The Silent Cry: Part 3 of 3: There is little Kim can do as her mother's mental health spirals out of control

Adrian laughed, for of course this wasn’t how you greeted guests coming to your party, but Samson wasn’t to know – he’d never done it before.

‘We’ve come to your birthday party,’ I said through the door. ‘We’re all very excited. Can we come in?’

‘I’ll think about it,’ Samson said, which made Adrian laugh even more. Samson then asked, ‘Have you brought me a present?’

‘Yes,’ I said as Adrian giggled.

‘OK. You can come in then.’ The door quickly opened and he relieved us of our gifts. ‘Cor, proper presents!’ he said, taking them to the sofa to unwrap them. ‘These aren’t the ones I brought.’

‘Happy Birthday,’ Adrian and I said as Samson began tearing off the wrapping paper.

His face was a picture. ‘Cor, thanks,’ he said, after opening each gift. He had a Batman jigsaw puzzle from Adrian, a word-search book from me and a small, boxed car from Paula, who was looking rather bemused by what was going on. After the door had slammed Toscha had fled to the bottom of the garden and taken refuge on top of the shed. Samson opened the card and I helped him read what we’d written:

To Samson,

Have a lovely party.

Best wishes from Cathy, Adrian and Paula.

‘We usually stand our cards on the mantelpiece,’ I said to Samson. He handed me the card and I put it in pride of place in the centre.

‘Now can we play games and win prizes?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said.

I’d already thought of some games that would work with just the few of us – musical chairs, hunt the thimble, pass the orange, musical statues and sleeping lions. I had some little prizes ready (from my emergency store), but Samson wanted to use the ones he’d brought with him when Adrian, Paula or I won a game. I was therefore able to express genuine surprise when I opened my prize to find a toy ambulance with three wheels missing and half a stale biscuit in the rear. Adrian had a pick-up truck for a prize and Paula a small toy horse. Indeed, many of the prizes we opened were from a toy farmyard set, including a dog-chewed farmer, bales of hay with teeth marks and a scarecrow with a leg missing. We thanked Samson – it was thoughtful of him, although I’d have to make sure he took his toys home with him. As a foster carer I knew difficult situations could arise if parents discovered their child’s possessions were missing, even if the child had given them away. But for now his prizes were part of our play and we were as delighted with ours as Samson was with his – which he would be keeping.

Tea was a success, especially the jelly and ice cream, and cake. I still had over half the cake Gina had given to me, so I decorated it with six candles and set it on the table with the round side facing Samson. He knew it had a piece missing, but it didn’t matter. It was the fun of the experience that counted. We sang ‘Happy Birthday’, he blew out his candles and we all cheered. Samson enjoyed blowing out the candles so much that I had to relight them three times. I helped him cut the cake into four slices. I asked him if he’d had a birthday celebration when he had been six, but he shrugged and changed the subject, so I guessed he hadn’t.

‘What happens now?’ he asked as he crammed the last mouthful of cake into his mouth.

‘Well, at the end of a party the host usually sees the guests out and thanks them for coming.’

‘Can we have some more games?’ he asked, not wanting the party to end.

‘All parties have to end some time,’ I said. ‘And then you have the happy memories to look back on.’ We’d been playing at parties for over three hours. ‘One more game of sleeping lions and then you can say goodbye to your guests.’

It actually turned into three games of sleeping lions and another of hunt the thimble before Samson announced it was time for us to go. Grabbing Adrian’s arm, he began pulling him roughly towards the living-room door.

‘No, Samson,’ I said, intervening. ‘You don’t treat your guests like that. You have to be gentle and see them out nicely or they won’t want to come again.’

Fortunately Adrian saw the funny side of it and was laughing rather than looking worried. In fact, I’d noticed that Adrian had generally seemed more relaxed around Samson during the afternoon, I think possibly because he’d seen Samson’s vulnerable, childlike side when he’d been so involved in enjoying his party.

‘You just walk to the door with them,’ I said to Samson. ‘Thank them for their present and say goodbye.’

Which he now did. Having let Adrian out of the living room, I kept hold of Paula’s hand while he saw us out. ‘Thank you for my party,’ he said.

‘You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘Thank you for asking us.’

It hadn’t taken much, but I could see it had meant a lot to Samson, and doubtless he would have some happy memories of playing parties that afternoon. Later, I left the boys doing a word-search puzzle while I took Paula up for her bath and bed. Once she was settled, I brought the boys up and then discovered that Samson, having done his own packing, had very little in his backpack apart from the prizes he’d brought with him and his wash bag. I found some pyjamas that fitted him in my spares and a change of clothes for the following day. All foster carers keep spare clothes of different sizes for both sexes for emergency use. As the boys had done a lot of running around and were quite sweaty I thought they should both have a bath, so I settled Samson in his room where he continued the word search while Adrian had his bath. Then Adrian went to his room while I ran Samson’s bath. Although Samson had good self-care skills, I made sure the water was the right temperature, then I waited by the bathroom door to check he climbed in safely. As he did I saw a large, angry bruise on his right buttock. My immediate thought was that it must have happened today while he’d been playing. He was so boisterous in his play he often literally threw himself into a game, landing on his knees or bottom. Foster carers have to log any accidents that happen to a child they are looking after and make a note of even minor injuries. I would also need to tell his grandmother what had happened when I returned him.

‘That’s a big bruise,’ I said as he sat in the water. ‘Do you know how you did it?’

‘Where?’ he asked, examining his arms and legs. Like many boys his age they were dotted with small, fading bruises from tumbles during play.

‘No, the one on your bottom,’ I said.

He turned to try and see but it was out of view. ‘Dunno,’ he said, disinterested, and began splashing water on himself.

‘Do you remember when you could have done it?’ I asked. ‘Did you sit down very heavily in the garden, or on the patio?’

He shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘OK. Wash yourself. I’ll wait here.’

I stood on the landing by the bathroom door to give him some privacy while he washed himself. I knew he wouldn’t be long; most boys his age don’t linger in the bath or shower. I didn’t think playing musical chairs could have given him the bruise – we’d used cushions – and I couldn’t imagine that sitting heavily on the carpeted floor could have caused it either. I therefore assumed it must have happened in the garden or possibly before he’d come to me. I’d still have to make a note of it and mention it to his gran.

Samson had a predictably quick bath and clambered out. Drying his front, he stood with his back to the mirror and then craned his neck round to look over his shoulder to see the bruise.

‘Oh, that,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Me dad’s girlfriend did that. She’s always whacking me.’

‘Is she?’ I said. ‘That doesn’t sound right. With what?’

‘Whatever she has,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘The broom handle did that. It blimmin’ hurt.’ He continued towel-drying himself.

‘I’m sure it did hurt,’ I said. ‘She shouldn’t be hitting you.’

‘I shouldn’t have been naughty,’ he replied.

‘It was still wrong of her to hit you,’ I said. While the law in England at present allows a parent to give a child a small slap or tap on the hand when chastising them, hitting the child so it leaves a mark is illegal. It’s also child abuse and cruel. Foster carers, childminders, teachers and other childcare workers are not allowed to smack a child, and personally I have never slapped my own children. I use sanctions – the loss of a privilege – and firm talking to curb negative behaviour.

‘When did it happen?’ I asked Samson as he began pulling on his pyjamas.

‘Friday,’ he said. ‘When I saw me dad. I don’t like her, but he lives in her flat so I’m supposed to show her respect.’

Pity she hadn’t shown Samson some respect, I thought. ‘Does your dad know she hits you?’

‘Yeah, of course, he’s there,’ Samson said, as though it was a daft question.

‘Have you told your gran?’ I asked.

‘Nah. I’d get into more trouble if she found out I’d been rude. Although she doesn’t beat me.’

‘It’s very wrong to hit people,’ I said. ‘And no one should hit a child. How often does it happen?’ I wondered if it was a one-off and she’d lost her temper, although that wouldn’t justify it. The severity of the bruise suggested she’d really lashed out and lost control.

‘Every time I see her,’ Samson said. ‘I hate her and she hates me. Do I have to brush my teeth again? I did ’em this morning.’

‘Yes please, you should brush your teeth every night and morning.’ He gave a groan but picked up his toothbrush and toothpaste from where I’d left them ready on the basin. ‘What’s your dad’s girlfriend’s name?’ I asked.