‘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 no
t 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.