Another Forgotten Child

  Chapter Eight

  Meeting Susan

  As a foster carer I am used to meeting the parents of the child or children I am looking after and often it is very difficult. Parents are usually upset and angry that their child has been taken into care and it can be the foster carer who bears the brunt of their anger. Social workers and other professionals connected with the case can hide behind their offices and telephones, but the foster carer is an easy target; working by themselves they are on the front line, and they meet the parents regularly at contact as well as at any impromptu unsupervised meetings that may arise, as was happening now.

  I sat alone in Lynn’s office with the door firmly closed and listened for any sound of approaching footsteps. The bell signalling the start of school had sounded while Lynn and I had been talking, and after the initial clamour of children coming into the school, the building had fallen silent as lessons had begun. I wondered where Susan was in the building and hoped she’d been stopped before she got to Aimee, which would have been very upsetting for Aimee and probably for the rest of her class. The social services’ policy of keeping foster children at the same school has its positive side as well as a downside. While the child is familiar with the school and feels secure there (it has often been the one safe place in a child’s otherwise tumultuous life) the downside, as every foster carer knows, is that the school is usually known to the parents, so they know where and when they can find their child – and the foster carer, at the start and end of school.

  I spent a very anxious fifteen minutes and then I heard footsteps coming down the corridor and towards the office. My heart beat louder as the door opened.

  To my relief Lynn appeared. ‘Dealt with,’ she said matter-of-factly, and apparently unfazed. ‘Susan has been escorted from the premises by our friendly neighbourhood police officer. She lost all control. Threatened a member of staff and threatened to snatch Aimee, so I had no choice but to call the police. Now, let’s go downstairs so you can meet Aimee’s TA (teaching assistant) and sort out Aimee’s school uniform. They’re in the quiet room – that’s where we usually hide Aimee when her mother comes into school causing trouble.’

  Marvelling at Lynn’s composure, I stood and followed her out of her office, down the stairs and along the lower corridor. We passed the playground, which was empty now that all the children were in their classes. We turned left and stopped outside a door that was decorated with brightly coloured flowers and butterflies. Lynn knocked.

  ‘Heather, it’s Lynn with Cathy, Aimee’s carer.’

  The door opened from the inside and Aimee came out, clearly unaware that her mother had been in the building and causing trouble.

  ‘Are you going to buy me a uniform now?’ she asked, excited at the prospect.

  ‘I am,’ I said.

  ‘Heather, this is Cathy.’ Lynn said, introducing me to the lady who’d followed Aimee out of the quiet room. ‘Cathy, meet Heather, Aimee’s TA.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.

  ‘And you.’

  Heather was in her mid-forties and smartly dressed in a navy skirt and white blouse. I would be working closely with Aimee’s teaching assistant as I consolidated at home what Aimee had learnt in school.

  ‘When you’ve finished, Aimee can join her class,’ Lynn said to Heather. Then to me: ‘See you soon. Phone me if there’s anything you’re not sure of.’ I thanked her and with a smile Lynn took her leave.

  ‘Well! A whole new school uniform!’ Heather said to Aimee. ‘Aren’t you a lucky girl!’

  ‘No,’ Aimee said bluntly. ‘Me mum should have bought me a uniform ages ago. So I was like the other children.’ Heather threw me a meaningful glance and I smiled. I liked Aimee for stating it how it was; she was, of course, right.

  I followed Aimee and Heather along the lower corridor to a large walk-in cupboard situated behind the main office, which contained shelves stacked high with every size of school uniform. Reaching up, Heather selected packets of uniform she thought would fit Aimee. Aimee tried on a blouse, jumper and skirt and they fitted. We both told Aimee how smart she looked and Aimee grinned and looked really happy. I told Heather I wanted three complete sets of uniform, a PE kit and a book bag, which all the children had for taking their books to and from school. Heather took these from the shelves, and Aimee grinned again and stroked her uniform as though checking it was real.

  I stooped and began gathering up Aimee’s discarded ragged clothes from the floor.

  ‘I’ll get rid of those,’ Heather offered.

  ‘I have to keep them,’ I explained. ‘They belong to Aimee’s mother and they will be offered back to her.’ This is true for all possessions a child has when they come into care, including their worn-out clothes and broken toys, as legally they are the parents’.

  I stuffed Aimee’s old clothes into one of the plastic bags that the uniform had come out of and tucked it under my arm. ‘I’ll write your name in your uniform this evening,’ I said to Aimee. ‘So don’t lose it during the day.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Aimee said adamantly. And I knew she wouldn’t, for I could see how precious her first school uniform was to her. It was a pity she still had to wear the worn-out trainers, but it would only be for one day.

  ‘We’ll buy your school shoes when we go shopping tomorrow,’ I said.

  Aimee nodded, again running her hands over her school uniform as though checking it was still there.

  I confirmed with Heather that I would be in the school playground at the end of school; then I said goodbye. ‘Have a good day,’ I said to Aimee. I would have liked to give her a hug, but she was already going with Heather to join her class. I waited until they turned the corner and were out of sight, perhaps expecting Aimee to give a little wave, but she didn’t. I then went to the office and paid for the school uniform.

  I was vigilant when I left the school – on the lookout for Aimee’s mother. Although I didn’t know what Susan looked like, I felt sure that if she was still in the vicinity she’d make herself known to me, but I arrived at the car unaccosted and drove home.

  The house was empty; Lucy was at work, Paula was at college and Adrian was away at university. He usually emailed a couple of times a week and I’d check my inbox later when I switched on the computer.

  Ten minutes after I’d arrived home Jill phoned and wanted to know how Aimee’s first night with us had gone and if she was in school.

  ‘She slept well,’ I said. ‘No wet bed. She’s in school and loving her new school uniform.’

  ‘So she was all right about going to school?’ Jill asked. ‘The referral said Aimee refused to go to school.’

  ‘From what Aimee’s told me I’m guessing she didn’t go to school because she couldn’t wake her mother in time to take her. Also Aimee had no friends at school because of her poor hygiene and her bad behaviour. But Jill, last night when I helped Aimee with her bath I saw she’s covered in small bruises. She says she fell over, which is possible, but the designated teacher I was with this morning told me they’d seen bruises on her before. Apparently they have been raising concerns about Aimee with the social services since she was in nursery – over four years ago. They are upset that Aimee wasn’t taken into care sooner.’

  ‘Join the queue,’ Jill said, meaning that everyone connected with Aimee’s case was upset that Aimee hadn’t been taken into care sooner. ‘I’ll speak to the social worker about the bruises. And Aimee’s behaviour?’ Jill asked. ‘Is it manageable? She sounded like a real demon in the referral.’

  ‘Aimee is used to having her own way and needs boundaries and routine,’ I said. ‘She’s obviously got a lot of anger in her, which will have to come out. We’ll see; it’s early days yet.’

  We discussed Aimee’s first night for a while longer and then Jill made an appointment to visit Aimee and me the following Tuesday after school. ‘And if you need any help or advice over the weekend you know to phone our out-of-hours number,’ Jill finished.

  ?
??Yes, I will.’

  I said goodbye to Jill and then half an hour later Kristen telephoned. Jill had spoken to her and I now told Kristen more or less what I’d told Jill.

  ‘When I speak to Susan later today I’ll ask her about the bruises,’ Kristen said. ‘I suppose it’s possible Aimee got them from falling over. Let me give you the details of the arrangements for contact.’

  I reached for a pen and paper. ‘Go ahead,’ I said.

  ‘Contact is just with Mum at present,’ Kristen began. ‘She doesn’t live with Aimee’s father and they aren’t speaking. He will need to apply for contact separately, which he hasn’t done yet. We’ll consider his application if and when it arises. As you know, contact with Aimee’s mother is on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. It will start at three forty-five, which should give you enough time to collect Aimee from school and drive to the family centre.’

  ‘Yes, it should,’ I said. ‘School finishes at three fifteen.’

  ‘Good. Contact will end at five thirty. Telephone contact will take place on those nights Aimee doesn’t see her mother: Tuesday, Thursday and the weekend. You will need to phone Susan’s mobile number, as she doesn’t have a landline, beginning tomorrow, Saturday. Susan’s number should be in the essential information forms but I’ll give it you again.’ I wrote down the mobile number Kristen now gave me and read it back to her. ‘That’s correct. I suggest you make the call about six p.m. or soon after. I will be telling Susan your phone will be on speaker and you will be listening to and monitoring the call. Susan won’t be happy but she’ll have to accept it if she wants phone contact.’

  ‘All right.’ I knew it was a legal requirement to tell a parent if the phone call was being monitored.

  ‘I think that’s all for now,’ Kristen said, winding up the conversation. ‘I’ll be on the case for another week and then I’ll be passing it to the children in care team. Not sure which social worker will be taking over yet. Well, good luck when you meet Susan at contact tonight. A contact supervisor will be on hand if there’s a problem. Have a good weekend.’

  ‘And you.’

  * * *

  That Friday afternoon I collected Aimee from school and she came out in a positive frame of mind, saying she liked school, and then talked non-stop about school as I drove to the family centre. Eventually I had to ask her to save her news until we arrived at the centre, as it was difficult for me to concentrate on driving. But as we pulled up outside the family centre, before Aimee got the chance to tell me more of her news her attention was distracted.

  ‘There’s Mum!’ Aimee yelled. ‘Oh my god, she’s angry!’

  I cut the engine and looked over to the stick-thin woman with unkempt frizzy hair who’d come out of the main door and was now rushing down the path towards us. Her face was contorted with anger and her mouth open and closed with screamed obscenities. I pressed the interior locking system on the car.

  ‘Someone’s in for it,’ Aimee yelled, and I had the feeling that someone might be me.

  Susan arrived at my car, tried the door handle and, finding it locked, banged on the roof. At the same time her face appeared outside my window as she shouted: ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing telling that bleeding social worker I’ve been beating my girl? You wait till I get hold of you. I’ll show you what beating is! I’ll teach you to make up lies about me.’ So I guessed Kristen had told Susan about the bruises I’d seen on Aimee and possibly asked her how she got them, with the implied suggestion that Susan might be responsible.

  I looked at the face distorted by rage just outside my window. Susan’s skin was deathly white and there was no flesh on her face, which accentuated her nose, cheekbones and chin, making them jut out like those of a witch, not helped by a wart on the side of her nose. She appeared to have no back teeth and a few broken teeth at the front, which hollowed her cheeks even more and caused her to hiss and spit as she spoke.

  ‘Mum!’ Aimee shouted, now banging on her side window and compounding the noise. ‘Shut up! Do you hear? Stop screaming. You’re doing my bleeding head in!’

  Susan took no notice of her daughter and continued to bang on the roof and shout obscenities at my window. I knew from the essential information forms that she was forty-four but she could have been four hundred, so ravaged and lined was her face. I thought if ever there was an image that portrayed the harm drug abuse can do it was her face.

  I was about to start the car and drive away when a contact supervisor appeared from the centre.

  ‘Susan!’ she shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Stop that now or there’ll be no contact tonight!’

  ‘Do you hear that, Mum!’ Aimee yelled from the back seat. ‘Shut the fuck up or you won’t be seeing me!’

  ‘Aimee, don’t swear,’ I instinctively cautioned.

  ‘What the fuck are you going to do about it?’ Aimee shouted at me. ‘Let me out of this bleeding car now! I want to see me mum!’

  ‘You’ve just lost ten minutes’ television time for swearing,’ I said, feeling I needed to keep some form of control. I sounded calm, although I felt far from it; I felt threatened and my heart was racing.

  Aimee looked slightly surprised that she’d just lost television time, and didn’t answer me back as I’d expected. A second female contact supervisor appeared from the centre and ran down the path to join the first. Together they approached Susan.

  Susan’s face disappeared from the window and the banging on the car roof stopped as she turned to shout at them: ‘She’ – meaning me – ‘told the bleeding social worker I’ve been beating me kid,’ Susan screamed. ‘I ain’t done nothing of the sort.’

  Clearly that wasn’t what I’d told Kristen. I’d reported the bruises I’d seen on Aimee as I was supposed to. I assumed that either Kristen had handled the situation very badly when she’d asked Susan about the bruises – implicitly accusing her – or Susan had gone on the defensive and had heard criticism where there was none.

  ‘Calm down and come into the centre,’ one of the contact supervisors said to Susan. ‘Then you will be able to see Aimee. Otherwise we’ll have to tell Cathy to take Aimee home and contact will be cancelled for tonight.’

  ‘Ain’t going home with you!’ Aimee cried, kicking the back of the seat but now close to tears. ‘I want me mum. Why did you tell the social worker my mum hit me? She didn’t.’

  I released my seatbelt and turned to look at Aimee. She was angry but also looked very sad and confused. I felt for her, I really did. I reached out to hold her hand and offer some reassurance but she snatched it away. ‘Aimee, I didn’t tell Kristen your mum hit you,’ I said. ‘I told her that when you were in the bath I noticed bruises on you which you said had been caused by falling over.’

  Aimee shrugged but accepted what I’d said. ‘Mum’s always getting it wrong and then flying off on one,’ she said. So I guessed Aimee was used to her mother’s volatile temper – not that it made it any easier. Loss of control is always frightening to witness, especially for a young child.

  The contact supervisor continued to talk to Susan, reassuring her that she would see Aimee in the centre as soon as she was calm. After about five minutes Susan stopped shouting, although I could see she remained very twitchy and agitated; how much of that was her normal disposition I didn’t know. One of the contact supervisors then went with Susan into the centre while the other came round to my car door. I released the central locking system and opened the door.

  ‘Give us a couple of minutes to get Susan a glass of water,’ she said. ‘And then bring Aimee in.’

  ‘I want to see me mum now!’ Aimee demanded from the back seat.

  ‘We’ll do what the supervisor says,’ I said.

  ‘I want to see me mum now,’ Aimee said again. Then, without the central locking system on, Aimee flung open her car door, jumped out, and rushed up the path to the family centre, before I had a chance to stop her.

  ‘Let her go,’ the supervisor said. ‘I’ll see to her.’

&n
bsp; ‘Are you sure?’ I asked, feeling Aimee was my responsibility.

  ‘Yes, you go home and then come back to collect Aimee at the arranged time. We’ve got your mobile number if we need you, but hopefully Susan will calm down now.’

  ‘All right, if you’re sure,’ I said.

  I watched as the supervisor walked up the path and joined Aimee at the main door of the centre. She said something to Aimee. Aimee nodded and then the supervisor buzzed and the door opened. They disappeared inside, and I returned to my car and then sat for a moment staring after them. Little wonder Aimee’s behaviour was bad, I thought, with Susan as her role model. I’d never seen a parent so angry and out of control. I would meet Susan later when I collected Aimee at the end of contact, when I hoped to be able to introduce myself properly, and even talk to her. It’s always better for a foster child if the child can see their parent(s) working together with the foster carer: they settle more easily and are less anxious. But my hope of talking to Susan was short-lived.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘He’s Horrible’

  When I returned, the receptionist at the family centre told me which room Aimee was in and that I should go straight through and collect her, which was normal practice at the end of contact. I went down the corridor and knocked on the door of the contact room before slowly opening it.

  Each of the six contact rooms at the centre is furnished like a sitting room with a sofa, table and chairs, carpet and curtains, and shelves stacked with books, puzzles and games. Aimee was sitting on the sofa next to her mother, eating a bag of crisps, while the contact supervisor sat at the table making notes about the contact. I smiled as I entered the room and said a quiet hello. I then stood unobtrusively to one side, preparing to wait while Aimee finished her crisps and said goodbye to her mother. But as soon as Susan saw me she jumped up and, with her eyes blazing and her fist raised, rushed towards me.