Damaged: The Heartbreaking True Story of a Forgotten Child

‘Really,’ I replied, unimpressed.

‘I made them, or I’d tell.’

I hesitated. ‘Tell what, Jodie?’

There was a long silence. ‘Nothing. Can I have my sweets now, Cathy? I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.’

‘OK, just as soon as we get home.’

As we pulled into the driveway, the sour smell coming from the back seat made me realize that she had made good on her threat. It would be another unwelcome date with the shower for us as soon as we got through the front door.

Chapter Seven Contact (#ulink_929ebeba-101b-5326-8af1-a669d8e2de79)

‘Did the previous carers say anything about defecation as a means of control?’ I asked Eileen, Jodie’s social worker, when she phoned the next day. It was the first time we had spoken since I’d met her at the pre-placement meeting, and I was glad to hear from her. A good social worker can make all the difference on the case, and I was hoping that Eileen and I would have a supportive working relationship. ‘She threatens to make a mess if she doesn’t get what she wants, and she’s done it twice. The first time I put it down to anxiety but the last time was in the car when I wouldn’t buy her all the sweets she wanted. She threatened to soil all over the back seat and then she did it.’

Eileen paused and I was sure that the answer would be yes, although it would probably be qualified. Jodie’s modus operandi was too polished to have started when she came to me; she’d clearly been using defecation as a form of blackmail for a little while.

‘There might be something in the file. Why? Is it going to be a problem?’

The idea that a child threatening to poo herself when she didn’t get her own way and then carrying out her threat not being a problem almost made me want to laugh. I could hear in Eileen’s voice the worry that I might be about to hand Jodie back, and the implication that, if so, I was overreacting a bit. Constant soiling might not seem like a big issue to her, but then she wasn’t the one who had to clean it up.

‘If I’m going to be able to meet this child’s needs,’ I replied, ‘it’s important that I’m given all the relevant information. Could you check and get back to me, please?’

‘I’ll have a look in the file,’ she said, but I doubted she would. If she hadn’t familiarized herself with the case already, there was little compunction to do so now Jodie had been placed with me. I knew from long experience how these things worked.

Eileen changed the subject. ‘Contact has been confirmed for tomorrow,’ she said, using the social-work term meaning a meeting between a child and its natural parents. ‘The escort will collect her at six, if that’s OK.’

‘That’s fine. But why is it so late?’

‘Jodie’s father can’t make it from work any earlier and he’s most insistent on seeing her. He hasn’t missed one yet.’

I heard Eileen’s inference. Clearly she felt that this showed a commitment on his part, which suggested a strong attachment between father and daughter. If all went well over the next few months, and Jodie’s parents could get their lives in order, there was a good chance Jodie would go back to them. Generally, the Social Services try to rehabilitate families wherever possible. The final decision would be made by a judge, at a care hearing in the family court.

‘Was there anything else?’ Eileen asked, clearly hoping there wasn’t.

‘Her behaviour is as stated.’ I’d told her everything that had happened, just as I had Jill, but Eileen didn’t seem to have much in the way of response to any of the reports of self-harm, violent tantrums or anything else. I could feel my heart sinking as I realized that it was unlikely Jodie was going to get the kind of support I’d hoped for from her. ‘Let’s hope we can make a difference,’ I finished.

The next morning, I was woken by Jodie stamping down the stairs at 5 a.m. I was getting used to the disturbed nights – she was calling out for me a couple of times a night and seemed to be suffering from nightmares – and the invariable early starts. I’d had a feeling this would be a pattern with Jodie: in general, the more disturbed children are, the more troubled their nights are and the earlier they rise in the morning. Sometimes that can be because foster children have been used to the responsibility of looking after younger siblings and have quite often had to get their parents up in the morning and make the family breakfast. In other cases, it is because they are on constant alert and consequently unable to sleep much at a time because their survival mechanism is always switched on. So it was no surprise that Jodie was up and about at dawn.

I leapt out of the bed and hurriedly followed; the last thing I wanted was Jodie left alone in the kitchen. I managed to persuade her to go back to bed, but each time I thought I’d settled her, she’d be off again minutes later. By the third time I was fully awake, and there was no point going back to bed. I sat in the living room, trying to read, with one ear alert to what Jodie was up to.

A couple of hours later I heard Paula get up, followed shortly after by Lucy and then Adrian.

I had started preparing breakfast, when I suddenly heard Jodie shouting. Rushing upstairs, I found Paula standing in the bathroom doorway wearing only a towel, while Jodie sat on the landing, glaring at her menacingly.

‘Whatever’s going on?’ I asked.

‘I’m trying to get past, but she keeps kicking me,’ replied Paula, obviously frustrated and vulnerable.

At this, Jodie started screaming and banging the floor with her fists and feet. I waited for her to calm down, then went over and gently lifted her to her feet and guided her towards the stairs.

‘Come on, Jodie, why don’t you help me make you some breakfast? You must be hungry by now.’

She resisted at first, but eventually followed me downstairs, presumably feeling that she’d won this battle, and Paula was allowed to continue getting ready in peace.

Downstairs, Jodie agreed to lay the table, while I boiled the kettle and set out four cups. She’d already been extremely trying this morning, but as I watched her lay the table I was reminded of how difficult her life was. Even in performing this simple task, Jodie’s limitations were obvious. She couldn’t grip the cutlery, because her motor skills were so poor; instead, she clamped the pile to her chest. Predictably enough, on her way to the table she dropped one of the spoons. She grunted in frustration, then dropped the rest of the cutlery on the table, making a loud clang. She picked up the stray spoon from the floor, licked it on both sides, then wiped it on her sleeve, and proceeded to set the places.

It was no surprise that she was so clumsy. Poor motor skills and bad coordination are all part of developmental delay. I was no expert on the matter, but I knew that a lack of stimulation of an infant’s brain could have a severe impact on its growth and development. Even being given a rattle to hold helps a baby learn about how the world works and teaches the muscles and brain to respond, so that it can master its environment. Later on, reading books and playing with jigsaws and puzzles help the brain continue to grow and learn. While I didn’t want to leap to conclusions about what had happened to Jodie in the past, I couldn’t help wondering if neglect and a lack of stimulation had contributed to her acute malcoordination and clumsiness. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen it, though never this pronounced.

‘Well done, Jodie,’ I said, with exaggerated enthusiasm. ‘You’ve been a big help’.

She barely responded to my praise, and that too was unusual. It was odd to meet a child who didn’t enjoy approval. She seemed very shut off and far away, and nothing I said seemed to reach her. I’d been expecting something of the sort but the extent of it was beginning to puzzle and worry me.

I poured Jodie some Rice Krispies, and finished making the tea. Paula and Lucy came down together and sat at the table. Jodie’s mood switched immediately, as it seemed to when the other children came into the room. I could see her becoming tense, and her eyes narrowing with anger. She looked up at Paula with an unpleasant grimace, then started poking her in the ribs.

‘Stop that, Jodie!’ I said, but she persisted. Paula tried to fend her off, and then lost her temper, and poked her back. Jodie started screaming, making the most of the minor assault.

‘Paula, you mustn’t do that!’ I said, angry with her for losing control. ‘Now, the pair of you behave!’

‘Sorry, Mum,’ said Paula.

‘And apologize to Jodie, please,’ I said, feeling slightly guilty. I knew Paula would feel this was unfair, with good cause, but it was in all of our interests to make it clear to Jodie that you didn’t poke, and you apologized after doing something wrong.

‘Sorry, Jodie,’ Paula muttered, without looking up. Jodie was still clutching her side melodramatically, so I decided there was little chance of coaxing an apology out of her, and left it at that.

‘Thank you, Paula. That was the adult thing to do.’

The children left for school, and Jodie helped me to clear the table and load the dishwasher, thankfully without any mishaps. Then we sat down in the living room and I tried to interest her in some games. I decided now might be a good time to broach the subject of her contact. She would be seeing her parents twice a week for an hour at a contact centre, with a social worker present all the time. Meetings with natural parents are generally arranged some time in advance, but my policy was to remind the children only on the day, as mention of it could often unsettle them. In my experience, children tended to play up just before contact so I made the time available for this emotional upheaval as short as possible for all our sakes.

‘Jodie,’ I said brightly, ‘you’ll have your bath later this afternoon, because you’re going to see your parents tonight.’

She looked at me blankly. Had she understood? She carried on playing, mashing stickle bricks together. After a moment, she asked, ‘Am I going in a van?’

‘No, the escort will pick you up here in a car, just like when you were at your previous carers. They’ll take you to meet your parents, and then bring you back here.’

‘Not going in a van. Hate them. Blimmin’ vans,’ she replied, becoming more animated.

‘That’s right, Jodie, the escort will pick you up in a car. I know your dad’s looking forward to seeing you. That will be nice, won’t it?’ Apparently, however, I’d lost her attention, and she returned to her playing, with a puzzled expression on her face. It was hard to tell what she made of the prospect of seeing her mother and father again.

Jodie was difficult for the rest of the day, as I’d expected. She had two more tantrums before lunch, and caused me a minor panic when she knocked a picture off the wall, smashing the glass, then tried to pick it up. In the afternoon, I kept her occupied with a singalong video in the lounge, while I prepared dinner. At four o’clock Adrian came in warily, and was relieved not to be greeted with a kick from Jodie. He joined me in the kitchen, and told me about his day. It felt like a long time since we’d had the chance to have a chat in peace without screaming, tantrums or violent fits, even though Jodie had been with us less than a week. It was lovely to have a few moments with my son and I knew how it important it was to snatch any opportunity to spend time with my own family in the often demanding first weeks of a new placement.

Adrian went to take his bag up to his room, and I was pleased to hear him go into the lounge first, to say hello to Jodie. However, my moment of pleasure was short-lived, as I suddenly heard him shout, ‘Oh God! Mum, come in here!’

I rushed into the hallway, as Adrian marched upstairs. In the lounge, I found Jodie sitting on the sofa with her legs in the air and one hand in her knickers, masturbating.

‘Jodie, stop that!’ I said firmly.

‘Why?’ she barked.