The Saddest Girl in the World (9 page)

I turned to her. ‘Now listen, love. It's important you understand why you are saying sorry to Paula.’

‘Because I hit Paula,’ she said quietly.

‘Yes, I know, but do you understand why it was wrong to hit Paula?’

Donna shrugged.

‘Hitting hurts, obviously, you know that, but it also it makes that person afraid of you. You felt like that when your mother and Chelsea and your brothers hit you, didn't you?’ Donna gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘It's an assault on the whole person and makes that person wary of you. You don't want Paula being afraid of you, do you? You want to play with her like a sister, and Adrian like a brother.’

Donna didn't say anything, so I continued with the second part of what I needed to say. ‘Now, love, it's nice that you want to help me look after Adrian and Paula, but that's my job. I would like you to help in the house, but I will tell you what to do. We don't want Adrian and Paula feeling that you are bossing them around, do we? Because it's not nice to be bossed around and made to do things, is it? I'm sure you know that.’ I hoped I was making sense.

Donna gave a short nod. ‘Shall I say sorry to Paula now?’ she asked.

‘Yes, that would be nice. I'll call her down. But first let me give you a big hug. I want you to be happy here, just as I do Adrian and Paula, OK?’

Donna let me put my arms around her and I gave her a hug, although she didn't actually hug me back. Then,
leaving her in the lounge, I went upstairs to fetch Paula. Whether I was getting through to Donna and could succeed where Mary and Ray hadn't remained to be seen. It appeared that Donna had come from a family that was highly abusive, where they had shown each other absolutely no respect, or kindness. It was a case of trying to undo all that and start over again — the process of socialisation that is begun in healthy families with the child is a toddler and continues through to adulthood.

Upstairs, Paula and Adrian were still engrossed in the Gameboy, the upset apparently receding with each new point scored on the game.

‘Donna would like to say she is sorry,’ I said. ‘I have spoken to her and she understands it must never happen again. And, Adrian, I have also said she mustn't tell you or Paula what to do, and that I'm in charge. I shall be watching her carefully, all right?’ I smiled and they smiled back; then Paula scampered off the bed and took my hand, and we went downstairs and into the lounge, where Donna was as I'd left her, on the sofa.

‘I'm sorry, Paula,’ Donna said as soon as we walked in.

‘I forgive you,’ Paula said, and she went over and planted a big kiss on Donna's cheek.

‘Good girls,’ I said.

Donna didn't say any more, so I left it at that and hoped that we could move on and put the incident behind us.

We didn't make the 11.00 a.m. showing of
The Lion King,
but went instead to the next showing of the film at 1.45 p.m. I bought popcorn and sat with Donna on one side of me and Adrian and Paula on the other. I was being careful, and had started the vigilance which I would keep up for as
long as was necessary. I hoped that at some point in the future I would be able to relax my guard and the children would be able to play or be together again without me being present. But for the time being if they went anywhere together then I would be close by. I was grateful there was only a week until the start of the new school term, for it was going to be hard work having to be continually aware of where Donna was in the house or garden.

When we returned home after the film it was just gone 4.00 p.m. The sun had come out and the last of the rain had evaporated. The grass was dry enough to play on, and the children went outside, while I watched from the kitchen window as I prepared the vegetables and meat for the evening meal. Donna kept her distance, and once more sat on the bench on the patio while Adrian and Paula played. I hadn't stopped her playing with Adrian and Paula — indeed it would have been nice if she had joined in. But I would make sure she didn't keep organising Adrian and Paula, for then it was only a short step to dominating them, and possibly replicating what had happened at Mary and Ray's, with Donna trying to take over — using force if necessary.

We ate at 6.00 p.m., and then at 7.30 I began the bedtime routine. Leaving Donna in the lounge doing a jigsaw, I took Paula up first. Adrian had popped next door to play with Billy for a while, and when I called him back at 8.30, Donna had already taken her turn in the bathroom. Once Adrian had finished his shower I went in to say goodnight to him, and as I did I heard Donna's door open as she went out and into the toilet. When I'd finished saying goodnight to Adrian, and had also had a look at the
illustrations in the book he was reading —
The Magician's Nephew
by C.S. Lewis — I came out and saw that the toilet door was still shut. Donna had been in there for over twenty minutes!

‘Are you OK?’ I called lightly, not wanting to wake Paula but wondering if Donna was feeling unwell.

There was no reply.

‘Donna?’ I said again, ‘are you all right?’

There was still no reply, but I could hear the tap running. I knocked lightly on the door. Nothing. The locks on the toilet and bathroom doors (as in most foster carers' homes) were out of reach of the children as part of the safer caring policy so that children couldn't lock themselves in, either accidentally or in a fit of pique. ‘Donna?’ I said again, easing the door open and ready to close it again quickly if she was on the toilet.

But she wasn't on the toilet. She was standing beside the small hand basin, washing her hands. The plug wasn't in, and the hot water tap was on full. She stood with the nailbrush in one hand, roughly scrubbing the back of the other hand.

‘Donna?’ I asked.

There was no answer, but she kept scrubbing; then, turning her hand over, she continued on the palm and fingers. It wasn't normal washing: it was the same frenzied scrubbing I'd witnessed in the kitchen, only now it was directed at her hands and not the kitchen floor. As I watched, and she appeared oblivious to my presence, she swapped the nailbrush over and began on the other hand, scrubbing her skin with fierce determination and her face set hard.

My first reaction was to close the door and move away — it was as though I had looked in, and stumbled on, some
private ritual. I felt I was a voyeuristic intruder, seeing something I shouldn't be party to. But as I looked, I saw that the light brown skin on her hands was now red and angry with scratches from the nailbrush. I knew that what she was doing wasn't healthy and she needed to stop.

‘Donna,’ I said firmly, ‘stop that now.’ I didn't want to go too close in case she lashed out at me, as she had done with Mary. ‘Donna, don't do that,’ I said again. ‘You are making your hands very sore.’

She continued. I went closer, and then, risking a thump, I placed my hand on her arm. ‘Please stop. Your hands are clean now. You are making them sore.’

‘They're not clean,’ she suddenly blurted while still scrubbing. ‘They're dirty. Mum says I have to get the dirt off.’

‘Donna, your hands are clean,’ I said, keeping my voice even. ‘Please stop it now.’ I reached over and switched off the tap, half expecting her to push me, or grab my hand, or hit me. She didn't, nor did she try to turn on the tap again, but she carried on scrubbing her hands with the nailbrush, over and over again. I could see the scratch marks the nylon bristles were making and the angry red weals. ‘That's enough,’ I said. Then I slowly took the nailbrush from her hands, and reaching for the towel, folded her hands in it. ‘Let's dry them,’ I said, lightly patting the towel. ‘You've made your hands so sore.’ I carefully dried her hands, and she didn't resist. Then I returned the towel to the rail and looked at her hands. Both sides of both hands were an angry red; had she gone on scrubbing for much longer I was sure she would have drawn blood. ‘Come on, love,’ I said. ‘Let's get you into bed. It's been a bit of a rough day for you.’

I led Donna into her bedroom and turned back the sheet. She slowly, compliantly, climbed into bed. I sat on the edge of the bed, and she put her head on the pillow and seemed to relax a little. I stroked her forehead. ‘What's the matter, love?’ I asked gently. ‘Can you tell me?’

A tear escaped and ran down her cheek, then another. ‘Mum says I have to wash all the dirt off, but it won't come off. I keep trying.’

‘Darling, your hands are spotlessly clean,’ I said. ‘I expect they are even cleaner than mine.’ I was trying to put the incident into perspective, lighten her mood, and possibly even diffuse her obsession and raise a smile. I placed my own hands palms upwards on the pillow to show her. ‘Look, no one's hands are spotless all the time.’ She drew her left hand from beneath the sheet and placed it, palm upwards, next to mine. ‘It's not so bad on this side,’ she said, referring to her palm, ‘but it's the other side. Mine is dirty, not like yours.’

I frowned, puzzled; her hands were perfectly clean, although red from the scrubbing. Mary's suggestion of OCD hung in the air. Donna turned her hand over so that it was palm down and I did the same with mine. Her hand was of course clean, although her skin was a little darker than mine because she was of dual heritage. I looked at our hands side by side on the pillow and was about to reassure her again that her hands were clean when, with a stab of horror, I realised what she meant.

‘A
nd Donna's mother has convinced her that's she's dirty, and has to scrub it off ! It's her natural colour, and the poor girl has been trying to get rid of it! It's nothing to do with OCD. Donna is trying to wash away her skin colour!’

I was on the phone to Edna at 9.30 the following morning, so incensed that I was nearly shouting down the phone.

‘I've been up half the night trying to convince her it's natural, and something to be proud of. Do you know her mother even gave her wire wool in the bath, and told her to keep scrubbing until she was as white as her! What the hell is wrong with that woman? She wants locking up! And what about the boys? They're dual heritage too, aren't they? Have they been told to scrub off their skin colour?’ I could feel my heart pounding and my cheeks flushing.

‘No,’ Edna said evenly, ‘the boys don't do that. Mary would have said.’

‘Well? Does Chelsea do it? Has Rita told her she's dirty too?’

‘No,’ said Edna subdued. ‘I don't think so.’

‘Edna, Donna has been victimised by that family at every conceivable level — whipped for not doing the housework,
made to feel responsible for them coming into care and told she is dirty because her grandmother is black! I assume Rita didn't think Donna's father was dirty when she slept with him! It's just as well I don't have to meet Donna's mother at contact! She has a lot to answer for.’ I stopped and wondered if I had gone too far, but I was seething, on Donna's behalf. I took a breath. ‘Donna is completely messed up. She has spent her whole life being vilified, and being told she is rubbish. I think you had better get her some therapy fast before it's too late, because I don't know how to deal with this. Someone needs to try to undo some of the damage that has been done to her, and I'm no psychologist!’

Edna hesitated. ‘I'll raise the possibility of therapy with my manager,’ she said quietly, ‘but as you know, Cathy, they don't usually like to put children into therapy until they are settled. After the final court hearing, when we know where Donna will be living, would be the usual time. Donna is on an Interim Care Order and Rita has the right to object to anything we do. If I suggest therapy I'll lose what little cooperation I have from her.’

I seethed some more, but I knew from experience that Edna was right on both counts. While Donna was on an ICO her parents maintained certain rights to her and could raise all sorts of objections. Rita could make life very difficult for all concerned, not least for Donna, who would still be seeing her mother at contact. I also knew that therapists were reluctant to begin therapy until the court had made a decision about the child's future, and the child was settled wherever the judge decided they would be living. It was generally held that to begin therapy before then
would be like lifting the lid on Pandora's box and could actually make the child more disturbed.

‘I assume Donna won't be returning to Rita's care after all this?’ I said.

‘At this point we don't know. But it's looking increasingly doubtful.’ Which was as much as Edna could say at present, until all the reports had been compiled and put before the judge at the final court hearing.

‘Has the date for the final hearing been set yet?’ I asked, calming my tone and looking at the practical issues.

‘It's provisionally booked for next May,’ Edna said, still subdued. ‘Can I come to visit you and Donna tomorrow?’

‘Yes, please. Jill is coming in the morning. Could you make it after one o'clock so that we can have some lunch?’

‘Would two o'clock be all right?’

‘Fine. I'll put it in the diary.’

‘And I will speak to my manager about the therapy,’ Edna finished by saying. ‘But in the meantime if there is anything I can do, please let me know. And obviously I'll talk to Donna when I see her and reinforce what you have said.’

‘OK, Edna.’ There was nothing else I could say, other than asking if Donna could start her life over again in different circumstances, which unfortunately Edna couldn't make happen.

‘Thank you, Cathy. See you tomorrow, and say hello to Donna for me.’

‘I will do.’

I continued to watch Donna like a hawk, for her benefit as much as for Adrian's and Paula's. I knew where she was at any given moment and also what she was doing. Gone was
any thought of simply letting the three of them amuse themselves, so I arranged games which we all played together, although Donna had difficulty ‘playing’ as such, presumably because she had never played as a small child. But at least she joined in, and went through the motions, and I hoped that by doing so one day she would find real enjoyment in playing. I organised rounders, bat and ball, basketball and, when it rained, Monopoly and jigsaw puzzles. It was obviously important that the children played as naturally as possible, but I hoped my being in charge would help reinforce in Donna's eyes the difference between my adult role and hers as a child.

I would have played with the children anyway, for some of the time, but having to do it continuously was pretty exhausting and meant that I had to catch up on the housework in the evening when they were in bed. However, some of the chores, like preparing the vegetables, dusting and tidying, became a group activity: I gathered everyone together and gave them a task each, while watching that Donna didn't dominate.

I removed the nailbrush from the wash basin in the toilet, and also the pumice stone from the bathroom, which could have done great damage if Donna had set about using it to try to remove her skin colour. When Donna went upstairs to go to the toilet, or when she had a bath, I found an excuse to hover on the landing, and I listened for any sounds that might have suggested she was trying to scrub off her skin. I reinforced to Donna that children weren't allowed in the kitchen when I wasn't there, again separating our roles, and at every opportunity I praised her, and particularly her appearance. We went shopping, and I bought her a new skirt and blouse and told her how
pretty she looked, which Paula reinforced. I told Donna I would buy her new school uniform on the first day of the term because, as with most junior schools now, the logoed uniform could only be bought from the school office, to help raise school funds.

How much of my positive encouragement to raise Donna's self-image was getting through to her was difficult to say. Donna met any praise or encouragement with a bashful, very doubtful shrug — hardly surprising considering I was trying to undo ten years of abuse. Her self-esteem and confidence were zero, and if I asked her to do anything her first reaction was ‘I can't’ or ‘I don't know how.’

Jill and Edna came as arranged and by the end of the day I felt we had all been over ‘social workered’. It was a relief when Edna finally left at 4.15 p.m., having spent over two hours with us, an hour of it alone with Donna in the lounge. It is usual for the social worker to spend time alone with the looked-after child in case the child wants to raise any issues that they would feel uncomfortable about raising with the carer present. I knew Edna would be talking to Donna about what had happened recently, and also continuing my efforts to improve Donna's self-image.

‘You look lovely,’ Edna said to Donna, not for the first time, as we finally saw Edna to the door. But Edna's compliment was met with the same self-deprecating shrug that met all my attempts to raise Donna's self-esteem.

Jill had also praised Donna when she'd visited that morning. Jill's primary responsibilities were to check that the placement was progressing as it should and that I had all I needed to care for Donna, and to offer me support and advice where necessary. As I had kept Jill and Edna
updated on a daily basis, when Jill checked my log notes there were no surprises. She signed and dated my record, and I returned the file to the locked drawer of my desk in the front room. Jill had also been in regular phone contact with Edna, so both were fully abreast of what was going on.

I had raised the matter of the forthcoming school run with Edna because I had realised that the logistics of dropping Adrian and Paula off at their school, which was in the opposite direction to Donna's and had the same start time of 8.50 a.m., were going to cause me a problem. Foster carers normally take their foster children to school, as they would their own children, but sometimes that was physically impossible, as it would be in this case, without Donna or Adrian and Paula arriving very late. In situations like this approved escorts are used to take the foster child to school, although this is avoided wherever possible: not only is it a heavy call on the social services' budget — approved escorts are very expensive — but it is clearly preferable for the looked-after child to have their carer (
in loco parentis
) standing in the playground with the other mothers rather than being collected by a taxi.

Fortunately my problem was solved when Edna said that Donna enjoyed helping at the breakfast club at her school and would like to continue to do this. The breakfast club started at 8.15 a.m., so I could drop Donna off first and then take Adrian and Paula to their school for 8.50. This arrangement wouldn't be necessary on the first day, however, as Donna's school went back a day before Adrian and Paula's. I asked my neighbour, Sue, if Adrian and Paula could stay with her for an hour while I took Donna to school on that first morning. Sue was happy to oblige: we
helped each other out from time to time, although I could never have left a looked-after child with Sue because she wasn't an approved carer.

Donna had contact on Friday, as she had done on Wednesday, and following the same routine I took her in and left her with Edna in reception. As before, Donna was quiet in the car on the way home and I was particularly vigilant for the remainder of the evening. I was aware that, despite Edna supervising the contact, Donna had just seen her family, which could have easily reinforced all her feelings of worthlessness. I felt it wouldn't be long before Donna started to make comparisons between the life she had led at home and the one she led now. When she saw the hurt and injustice that had been inflicted on her I was expecting an explosion of unprecedented anger, for as Mary had said Donna was like a firework waiting to go off.

It was with some relief that I would no longer have to be ever vigilant, and also with some regret that the lazy unstructured days of the summer holidays had come to an end, that on the following Wednesday morning I had everyone up, dressed, washed and breakfasted by 8.00. I took Adrian and Paula next door to be looked after by Sue at 8.20. Donna's school's breakfast club didn't begin until the second day of term, so we left a bit later on that first day. I drove the fifteen-minute journey to Belfont School and arrived at 8.35. I had plenty of time to buy the uniform and introduce myself to the head before the day started at 8.50. I parked in a side road a short distance from the school as a few children in their uniforms strolled past with their mothers.

‘OK, love?’ I asked Donna, silencing the engine and glancing at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘I'm looking forward to meeting your headmistress again. I wonder if she will remember me?’

‘Do you know Mrs Bristow?’ Donna asked.

‘I used to. I looked after a boy a few years ago who went to your school. He won't still be there now, though: he's fourteen and at secondary school.’

‘Mrs Bristow is nice.’

‘Yes, very,’ I agreed. ‘It's a good school. I know you are going to do really well this term.’

Donna gave her usual self-deprecating shrug, which she gave at any suggestion she might actually be good at something. I got out of the car and then went round and opened her door, which had the child lock on. She stood beside me on the pavement and looked at the other children heading towards the school. ‘Let me know when you see your friend, Emily,’ I said, ‘and I'll say hello.’ Donna nodded.

We went to the end of the road then turned the corner that would take us towards the main gates. As we did, Donna let out a small cry and her face suddenly lit up.

‘There's Mum!’ she cried. ‘And Warren and Jason! And Aunt May, and Granny Bajan!’

I looked, and saw the group standing directly in front of the school gates. Oh dear, I thought, and on our first morning! Foster carers do run into looked-after children's natural families, and in some instances it doesn't matter. Indeed, in the past I had worked closely with children's natural parents, and it was always preferable for the child to see everyone cooperating. But this appeared to be a welcoming party of unprecedented proportions — at least I
hoped it was welcoming. To deal with it I would have to put aside my own feelings towards Rita for Donna's sake. I would also have to make Edna aware of this meeting; Donna's contact was carefully supervised and this unscheduled contact clearly would not be.

Donna had quickened her pace and nearly ran the last few steps towards the chatting, laughing throng. As I approached, I searched the gathering of six adults, a teenager and two boys, trying to identify who was who among the adults. Granny Bajan from Barbados, Donna's gran on her father's side, stood on the edge of the group. She was a plump, kindly-looking woman, in her late fifties and very dignified; she greeted Donna with a big hug and then looked at me.

‘Hello, I'm Cathy, Donna's carer,’ I said.

Mrs Bajan smiled. ‘Nice to meet you, Cathy.’ Her Caribbean accent caused her words to rise and fall like music. ‘But this is so sad,’ she added, and I assumed she meant the children being in care.

A smartly dressed middle-aged white couple on my right introduced themselves as Mary and Ray and we shook hands.

‘Quite a welcoming committee,’ Ray said quietly and I smiled. I looked at Jason and Warren, aged six and seven; with their big brown eyes and sweet open faces, it was very difficult to imagine how they had perpetrated the abuse they had on Donna. But then, at their ages, in a dysfunctional family where morality, respect and kindness were in short supply they had doubtless simply followed the example of their mother and done as she had bade. Removed from that situation and now living with Mary and Ray, and being shown the correct and loving way to
behave, they would hopefully eventually change their ways — they were young enough to relearn how good families worked. I felt no anger towards them.