Cathy Glass - Another Forgotten Child

‘Good girl, well done,’ I praised her as she climbed out of bed, yawning and stretching. ‘We’ll wash your hair before you get dressed, so go into the bathroom.’

‘Ain’t wearing those,’ Aimee said, now fully awake and pointing to the skirt and jumper I’d taken from my emergency supply and laid ready at the foot of her bed. ‘They ain’t mine!’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘but I thought you could wear those while we go to school. I’m going to buy you a new uniform from the school but you need to wear something to get there.’

‘I want me own clothes,’ Aimee demanded, her face setting defiantly.

‘No problem,’ I said lightly. ‘There they are.’ I pointed to the clothes she’d arrived in, which I’d also laid on the end of her bed, half anticipating they might be needed.

‘Me clothes are clean!’ Aimee exclaimed, astonished, as though some trickery had been done. ‘How did you do that?’

‘I washed and dried them in the machine last night,’ I said. ‘You know the washer/dryer in the kitchen?’ I added as Aimee looked blank. ‘Perhaps your mother used a launderette?’

‘What’s a laundry-net?’ Aimee asked.

‘A launderette is where you take your clothes for washing and drying if you don’t have a machine at home.’

‘We don’t go there,’ Aimee said, still eyeing the clean clothes suspiciously.’

‘Perhaps there is a washing machine at your flat.’

‘No. Me mum didn’t wash clothes.’

I thought their clothes must have been washed sometimes by someone, but it clearly wasn’t a regular occurrence, which didn’t surprise me, given the filthy state of Aimee’s clothes when she’d arrived.

‘So I’m wearing me own clothes, then?’ Aimee clarified.

‘Yes, if you wish. Then you can change when I buy your uniform at school.’

Although I would have preferred Aimee to wear the clothes I’d provided rather than the threadbare and far too small clothes she’d arrived in, I knew I could surrender this smaller point for bigger issues. Looking after a child with behavioural problems is a balancing act between what I can reasonably let go and what I have to insist on, as Aimee was about to prove.

‘Don’t want me hair washed,’ Aimee now said. ‘It’s stopped itching, so it don’t need washing.’

‘It does need washing,’ I said. ‘We have to wash out the lotion and the dead lice and eggs.’

‘No, we don’t!’ Aimee said, making a move towards her clothes.

‘You can’t go to school with your hair smelling of nit lotion,’ I said. ‘And although the lice are dead your hair is still dirty.’

‘No it ain’t!’ Aimee said again.

I wasn’t going to enter into a ‘yes it is, no it ain’t’ argument, for in this matter she needed to do as she was told. Visions of us arriving late for school on our first morning, or Aimee arriving with unwashed hair, if she didn’t cooperate, flashed through my mind. Not only would it create a bad first impression of my fostering, but it would also set a precedent that would allow Aimee to continue to do exactly what she wanted, as she had been doing at home.

‘Aimee, I need to wash your hair, love,’ I said evenly but firmly one last time.

‘No!’ Aimee said, plonking herself on the bed and folding her arms tightly across her chest.

‘Then I’m afraid you won’t be watching your television this evening, or tomorrow evening, or for the rest of the week, until I wash your hair. Now, get dressed and come down for breakfast.’ I turned and began towards the bedroom door.

Loss of television time was a sanction I’d found very effective in the past, for nearly all children like to watch some television, and Aimee was no exception. As I placed my hand on the door and was about to leave the room I heard Aimee’s voice from behind.

‘All right! You win!’ she shouted. Grabbing her clothes, she stomped past me and into the bathroom.

‘Good girl,’ I said, taking every opportunity to praise her. ‘Sensible decision.’

‘No it aint! I’m telling me mum what you did.’ Which I ignored.

Washing Aimee’s hair was no small achievement. Whereas the evening before when I’d applied the lotion I’d had Aimee’s cooperation, now she worked against me. Part of her agitation was because she wasn’t used to having her hair washed and part of it was sheer bloody mindedness – she was having to do something she didn’t want to do, although it was for her own good. She refused to lean over the bath properly, so that when I turned on the shower it was difficult to wet her hair without it running down her back; she wouldn’t keep the flannel over her face to stop the water going into her eyes; she continually moved when I asked her to stand still; and when I applied the shampoo she yelled it was cold. In fact Aimee yelled so much that eventually Lucy and Paula were driven from their bedrooms and came to see what was the matter.

‘I’m only washing her hair,’ I said defensively.

Lucy smiled and raised her eyebrows. ‘Aimee, you sound like you’re being murdered. Be quiet.’

‘Shut up,’ Aimee said rudely, raising her head and flicking soapy water everywhere. Paula groaned and the girls returned to their rooms.

‘Lucy and Paula wash their hair regularly,’ I said, hoping Aimee might see this as a good example to follow.

‘Don’t care!’ she snapped. ‘That stuff’s getting in me eyes!’

‘Well, keep your eyes closed and the flannel over your face, like I’ve told you,’ I said again.

‘And it’s in me mouth!’ Aimee shouted.

‘Keep that closed too.’ But Aimee couldn’t because she was too busy shouting and cursing at me, although she didn’t try to kick me, as the referral had stated she had her mother.

Trying to pacify Aimee as best I could, I continued with what was probably the most stressful but most necessary hair wash I’d ever given a child. As I lathered the shampoo, rinsed and lathered again, the dirty water slowly began to run clean and dead head lice finally stopped dropping into the bath.

‘All done!’ I said at last. I wasn’t sure who was more relieved. ‘Next time we’ll try washing your hair in the bath,’ I added. ‘It might be easier for you.’

‘You ain’t doing it again!’ Aimee scowled, snatching the towel from my hand and rubbing her hair.

‘Hair needs washing at least twice a week,’ I said, planting the idea so that she had time to come to terms with it.

‘No, it don’t!’ Aimee said.

I ignored this and told Aimee to go into her bedroom and I’d fetch the hairdryer and dry her hair. Throwing the towel on the bathroom floor she stomped off round the landing and into the bedroom, causing Lucy to call, ‘Be quiet, Aimee!’

‘No!’ Aimee shouted. ‘Shut up!’

I returned to Aimee’s bedroom with the hairdryer and before I switched it on I explained to Aimee that it would make a loud noise and blow hot air, for I doubted her mother owned a hairdryer. I was wrong.

‘I ain’t thick,’ Aimee said. ‘Me mum uses the hairdryer for killing me bugs.’

‘You mean she washed your hair and then dried it?’ I asked, slightly surprised, for certainly Aimee’s hair hadn’t looked as though it had been washed for weeks.

‘No,’ Aimee said. ‘Mum never washed me hair. She blew the bugs away with the dryer so they were dead.’ Which I could believe, although it was nonsense: you can’t blow away head lice, as they fasten themselves on to the hair and glue their eggs to the root shaft. But I let the point go.

Aimee moaned some more as I brushed and dried her hair, but when I’d finished, her hair shone and was quite a few shades lighter. ‘Fantastic!’ I said.

‘No it ain’t!’ Aimee said. ‘I’m telling me mum.’