Damaged (20 page)

‘OK, thank you for letting me know. She has told me about the aunt before. I’m really sorry you’ve had to deal with all this.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure it won’t be the last time!’ She smiled. I patted her on the arm, and Jodie and I headed home.

On the Friday the school held a fête for Comic Relief. The sun was out, so the stalls were set up in the playground, rather than in the hall as had been expected. The children wore red, the teachers wore wigs and silly costumes, and even some of the parents were wearing red plastic noses. There were stalls with sweets and cakes, games and tombolas, and a set of stocks where the braver teachers allowed themselves to be pelted with wet sponges. It was great fun, and Jodie revelled in it. I stood watching her, as she hared around the playground, being chased by three of her classmates. They were all soaking wet, and their faces were flushed with the excitement. Jodie’s pigtails swung in the air as she dodged and ran from her new friends, laughing wildly. It was probably one of the happiest moments of her life.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Links in the Chain

T
he school handovers were not just designed to ensure Jodie’s safety; they also allowed the teaching and me to keep each other fully updated with Jodie’s progress. Each morning I gave Mrs Rice a brief summary of how Jodie had been the night before: how she’d slept, what her mood was like, any problems to look out for and so on. In the afternoon Mrs Rice would do the same for me, which was useful, especially when Jodie was upset or angry at school.

As Jodie settled into her class she seemed to get on reasonably well with the other children, largely because most of them were bright enough to stay on polite terms with her while keeping their distance. However, there was one other pupil in the orange group who had behavioural problems, a boy called Robert, and he was Mrs Rice’s other main charge. She sat between Jodie and Robert in class, and spent most of her day working with the pair of them on a one-to-two basis, keeping their work loosely related to what was going on in the broader lesson. This kind of teaching is known as ‘differentiating work’.

One afternoon, as Jodie trudged unhappily down the steps, Mrs Rice explained to me what had happened. The class had been drawing with pastels, and Robert and Jodie had both reached for the red pastel at the same time. Robert got there first, so Jodie sat back in a huff. She glared at her picture, glared at Robert, then got up out of her chair, walked behind Mrs Rice and grabbed the pastel out of Robert’s hand. Robert started crying, and Mrs Rice naturally told Jodie off and made her hand it back. Jodie was furious, and shouted that it was Robert’s fault, and called him ‘four eyes’. This upset Robert even more, as he’d only recently started wearing glasses, and Jodie was eventually persuaded to apologize. When the lesson finished, the children went out for playtime. In the playground Jodie spent some minutes standing in silence, while staring at Robert. Then she walked over and punched him, and the pair of them had to be separated.

On the way home she was still furious, thumping and kicking the back of the passenger seat. ‘He’s bullying me, Cathy! I hate him, I hate him!’ Jodie often had tantrums in the car, as she knew there was little I could do to stop her.

‘Jodie, calm down and sit still. I won’t tell you again.’

‘No! Shut up!’

‘Jodie, there’ll be no television tonight, I’m warning you. You haven’t had the best of days. Enough!’

She pouted in silence and I tried to explain the rationale behind her being told off. ‘You grabbed the red pastel from Robert, then called him a very hurtful name. That’s why Mrs Rice was annoyed.’

‘Yes, but I needed it. Why won’t anyone believe me?’

 Over the following weeks, Jodie’s complaints about Robert became a regular feature of our drives home, and often our evenings too. Jodie was adamant that Robert was bullying her, no matter how many times it was explained to her that she in fact was bullying him. I did feel sorry for Robert. He was a quiet, anxious boy, with more than enough problems of his own, and Jodie brought out the absolute worst in him.

Jodie’s relationship with Robert was just one of numerous problems at the school, and I quickly came to dread the sound of the secretary’s voice, as it usually meant we were in trouble. However, the next worry I was faced with regarding school was unrelated to Jodie’s behaviour. One evening at dinner she was telling me about her classmate Freya, and my attention had wandered. Jodie’s stories tended to ramble, and rarely had a point or resolution. However, when Jodie mentioned Freya had visited her at her old house I quickly paid attention.

‘Did you say Freya came to your house when you lived at home?’

‘Yeah.’

‘The house you grew up in, with your mummy and daddy?’

‘Yes,’ she sighed.

‘And she’s in your class now?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So were you and Freya friends from your last school?’

‘No, she didn’t go to my school.’

‘So how did you know her?’

‘Because she came round, and we played Barbie.’

‘So did your mummy and daddy know hers?’

‘Yeah, from the pub.’

‘I see. And do they still see each other, do you know?’

‘S’ppose so.’

Oh shit, I thought.

The next day at school I went in to see the Head. If Freya’s parents were still friendly with Jodie’s parents, it was almost certain the news of which school Jodie now attended would filter back. This raised the possibility that her parents might come to the school and confront us, or even try to snatch her. Jodie would be terrified at the sight of her father in what she thought was a safe place, let alone if he approached her. The school run is fraught with anxiety when you’re fostering, as you’re an exposed target. Parents do occasionally try to grab their children at the school gates, and the advice we’re given is that we have to let the child go, and call the police.

The Head suggested that Jodie and I should use the staff entrance from now on, and he gave me the security code. Although this was a sensible precaution, it meant that in yet another small way Jodie had been made different from her classmates, and her past was once again hampering her future.

The following Sunday, Jodie, Paula and I went for a walk in the park. We were walking up the hill through the centre of the park, when an elderly lady coming towards us slipped and fell. It was dreadful to witness; her wrists failed to break her fall, and she cracked her nose on the tarmac. Paula and I ran up to her, and I gave her first aid, while Paula phoned for an ambulance on her mobile. I used a wad of clean tissues from my bag to stem the bleeding, all the while talking to her, making sure she didn’t go into shock. Her name was Maureen and she was clearly badly shaken; her frail body was trembling. Her face was grazed, her nose appeared to be broken and one of her wrists had swollen up. We waited until the paramedics arrived, and explained to them what had happened. The ambulance took her off to hospital, and we returned home. Throughout all of this, Jodie had stood by quietly watching.

That evening at dinner it was still on our minds.

‘I hope that poor woman’s all right,’ Paula said. ‘I could have cried.’

‘What do you want to cry for?’ Jodie asked.

‘That poor lady, who fell over in the park.’

‘Why? She didn’t hurt you.’

‘No, I know that,’ Paula said patiently. ‘But she was badly hurt and she was old. When you see something like that it makes you sad, doesn’t it?’

Jodie stared back at her, clearly not understanding the emotion she was trying to describe.

I decided to try and help. ‘We don’t like to see other people get hurt, Jodie, because we know how bad it feels ourselves. If you’d fallen over, you’d be hurt, wouldn’t you?’

Jodie thought for a second. ‘Yes. That poor lady.’ She then repeated the phrase throughout the rest of the evening. I was glad to hear her making the right noises, but it sounded hollow and I wasn’t actually convinced she felt it. It wasn’t that Jodie was being wilfully callous, she just didn’t seem to have any sense of empathy. I wondered if this was why she could be so cruel to animals, and so rude and violent to other people. In all the time she’d been with us, I’d never once seen her cry out of sadness; her tears had only ever come from rage and frustration. However, although she hadn’t yet learned to empathize, she had learned that people expected her to sound sympathetic, so she would mimic the reactions of others, to appear normal and fit in. Looking back, she’d done the same thing at Christmas, when she’d copied the others’ reactions when opening her presents. Likewise, when I pointed out a beautiful sunset, she might repeat the phrase, ‘What a beautiful sunset!’, but again it sounded hollow, as though she couldn’t actually see or appreciate its beauty.

Some weeks later I arrived at the school to collect Jodie at the end of the day. As she came down the corridor, I saw she was being escorted by the Head, rather than Mrs Rice. I took a deep breath and braced myself. What had she done now? We exchanged hellos, then he took me to one side, out of Jodie’s earshot.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘she hasn’t done anything. I just wanted a quick word. Mrs Rice has decided to take some time off, so we have a new teaching assistant starting tomorrow.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said, taken aback. ‘It’s rather sudden. She didn’t mention it. I hope she’s OK.’

He nodded. ‘I think she just needs to take some time out. You know what it’s like working with children, and TAs tend to be on the front line. Like you foster carers.’

I nodded in agreement.

‘Sometimes you just need a break, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I know the feeling.’ I smiled weakly, wondering if I would ever get the break I’d been promised at the beginning of the year.

As I left, I felt sad for Mrs Rice. I’d seen her upset often enough to realize that Jodie was partly responsible for wearing her out. She wasn’t used to hearing about the awful things that Jodie had been through, and she’d never dealt with a child this difficult and disturbed before. Jodie was constantly on edge, and alert for danger: fight or flight. If she heard the slightest noise, she’d spin round, ready for action. When you spend long enough in the company of a child like Jodie, you can soon find yourself on a heightened state of alert, and it becomes very difficult to switch off and relax.

I certainly felt myself becoming increasingly overwhelmed by Jodie’s life, and all the pain, fear and distress she had suffered.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Silence

T
he poet T. S. Eliot wrote that April is the cruellest month, and it seemed that this year he was exactly right. As April approached, the gloomy days and permanently grey skies gave no hint of anything different, in the past or the future. The winter seemed endless, as the temperature plummeted. It was hard to believe that Jodie had been with us for almost a whole year, but the anniversary of her arrival was near.

I drew up my collar, and loitered outside the travel agent’s window. I fantasized about the cut-price offers to the Caribbean. How I’d have loved to put us all on a plane and head for an island in the sun. But it was impossible. Although my purse might just have coped with it, I knew Jodie wouldn’t. On top of all her other problems, she had become so fearful of adults that even a visit to our local newsagent, with whom she previously used to chat, would now produce a panic attack. A packed flight would have been intolerable for her, and I doubted the airline would charter a plane just for us.

I moved away from the tempting window display, and turned towards the supermarket. My mobile phone rang; it was the school secretary.

‘I’m sorry, Cathy,’ she said. ‘Jodie’s inconsolable. She’s convinced her father has come to take her. Can you come straight away?’

I turned and headed back to the car.

Fortunately the roads were quiet, so twenty minutes later I was walking down the path towards reception. A high-pitched scream erupted from inside, and I knew it was Jodie. I pressed the security buzzer, and the secretary showed me through to the medical room. Jodie was clinging to the radiator, her eyes wide and staring, her body rigid with fear.

‘Don’t make me go with him! Please, Cathy, please,’ she begged.

The new assistant, Miss Walker, who got on well enough with Jodie, knelt beside her, talking softly, trying to reassure her, but I could see Jodie was way past that.

I moved towards her, but she backed away. ‘No one’s taking you away, Jodie,’ I said firmly. ‘He’s not here, I promise, and you know I don’t lie.’

She opened her mouth, about to scream, but I didn’t give her a chance.

‘No, Jodie. I mean it. Stop it. There’s no one here. Now calm down, let go of the radiator, then we can have a cuddle.’

The young assistant eyed me suspiciously. Jodie looked from one to the other, then at the door. She started to relax her grip. ‘Good girl. That’s better.’ She finally let go.

I went over and took her in my arms, as Miss Walker quietly slipped out.

‘He was here,’ she sobbed. ‘At my old school. He came to collect me, then we went in his car.’

The rest was muffled by her sobs, but I knew how it would go. The past had once again transposed itself on to the present, with flashbacks that felt as real now as when the abuse had happened.

‘It’s all right, pet, I promise you. It won’t happen again. There, there. It’s OK.’

Once she was calm I led her to the car, and we drove home. It was eleven in the morning, but she wanted to go straight to bed. She said she was tired, and her bed was nice and safe. I took her upstairs and helped her out of her uniform. I tucked her in, and she fell asleep straight away. I came back every half hour to check on her, but she didn’t stir. At two o’clock in the afternoon I decided to go in and wake her, as I knew if she slept too long she’d be up all night.

She had changed position, and was now lying flat on her back. Her eyes were open and she was staring at the ceiling.

‘Feeling better?’ I asked, but she gave no acknowledgement. I opened the curtains, took her jeans and jumper from the wardrobe, and laid them on the bed. ‘Put these on, pet, and I’ll make you a snack, then we could take your bike to the park for a bit. You’d like that.’

Usually she was adept at telling me exactly what she did or didn’t like, but this time she made no sound or movement. I looked closely at her, then I perched on the bed and eased the duvet from under her chin. ‘Jodie, are you all right, sweet?’

Her eyes were focused on some distant point above her head. I tried chivvying her along. ‘Come on. Get dressed while I make you a sandwich, then we’ll go out.’ She remained staring, giving no clue that she’d even heard me.

I decided it was probably best to leave her, in the hope that she’d think about the park, and rally round. A quarter of an hour later, when she still hadn’t appeared, I went up to check on her again. She was exactly as I’d left her: flat on her back and staring into space. I sat on the bed and started talking, reassuring her that I understood how difficult it was, but that eventually everything would be sorted out; she had her whole life ahead of her. Still she said nothing, and remained immobile. I tried firmness, then coercion, then bribery, then finally I tried to physically lift her from the pillow, but none of it worked. She flopped back like a rag doll, and I was really starting to worry. I hovered in the doorway, then, leaving the door wide open, went to the phone in my bedroom. I called Jill and told her about the day’s events.

‘It could be part of the post-traumatic shock,’ she said. ‘The flashback she had at school could have caused her brain to shut down for protection.’

‘So she’ll come out of it?’

‘She should be recovered by the morning. I suggest you let her sleep it off. If you need help during the night call the emergency social worker, but I doubt it’ll be necessary.’

I returned to Jodie’s room and tried once more to rouse her. When this failed, I reluctantly closed the curtains and came out, leaving the door ajar. A little later the children arrived home, and I explained what had happened. They came with me as I checked on her every half hour, but there was no change, and an eerie hush descended on the house, as music and televisions were kept low. By the time I went to bed her eyes were closed and she seemed to be sleeping. I left her light dimmed and her door open, and went to my room.

* * *

At four in the morning I was woken by a small voice outside my bedroom door. ‘Cathy, Amy’s wet the bed.’

I leapt up and hugged her. ‘No problem.’ At least some part of Jodie was back. I changed her sheets and pyjamas, as she continued chattering in her baby voice. ‘Amy’s good girl. She tells Cathy. Amy wants potty.’ I didn’t mind; anything was better than that dreadful comatose silence. I tucked her in, then left her snuggled up with a teddy, contentedly sucking her thumb.

In the morning I was surprised to find Amy was still in occupation, and she remained so throughout breakfast.

‘Stop babbling in that silly voice,’ Lucy eventually snapped; she was never at her best first thing in the morning.

I shot her a warning glance. ‘I’m sure she’ll be gone by the time we get to school,’ I said. But an hour later, as I kissed Jodie goodbye and passed her over to Miss Walker, she toddled off still in character as Amy, with the tottering gait of an infant just learning to walk.

As I drove home I got stuck in traffic, so I phoned Jill from the car and updated her. She asked me to email my log notes over as soon as possible, so she could forward them to Eileen, the guardian ad litum and Dr Burrows. It was after midday by the time I’d finished typing, and I was about to make some lunch when the phone rang. Please let it not be the school again, I thought. I hadn’t even started the housework yet, and I still had to do the supermarket run.

It was the school. ‘Hi, Cathy,’ the secretary said, and I braced myself for the bad news. ‘Mr West asked me to call to let you know Jodie’s been fine today.’

‘Thank you,’ I sighed with relief. ‘Thank you very much.’ 

* * *

Jodie’s good behaviour continued through the evening, but it turned out to be a false dawn. The next morning she was sobbing uncontrollably and despite my best efforts I couldn’t get her to tell me why. As I sat on her bed, watching her weep, I again felt completely ineffectual as a carer, and tried to remind myself that this was no ordinary childhood trauma.

By 9.00 a.m. she was no better, so I phoned the school and told them she wouldn’t be coming in for the morning, but that if there was an improvement I’d bring her for the afternoon. There wasn’t. Nor the following day. By the end of the week Jodie had been in school for a total of one and a half days, and she was deteriorating before my eyes. When she wasn’t crying she was staring into space, removed and distant from anything I could say or do. She was hardly eating, and my previous policy of restricting sweet and fatty foods went out of the window.

‘What about a chocolate biscuit?’ I asked, trying to get a spark of interest out of her. ‘Or there’s ice-cream in the freezer?’

But nothing could tempt her, and she was surviving on the odd mouthful of sandwich and occasional handful of crisps.

It was extremely distressing. I’d never seen any child like this before and I was at a complete loss to know how to deal with it, or how to help Jodie. I phoned the only person I could think of who could give me support and advice at a time like this. Jill agreed to come round at once.

‘This can’t go on,’ she said when she saw Jodie’s state, which alternated between the heart-rending crying and total blankness. ‘She needs help. Now.’

She phoned Eileen, but was told she was on annual leave once again, and the new team manager, Gail, was in a meeting. Jill left a stern message, requiring a call back as soon as she was free.

‘Jill?’ I asked. ‘Is it possible for a child this young to have a nervous breakdown?’

‘There are cases, yes, but it’s very rare.’

We looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. The extent of Jodie’s abuse was rare – so why shouldn’t she be suffering a nervous breakdown? If there was any child who was a prime candidate for a complete mental collapse, it was her.

Jill tried talking to Jodie, who’d spent all morning propped on the sofa staring silently into space. It was a slightly different approach to mine. Jill didn’t ask her any questions. Instead, she just recounted stories of various children she knew, hoping these would prompt a reaction. However, the end result was the same: a blank stare, which eventually gave way to silent tears. I did the only thing I could: I held her tightly, and reassured her it was going to be OK. Jill had nothing else to offer, so she left, saying she’d phone regularly, and promised to alert Dr Burrows.

The doctor phoned within the hour and asked to see Jodie first thing Monday morning. She said she’d cancelled an appointment to fit her in, and although I was grateful I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to get Jodie out of the house. I asked if she could make it a home visit.

‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied apologetically. ‘I’m only allowed to see children at the centre, because of the insurance.’

I said I’d make sure Jodie was there.

The weekend passed, and Jodie showed no improvement. The whole family spoke in whispers, in recognition of her suffering. We took turns sitting with her on the sofa, reading her favourite stories or trying to involve her in games, but not even the
Mary Poppins
video could produce a reaction. All she wanted was to go to bed, where she now spent an increasingly large part of the day, and from which it was a struggle to coerce her in the morning.

I prayed that Dr Burrows would have some answers for us.