Damaged, A Baby’s Cry and The Night the Angels Came 3-in-1 Collection. Cathy Glass
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I try again in six months’ time. I thanked her, and hung up.
Opening the Yellow Pages, I highlighted all the primary schools within reasonable travelling distance, and began making the calls. The next four schools gave me the same response: each of them was over their quota, and there was a waiting list. So much for the sweetener of extra funding. I set the phone down, and took a deep breath. I wondered if I should approach the school Adrian and Paula had gone to. It only had a small special needs department, but they knew me and my family, and I had had a good relationship with the staff. I took another deep breath, and dialled the number.
The secretary remembered me, which was nice, and she put me through to the headmaster, Mr Rudman. We exchanged a few pleasantries on the passing of time, and he asked me how Adrian and Paula were doing. I said they were doing well, and buttered him up by telling him what fond memories they had of the school.
‘I’m still fostering,’ I said, and then explained about Jodie, adding that although she had behavioural problems I had found them manageable. I made light of the rapid succession of foster carers, and said his was the first school that had come to mind; a little white lie, but in aid of a good cause.
‘I’ll see the statement,’ he said, ‘although you appreciate I’m not offering a place. It will depend on the level of provision, and whether we can best meet her needs.’
I thanked him effusively, then phoned Jill to arrange for the statement to be faxed over. Buoyed by this, and in dire need of some exercise after nearly an hour on the phone, I rescued Jodie from the congealed heap of paper, glue and paint which had kept her occupied.
‘It’s a dog!’ she exclaimed.
‘That’s lovely. Now we’re going for a walk to the post office.’
I helped her wash her hands, then brushed her hair, and changed her top. By the time we left the house, she looked quite presentable, in a smart yellow T-shirt which I knew was one of her favourites.
There was a pleasant breeze as we walked up the street, but Jodie was anxious, and grabbed my hand as a car drove past.
‘Cathy,’ she said.
‘Yes, Jodie.’
‘Is my dad hurting my mum?’
‘I hope not, Jodie,’ I replied, uncertain quite what she was asking.
‘He is,’ she responded. ‘Poor Mummy.’
We carried on walking, and I watched Jodie as she frowned, apparently still troubled by this idea. Eventually, she looked up at me.
‘I don’t want him hurting her,’ she said, then jutted out her chin, and clenched her fists. ‘I’ll kill him.’
Again, I wasn’t sure what to say. Did she feel guilty about leaving her mother to deal with her father alone? Should I correct her anger, or encourage her to face these issues? It might not have been very professional, but my personal feeling was that she had every right to feel angry, and every reason to want to kill him. I decided to address the possible guilt. ‘If he hurts her, Jodie, I think she should leave him, and tell the police. But she’s an adult and she can make that decision for herself.’
I hoped she understood what I was trying to say – but then, I wasn’t even sure what she was telling me. Was she hinting at domestic violence? Perhaps she had seen her father hitting her mother. Or perhaps she had witnessed them having sex and assumed it must hurt her mother as much as it hurt her.
I changed the subject to something lighter as we reached the high street. We walked past the various shop fronts with their colourful signs and enticing displays, and I remembered how excited I’d felt as a little girl, being taken out shopping by my parents. I could still remember my initial thrill at the strange sights in the fishmonger’s window, and the mysterious smells at the shoe-mender’s. I looked sadly at Jodie, who was staring straight ahead, alert for danger, and oblivious to the sensory pleasures around her. The world was not a place she could enjoy like any normal child; it lacked excitement and stimulation for her. She had been deadened to everything because of what she had suffered. It was heartbreaking.
I did what I had to do at the post office, and because she had queued patiently by my side I bought Jodie a packet of Smarties as a reward. As we walked back down the high street, I noticed she had gone quiet again.
‘What shall we do when we get home, Jodie?’ I asked.
She was silent, and I could see her face had set.
‘Is something the matter, Jodie?’
‘What were they starin’ at?’ she muttered. ‘Don’t stare at me.’
‘Who, Jodie? In the post office?’ I asked. She didn’t contradict me, so I continued. ‘But no one was staring at you, sweet. They were probably just looking at you because you look so smart in your lovely T-shirt.’
She didn’t respond, so I decided to leave it. You could never really persuade Jodie of anything, or have any kind of discussion with her. Caring for Jodie was rather about coping with her needs, and trying to distract her before she could get too upset. We walked a little further, as a middle-aged man in a suit came the other way.
‘What’s he fuckin’ starin’ at?’ Jodie muttered as he approached. As far I could see, the man didn’t seem to be looking at us at all.
‘Jodie, don’t be rude.’
As the man got closer, she said it again, louder this time: ‘What’s he blimmin’ starin’ at?’
He must have heard this time. I smiled at the man apologetically, and he looked away, embarrassed.
‘Jodie, that was rude. You’ve no reason to worry, no one was staring at you.’
‘I’ll show ’em,’ she muttered. ‘No one’ll stare at me. I’ll kill ’em all!’
Jodie’s mood didn’t improve once we got home, but for some respite I let her watch Mary Poppins, which was her favourite video, while I did some chores. I put on a load of washing, and began emptying the dishwasher, all the while wondering about Jodie’s strange behaviour. I had noticed before that she seemed to have a particular anxiety about being stared at; this was one reason why mealtimes had become so unbearable, as she would constantly bark ‘What you starin’ at?’ to anyone looking even vaguely in her direction. I had suspected that this anxiety might have been linked to the abuse, but now, as the extent of it was revealed, her phobia became even more understandable: if there had been a number of people present, watching Jodie, it was no wonder if she had a horror of being looked at.
After about half an hour I’d finished what I needed to do and joined Jodie in the living room, bringing with me a carton of Ribena. She was staring blankly at the screen, while Bert serenaded Mary as they strolled through the magical chalk landscape. After a while, she turned and looked at me, and then came and sat next to me on the sofa.
‘You know, you’ve got really little eyes,’ she said.
‘Have I?’ I said, surprised. If anything, I had always felt my eyes were one of my better features and I was rather proud of them.
‘Yeah, really piggy little eyes. Like a little pig. Oink! Oink!’ She grinned, as if expecting me to join in the hilarious joke.
‘That’s not a very nice thing to say, Jodie. Don’t be rude. We don’t make personal remarks in this house.’
‘But you have. Stupid little eyes. That’s why you can’t even see where you’re going. Stupid!’
This was a strange thing to say, and it sounded like something Jodie must have heard before, an insult that had been thrown at her, and that she was now mimicking. Apart from being inaccurate, it had a level of detail and logic which Jodie wouldn’t have been able to come up with. Was this something Jodie had been told at home? Before I could pursue this, the phone rang. Oh no, I thought, it will be the school calling to tell me there isn’t a place after all. Only a rejection would