Another Forgotten Child. Cathy Glass
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Aimee’s hair was no small achievement. Whereas the evening before when I’d applied the lotion I’d had Aimee’s cooperation, now she worked against me. Part of her agitation was because she wasn’t used to having her hair washed and part of it was sheer bloody mindedness – she was having to do something she didn’t want to do, although it was for her own good. She refused to lean over the bath properly, so that when I turned on the shower it was difficult to wet her hair without it running down her back; she wouldn’t keep the flannel over her face to stop the water going into her eyes; she continually moved when I asked her to stand still; and when I applied the shampoo she yelled it was cold. In fact Aimee yelled so much that eventually Lucy and Paula were driven from their bedrooms and came to see what was the matter.
‘I’m only washing her hair,’ I said defensively.
Lucy smiled and raised her eyebrows. ‘Aimee, you sound like you’re being murdered. Be quiet.’
‘Shut up,’ Aimee said rudely, raising her head and flicking soapy water everywhere. Paula groaned and the girls returned to their rooms.
‘Lucy and Paula wash their hair regularly,’ I said, hoping Aimee might see this as a good example to follow.
‘Don’t care!’ she snapped. ‘That stuff’s getting in me eyes!’
‘Well, keep your eyes closed and the flannel over your face, like I’ve told you,’ I said again.
‘And it’s in me mouth!’ Aimee shouted.
‘Keep that closed too.’ But Aimee couldn’t because she was too busy shouting and cursing at me, although she didn’t try to kick me, as the referral had stated she had her mother.
Trying to pacify Aimee as best I could, I continued with what was probably the most stressful but most necessary hair wash I’d ever given a child. As I lathered the shampoo, rinsed and lathered again, the dirty water slowly began to run clean and dead head lice finally stopped dropping into the bath.
‘All done!’ I said at last. I wasn’t sure who was more relieved. ‘Next time we’ll try washing your hair in the bath,’ I added. ‘It might be easier for you.’
‘You ain’t doing it again!’ Aimee scowled, snatching the towel from my hand and rubbing her hair.
‘Hair needs washing at least twice a week,’ I said, planting the idea so that she had time to come to terms with it.
‘No, it don’t!’ Aimee said.
I ignored this and told Aimee to go into her bedroom and I’d fetch the hairdryer and dry her hair. Throwing the towel on the bathroom floor she stomped off round the landing and into the bedroom, causing Lucy to call, ‘Be quiet, Aimee!’
‘No!’ Aimee shouted. ‘Shut up!’
I returned to Aimee’s bedroom with the hairdryer and before I switched it on I explained to Aimee that it would make a loud noise and blow hot air, for I doubted her mother owned a hairdryer. I was wrong.
‘I ain’t thick,’ Aimee said. ‘Me mum uses the hairdryer for killing me bugs.’
‘You mean she washed your hair and then dried it?’ I asked, slightly surprised, for certainly Aimee’s hair hadn’t looked as though it had been washed for weeks.
‘No,’ Aimee said. ‘Mum never washed me hair. She blew the bugs away with the dryer so they were dead.’ Which I could believe, although it was nonsense: you can’t blow away head lice, as they fasten themselves on to the hair and glue their eggs to the root shaft. But I let the point go.
Aimee moaned some more as I brushed and dried her hair, but when I’d finished, her hair shone and was quite a few shades lighter. ‘Fantastic!’ I said.
‘No it ain’t!’ Aimee said. ‘I’m telling me mum.’
‘I’m sure your mother will be very pleased,’ I said, turning her threat into a positive.
‘No she won’t,’ Aimee said. ‘She’ll report you.’ Which I ignored.
I now explained to Aimee that I wanted her to get dressed as quickly as she could and then come down for breakfast. ‘I need you downstairs by seven fifteen,’ I said, nodding at the clock on the wall. Aimee stared blankly at the clock. ‘When the big hand is here,’ I said, pointing to the three. ‘It’s five past seven now, so you have ten minutes to get dressed, which is plenty of time. What would you like for your breakfast?’
‘Biscuits.’
‘Biscuits are bad for your teeth. Toast or cereal?’
‘What’s cereal?’
‘We have cornflakes, wheat flakes, Rice Krispies or porridge.’
‘Toast.’
‘What would you like on your toast? Marmite, jam, honey or marmalade?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Sure?’
Aimee nodded.
Leaving Aimee to dress, I went downstairs and into the kitchen, where I made coffee for myself, and toast for Aimee and me. Paula and Lucy would make their own breakfasts when they came down. I lightly buttered the toast and added marmalade to mine; then I cut Aimee’s toast in half and half again so that it was easier for her to eat. Setting the plates on the table, I called upstairs to Aimee that breakfast was ready. To her credit a minute later she appeared, dressed in her old but now clean clothes. The joggers were far too small, as was her jumper, and her toes poked out of the holes in her socks, but all that would change once we’d bought her new clothes.
‘Well done,’ I said with a smile. ‘You dressed yourself very well.’ I showed Aimee to her place at the table, where her toast was waiting. ‘What would you like to drink?’ I asked. ‘Milk, juice or water?’
‘Water,’ Aimee said, sitting on the chair but too far from the table. I made a move to help her ease the chair under the table but she roughly pushed my hand away. ‘I can do it,’ she snapped.
‘All right, love, but don’t be rude. There are nice ways of saying things without being aggressive.’
‘I talk to me mum and dad like that,’ Aimee said, as though that justified her disrespect.
‘I don’t doubt it, love, but you shouldn’t. And you certainly won’t be talking to me like that.’ I said it kindly but firmly so that Aimee could see that I meant it. Teaching a child to show respect to others is crucial in putting them on the road to achieving socially acceptable and good behaviour. ‘Also, love, if you want to make friends you will need to speak to the children at school nicely too.’ Obvious to children who have been correctly brought up but not to a child from a dysfunctional background.
Aimee looked at me but didn’t say anything and I smiled again. Jumping her chair under the table until she was close enough, she took a bite of her toast and spat it out. ‘That’s disgusting,’ she cried.
‘It’s toast, as you asked,’ I said.
‘It’s got slimy stuff on it,’ Aimee said, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her clean jumper.
‘I put a little butter on it,’ I said. ‘That’s all.’
‘What’s butter?’ Aimee asked.
I now took the butter from the fridge and showed her. She shrugged, indicating she’d never seen butter before. ‘Perhaps you had spread at home?’ I suggested.
Returning the butter to the fridge, I took out the tub of butter substitute and showed her, but Aimee shook her head. ‘We didn’t have that. I want me toast like I make it at home.’
‘All right. Tell me how you made it and I’ll do the same.’
Aimee turned to look at me and then, using her hand to gesticulate, explained: ‘I get the bread from the packet and I scratch off