I continued along the hall to the front room, took the foster carer’s log out of my desk, and started writing up my notes. I wrote quickly, trying to get everything down as accurately as possible, and I’d covered a page and a half when the phone rang. I answered immediately, expecting Jill or Eileen.
‘Hello?’ I said. There was no reply.
‘Hello?’ I said again.
Still nothing. Yet the line was open, someone was on the other end. I listened, and thought I heard a rustle as though someone had jolted the receiver. Perhaps it was a child trying to get through, hesitant, wondering if they had the right number. Perhaps it was my friend Pat, who now lived in South Africa, and phoned once a month – there was often a problem with the connection. I tried once more. ‘Hello?’
The line went dead. I hung up, then dialled 1471. The automated voice spoke, ‘You were called today at 2.20 p.m. We do not have the caller’s number.’
I stood for a moment pondering, then returned to my desk. Could it have been Jodie’s parents? In theory, they shouldn’t have had any of my personal details, but years of fostering had made me naturally suspicious. I finished writing up my notes, then began typing them on to a Word document. A few minutes later I heard Jodie bounding down the hall.
‘Cathy! It’s break time. Where’s me trainers? We’re going to the park.’
‘The garden,’ corrected Nicola, from the back room.
I clicked ‘Save’ then went into the hall and helped her into her trainers and coat. She rushed through to the conservatory and I opened the door to let her out. Nicola joined me at the French windows, and we stood watching Jodie’s uncoordinated efforts to set the swing in motion.
‘Poor kid,’ Nicola said, then she turned to me. ‘Cathy, she said something rather worrying earlier and I think you should know.’ I met her gaze. ‘It was while we were working on the letter T. One of the words I gave her was T for trousers. I showed her a picture of a pair of trousers, and she got very annoyed and wouldn’t look at it. Then she said, “My daddy takes his trousers off. He’s naughty, isn’t he?”’
‘I understand where that’s come from,’ I said, and I briefly explained the nature of Jodie’s allegations, without giving specific details; confidentiality has to be respected, even with the tutor. ‘I’ve alerted her social worker,’ I added. ‘I take it nothing like that’s been said before?’
‘Not to me, but there was that episode at Hilary and Dave’s. I expect they told you.’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Well, I’m not sure exactly what happened, but Dave told the social worker that at times Jodie behaved as though she fancied him. She was flirting, and going into his bedroom when Hilary wasn’t there. I understand they called an end to the placement when she tried to touch him through his trousers.’
‘No, I wasn’t told,’ I said, my voice tight, ‘and I should have been. I’ve got a son of seventeen. It’s very bad social work practice.’
I knew from experience that dealing with Social Services meant coping with an endless series of petty mistakes and failings. The sheer size of the huge machine, and the number of cogs involved, meant that errors were constantly being made. I was used to that, and I could deal with it. I understood that human error happens and that, with so many cases to process, mistakes are made. Nevertheless, I wanted to trust that when something important happened, something that had immediate relevance to a child’s state of mind or health, or the vital decisions being made on that child’s behalf, then people would take care and be extra sure that things were done correctly.
Looking back, I could see obvious instances of sexualized behaviour before today’s revelation: I had seen Jodie with her hands down her knickers, furiously masturbating in public like no normal eight-year-old child would; I’d seen her trying to climb into bed with Adrian and occasionally sidle up to him, try to sit next to him or grin and bat her eyelids at him. Flirting was the word for it, if I’d thought about it properly. The problem was that Jodie took up so much of my time, energy and mental strength that I rarely had the opportunity to stand back and observe her objectively and analyse her behaviour. It was obvious now that she was treating Adrian in a sexual manner because her experiences at the hands of her father had taught to her to view all males as sexual beings first and foremost. Everything was beginning to fall into place. Now I realized that this was part of a pattern, and that others had noticed it too.
If there had been evidence before of sexualized behaviour, why hadn’t anyone begun to come to the obvious conclusion – that someone was sexually abusing Jodie? And why on earth had I not been told about her behaviour towards her previous carer?
I bit back my anger. None of this was Nicola’s fault and I didn’t want to dump my frustrations on her.
After fifteen minutes we called Jodie in from the garden. I helped her off with her trainers, then returned to the front room and continued typing from my log, while Nicola and Jodie returned to their session. Once I’d finished, I emailed the file to Jill. Perfect timing! I’d just turned off the PC, as Jodie marched into the room.
‘We’re done! Come and see me work!’
I went through and admired the letter and number work, then arranged the next session for Thursday, and Jodie and I saw Nicola out. As soon as she’d gone the phone started ringing, and it didn’t stop for the rest of the afternoon. Jill told me the team leader had convened an emergency strategy meeting, with the time and venue to be announced shortly. She would let me know when there was any more information.
Next, Eileen called me. I was glad to hear from her, but I didn’t get quite the response I’d been hoping for. Somehow, she didn’t seem to be too shocked or horrified by what the child in her charge had suffered.
‘I’ve heard what’s happened,’ she said in her flat way. ‘Has Jodie said any more since?’
‘Not much more, but she did make a comment to her tutor today,’ I said, and told her what Jodie had said to Nicola. I reminded myself that social workers often have to retain a bit of distance and put up walls between themselves and their cases, in order to protect themselves from getting too involved emotionally and becoming unable to do their job properly. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help feeling that Eileen just didn’t seem very bothered, or to empathize with Jodie at all.
‘Right,’ said Eileen with a sigh, as she noted down what I’d said. It almost seemed as though the most depressing aspect of all this for Eileen was the amount of extra work it would involve for her.
I took a deep breath and asked about Jodie’s relationship with the previous carer, Dave.
‘It’ll be on the file if there is anything,’ she said, using the same excuse as last time.
I felt like saying, ‘Well, read the bloody file then!’ but settled instead for a repeat of the more diplomatic, ‘I’d be grateful if you could give me any relevant background information. It’s even more important now.’
I put the phone down, frustrated. Really, this wasn’t something I should have had to tell her. Why hadn’t Jodie’s social worker familiarized herself with the case by now? She obviously still hadn’t read the file – neither had she been to visit Jodie yet. They barely knew each other and good social work practice said that she should be establishing a relationship with the child for whom she was legally responsible. Nor had she offered to come round now, to offer her support to Jodie and demonstrate her concern.
Thank goodness for Jill. She seemed to appreciate the gravity of the situation and phoned again to tell me that the strategy meeting had been convened for later the same morning. Because Jodie wasn’t in school, and it was too short notice to find a babysitter, Jill said she would go in my place, and let me know the outcome.
Sally, the guardian ad litum appointed by the court to represent Jodie’s interests, phoned next. I’d liked Sally right from the start: she showed exactly the right mix of professionalism and concern that reassured me that the right steps would be taken for Jodie. She called to hear from me in person the de
tails of what had happened to Jodie – and she said how sorry she was, and how dreadful that the abuse had not been discovered before. She had to be objective, of course, but it was clear that Jodie’s case had touched her, and I appreciated her showing that. Once again, I repeated the details of Jodie’s disclosures. Sally thanked me for all I was doing, and gave me her home telephone number in case anything else should emerge.
Finally, the phone stopped ringing. I put the kettle on, and tried to settle Jodie with play dough, but she was having none of it. She was high on the frenzy of activity, rightly believing that it related to her. Luckily, Paula and Lucy arrived home from school, and they distracted her long enough to allow me to collect my thoughts.
A little while later, the phone rang again. It was Jill.
‘Hi, Cathy. I’m just calling to let you know the outcome of the strategy meeting. Contact with both of Jodie’s parents has been suspended with immediate effect, until further notice. Can you tell Jodie please?’
‘So she’s not seeing her mum either?’ I asked, surprised.
‘No. Until they know more, they’re playing safe.’
‘All right. I’ll explain to her. Goodness knows how she’ll take it.’
‘As we said earlier, it would be great if you could try and find out where the mother was while the abuse was taking place.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Between you, me and the gatepost, this looks like one hell of a balls-up by Social Services. All hell’s broken loose while they try and find out how this could have happened.’
I hung up and looked at the clock; it was already 5.30, and I hadn’t even thought about dinner yet. I wearily went through to the conservatory, where Paula and Lucy were doing a good job helping Jodie model the dough. I decided to deal with the contact first, as I didn’t want her to feel in any way responsible for not seeing her parents.
‘I need to have a chat,’ I said to the girls. ‘I’ll explain later.’ They took my meaning and left. ‘Thanks for your help,’ I called after them.
‘I’ll explain later,’ Jodie repeated. I heard the girls laugh.
I squatted down beside her and began talking to her about being safe, keeping safe, and how safe she felt with me.
Obligingly she said, ‘I wasn’t safe with my daddy, was I, Cathy?’
‘No you weren’t, pet. And because of that, Eileen feels it would be better if you didn’t see either of your parents for a while, until it’s all sorted out.’
‘OK, Cathy,’ she said, not in the least perturbed. ‘I’ll tell her.’ Then she stood up, and started a conversation with herself, in which she told Jodie she wasn’t seeing Mummy or Daddy because she had to be safe.
That was too easy, I thought. It’s not normal. After all, she’d been with them for eight years. I’d dealt with many children who’d been neglected or even abused, and no matter what they’d been through, they always had some emotional connection with their parents. I’d never seen a reaction like this before. I moved on to the second matter of Mum’s presence during the abuse. Jodie sat down again, and picked up a lump of multicoloured dough.
‘Jodie, you know what you were telling me earlier? Can you remember where your mummy was while your daddy was in your bedroom?’
‘It’s a cat!’ she exclaimed, pulling the dough into an elongated pear shape.
‘Is it? That’s nice.’ I leaned closer. ‘Jodie, when your daddy was in your bedroom doing naughty things, where was your mummy?’
She shrugged and curled her tongue over her top lip in concentration.
‘Was she in the house, Jodie, or out? Did you tell her what he was doing?’
‘I told her,’ she said, thumping the dough with the palm of her hand. ‘I told her. I said I want a cat. Get me one now.’ Then she was off, in search of Toscha. I didn’t pursue it. I’d have to wait until she was ready.
Chapter Eleven
Cooking and Cleaning
In the middle of the night I was woken by the most terrifying screams. I didn’t have time for my dressing gown and slippers. I hurried out of bed and rushed on to the landing, dizzy from standing too quickly. I flung open Jodie’s bedroom door. She was on the floor thrashing from side to side, screaming at the top of her voice, gripped in a paroxysm of fear.
‘Jodie!’ I shouted, trying to break through her nightmare. ‘Jodie, it’s Cathy!’ But her screams drowned out my cry.
I dropped to my knees and took hold of her hands. Her face was screwed shut, and she was clawing at her eyes, trying to gouge them out. I pinned one arm under my knee, and the other above her head. She was fighting for all she was worth, and her strength was incredible, as though the demons had risen up to do battle against her.
‘Jodie! Open your eyes. It’s Cathy. You’re safe with me.’
Her teeth gnashed and her feet drummed the floor. I held on, and kept talking. ‘Jodie! You’re safe in your room. It’s a nightmare. Nothing can harm you here.’
The screams peaked, then died, and her body went limp. I heard a gush of water, then a stain appeared on her pyjamas. Her eyes flickered open, and her head slowly turned. She looked up at me, fixed and staring, then turned her head and vomited. It was like the end of a seizure.
‘All right, Jodie. It’s OK. Everything’s going to be all right.’
She murmured, and her eyes started to focus. I relaxed my grip, and cradled her against me. The smell of vomit and urine made my stomach heave. ‘You’re safe, Jodie. Nothing can harm you here. I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry, pet.’ I gently rocked her.
She whimpered, then wrapped her arms tightly around my waist. ‘I don’t want it in my mouth. Tell him. Tell him it makes me sick, Cathy.’
‘It won’t happen again, pet. I promise. You’re safe.’
‘I told her to make him stop. I did. But she wouldn’t listen.’
‘Who, Jodie? Who did you tell?’ She started to cry again. ‘It’s OK. Don’t worry. You can tell me when you’re ready. Only when you’re ready, pet.’
I held her until she was completely calm, then brought her to her feet, and led her to the bathroom. I cleaned us both, then helped her into a clean pair of pyjamas. She was silent and exhausted. I steered her round the landing and tucked her into bed, then sat on the floor next to her, stroking her hair.
Eventually, she fell asleep. I left the light on as I crept out of her room and gently closed the door. I returned to my bedroom for a clean nightdress, my dressing gown and slippers, then went downstairs. It was 3 a.m. Jodie’s screams must have woken the others, but they seemed to have turned over and gone back to sleep.
In the kitchen I filled a bucket with hot water, added some disinfectant and left our nightclothes to soak. There was little point in returning to bed yet. I wouldn’t be able to sleep – I was too full of Jodie’s suffering, and I half expected her to wake again any minute. I hadn’t seen anything like this before in any child I’d looked after, and it had left me stunned and drained. I leaned heavily against the work surface, and watched the clock on the oven tick over another minute. Toscha purred around my legs, uncertain if it was time for breakfast. I poured her a saucer of milk, then made myself a mug of tea.
My thoughts went to the packet of cigarettes on top of the broom cupboard. I’d put them there when I was giving up, six months ago. I had managed to quit by only having one when it was essential, and making them difficult to reach. I dragged the breakfast stool into place and climbed up. I felt a stab of guilt as I opened the packet and slid one out. The matches were in the childproof cupboard under the sink; I had thrown all the lighters away. I unlocked the back door and stepped outside. I’d never smoked in the house.
The night was cold and clear. I couldn’t see the moon, but the deep black sky was a blanket of twinkling stars. The cold air was a relief from the heavy atmosphere which now pervaded the house. The match flared in the darkness, as though highlighting my transgression. I held it to the tip and inhaled. I felt that old familiar rush, at once intoxicati
ng and reassuring, then another surge of guilt, but I inhaled again, concentrating on the ritual, allowing myself to think of nothing else. By the time I’d finished, I wasn’t sure if I felt better or worse.
Returning inside, I put the matches back in the cupboard, and secreted the cigarettes in a more accessible drawer. It was still quiet upstairs, so I went into the lounge and switched on the television. There was ice hockey on Channel Five. I turned the volume down and gazed absently, while my thoughts travelled faster than the puck. Whatever had that child suffered? I could only begin to guess. And who was this ‘her’ whom she had told? Her mum? An aunt? A teacher at school? I was amazed that nothing had been picked up before. Jodie had been on the at-risk register since birth, so she should have been visited by social workers every couple of months. I couldn’t believe that none of them noticed anything untoward in her relationship with her father, as it sounded like the abuse had been going on for years. Surely her mother must have known – but that was another avenue that I couldn’t bear to go down yet. At some point I must have dropped off, for suddenly the ice rink had been transformed into a weather map, and dark rain clouds were covering most of southern England. The clock in the corner of the screen said it was nearly 6.30, and the house was still silent. Perhaps telling me about the abuse had proved cathartic for Jodie; perhaps she’d be less disturbed as a result. I crept upstairs, and took the opportunity for a long, relaxing shower. As the hot water drummed on to my neck and shoulders, I felt the tension dissipate, and prepared myself for a new day.
As I dressed, I felt rejuvenated and ready for action. I hung up the towels, and heard Jodie stir. Within minutes she was off, screaming abuse and trashing her room. I went in and tried to resettle her. When this failed, I told her off, and when that failed, I ended up having to remove the television as a punishment.
Fearful of the damage she might do if left unattended, I allowed her downstairs to breakfast with Lucy and Paula, which turned out to be a massive error of judgement. From the moment she sat down, she tormented the girls by poking and kicking, digging her spoon into their breakfasts, and generally making herself disagreeable. Paula left most of her Weetabix, in a bid to escape, while Lucy finally gave her a tap on the hand and flounced off to finish her toast in her bedroom. By the time Adrian appeared, my nerves were in tatters, and my morning serenity had all but vanished.