Four Waifs on Our Doorstep (10 page)

‘Can we really have this?’ asked Anita.

‘Yes.’

‘And that too?’ asked Hamish.

‘Yes.’

‘When do we get our Knickerbocker Glory?’

‘When you’ve finished the main part of the meal. Then the man will come and take the plates away and you can tell him what you want for pudding.’

We all enjoyed our main course, and the children scraped their plates clean. The anticipation was rising and I had a sudden, frightening thought. What would we do if they didn’t have any
Knickerbocker Glories that day? World War Three might be about to break out.

One of the waiters came and cleared our table. Now was the ‘what if moment I dreaded. The menus were brought and passed round.

‘Do you have an ice-cream menu for the children?’ I asked.

‘Yes, of course, madam.’

Simon was sitting up in his high chair, watching everything that went on. Even he looked excited. They were all sitting up straight, hardly able to contain their excitement by now.

The waiter brought back the menu . . . and there it was. The picture we had on our whiteboard.

‘Knickerbocker Glory!’ exclaimed Hamish.

‘So what do you want for pudding, kids?’ asked Mike, and they all shouted it out.

‘Knickerbocker Glory!’

‘That will be six Knickerbocker Glories please,’ I told the waiter and off he went.

Anita fidgeted in her chair for about half a minute before she got down and stood where she could see round the corner, in the direction of the kitchen. She knew he would come that way and
wanted to be the first to see him. She couldn’t take her eyes off that doorway and it seemed like an age for us all. Finally, out he came, holding a tray of wondrous desserts, heading
straight for our table.

‘Sit down, Anita,’ I said.

She immediately sat on her chair, which meant she was higher up and as the waiter came nearer she had a better view of the six tall glasses and their delicious-looking contents.

As he lowered the tray, she opened her mouth, took in a deep breath and out it came, at the top of her voice.

‘Fucking hell!’

We all looked in disbelief. Everyone in the restaurant stopped and turned round to look, their mouths wide open. Then the tut-tutting began, and the comments.

‘Oh my goodness. Did you hear that?’

‘Deary dear.’

‘How dreadful.’

‘Children shouldn’t be allowed if they don’t know how to behave.’

‘It’s the parents’ fault, not teaching their children any manners.’

Anita went red. I’d never seen her blush before. She gave me an anxious look.

‘Don’t worry, Anita. Don’t worry. Just ignore them.’

She relaxed a little. I don’t think she cared about what people were saying. It had never bothered her before. But I’m sure she thought she had ruined her chances of having her
Knickerbocker Glory, so we made it clear that she would still have her prize. Then I looked at Mike and he looked at me. We didn’t dare laugh there, in the restaurant, with all those
disapproving biddies around us, but it was almost impossible to keep a straight face. The only way was to tuck in, so we did.

We all ate our Knickerbocker Glories and, oh, the looks on those children’s faces, as if they were in heaven, eating the nectar of the gods.

We finished, we paid and we left.

Once we had all climbed back into the car, we could hold in our laughter no longer. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed like it. Mike was the same, and even the kids saw the funny side
of it. We were laughing so much that we couldn’t drive away until we finally calmed down.

‘Well done, kids,’ I said, wiping the tears from my eyes. ‘You did brilliantly.’

‘All of us?’ asked Anita tentatively.

‘Yes, all of you.’

‘Wasn’t it funny?’ said Hamish, as I was getting them ready for bed that evening.

‘The funniest day out I’ve ever had,’ I agreed.

Everyone looked happy except Anita.

‘What’s the matter, love?’

‘I don’t like the dark.’

‘But it won’t be dark with the landing light on.’

‘It used to frighten me when the lights went off.’

‘She means when the electricity went off,’ explained Hamish. ‘The meter always ran out of money and we had to go to bed in the dark.’

‘Well, you’ll always be all right here, because we don’t have that kind of meter. Our meter keeps the lights on whenever we want them, so you don’t need to be
afraid.’

‘But I can’t help it. What if a bad man comes to get me?’

‘We don’t have any bad people here, Anita. Only Mike, when I gave him two naughty stickers for saying I looked fat in this top!’

That made her laugh, and we all laughed when Mike himself popped his head in.

‘What’s the joke?’ he asked.

‘You are,’ said Anita, and we laughed all the more. Mike joined in too. It had been the best day we’d had since the children arrived and that night we all went to bed
happy.

8

E
ver since the children arrived on our doorstep, our lives had been a whirlwind. Nothing was ‘normal’ in our house and I never seemed
to have time to conquer the mountains of washing and ironing, daily supermarket sweeps, nappies, changing beds, and all the rest, let alone have time to have a cup of tea and put my feet up for a
few minutes – an unattainable treat. I couldn’t even sit on the loo without everybody shouting and ranting at me.

So I was excited when I woke on the day our promised support worker would come for her first visit.

‘Kay will be your super-nanny,’ Carol said on her last visit, but I didn’t realise just how apt that description would be.

First impressions were very encouraging. When I opened the door to this smiley woman with twinkly eyes and bright-red spiky hair, she was not at all what I expected.

‘Hi, Trisha. I’m your support worker and I’ve come to give you a break; lots of breaks.’

‘Great. I’ll put the kettle on.’

Kay was someone quite different from any social worker I had ever met. She was what every foster mother in England, or even the world, should have. She was a real-life Mary Poppins.

‘If you want to go out for an hour or two, I’ll have the children here. Or I’ll take the children out for you if you like. Whatever suits you best.’

‘What, all of them?’

‘Yes, all of them.’

‘All at once?’

‘Yes. All at once, or even in twos or one at a time if you prefer. You can just tell me what you want me to do. The whole point is to give you time for yourself, either at home or to go
out without having to take them all with you.’

‘I’m sure I must be dreaming!’

‘Sometimes you might need to have individual time with one of the children, or I could take the two bigger ones out one day and the younger ones the next time. It’s your
choice.’

‘My God! You’re giving me a lifeline.’

‘Well, that’s my job.’

‘I can hardly believe you’re real!’

‘Well, I am, and I’m going to start by taking all four children to the park for the rest of the afternoon. I know lots of games we can play and we’ll all have fun. I’ll
bring them back for five. Will that be all right?’

‘Are you joking? It will be bliss.’ And it was.

The next few times she came, she changed things around.

‘I’ll take Anita into town if you like,’ she suggested one morning. ‘Does she need any new clothes?’ Anita was in heaven, having someone entirely to herself,
looking at girly clothes.

‘What about if I take Hamish to the leisure centre and start teaching him to swim?’ she asked another time. Hamish loved that.

One day she took both Hamish and Anita to an adventure playground on the other side of town, so I could have a bit of individual time with Caroline and Simon in turn. That was invaluable for
both of them. But they didn’t miss out on the fun, as on another day she took them to a petting farm, where they could stroke the animals. That was a great experience for both of them in
different ways.

Kay was brilliant. She really understood children – their very breathing she knew. She was superb and they all loved her. So did I.

One day, when it was pouring with rain and the children were playing happily for once in the playroom, we sat and had a good chat over a cup of coffee.

Caroline’s bathtime fiasco was still a daily trial. I explained it all to her.

‘There’s definitely something wrong about this,’ I said. ‘To be so afraid of even going into the bathroom.’

‘Well, you’re right,’ she agreed. ‘It’s not a normal reaction.’

‘I’ve tried putting the ducks in, using blue bubbles, letting her turn the taps on and off herself, but it makes no difference. She just screams and screams with terror.’

‘It all sounds very stressful.’

‘Yes. It is. I sometimes feel like I’m being so cruel to her, forcing her into the bath each time.’

‘Do you have a separate toilet in the house?’

‘Yes, just off the hall.’

‘And is she afraid of going in there?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t use the toilet yet, because she’s still in nappies. But we use that basin for the children to wash their hands before
meals and she’s got the hang of that all right now, without any tears or fuss.’

‘Well, I know it would be lovely for her to be able to enjoy having a bath, like the others do, but what about trying a different tack?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What if you get Mike to watch the other three, and you take Caroline to have a thorough wash in the basin downstairs instead, so that she can get used to the idea of washing in peace and
safety. Then maybe you could gradually coax her to join the others just for a minute or two at the end, or maybe leave it till you think she’s ready?’

‘That’s a good idea. I’ll talk to Mike about it.’

‘Are you keeping notes of all these early problems?’ asked Kay. ‘And the fun things too?’

‘Yes, I keep my fostering diary to jot down problems, and I’ve started a memory box for each of them.’

‘That’s great.’ She smiled. ‘I always think a memory box is much better than an album or a scrapbook, because memories don’t always come in date order, do they? At
least, they don’t with children. And that way, you can put objects in too, like a flower, or a piece of fabric, or even a special toy, to remember things by.’

‘Yes, we have one special box for each of the children to keep in their bedrooms and go through any time they want. They all love their memory boxes already. I’ve done it with all
our foster children. It’s great when they’re feeling a bit down and I can say “Why don’t we go through your memory box together?” Good memories make everyone smile,
don’t they?’

While we were talking we went down to the playroom to check on the children, who had caused the usual mayhem, pulling everything off the shelves and out of the toy-boxes. They were as hyper as
monkeys and very fractious with each other. But when I turned to look at Simon, he had curled up on the sofa and fallen asleep.

‘I know he’s still quite young,’ said Kay. ‘But does he often fall asleep like this?’

‘Yes, he does it quite a lot. Hamish says he used to have nothing to play with. His mother either carried him around or put him in his cot in their main room, where I suppose there was
nothing else to do but sleep.’

‘Let’s wake him up gently and try to get him into playing with the toys.’

Ever since that first weekend, when I’d noticed what seemed like sexualised behaviour in both the girls, but especially Anita, I’d seen it more and more. One day
when I walked into Anita’s bedroom, she was sitting on the floor with two naked Barbie dolls and putting them into sexual positions. She was so engrossed that she didn’t notice me
standing in the doorway. She had them on top of each other at first, with one going up and down. Then she changed them round and had one standing and the other kneeling in front. Variations of
these positions went on for quite some time, with her quietly using a lot of swear words in her ‘talk’ between the two dolls. Finally she suddenly flared up angrily and threw the
short-haired doll right across the room. At that moment she caught sight of me, so I put the ironing away in her drawers.

‘Did you get cross with your dolls, Anita?’ I asked, as I paired up her socks.

‘This one’s Mum,’ she said. ‘And that one is Larry. Mum made us watch them sexing together. I hate it when Mum’s friends do that to me.’

‘Do what?’

‘Put their thing in me.’ She paused. ‘They do it to Caroline too.’

‘Well, that’s not going to happen here.’

Anita and Caroline seemed to pose for any man that came along, including Mike. I don’t think they were even aware of how inappropriate their sexualised movements and mannerisms were.

‘She’s just looking for a bit of attention, Mrs Merry,’ they said at Social Services when I rang up to try to find out more about what had happened to Anita in particular.

‘No, no, no. Nothing happened,’ they always insisted. ‘Nothing in the notes,’ they claimed. And I’m thinking
You haven’t even looked
.

It was very clear to me now that they had both been sexually abused.

At about this time, Anita developed a fetish about her hair. Much as she craved attention from anyone, a part of her seemed to want to hide who she was and to look like a different person.

‘I don’t want to have brown hair any more,’ she said to me one day. ‘Don’t look at me. You mustn’t look at me, not till I’ve grown my hair and it goes
blonde. I’m going to have long, blonde hair, and then nobody will recognise me. But you mustn’t look at me now.’

‘No,’ I humoured her. ‘We’re going to let it grow and make it all clean so that it’s lighter.’

Wednesdays and Sundays were nit-nights, with the metal nit-comb.

‘Once we’ve got all the head lice and nits out, your hair will grow quicker.’

She smiled. ‘And I want to grow the fringe right over my face, so that people can’t see me.’

‘Let’s wait and see about that, An.’ I never knew if I was saying the right things. I felt that all the children needed someone with a lot more expertise than I had. They
really needed a therapist or counsellor to help them through all these problems, but the Council refused to pay for one, so I tried to persuade the agency to pay for it, but I’d have to keep
working on that, especially as we didn’t know how long they would be with us.