Cathy Glass - Another Forgotten Child

‘None!’ Aimee said. ‘I don’t like water.’

Chapter Five Chapter Five: Severe Neglect Chapter Six: ‘I’ll Tell Me Mum!’ Chapter Seven: Should Have Done More Chapter Eight: Meeting Susan Chapter Nine: ‘He’s Horrible’ Chapter Ten: Poor Role Models Chapter Eleven: The Phone Call Chapter Twelve: Craig Chapter Thirteen: More Trouble Chapter Fourteen: Keep Asking Chapter Fifteen: Quiet and Withdrawn Chapter Sixteen: Serious Allegation Chapter Seventeen: Problem Family Chapter Eighteen: Flashback Chapter Nineteen: Hatchet Chapter Twenty: ‘Father Christmas Didn’t Come to My House’ Chapter Twenty-One: Going for Gold Chapter Twenty-Two: Perfect Christmas Chapter Twenty-Three: A New Year Chapter Twenty-Four: Jason Chapter Twenty-Five: A Winner Now Chapter Twenty-Six: Progress Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Chance Meeting Chapter Twenty-Eight: Peter Rabbit Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Visit Chapter Thirty: An Incredible Family Epilogue Acknowledgements Exclusive sample chapter Cathy Glass About the Publisher

Severe Neglect Chapter Five: Severe Neglect Chapter Six: ‘I’ll Tell Me Mum!’ Chapter Seven: Should Have Done More Chapter Eight: Meeting Susan Chapter Nine: ‘He’s Horrible’ Chapter Ten: Poor Role Models Chapter Eleven: The Phone Call Chapter Twelve: Craig Chapter Thirteen: More Trouble Chapter Fourteen: Keep Asking Chapter Fifteen: Quiet and Withdrawn Chapter Sixteen: Serious Allegation Chapter Seventeen: Problem Family Chapter Eighteen: Flashback Chapter Nineteen: Hatchet Chapter Twenty: ‘Father Christmas Didn’t Come to My House’ Chapter Twenty-One: Going for Gold Chapter Twenty-Two: Perfect Christmas Chapter Twenty-Three: A New Year Chapter Twenty-Four: Jason Chapter Twenty-Five: A Winner Now Chapter Twenty-Six: Progress Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Chance Meeting Chapter Twenty-Eight: Peter Rabbit Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Visit Chapter Thirty: An Incredible Family Epilogue Acknowledgements Exclusive sample chapter Cathy Glass About the Publisher

‘You’ll like the water here,’ Lucy said, continuing with her philosophy that things were different and better in foster care.

‘No, I won’t,’ Aimee said, folding her arms and sulking.

‘I’m going to do my homework,’ Paula said, and escaped to her bedroom.

‘Come on, I’ll show you the new tiles I put in our bathroom,’ I said to Aimee with excitement out of all proportion to my first attempt at tiling.

Sufficiently intrigued, she finally slid from her chair at the dining table and followed me upstairs and to the bathroom, where I pointed out the blue and white tiles around the bath. ‘They’re nice,’ she said, with genuine admiration.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘We have tiles in my bathroom,’ Aimee said, ‘but they’re dirty and have green stuff growing on them,’ which I assumed to be mould.

‘Well, as you can see ours are all new,’ I said. ‘No nasty green stuff here. Now, would you like a bath or a shower? What did you have at home?’

‘Nothing,’ Aimee said, her face setting again. ‘I don’t have anything.’

I thought she must have had some sort of wash sometimes, so relying on the closed choice I said again: ‘Bath or shower? You choose.’

She didn’t answer but refolded her arms more tightly across her chest like a grumpy old woman. ‘OK, I’ll decide for you, then,’ I said. ‘I’ll run you a nice warm bath.’

Aimee said: ‘I want a shower.’

‘Fine. You can have a shower,’ I said. ‘Undress while I set the shower to the right temperature.’ Aimee was not old enough to be left alone to adjust a shower she’d never used before, so, turning my back on her to give her some privacy, I switched on the shower to a medium temperature.

As soon as the water began spurting from the showerhead Aimee squealed from behind me. ‘I ain’t having that on me!’

I switched off the shower and turned to face her. So far she’d only taken off her navy jumper, which was filthy, to reveal an equally filthy T-shirt. ‘Aimee,’ I said carefully, ‘you need to have a shower or a bath tonight. Then once you’re clean you’ll be able to watch some television. It would be a great pity if you lost television time on your first night, wouldn’t it?’ This may have seemed harsh but Aimee was used to having her own way and I could see how determined she could be. For hygiene’s sake alone she needed to have a bath or shower; her skin and clothes were filthy and she smelt. Also if I didn’t start to put in place a routine and boundaries now it would become more difficult the longer I left it.

‘Can I watch me telly in bed?’ Aimee asked.

‘Once you’ve had your bath, yes,’ I said. Not blackmail but positive reward.

‘I’ll have your bath, then,’ Aimee said, scowling.

‘Good girl.’ I turned to the bath and switched on the taps, adjusting the temperature as the water ran. But by the time the bath was ready Aimee still hadn’t undressed and seemed to be waiting for me to do it for her. ‘Take off your T-shirt,’ I encouraged.

‘Can’t,’ Aimee said, not attempting the task. ‘You do it.’

‘Aimee, you are eight years old, love. I’m sure a big girl like you can undress herself.’ Children are usually taught self-care skills by the time they’re five and go to school, but Aimee shook her head.

‘I’ll help you,’ I said. ‘But I would like you to learn how to dress and undress yourself. How did you manage to change for PE and swimming at school?’ For I knew the teachers wouldn’t have undressed her.

‘Didn’t do them,’ Aimee said.

‘What, you never did PE or swimming?’

‘No.’

I was sure Aimee must be wrong – physical exercise is an essential part of every school curriculum – but I’d mention it the following day when I took Aimee to school. Now I began easing up her T-shirt and showing her how to undress. ‘Like this,’ I said. Aimee raised her arms cooperatively but had no idea what to do next.

‘Who dressed you at home?’ I asked.

‘Mum.’

Underneath the T-shirt was an equally dirty and torn vest. ‘You like your layers,’ I smiled. ‘Aren’t you hot with all this on?’ The rest of us wore one layer in our centrally heated house.

‘It’s cold at home,’ Aimee said. ‘What makes your house hot?’

I didn’t answer, for having taken off Aimee’s vest I was now staring at the small bruises dotted all over her chest. I stepped around her so I could see her back and that too was covered in the same small bruises, as were her arms and neck. The bruises were all roughly the same size, small and round, about the size of a small coin. They were in various stages of healing: some were old and faded while others looked new.

‘How did you get all these bruises?’ I asked carefully, pointing to the ones she could see on her arms and chest.

‘I fell,’ Aimee said. ‘I keep tripping over things.’

It was possible the bruises were a result of falling, I supposed. Some children are accident prone, and it’s often the overweight children who aren’t used to physical activity and have never developed good coordination and balance as more active children do. It was possible, yet there was something about the size and shape of the bruises that I couldn’t identify and unsettled me. The bruises didn’t require medical attention, but I’d obviously make a note of what I’d found in my fostering log and then tell Jill and Kristen the following day.

‘Sit on the floor and take off your socks now, good girl,’ I said to Aimee, sure she could do this simple task without help. She did as I asked and sat down, and then very clumsily managed to pull off both her filthy and holed socks. ‘Now step out of your joggers,’ I said, testing the bath water with my hand. ‘They’re easy to take off. You just pull them down.’