Damaged, A Baby’s Cry and The Night the Angels Came 3-in-1 Collection. Cathy Glass
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before I’d even begun did nothing for my stamina. ‘She’s got contact with her parents tomorrow and her tutor’s coming for a couple of hours next week. Perhaps a familiar face might help settle her. She’s been seeing her tutor since September.’
‘OK, Cathy, we’ll see how it goes. I’ll update Eileen. What are you going to do with her today?’
‘Retail therapy. Courtesy of Tesco’s.’
Jill laughed. ‘I’ll give it a wide berth.’
Jodie apparently loved food shopping, unlike the rest of my family who could think of nothing worse than a trip to the supermarket. She was in her element, pushing the trolley up and down, telling me what we should or shouldn’t buy. In fact, she was so enthusiastic I had to limit her exuberance, and return some items to the shelves.
This wasn’t unusual; children in care often seem to feel that all their problems can be solved by a bottomless purse. Children I’d looked after often had a desperate need for material goods. In the homes they had come from money was often short, and when there was any it was frequently spent on drink, drugs or cigarettes. When I started buying my foster children little treats, they would often find it very exciting and pleasurable: treats were something they had very little experience of. But I always had to be careful about managing their expectations, as they could very quickly become demanding and assume they’d be given anything they wanted. Jodie was a different case, though; from the looks of her luggage and her weight, treats had never been in short supply – which meant that she was used to getting anything she fancied. I hoped it wasn’t going to be too much of a struggle restricting her to a sensible limit, but experience was already teaching me to expect a battle.
‘Three packets of cereal is plenty,’ I said. ‘Choose one you’d like and we’ll put the others back.’
She wanted them all, of course, and every packet of biscuits, and every dessert in the freezer cabinet, so I was spending as much time taking things out of the trolley as I was putting them in, but at least she was occupied and content.
It took nearly two hours to complete the weekly shop, and as we finally reached the check-out Jodie spotted the display of sweets, tantalizingly placed at the side of the aisle. I started unloading the trolley on to the belt, and told her to choose a bar of chocolate as a treat, because she’d been such a good girl and helped.
‘One,’ I repeated, as the bags of sweets started raining into the trolley. But I could see her previous cooperation was waning fast. ‘Take the chocolate bonbons, you like those.’
‘Want them all!’ she shouted, and then sat on the floor defiantly.
The woman queuing behind us was clearly unimpressed by my parenting skills, and shot me one of those looks. I unloaded the last of the shopping, including the bonbons, onto the conveyor, and put the other sweets back on the rack. I watched Jodie out of the corner of my eye. Her anger was mounting, as she crossed her legs, folded her arms and set her face in a sneer. She kicked the trolley so that it jarred against my side. I clenched my teeth, pretending that it hadn’t hurt. I pulled the trolley through the aisle and positioned it at the end, ready to receive the bags of shopping.
‘Are you going to help me pack?’ I said, trying to distract her. ‘You were a big help earlier and I could do with your help now.’
She refused to make eye contact, and I began to wonder how I was going to remove her from the aisle, but I was determined that she wouldn’t get what she wanted by making a scene in public.
‘Don’t want those sweets,’ she suddenly yelled. ‘Don’t like them.’
I looked at her. ‘Don’t shout, please. I’ve said you can choose one, but hurry up. We’ve nearly finished.’
People were now openly staring. Petulantly, Jodie hauled herself to her feet, picked up a family-sized bag of boiled sweets and threw them at the cashier.
‘Jodie!’ I turned to the cashier, who was busy exchanging meaningful glances with the woman behind us. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I paid, apologized again, and we left.
Outside, I ignored Jodie’s screams for the sweets and pushed the trolley fast towards the car. I unlocked the doors and strapped her under her belt. ‘Stay there while I load the bags into the boot. I’m cross, Jodie. That was very naughty.’
I watched her through the rear window. Her jaw was clenched as she muttered to herself and thumped the seat beside her. I knew how she felt; I was in the mood for thumping the seat myself. It had been a draining experience already and all I could do was prepare myself for more hurricanes and hysteria. Giving in to tantrums wouldn’t help her or me in the long term.
I took the trolley back, then got into the front seat.
‘Give me the sweets,’ she growled. ‘Want them now.’
‘When you’ve calmed down and apologized, Jodie. I’m not having that behaviour in public.’
‘Give me them, or I’ll poo on your back seat,’ she threatened.
‘I beg your pardon? You most certainly will not!’ So, I thought, she was prepared to soil herself if I didn’t give her exactly what she wanted. Is that what had happened on the first day? Was this her trying to exert her will, rather than anxiety or poor bowel control? And much as I didn’t want her to make a mess on the back seat, I wasn’t prepared to give in to this kind of blackmail.
‘Jodie, if you mess on the back seat deliberately you won’t get any sweets all day. You can’t just make a fuss and get everything you want. I’m sure you didn’t at your previous carers.’
‘Did. Everything. I made them.’
I started the car and pulled towards the exit. I didn’t doubt that what she was saying was true. Given Jodie’s appalling behaviour, it was no wonder her previous carers had given in to her demands, just to keep her quiet. Presumably, this was how she’d acquired the piles of clothes and toys that she’d arrived with. I glanced in the rear-view mirror. She stuck out her tongue, then started kicking the back of my seat.
‘Jodie, I know it’s a hard lesson, pet, but being naughty won’t get you what you want. Just the opposite, in fact.’
‘I had everything I wanted at home,’ she said, suddenly more coherent.
‘Really,’ I replied, unimpressed.
‘I made them, or I’d tell.’
I hesitated. ‘Tell what, Jodie?’
There was a long silence. ‘Nothing. Can I have my sweets now, Cathy? I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.’
‘OK, just as soon as we get home.’
As we pulled into the driveway, the sour smell coming from the back seat made me realize that she had made good on her threat. It would be another unwelcome date with the shower for us as soon as we got through the front door.
‘Did the previous carers say anything about defecation as a means of control?’ I asked Eileen, Jodie’s social worker, when she phoned the next day. It was the first time we had spoken since I’d met her at the pre-placement meeting, and I was glad to hear from her. A good social worker can make all the difference on the case, and I was hoping that Eileen and I would have a supportive working relationship. ‘She threatens to make a mess if she doesn’t get what she wants, and she’s done it twice. The first time I put it down to anxiety but the last time was in the car when I wouldn’t buy her all the sweets she wanted. She threatened to soil all over the back seat and then she did it.’
Eileen paused and I was sure that the answer would be yes, although it would probably be qualified. Jodie’s modus operandi was too polished to have started when she came to me; she’d clearly been using defecation as a form of blackmail for a little while.