It was just before 3 p.m. as I drew up outside Max’s home. My pulse had stepped up a beat and my mouth was dry. Jo’s car was already there, parked directly in front of mine. I hate confrontation, but I couldn’t see how it could be avoided given what must be going on inside the house. Opening my car door, I got out and began walking along the pavement and then up the short path. The front door was closed, but a downstairs window was open and through it came raised voices, one of which I knew was Kelly’s, shouting hysterically. I pressed the bell and waited. The voices stopped for a moment and then the front door opened. A cat shot out and a woman of middle age with a careworn expression looked at me questioningly.
‘I’m Cathy Glass, Max’s foster carer,’ I said.
‘Oh yes. Come in,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘I’m a colleague of Jo’s. We’re in the living room.’ Social workers sometimes work in pairs.
The shouting had begun again. I closed the front door and followed Jo’s colleague down the still-dark hall. Mayhem greeted us in the living room. Kelly, Paris and Summer were standing at various points around the room, shouting accusingly and jabbing their fingers at each other. Caz was sitting on the sofa, red in the face and her eyes bloodshot from crying. Jo sat next to her, trying to console her but looking stressed and out of her depth. There was no sign of Dan or Max.
‘What about Mum?’ Kelly was now shouting at Paris and Summer, her bottom lip trembling. ‘You didn’t think about her when you went off and reported Dad, did you?’
‘Of course I did, but what else could I do?’ Paris cried, throwing up her arms in despair. ‘I can’t force her to chuck him out, so I’ve got to look out for myself.’ I assumed ‘him’ was Dan.
‘Me, me, me!’ Kelly retaliated. ‘Never mind the rest of us. He’s going to be furious when he finds out. But you won’t be here, so you needn’t worry.’
Jo went to say something, but Paris was already answering. ‘You can come too, if you want. You don’t have to put up with his shit. Jo told you she could find you somewhere to go.’
‘And who’s going to look after Mum?’ Kelly yelled back, her eyes glistening with tears.
‘Why don’t you come?’ Paris now asked Summer.
Clearly Summer, thirteen, and the youngest of the girls, didn’t know what to say or do for the best. She looked lost and was visibly shaking. ‘I want us to stay together,’ she said and began sobbing.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Kelly accused Paris.
‘Girls, this is not helping,’ Jo’s colleague, who was still standing beside me, said.
‘It’s not me!’ Paris shouted at Kelly. ‘It’s him you have to blame.’
‘But we’ve managed this far,’ Kelly said, her voice dropping slightly.
‘I know, but I can’t take any more,’ Paris replied, tears springing to her eyes. ‘I’ve had enough!’
‘Where is Max?’ I asked Jo’s colleague.
‘He went to his room.’
‘Shall I go and collect him now?’ Clearly I couldn’t do much to help here.
‘Jo,’ she called. Jo looked over. ‘Probably best if Max goes now?’
Jo nodded.
‘I want to say goodbye to Max,’ Paris said, tears spilling onto her cheeks. ‘I don’t know when I’ll see him again.’
‘We’ll arrange something,’ Jo’s colleague said.
I turned and left the room, greatly saddened by witnessing a family being torn apart. Paris came with me. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked her, touching her arm. She gave a small nod. ‘Jo will arrange contact so you can all get together.’
‘I hope so,’ she said, her voice breaking. She began walking up the stairs and I followed. ‘I hope I’ve done the right thing,’ she said anxiously, turning to me as we arrived on the landing. She looked so worried and upset, but of course putting herself into care and reporting her father was a momentous and very painful decision.
‘You have done the right thing,’ I said. ‘I know it’s difficult. You’re being very brave. Once you’ve met your carers and settled in, you’ll start to feel a bit better.’
‘Jo said they were nice, but I’ve always lived here. This is my home. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.’ Her face crumpled and she laid her head on my shoulder, sobbing. I took her in my arms and held her as she cried.
‘You are doing the right thing,’ I said gently as I comforted her. ‘Abuse of any sort can never be tolerated. You’ve told the truth, that’s all. It’s never the fault of the victim. The abuser is always to blame, no matter what they might say.’ Many children who come into care blame themselves for the abuse and the break-up of their family.
‘It’s not like I didn’t warn him,’ Paris said as she cried on my shoulder. ‘I kept telling him if he didn’t leave me alone I’d report him. He didn’t think I would.’ She suddenly drew back and, wiping away the tears with her hand, asked, ‘Do you think Mum will get rid of him so I can come home? She won’t, will she?’
‘I don’t know, love.’ I thought it unlikely, though, as surely Caz would have done so when she first knew of the abuse.
‘Will I be able to see Max at your house?’ Paris now asked. She must have had so many questions and worries going through her mind.
‘I don’t see why not. Jo will arrange contact.’
‘I’ve got to pack some of my things,’ she said, her brow creasing. ‘What shall I take?’
‘Your favourite clothes, nightwear, toiletries and your music. Don’t worry, I’m sure Jo will arrange to collect anything else you need, and your carer will have some emergency spares.’
She nodded and, putting on a brave face, said, ‘I’ll say goodbye to Max now.’ She went to a door on the right and opened it. I followed her into Max’s bedroom. He was lying on his bed face down, propped on his elbows and poring over a book, with his hands covering his ears. I wondered how often he’d had to lie there on his bed, blocking out arguments and other things he didn’t want to hear.
He sat up immediately when he saw us and looked slightly surprised and relieved. ‘Is it time to go?’ he asked.
‘Yes, love. Paris has come to say goodbye.’
‘Why?’
She went over and sat next to him on the edge of his bed. ‘I’m going to live with a foster carer, like you, but I’ll see you again soon.’
‘When?’ he asked.
‘As soon as I can. But I won’t be living here any more.’
He nodded. I guessed he must have been aware of at least some of what was going on downstairs, for he didn’t seem unduly surprised by this.
‘Give me a hug,’ Paris said. Slipping her arms around him, she drew him to her. They weren’t a tactile family and seeing the two of them sitting on the bed, clasped in a farewell embrace, brought a lump to my throat.
‘Will someone look after you like Cathy looks after me?’ Max asked her.
‘Yes, I hope so.’ Her voice broke and I could see she was fighting back more tears, trying to stay brave for Max’s sake.
‘I’ll miss you,’ he said.
‘I’ll miss you too,’ Paris said. She quickly kissed his cheek and stood. ‘I’ve got to go and pack now.’ She headed for the bedroom door. As she passed me I saw tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘Take care, love,’ I said, but there was no reply.
I went over to Max and took a deep breath to steady my own voice. ‘Come on, young man, time for us to go. Do you want to bring that book with you to finish?’
‘No. I’ll leave it here for next time.’
I didn’t say anything, but it was quite possible there wouldn’t be a next time and that future contact would be supervised at a family centre. Dan had abused Paris and assaulted Caz, so all the children would be considered at risk.
I offered Max my hand and he took it. Together we left his room and went downstairs to the living room. The shouting had stopped as anger had given way to tears. Kelly, Summer and their mother had tissues pressed to their faces, their expressions
those of abject misery and disbelief. If ever there was a snapshot of what abuse can do to a family, it was this scene, agonizing and raw. Abuse enters a home like a rat in the night and gnaws its way through everything held dear by the family until there is nothing left but pain, recrimination, guilt and a lifetime of trying to come to terms with what happened.
‘Bye, Mum,’ Max said quietly from across the room.
‘Oh, are you going now?’ she asked, pressing the tissue to her eyes.
‘It’s for the best,’ Jo said. ‘You’ll see him again soon.’
‘Will you give me a kiss?’ Caz asked him pitifully.
Max plodded over to her side, planted a kiss on her cheek and then threw his arms around her in a heartfelt embrace, as he had done that once at the hospital. I saw her flinch and momentarily draw away – the legacy of the abuse she had suffered as a child – but then force herself to stay, stiff and awkward as he hugged her.
‘Be a good boy,’ she told him as he lowered his arms.
‘I’m sure he will be,’ Jo said.
Max returned to my side.
‘One of us will be in touch,’ Jo’s colleague said to me.
I nodded and, taking Max’s hand, we left the room and went into the dingy hall, even darker now with the anguish and despair unfolding behind us.
Outside we walked in silence to my car and I opened the rear door. I waited while Max climbed in and fastened his seatbelt, then I checked it was secure. As I got into the driver’s seat a cat strolled across the road in front of us, going towards Max’s house.
‘There’s Smokey. Will someone let him in and feed him?’ Max asked, focusing on the tangible and familiar.
‘Yes, love.’
I fastened my seatbelt, started the engine and pulled slowly away. As we passed Max’s house Smokey could be seen sitting on the doorstep, waiting patiently to be let in – the epitome of the cosy family home if you didn’t know the heartache going on inside.
As I drove Max sat in silence, gazing out of his side window, while my thoughts returned to his family. I wondered if Summer would be taken into care – at her age it was highly likely. Kelly, seventeen, while technically a minor, would probably make her own decision on where she lived because it’s impractical (and virtually impossible) to force an older teenager into care if they really don’t want to go, unless they are considered a danger to themselves or others, when they can be sent to a secure unit or hospital.
The girls’ loyalty and solidarity towards their mother had now been fractured by what Kelly saw as Paris’s betrayal of their family, although of course Paris had done the right thing. However, I didn’t blame Kelly; she just wanted the security of what she knew and was familiar with, even though it was at times abusive. Right now they were all in shock, struggling to come to terms with social services’ intervention and the break-up of their family, but I hoped that in time Kelly would see who was really to blame. Her comment, ‘He’s going to be furious when he finds out,’ was very worrying and suggested she, too, was afraid of her father. How did he show his anger? Who did he take it out on? But that was for Caz, with the support of the social services, to address. I had no control over that and needed to concentrate on Max.
‘Are you OK, love?’ I asked him, glancing in the interior mirror.
He nodded.
‘When we get home I’ll explain what has happened, all right?’
He nodded again, and then continued silently looking out of his side window for the rest of the journey home.
Once indoors I made us both a cold drink and then took Max into the living room, where we sat side by side on the sofa. In a calm and gentle voice I said that his sisters and mother had been upset, but he wasn’t to worry, as Jo would look after them. Children in care often fret dreadfully for their families and assume responsibility far beyond their age permits. I then explained that Paris was going to live with a foster carer because their father had been saying and doing things that he shouldn’t have. I wouldn’t demonize him. He was still Max’s father and it was quite possible they’d continue to see each other at supervised contact. I thought this was sufficient detail for a six-year-old and I’d answer any questions he had as they arose.
‘When will I see Mummy again?’ he immediately asked.
‘I’m not sure yet. I expect Jo will phone us tomorrow.’
He nodded, accepting this in this usual stoical manner. But I now wondered how much of his stoicism was a result of the things he’d heard and witnessed at home: an inbuilt survival mechanism for dealing with trauma and upset. I didn’t question him about what he may have seen and heard. He’d had enough to deal with for one day, and Jo would doubtless want to speak to him in due course. As he didn’t have any further questions, I suggested he choose a game from the cupboard while I made a quick phone call. I needed to update Jill and also ask her about contact arrangements.
She was expecting my call and when I’d finished updating her she asked how Max was. She then said she’d speak to Jo in the morning when she was back in the office and then phone me.
That evening I kept Max occupied by playing board games with him before and after dinner so he didn’t have time to worry. I was slightly relieved, though, when I could start his bath and bedtime routine. I felt emotionally exhausted, and although Max didn’t say, I thought he must be too. As I saw him into bed he asked again when he would see his mother.
‘I don’t know yet, love,’ I said. ‘I’ll speak to Jo tomorrow.’
‘Mum said social workers don’t always do what they say, so if Jo doesn’t phone you, will you phone her?’
‘Yes, love. Please try not to worry. I’ll take care of it.’ Which was the only reassurance I could give him.
Chapter Twenty
Comfort Eating
Needless to say, I had another sleepless night thinking about Max’s family, and the following morning, when I went into his room, it seemed he had too. I hadn’t heard him snoring much during the night and had taken this as a positive sign of his improving health, but of course to snore you have to be asleep. Max was sitting up in bed reading and said he’d been awake since half past three. There was a clock on his bedroom wall and he knew how to tell the time. ‘When am I seeing Mummy?’ he asked, closing the book.
‘I don’t know yet. I’ll speak to Jo later.’
‘Can you phone her now?’
‘No, love, it’s only seven-thirty. She won’t be in her office yet.’
‘Can you phone her at her home?’
‘No. Try not to worry. If she doesn’t phone me, I’ll phone her.’
But he did worry. Max was an intelligent and sensitive child and was aware that his family was in turmoil and his mother probably wasn’t coping.
‘Will Summer go with Paris?’ he asked as he got up.
‘I don’t know, love. Possibly.’
‘Will Kelly stay at home and look after Mummy?’
‘Yes, I’m sure she will.’
‘Mummy has a friend, Aunt Bet. Will she help Mummy?’ he asked as we ate breakfast.
‘Yes, I expect so.’ Caz had mentioned Bet to me. ‘But try not to worry. The adults will sort it out.’ Which sometimes needed to be stated. This was the adults’ responsibility, not Max’s.
He’d paused from eating and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I wish I was an adult, then I could help sort it out.’
Bless him. I smiled and, changing the subject, asked him about the book he’d been reading in bed. Max was always happy to discuss a good book.
Interestingly, but not surprisingly, with his ready playmates Adrian and Paula away and Max anxious about his mother, he began craving food as a comfort, which had been the norm in his house. We’d only just finished breakfast when Max came to me rubbing his stomach theatrically and saying he was hungry and could he have a snack. I gave him a piece of fruit, but ten minutes later he said he was hungry again and asked if he could have some biscuits like he did at home. He’d brushed his teeth, so I wasn’t really
happy about giving him sweet foods and I suggested we waited until nearer mid-morning – around eleven o’clock – when we usually had a snack. I arranged some puzzles on the table to keep him occupied, while I had a quick tidy-up. But every so often he came to me, hand on his stomach, claiming he was hungry. I gave him a glass of water to help alleviate the feeling of hunger and said I’d make a snack soon. Then a few minutes later, when I returned from hanging out the washing in the garden, I found him in the kitchen, gazing longingly up at the cupboard containing the biscuit tin. It was nearly mid-morning so I told him to sit at the table, and I made him a snack of grated cheese on crackers with sliced cucumber, then offered him the biscuit tin to choose one.
As soon as he’d finished the snack he asked (as he had been doing on and off all morning) if Jo had telephoned yet and if he was seeing his mother that evening. I said again that I didn’t know and reassured him that Jo would sort something out and if I didn’t hear from her, I’d phone her. I knew she’d have a lot to do and either she or Jill would telephone me. For the next hour Max was either asking for food or asking when he would see his mother, despite my best efforts to keep him occupied. At twelve o’clock I made an early nutritious and filling lunch – rotelle pasta with diced hardboiled egg and halved cherry tomatoes with a dash of salad oil (pages 62–3 of Happy Mealtimes for Kids) – for us both. And Max was happily occupied for a good ten minutes. I felt that after lunch a small outing with a change of scenery would be a good idea, although I didn’t want to go too far away in case Jo or Jill telephoned with last-minute contact arrangements, which I knew from experience could happen. Once I’d cleared away the lunch dishes I suggested to Max that we walk to the High Street to the barbers to get his hair cut, as his mother had asked me to. This would serve two purposes: his overdue haircut and some exercise.