Damaged, A Baby’s Cry and The Night the Angels Came 3-in-1 Collection. Cathy Glass
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for home. ‘I promise.’
That night, when I turned on the ten o’clock news, the screen was dominated by a rock star, arrested as part of a worldwide investigation into child pornography on the Internet. The police had seized his computer and found images of children on the hard disk.
I seethed with anger. How did these perverts think the photographs were obtained? For every image downloaded, a child had been abused, and a life and personality destroyed. The end result was children like Jodie, fractured and hurt almost beyond repair. As far as I was concerned, the person buying this filth was just as responsible as the abuser, and I had no sympathy for his fall from grace, or for the claim that he was researching a book.
Our appointment with the psychologist was set for Monday afternoon. Although this was our first meeting with Dr Burrows together, Jodie had seen her once before, while she was with her second carers. For some reason, she seemed reluctant to see her again.
‘But Dr Burrows will be able to help you,’ I explained. ‘Everyone wants to help you, Jodie, but first we have to tell Dr Burrows what we know. You need to say what happened so that people can make it all better.’
‘None of her damn business,’ she snarled. ‘Nosy cow.’
‘What isn’t her business?’ I asked. But she wouldn’t be drawn. I suspected her parents had warned her against this kind of thing, and against cooperating, fearing that a psychologist would be a particular threat to their shameful secret.
They needn’t have worried. From the moment we arrived, Jodie was hostile and uncommunicative. She wouldn’t answer any questions, not even on innocuous subjects like her favourite toys, or what she liked to eat. The only answers she did give were monosyllabic or gibberish.
Dr Burrows was professional and business-like, and clearly knew how to connect with children, but she was making no progress with Jodie. After a while, she gave up trying to ask straightforward questions and tried a different approach. She brought out a pad of paper and some coloured pencils.
‘Jodie, would you be able to do some drawings for me? I’d like to see some pictures – how about drawing me a picture of your mum and dad at home?’
This did seem to soften Jodie a little, and she took up a pencil and began to draw in her clumsy, malcoordinated way. We watched as she scrawled out a picture. I’m not a psychologist but I was at a loss to see how her pictures could be of any use. They were childish pin-men drawings, with oversized heads, and no detail. Jodie, however, clearly felt that she had done more than enough, as all further questions from the doctor were met with, ‘Don’t know. Piss off.’
At last the hour’s session drew to a close. It felt as if it had been a bit futile, and I took the opportunity to ask the doctor if she could suggest anything to help me cope with Jodie’s needs.
‘Her main need is primary care,’ she replied. ‘I can see you’re performing that admirably. She’ll respond to continuity and firm boundaries. I’m very pleased she’s placed with you. You’re doing an excellent job.’
Compliments are all well and good, but what I had actually asked for was advice. I felt exasperated and very isolated. I wasn’t trained for this – I was just muddling through in the dark, beset by fatigue, confusion and the sense of being hopelessly out of my depth. The tools and training I had just weren’t sufficient for Jodie’s needs, I realized now. The doctor was clearly excellent but she didn’t seem able to grasp that I couldn’t divorce Jodie’s primary care from her mental welfare. I dealt every day not just with feeding her, amusing her and keeping her clean, but also with tantrums, violence, nightmares, waking visions, hallucinations and abject terror. Those things couldn’t be fitted nicely into a one-hour slot. I lived with them day and night.
As we left, I felt more alone than I had in my life.
Before I knew it, Christmas was only ten days away, but my excitement of a few weeks ago was now hard to muster. It was going to be a low-key affair this year. I’d already bought and wrapped most of the presents, and decorated the house, but my heart wasn’t in it. I tried to put on a brave face for the sake of the children, but I’d scaled down the usual arrangements. I was simply too exhausted to cope with a full-scale celebration. My parents were coming for Christmas Day, along with my brother and his family. I usually had a small party for friends and neighbours on Christmas Eve, but it wasn’t going to be feasible this year. I explained to them that I had rather a lot going on at the moment, and I’d have them round when things were calmer. I hoped no one was offended.
In quieter moments, when I had time to reflect, I could see that I was becoming too involved in Jodie and her suffering. I was getting sucked into the abyss of her emotional turmoil, and although I was aware of it I couldn’t seem to shake it off. She occupied my thoughts continuously. When I tried to read a book, I would find myself turning the page without having followed any of the plot. It was the same with the radio or television. I was constantly preoccupied by Jodie, and my own state of mind was suffering. Her distorted perception was colouring mine. It felt as though the evil that had corrupted Jodie’s world was creeping out and corrupting my home as well. There seemed to be a poison in the air, and Jodie was its innocent transmitter. I decided I needed a break to put things back in perspective. I called Jill.
I explained to her that I was becoming physically and mentally exhausted. ‘Jill, I’m not kidding, I need a break. Just some time to regroup and get my strength back, and think of something else for a bit. My own children could do with a bit of my time and attention as well. Could you look into arranging respite, please? Any weekend in January will be fine.’
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘You deserve a holiday. More than that, you need one, if you’re going to be able to stay the course. I’ll look into it this afternoon. The only problem is, Cathy, I’ll have to find carers who are up to it. They’ll need to be very experienced, with no younger or similar-aged children. I can think of one couple in Surrey. I’ll see if they’re free.’
‘Thank you. I’d be grateful.’ I put the phone down, my spirits lifting just a little.
The next day, Jill phoned to arrange her last visit before Christmas. We chatted for a while. Jill asked me if Jodie ever mentioned her brother and sister. ‘Occasionally,’ I replied, ‘in the context of something she’s telling me about home.’
‘She doesn’t ask to see them?’
‘No, she doesn’t.’ And it suddenly occurred to me how unusual this was. The bond between siblings in care is often strengthened by separation, so even if the children aren’t seeing their parents, Social Services usually make sure that contact is arranged between the brothers and sisters. ‘Are there any plans for them to keep in touch?’ I asked.
‘Not at present. There were concerns about Jodie’s treatment of them. I think they had reason to believe that she could be a bit heavy handed with them, which is why they all went to separate carers.’
I could imagine that. Jodie often lashed out when she was frustrated. ‘What about Christmas cards and presents?’ I asked.
‘We can certainly pass them on, if she wants to send them.’
That afternoon, I asked Jodie if she wanted to go Christmas shopping to buy presents for her brother and sister.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t want to.’
‘How about sending a card? I’ll help you write it if you like.’
‘No. Hate them.’
‘Why do you hate them, Jodie?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Mum liked them more than me. She took them away when Dad came into my bedroom.’
‘OK, pet, I think I understand.’ I wasn’t sure exactly what she was telling me but it was quite possible that the younger