Cathy Glass - Too Scared to Tell - Part 1 of 3

Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2020

FIRST EDITION

Text © Cathy Glass 2020

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2020

Cover photograph © Johner Images/Getty Images (posed by a model)

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008380380

Ebook Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008380410

Version: 2019-12-18

A big thank-you to my family; my editors, Carolyn and Holly; my literary agent, Andrew; my UK publishers HarperCollins, and my overseas publishers, who are now too numerous to list by name. Last, but definitely not least, a big thank-you to my readers for your unfailing support and kind words. They are much appreciated.

A third of children who have

been sexually abused never tell.

1 Cover

2 Title Page

3 Copyright

4 Acknowledgements

5 Epigraph

6 Contents

7 Chapter One: Being Watched

8 Chapter Two: Anxious

9 Chapter Three: Protecting Oskar

10 Chapter Four: Stressed and Tense

11 Chapter Five: You Know Those Men?

12 Chapter Six: Wary

13 Chapter Seven: Very Concerned

14 Chapter Eight: Preoccupied

15 Chapter Nine: A Strange Reunion

16 Moving Memoirs

17 About the Publisher

Landmarks CoverFrontmatterStart of Content

List of Pages v vi vii ix 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 2122232425262728293031323334353637383940414243444546474849505152535455565758596061626364656667686970717273747576777879808182838485868788899091929394

Chapter One

‘I feel dreadful,’ the young teacher wept. ‘His uncle is angry with me, Oskar is sobbing, and now he has to live with a strange family.’

‘It might not be for long,’ I said. ‘Just until his mother gets back. And we’re not that strange,’ I added, trying to lighten her mood.

‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ she said, forcing a small smile through her tears. ‘I’m sure you’re very nice, but it’s not Oskar’s home, is it?’

‘I’ll do my best to make it home while he is with me,’ I said, touching her arm reassuringly. Erica Jordan, Oskar’s teacher, was blaming herself for Oskar coming into foster care. ‘It wasn’t your decision to bring Oskar into care,’ I pointed out.

‘No, but I logged everything he told me and reported it to my Headmistress.’

‘Which was right,’ I said. ‘That was the correct procedure. If you hadn’t reported your concerns and something dreadful had happened to Oskar, how would you have felt then?’

‘I’d never have forgiven myself. I’m sorry,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘I’m only in my second year of teaching and I’ve never dealt with anything like this before.’

‘I understand, and believe me, it doesn’t matter how experienced you are, it’s still upsetting. No one wants to see a child removed from their home, but sometimes it’s necessary to keep them safe.’

‘I don’t think Oskar has much of a home from what he’s told me,’ she admitted.

‘No, but the social services will thoroughly investigate. I’ve been a foster carer for a long time, and a child who regularly arrives at school unkempt and so hungry that he has to steal food – as Oskar has – suggests they are not being looked after at home. It doesn’t mean he’ll remain in care for good, just until the social services are satisfied that if he goes home he’ll be properly cared for.’

Being hungry and unkempt weren’t the only reasons Oskar, aged six, was being brought into care. He was pale, withdrawn and so tired he kept falling asleep in class, and sometimes he arrived at school with unexplained bruises on his arms and legs. He had first come to the school in January, so four months previously, and the concerns had been there right from the start, which Miss Jordan had been correctly reporting to the Headmistress. Although Oskar’s mother had first registered him at the school, a series of ‘uncles’ had been bringing and collecting him, sometimes arriving very late. Originally from Eastern Europe, Oskar and his mother had good English, but the uncles claimed to have none.

Miss Jordan had also told me that the school had set up a number of meetings with his family to try to discuss their concerns, but no one had ever turned up. Now, on the second day back at school after the Easter holidays, Oskar had arrived very late, hungry, in tears and with an angry red mark on his face. The man who had dropped him off at the entrance to the school had gone straight away, when those arriving late were expected to bring the child into the school and sign them in. Now even more concerned for the boy’s welfare, the Headmistress had asked Miss Jordan, who had established a relationship with Oskar, to talk to him privately, one to one, to try to find out as much as possible, while she contacted the social services again. Reluctant at first to say anything about his home, Oskar finally told her his mother had been away for most of the two-week holiday and his uncles had been left in charge of him. He said the mark on his cheek was from one of his uncles, who had slapped him that morning for not doing as he was told. The social services had tried to contact his mother without success, so, not wanting Oskar to return home, they had applied to the court for an emergency protection order to bring him into care temporarily. At the same time, I’d received a phone call from my supervising social worker, Edith, putting me on standby to receive Oskar if the court order was granted. Edith had phoned again at midday to say the order had been granted and I should go to Oskar’s school at three o’clock to collect him.

It was now nearly 4.15 p.m. and most of the other children had gone home. I was with Miss Jordan in her classroom while Oskar, his social worker, the Headmistress and the uncle who’d arrived to collect him were in another room. Also with them was a teaching assistant who worked at the school and was now acting as an impromptu translator for the uncle. It was pure luck she spoke his language, having come to the UK from the same country many years before. I’d said goodbye to my previous foster children, Molly and Kit, in very unhappy circumstances a few days before. (I tell their story in Innocent .) Aware that foster carers are in short supply and my spare room never stayed empty for long, I’d given it a thorough clean and prepared it for the next child virtually straight away.