel over her face to stop the water going into her eyes; she continually moved when I asked her to stand still; and when I applied the shampoo she yelled it was cold. In fact Aimee yelled so much that eventually Lucy and Paula were driven from their bedrooms and came to see what was the matter.

‘I’m only washing her hair,’ I said defensively.

Lucy smiled and raised her eyebrows. ‘Aimee, you sound like you’re being murdered. Be quiet.’

‘Shut up,’ Aimee said rudely, raising her head and flicking soapy water everywhere. Paula groaned and the girls returned to their rooms.

‘Lucy and Paula wash their hair regularly,’ I said, hoping Aimee might see this as a good example to follow.

‘Don’t care!’ she snapped. ‘That stuff’s getting in me eyes!’

‘Well, keep your eyes closed and the flannel over your face, like I’ve told you,’ I said again.

‘And it’s in me mouth!’ Aimee shouted.

‘Keep that closed too.’ But Aimee couldn’t because she was too busy shouting and cursing at me, although she didn’t try to kick me, as the referral had stated she had her mother.

Trying to pacify Aimee as best I could, I continued with what was probably the most stressful but most necessary hair wash I’d ever given a child. As I lathered the shampoo, rinsed and lathered again, the dirty water slowly began to run clean and dead head lice finally stopped dropping into the bath.

‘All done!’ I said at last. I wasn’t sure who was more relieved. ‘Next time we’ll try washing your hair in the bath,’ I added. ‘It might be easier for you.’

‘You ain’t doing it again!’ Aimee scowled, snatching the towel from my hand and rubbing her hair.

‘Hair needs washing at least twice a week,’ I said, planting the idea so that she had time to come to terms with it.

‘No, it don’t!’ Aimee said.

I ignored this and told Aimee to go into her bedroom and I’d fetch the hairdryer and dry her hair. Throwing the towel on the bathroom floor she stomped off round the landing and into the bedroom, causing Lucy to call, ‘Be quiet, Aimee!’

‘No!’ Aimee shouted. ‘Shut up!’

I returned to Aimee’s bedroom with the hairdryer and before I switched it on I explained to Aimee that it would make a loud noise and blow hot air, for I doubted her mother owned a hairdryer. I was wrong.

‘I ain’t thick,’ Aimee said. ‘Me mum uses the hairdryer for killing me bugs.’

‘You mean she washed your hair and then dried it?’ I asked, slightly surprised, for certainly Aimee’s hair hadn’t looked as though it had been washed for weeks.

‘No,’ Aimee said. ‘Mum never washed me hair. She blew the bugs away with the dryer so they were dead.’ Which I could believe, although it was nonsense: you can’t blow away head lice, as they fasten themselves on to the hair and glue their eggs to the root shaft. But I let the point go.

Aimee moaned some more as I brushed and dried her hair, but when I’d finished, her hair shone and was quite a few shades lighter. ‘Fantastic!’ I said.

‘No it ain’t!’ Aimee said. ‘I’m telling me mum.’

‘I’m sure your mother will be very pleased,’ I said, turning her threat into a positive.

‘No she won’t,’ Aimee said. ‘She’ll report you.’ Which I ignored.

I now explained to Aimee that I wanted her to get dressed as quickly as she could and then come down for breakfast. ‘I need you downstairs by seven fifteen,’ I said, nodding at the clock on the wall. Aimee stared blankly at the clock. ‘When the big hand is here,’ I said, pointing to the three. ‘It’s five past seven now, so you have ten minutes to get dressed, which is plenty of time. What would you like for your breakfast?’

‘Biscuits.’

‘Biscuits are bad for your teeth. Toast or cereal?’

‘What’s cereal?’

‘We have cornflakes, wheat flakes, Rice Krispies or porridge.’

‘Toast.’

‘What would you like on your toast? Marmite, jam, honey or marmalade?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Sure?’

Aimee nodded.

Leaving Aimee to dress, I went downstairs and into the kitchen, where I made coffee for myself, and toast for Aimee and me. Paula and Lucy would make their own breakfasts when they came down. I lightly buttered the toast and added marmalade to mine; then I cut Aimee’s toast in half and half again so that it was easier for her to eat. Setting the plates on the table, I called upstairs to Aimee that breakfast was ready. To her credit a minute later she appeared, dressed in her old but now clean clothes. The joggers were far too small, as was her jumper, and her toes poked out of the holes in her socks, but all that would change once we’d bought her new clothes.

‘Well done,’ I said with a smile. ‘You dressed yourself very well.’ I showed Aimee to her place at the table, where her toast was waiting. ‘What would you like to drink?’ I asked. ‘Milk, juice or water?’

‘Water,’ Aimee said, sitting on the chair but too far from the table. I made a move to help her ease the chair under the table but she roughly pushed my hand away. ‘I can do it,’ she snapped.

‘All right, love, but don’t be rude. There are nice ways of saying things without being aggressive.’

‘I talk to me mum and dad like that,’ Aimee said, as though that justified her disrespect.

‘I don’t doubt it, love, but you shouldn’t. And you certainly won’t be talking to me like that.’ I said it kindly but firmly so that Aimee could see that I meant it. Teaching a child to show respect to others is crucial in putting them on the road to achieving socially acceptable and good behaviour. ‘Also, love, if you want to make friends you will need to speak to the children at school nicely too.’ Obvious to children who have been correctly brought up but not to a child from a dysfunctional background.

Aimee looked at me but didn’t say anything and I smiled again. Jumping her chair under the table until she was close enough, she took a bite of her toast and spat it out. ‘That’s disgusting,’ she cried.

‘It’s toast, as you asked,’ I said.

‘It’s got slimy stuff on it,’ Aimee said, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her clean jumper.

‘I put a little butter on it,’ I said. ‘That’s all.’

‘What’s butter?’ Aimee asked.

I now took the butter from the fridge and showed her. She shrugged, indicating she’d never seen butter before. ‘Perhaps you had spread at home?’ I suggested.

Returning the butter to the fridge, I took out the tub of butter substitute and showed her, but Aimee shook her head. ‘We didn’t have that. I want me toast like I make it at home.’

‘All right. Tell me how you made it and I’ll do the same.’

Aimee turned to look at me and then, using her hand to gesticulate, explained: ‘I get the bread from the packet and I scratch off the green bits. That’s mould. Then I put the bread in the toaster and later it goes pop! It’s ready then. It’s hot, but it don’t have slimy stuff on it. Our toaster don’t do that. The man next door gave us the toaster. So I take me toast to the living room and I switch on the telly, only I have to have the sound on low because Mum is asleep on the mattress, and she gets angry if I wake her. Then I sit on the floor and eat me toast. I get toast and biscuits whenever I want.’

What a morning routine, I thought! I could picture Aimee waking in the morning beside her mother on the filthy mattress on the floor, then slipping out so she didn’t wake her mother, and making toast from rotting bread, which she ate dry because there was nothing to put on it. Compare Aimee, I thought, with a child from a good home. A chasm of neglect lay between them.

I made Aimee another slice of toast and gave it to her dry with the glass of water she’d asked for, but I knew I should start introducing new foods into her diet as soon as possible. She was pale, her skin was dull and her movements were lethargic, which made me suspect she might be mineral and vitamin deficient. All children who come into foster care have a medical and I would raise my concerns with the paediatrician when we saw her, and while I couldn’t give Aimee a vitamin supplement without the doctor’s or her parents’ consent, I could improve her diet.

Paula and Lucy came down to breakfast as Aimee finished eating hers.

‘Feeling better?’ Lucy asked, taking a bowl for her cereal from the cupboard.

‘No,’ Aimee scowled.

‘What’s the matter?’ Paula asked, joining Aimee at the table.

Aimee looked at the girls for a moment, then at me, and her face crumpled. ‘I want me mum,’ she cried, and burst into tears.

‘Oh, love,’ I said, immediately going to her. ‘Please don’t upset yourself. You’ll see her soon.’ I went to put my arms around her, wanting to hold and comfort her, but she drew back, so I settled for laying my hand on her arm and standing close to her.

I saw Paula’s eyes mist as Aimee sat at the table with her head in her hands and cried. ‘I want me mum. Please take me to my mum.’ For like most children, no matter how bad it has been at home, Aimee missed her mother, with whom she’d been all her life.

‘You’ll see her tonight,’ I reassured her, ‘straight after school.’

‘Don’t cry,’ Paula said, her voice faltering. ‘We’ll look after you.’

‘Better than your mother did,’ Lucy added under her breath. I frowned at her, warning her not to say any more.

‘Why can’t I see me mum now?’ Aimee asked, raising her tear-stained face. She looked so sad.

‘Because your social worker has arranged for you to see your mum tonight,’ I said. ‘And we have to do what your social worker says.’

‘Me mum didn’t do what the social worker said,’ Aimee said, oblivious to the fact that had she it would have probably helped them both.

‘I know it’s difficult to begin with,’ Lucy said, going round to stand at the other side of Aimee. ‘But it will get easier, I promise you. And doesn’t your hair feel better already? No more itchy-coos.’ Lucy lightly tickled the back of Aimee’s neck, which made Aimee laugh.

‘Good girl, let’s wipe your eyes,’ I said. I fetched a tissue from the box and went to wipe Aimee’s eyes, but she snatched the tissue from my hand and wiped them herself. Children who have been badly neglected are often very self-sufficient; they’ve had to be in order to survive.

Chapter Seven

Should Have Done More

I called goodbye to Paula and Lucy, and Aimee and I left for school at 8.00 a.m. as planned. This would allow half an hour to drive through the traffic so that we arrived at school – on the opposite side of the town – well before the start of the school day at 8.50. This morning I wanted to go into school before the other children so that I could introduce myself at reception and, I hoped, meet Aimee’s teacher or the member of staff responsible for looked-after children. All schools in England now have a designated teacher (DT) who is responsible in school for any child in care. The child is taught as normal in class but the designated teacher keeps an eye on the child, attends meetings connected with the child, and is the first point of contact for the social services, foster carer, child’s natural parents and professionals connected with the case.

As I helped Aimee into the child seat in the rear of my car she asked why she had to sit in this seat and I explained it was so that the seatbelt could be fastened securely across her to keep her safe. She had no idea how to put on the seatbelt and I showed her what to do, how to fasten it, and then I checked it was secure. I closed the car door, which was child-locked and therefore couldn’t be opened from the inside, and climbed into the driver’s seat. I started the engine and reversed off the drive. As I drove, Aimee asked many questions about the car and how I drove it, as though being in a car was a new experience for her, so that eventually I asked: ‘Aimee, have you ever been in car before?’

‘Only with the social workers yesterday,’ she said. ‘But it was dark and I couldn’t see what was happening. Mum and Dad use buses.’ Which was another indication of just how disadvantaged Aimee’s background had been. For a child in a developed country to have reached the age of eight without regularly riding in a car was incredible; I’d never come across it before. Even if a child’s parents didn’t own a car (not uncommon for children in care) the child had usually been a passenger in the car of a relative or friend’s parents; usually someone the child knew owned a car. But I believed Aimee when she said her first experience of riding in a car had been the day before, for her curiosity and questions about my car and driving it seemed to confirm this and were unstoppable: ‘What’s that blue light for?’ ‘Why’s that number moving?’ ‘Why you holding that stick?’ ‘I can hear a clicking!’ ‘There’s an orange light flashing!’ And so on and so on.

Although I was happy to answer Aimee’s questions, I soon began finding her constant dialogue very distracting while I was trying to drive through the traffic. A few minutes later I asked her to sit quietly and save her questions for when I’d stopped, as I needed to concentrate on driving. She did briefly and then began a running commentary on what was happening outside her window: ‘There’s a man with a big dog.’ ‘That girl’s going to school.’ ‘I saw a bird, Cathy!’ ‘Look at that lady’s hair! Cathy! Look! Look!’

‘I can’t look, love,’ I said more firmly. ‘I’m driving. I have to concentrate on driving or we’ll have an accident. Let’s listen to some music.’ I switched on the CD player, which still contained a CD of popular children’s songs and nursery rhymes from the last child I’d looked after. Aimee listened and then I said, ‘I expect you know most of these nursery rhymes?’

‘No,’ Aimee replied.

So I guessed Aimee’s parents hadn’t recited, sung or read nursery rhymes to her as a child, although I thought she would have seen them in children’s programmes on television.

‘Your mum and dad had a television, didn’t they?’ I said, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

‘Yeah, a great big telly,’ Aimee said. ‘A lot bigger than yours.’

‘Didn’t you watch children’s programmes like CBeebies?’

‘Na, they’re silly,’ Aimee sneered.

‘What did you watch, then?’ I asked, half anticipating her reply would include a list of adult programmes.

‘Me and me mum watched EastEnders and horror films,’ Aimee said. ‘There was one about a woman who got chopped up with a big axe. First the man chopped off her arms and all blood spurted out of her shoulders, but she kept on walking ’cos she was a zombie. Then the man stabbed her in the face so her eyes came out, then he chopped off her head and it rolled on the floor and there was all blood spurting out of her neck and you could see her brain on the floor and –’

‘All right, Aimee, that’s enough, thank you. I understand,’ I said, my stomach churning. Many parents don’t realize the damage that can be done in allowing young impressionable minds to watch such horrific images.

‘EastEnders is on tonight,’ Aimee added, as I pulled up outside the school.

‘So I believe,’ I said. ‘But we won’t be watching it.’

‘I will!’ Aimee said.

‘Not while you’re living with me. That programme is for adults. You will be able to watch children’s programmes.’

Aimee pulled a face. ‘What about Texas Chainsaw Massacre or Friday the 13th? You got those DVDs?’ she asked.

‘No. But I have got Mary Poppins, Toy Story, The Jungle Book, The Lion King and many others that are nice.’

‘Never heard of them,’ Aimee scoffed.

‘You will, love, I promise.’

The path that led to the school’s main reception took us past the school playground.

Aimee pointed to children who’d arrived at school early and were playing. ‘What are those kids doing?’ she asked.

‘Playing,’ I said, feeling I was stating the obvious.

‘They should be in their classrooms,’ Aimee said.

‘Not at this time. There’s ten minutes before the bell goes for the start of school.’

Aimee frowned, puzzled, and we continued to the main door, where I pressed the security buzzer. The door was opened a minute later by a very pleasant lady, who smiled a warm hello. ‘Good to see you, Aimee,’ she said. ‘Your hair looks nice.’ Then to me: ‘I’m the school secretary. Do come in.’

‘I’m Cathy Glass, Aimee’s foster carer,’ I said. ‘I expect you know she came to me yesterday evening?’

‘Yes. How is she?’

‘Doing very well,’ I said, glancing at Aimee. ‘I thought I’d come into school this morning to make sure you had my contact details, and also if possible to meet Aimee’s teacher or the designated teacher.’

‘Lynn Burrows is the designated teacher,’ the school secretary said. ‘She asked me to let her know when you came in. Take a seat and I’ll fetch her.’

I thanked her and she disappeared through the double doors that led into the main body of the school while Aimee and I sat on the chairs in reception.

‘She said my hair was nice,’ Aimee said, running her fingers through her hair.

‘It was worth all the pain and suffering, then?’ I said lightly, with a smile.

‘No it wasn’t,’ Aimee retorted. ‘And you ain’t doing it again!’

We’ll see about that, I thought, but didn’t say. I’d already discovered that Aimee automatically rejected or contradicted most of what I said – presumably as a result of there being no boundaries at home – so I let it go, although Aimee would be doing as she was told while she was with me.

‘Look at you! Don’t you look nice!’ A lady said, coming through the double doors a few minutes later. ‘I wouldn’t have recognized you, Aimee.’

I thought she might, as Aimee was still wearing the clothes she’d arrived in, but Aimee smiled, pleased by the second compliment within a few minutes of arriving.

‘Lynn Burrows, designated teacher,’ the woman said as I stood. We shook hands. ‘Pleased to meet you, Cathy.’

‘And you.’

‘Let’s go to my office for a chat. I’m also the school’s SENCO, so they give me an office of my own,’ she added with a small laugh. The SENCO (Special Educational Needs Coordinator) helps children with special needs and also often assumes the role of designated teacher.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Lynn now asked Aimee as we made our way down the corridor.

Aimee didn’t answer; she was more interested in the playground, which we could see through the windows on the right of the corridor. ‘Mrs Burrows, can I go in the playground with the other kids?’ she said, pausing at one of the windows. ‘Please, I haven’t been there before.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Lynn said as we drew to a halt. Then to me: ‘It’ll give us a chance to talk in private. I’ll just ask the playground supervisor to keep an eye on Aimee.’

Aimee and Lynn went out of one of the doors that led into the playground while I waited in the corridor. The building was old, I guessed built in the 1950s, but my first impression was that it was a friendly and caring school. I liked Lynn, she was a warm and bubbly person, but I thought Aimee must have been mistaken when she’d said she hadn’t been in the playground before, because, even allowing for her poor school attendance, she would have gone into the playground at break and lunchtime.

Lynn returned with a smile. ‘She’s happy enough and she looks so much better already. Amazing what a good wash can do.’

I smiled. ‘I need to buy her a new school uniform,’ I said, as I followed Lynn up a short flight of stairs and into her office.

‘Aimee will love that. She’s never had a school uniform before. We’ll sort one out when we’ve finished talking. You know why Aimee was so keen to go in the playground just now?’ Lynn said, as we settled in her small but comfortable office on the first floor.

‘No.’

‘It’s the first time she has had the opportunity of playing in the playground before the start of school, because she’s never arrived on time before.’

I looked at Lynn amazed. ‘Are you saying that in four years of schooling she never once arrived on time?’

‘That’s right. Aimee’s attendance averaged about twenty per cent each year, and on the days she was in school she never arrived until the afternoon.’

‘Good grief!’ I said. ‘That’s probably the worst school attendance I’ve ever heard of for a young child. And it explains why Aimee was puzzled that the children were in the playground first thing. As we came in she remarked that the kids should be in their classrooms, not the playground.’

‘That’s because they were always in school doing their lessons when she arrived before.’

‘But how did Aimee’s parents get away with not sending her to school and always arriving late?’ I asked.

‘I wish I knew,’ Lynn said with a sigh. ‘We kept reporting it to the social services, together with all our other concerns: Aimee’s poor hygiene and head lice, the rags she wore for clothes, the bruises we saw and also her bad behaviour, but nothing seemed to happen. A social worker must have visited the mother’s flat, for we had some meetings here. But we never saw the same social worker twice and Aimee’s mother, Susan, is very manipulative. She’s had plenty of practice with all her older children being in care. She always had lots of excuses as to why Aimee wasn’t in school, was always filthy dirty and didn’t have a school uniform. Have you met Susan yet?’

‘No. But I will tonight when I take Aimee to contact.’

‘Be warned: she can be very aggressive. I guess it’s all the drink and drugs. I’ve had her escorted off the school premises many times. Whenever I phoned the social services and raised my concerns she came in here looking for trouble. I have the feeling the social workers are frightened of her. She often has that nasty Rottweiler with her. God knows how much that dog must cost to feed!’

‘I don’t understand why Aimee wasn’t brought into care sooner,’ I said. ‘The current social worker can’t understand why she was left so long at home either.’

Lynn nodded. ‘I blame myself for not doing more, although I’m not sure what else I could have done. When Aimee first came to the school and was in the nursery we tried to help Susan. We put in a lot of support – much of it with school funding – but it achieved nothing. She’s followed the same path in the neglect of Aimee as she did with the other children. I’ve sat in case conferences and it’s history repeating itself. It’s so sad.’

‘I’m sure you did all you could,’ I said. ‘At least Aimee is in care now.’

‘Thank goodness.’ Lynn sighed. ‘Now, let me write down your contact details before I forget.’

Taking a pen and paper from her desk she wrote my name and then I gave her my address, telephone numbers – landline and mobile – and email address, all of which the social services should give the school but hardly ever do. ‘You appreciate my details are confidential,’ I said. ‘Susan doesn’t know where Aimee is staying.’

‘Good. Less chance of her causing trouble,’ Lynn said.

When she’d finished writing I said: ‘Last night when I helped Aimee with her bath I noticed she had a lot of small bruises all over her, some of them quite new.’

Lynn nodded. ‘We often saw bruises on Aimee and always reported them to the social services. Her mother said she was accident prone. Aimee was in school so little we couldn’t monitor her properly, and she was never in school on the days she had PE – a classic sign a child may have something to hide and doesn’t want to undress. When I asked Aimee how she got the bruises she said she fell over. I doubt it; they didn’t appear to be in the right places for falling over.’

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘I intend reporting what I’ve seen to the social worker when I speak to her later. I guess with so little schooling Aimee is a long way behind with her learning? Yesterday evening she struggled to do a simple puzzle that was suitable for a pre-school child.’

‘Aimee is a long, long way behind in all her learning,’ Lynn confirmed, shaking her head sadly. ‘She can just about write her first name but that’s the only word she can write; she can only count to ten, doesn’t know her alphabet and has a sight vocabulary of three words.’

I gasped. ‘She can only read three words at the age of eight?’

‘Her mother says Aimee has learning difficulties but I don’t think so. I’m sure it’s a combination of virtually no schooling and not being able to concentrate when she has been in school. I’ve found before when children have difficult home lives that they spend all their time worrying about what’s going on at home rather than concentrating on their lessons: if Mum is staying off the drink or drugs, if she’s getting a beating from Dad, if they are going to receive another beating when they get home or if there’s any food in the house. I’m sure now Aimee’s in care she’ll achieve great things.’

I nodded, although I hoped Lynn wasn’t expecting too much too soon. Lynn had clearly had experience of children who’d been abused or neglected, but while I agreed with what she said about Aimee catching up I knew it would take time. Aimee would start to learn now she was safe and being looked after but she had eight years of neglect and goodness knew what else to overcome first, and they would leave emotional scars, many of them deep.

Lynn and I discussed Aimee’s learning a while longer and I said I would do all I could to help her at home. Then Lynn’s phone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, picking up the handset. I couldn’t hear what the person on the other end was saying, but it soon became clear it was bad news. Lynn’s previous warm and positive expression vanished, and was replaced by concern and anxiety. ‘I’ll come straight down,’ she said, standing. Then, replacing the receiver, she said to me: ‘Stay here. Susan is in the school and is very angry. She’s looking for trouble.’