Cathy Glass - Another Forgotten Child

Aimee yanked down her joggers and stepped out of them, to reveal more bruises running down both legs, from her thighs to her ankles – there were even some bruises on her feet. Most of the bruises were the same size and shape as those on her body and arms – round and small – although there were some larger ones on her knees and shins, consistent with falling over.

‘How did you get all these?’ I asked.

‘I fell over.’

She stepped out of her pants to reveal more small round bruises on her buttocks. ‘And the ones on your bottom?’ I asked. ‘How did you get those?’

‘Same,’ Aimee said, tossing her pants on top of the pile of smelly rags that were her clothes. She stood at the side of the bath, making no attempt to get in.

‘Get into the bath while the water is nice and warm,’ I said.

She reached out to my hand for me to help her and I steadied her while she climbed into the bath. Then she stood looking at me.

‘Sit down,’ I said.

‘What, in the water?’ Aimee asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘So you can have a bath and wash all over.’

Very gingerly and slowly Aimee began to lower herself into the bath, and as the warm water lapped against her skin she gave a little sigh of pleasure. ‘This is nice,’ she said.

‘Good,’ I said, relieved. I passed her a new sponge and fresh bar of soap. ‘Now rub the soap on to the sponge and then all over your body.’

But she just sat there with a smile on her face, enjoying the feel of the warm water without actually washing, despite my further encouragement.

‘This is nice,’ she said again. ‘I like the warm water.’

‘Aimee,’ I said suspiciously, ‘have you ever had a bath before?’

‘No.’ She grinned sheepishly.

‘So did you usually have a shower at home?’

‘No. All the water was cold and I don’t like cold water.’

‘Wasn’t there any hot water in your flat at all?’ I asked, aware that this was not as uncommon in poor homes as one might think.

‘No,’ Aimee said, shaking her head.

‘So you never had a hot shower or bath?’

‘Never. I stood in the kitchen and Mum used one of those.’ Aimee pointed to the face flannel draped on the rail at the side of the bath. ‘But the water was cold, so I didn’t like it.’ From which I deduced that Aimee had been given a stand-up wash in cold water and had never had a bath or shower in her life.

‘Did your social worker, Kristen, know there was no hot water in your flat?’ I now asked.

‘Of course not!’ Aimee said, surprised at my ignorance. ‘Me and Mum told her the meter had just run out and we were going to get some more tokens, but we never had the money.’ She giggled at the deceit she and her mother had perpetrated on the social worker, and not for the first time since I’d begun fostering I was shocked by the ease with which a social worker had been duped.

‘Why didn’t you tell Kristen there was no money for hot water?’ I asked. ‘She could have helped you.’

Aimee looked at me, confused, and I guessed it was because she wasn’t used to hearing that a social worker could help. So often parents view social workers as the enemy.

‘Mum said if we told Kristen I would be taken away and put in care like my brothers and sisters,’ Aimee said. ‘Mum said I wasn’t to tell her about the water. There were lots of things I couldn’t tell Kristen.’ She suddenly stopped.

‘Like what?’ I asked gently, lathering the soap on to the sponge for her.

‘Nothing,’ Aimee said. ‘They’re secrets and I’ll get shouted at if I tell.’

‘Who will shout at you?’ I asked.

‘No one,’ Aimee said, clamming up.

‘All right. But sometimes it helps to tell a secret. Bad secrets can be very worrying, not like the surprises we have on our birthdays. When you feel ready to tell me I will listen carefully and try to help,’ I said, although I knew it could be months, possibly years, before Aimee trusted me enough to tell me. I also knew that ‘secrets’ when the child had been threatened into not telling always involved abuse.

The bath water turned grey as Aimee washed; indeed the water was so dirty that I drained the bath and refilled it with fresh water. I explained to Aimee that I would just comb her hair before bed and then wash it in the morning after the lotion had done its job properly. I helped her out of the bath, wrapped her in a towel and left her to dry herself while I went to the ottoman in my bedroom for some clean pyjamas that would fit her. When I returned she was still standing with the towel around her, having made no attempt to dry herself.

‘Come on, dry yourself,’ I encouraged.

‘No, you do it,’ she said.

‘I’ll help you. But you need to learn to dry yourself at your age.’ I showed her what to do – how to pat and rub the towel over her skin – but I didn’t do it for her. I guessed that the reason Aimee didn’t know how to towel dry herself was that, never having had a shower or bath, she’d never had to do it. This level of neglect – of even the most basic requirements – is a form of child abuse.

After about ten minutes, and with a lot of encouragement, Aimee had dried herself. ‘These should fit,’ I said, and held out the nearly new clean pyjamas I kept as spares for such an emergency.

‘Not wearing them!’ Aimee sneered, pulling a face and shrinking from the pyjamas I held. ‘They’re not mine.’

‘They’re yours for now,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll buy you some new ones after school tomorrow.’

‘Ain’t wearing them,’ Aimee said again, her face setting. ‘I want me own.’

‘You haven’t brought any with you,’ I reminded her gently.

‘Yes I have!’ Aimee snapped, jutting out her chin. ‘They’re in me bag downstairs.’ I now remembered the threadbare and filthy pyjama top Aimee had tipped on to the dining table when she’d been looking for her biscuits.

‘There was only the top, love, no bottoms, and it needs washing.’

‘I want me top,’ Aimee demanded rudely. ‘I’ll wear me knickers with it, like I do at home.’ She made a move to retrieve her knickers from the pile of filthy clothes she’d taken off before her bath.

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘You can’t wear those pants. You are nice and clean now. If you put on those you’ll be dirty again. Wear these pyjamas for now and I’ll wash your clothes tonight, and then you can have them in the morning.’ I knew children were often attached to their own clothes and felt secure wearing them when they first came into care, and I always tried to use them whenever possible. But I was also aware that dirty clothes can harbour and transmit parasitic diseases such as scabies and ringworm; not only to Aimee but to the bed linen and anyone else who came in contact with the infected clothes. ‘Put on these,’ I said firmly, placing the pyjamas into her arms. ‘You dress while I put your things in the washing machine.’

Before she had a chance to refuse I’d scooped up the ragged clothes and was hurrying downstairs and into the kitchen, where I threw the clothes in the washing machine. I took the pyjama top and knickers from the plastic carrier bag and put those in too. Then I added a generous measure of detergent and set the machine on a hot wash. I would have liked to have washed Aimee’s teddy bear, which was in the plastic carrier bag, but I knew Aimee would need that tonight for security. I thoroughly washed my hands and then returned to the bathroom, where Aimee had made a good attempt to dress herself. The pyjama top was on back to front but that didn’t matter.

‘Well done. Good girl.’ I smiled, and instinctively went to hug her, but she drew back.

‘Don’t you like hugs?’ I asked.