Damaged, A Baby’s Cry and The Night the Angels Came 3-in-1 Collection. Cathy Glass
Читать онлайн книгу.
hard to imagine that her mother didn’t have any idea. But I just don’t know. She wasn’t mentioned.’
‘Would Jodie answer a direct question if you asked?’
‘I’m not sure. She told me this, but it was as a result of playing with the doll. I think it was triggered by being in the lift.’
‘The lift?’
‘Yes. When we went shopping, she was scared in the lift, so much so that I had to stop it and take the escalator. It was like she equated the fear to being scared with her father, and I think that may have been the catalyst for the disclosure. Do you want me to ask about her mother?’
‘Yes. But don’t push it. It might all come out now she’s started, or it might take time. See what you can find out and get as much information as you can – obviously, as gently as possible.’ I heard Jill draw her breath in sharply. ‘For Christ’s sake, she’s been on the at-risk register since birth and there’s been nothing! Someone’s head is on the block for this.’
Jill was angry, understandably, just as I was. Although her role was mainly supervisory, Jill cared deeply for the children we fostered. You couldn’t do this kind of work without becoming emotionally involved.
‘You know, Jill,’ I added, ‘she talks a lot of stuff and nonsense with all her imaginary friends. Sometimes it’s hard to get a word of sense out her. But I’ve never seen her so clear and focused as when she was describing this. It was like she was a different person.’
‘Thank goodness she’s with you. Let me get things moving and speak to you later. If there’s anything else call me straight away.’
‘OK.’
I replaced the receiver and leaned back, daunted by the responsibility. Now Jodie had opened up, there was no way I could terminate the placement, whatever she threw at me. Without realizing it, Jodie had invested a lot of trust by telling me. I couldn’t let her feel that her trust had been misplaced. I stood up and went downstairs. As I passed the lounge I could hear Nicola reading a series of short words, which Jodie was repeating in her childish voice; she sounded like a four-year-old.
I continued along the hall to the front room, took the foster carer’s log out of my desk, and started writing up my notes. I wrote quickly, trying to get everything down as accurately as possible, and I’d covered a page and a half when the phone rang. I answered immediately, expecting Jill or Eileen.
‘Hello?’ I said. There was no reply.
‘Hello?’ I said again.
Still nothing. Yet the line was open, someone was on the other end. I listened, and thought I heard a rustle as though someone had jolted the receiver. Perhaps it was a child trying to get through, hesitant, wondering if they had the right number. Perhaps it was my friend Pat, who now lived in South Africa, and phoned once a month – there was often a problem with the connection. I tried once more. ‘Hello?’
The line went dead. I hung up, then dialled 1471. The automated voice spoke, ‘You were called today at 2.20 p.m. We do not have the caller’s number.’
I stood for a moment pondering, then returned to my desk. Could it have been Jodie’s parents? In theory, they shouldn’t have had any of my personal details, but years of fostering had made me naturally suspicious. I finished writing up my notes, then began typing them on to a Word document. A few minutes later I heard Jodie bounding down the hall.
‘Cathy! It’s break time. Where’s me trainers? We’re going to the park.’
‘The garden,’ corrected Nicola, from the back room.
I clicked ‘Save’ then went into the hall and helped her into her trainers and coat. She rushed through to the conservatory and I opened the door to let her out. Nicola joined me at the French windows, and we stood watching Jodie’s uncoordinated efforts to set the swing in motion.
‘Poor kid,’ Nicola said, then she turned to me. ‘Cathy, she said something rather worrying earlier and I think you should know.’ I met her gaze. ‘It was while we were working on the letter T. One of the words I gave her was T for trousers. I showed her a picture of a pair of trousers, and she got very annoyed and wouldn’t look at it. Then she said, “My daddy takes his trousers off. He’s naughty, isn’t he?”’
‘I understand where that’s come from,’ I said, and I briefly explained the nature of Jodie’s allegations, without giving specific details; confidentiality has to be respected, even with the tutor. ‘I’ve alerted her social worker,’ I added. ‘I take it nothing like that’s been said before?’
‘Not to me, but there was that episode at Hilary and Dave’s. I expect they told you.’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Well, I’m not sure exactly what happened, but Dave told the social worker that at times Jodie behaved as though she fancied him. She was flirting, and going into his bedroom when Hilary wasn’t there. I understand they called an end to the placement when she tried to touch him through his trousers.’
‘No, I wasn’t told,’ I said, my voice tight, ‘and I should have been. I’ve got a son of seventeen. It’s very bad social work practice.’
I knew from experience that dealing with Social Services meant coping with an endless series of petty mistakes and failings. The sheer size of the huge machine, and the number of cogs involved, meant that errors were constantly being made. I was used to that, and I could deal with it. I understood that human error happens and that, with so many cases to process, mistakes are made. Nevertheless, I wanted to trust that when something important happened, something that had immediate relevance to a child’s state of mind or health, or the vital decisions being made on that child’s behalf, then people would take care and be extra sure that things were done correctly.
Looking back, I could see obvious instances of sexualized behaviour before today’s revelation: I had seen Jodie with her hands down her knickers, furiously masturbating in public like no normal eight-year-old child would; I’d seen her trying to climb into bed with Adrian and occasionally sidle up to him, try to sit next to him or grin and bat her eyelids at him. Flirting was the word for it, if I’d thought about it properly. The problem was that Jodie took up so much of my time, energy and mental strength that I rarely had the opportunity to stand back and observe her objectively and analyse her behaviour. It was obvious now that she was treating Adrian in a sexual manner because her experiences at the hands of her father had taught to her to view all males as sexual beings first and foremost. Everything was beginning to fall into place. Now I realized that this was part of a pattern, and that others had noticed it too.
If there had been evidence before of sexualized behaviour, why hadn’t anyone begun to come to the obvious conclusion – that someone was sexually abusing Jodie? And why on earth had I not been told about her behaviour towards her previous carer?
I bit back my anger. None of this was Nicola’s fault and I didn’t want to dump my frustrations on her.
After fifteen minutes we called Jodie in from the garden. I helped her off with her trainers, then returned to the front room and continued typing from my log, while Nicola and Jodie returned to their session. Once I’d finished, I emailed the file to Jill. Perfect timing! I’d just turned off the PC, as Jodie marched into the room.
‘We’re done! Come and see me work!’
I went through and admired the letter and number work, then arranged the next session for Thursday, and Jodie and I saw Nicola out. As soon as she’d gone the phone started ringing, and it didn’t stop for the rest of the afternoon. Jill told me the team leader had convened an emergency strategy meeting, with the time and venue to be announced shortly. She would let me know when there was any more information.
Next, Eileen called me. I was glad to hear from her, but I didn’t get quite the response I’d been hoping for. Somehow, she didn’t seem to be too shocked or horrified by what the child in her charge had suffered.
‘I’ve