Cruel to Be Kind: Part 3 of 3: Saying no can save a child’s life

I handed her the tissues and, taking a handful, she wiped her eyes.

‘Does Jo know any of this?’ I asked quietly. ‘She may be able to offer you some counselling.’

‘Some of it. But not about Dan and Paris.’

An icy chill ran down my spine. ‘What about Paris?’

‘Oh, he won’t touch her again,’ she said. ‘He knows what will happen if he does. But she’s his favourite. He’s all over her, spoils her – it’s not fair on the others.’

‘Touch her again?’ I asked. ‘What did he do to her?’

‘He tried to touch her breast. He was always making comments about her breasts. Paris said he kept going into her bedroom without knocking. Then one night before I went into hospital he came home drunk and staggered into her room. He claimed he thought he was in our bedroom. Anyway, she woke to find the duvet pulled back and him with his hand on her breast. Her boyfriend fitted a lock on the bedroom door, so it won’t happen again.’ Caz seemed pretty unfazed by this, but I heard alarm bells ringing. This was sexual abuse and a father who abuses his child once is likely to do it again. He would have had plenty of opportunity while Caz was in hospital.

‘You need to tell Jo,’ I said.

‘Do I?’ Caz asked naively. The poor woman had so many issues to deal with she was struggling, but protecting her children was paramount.

‘Yes, Caz, you must,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t want the same thing happening to Paris that happened to you.’

She looked horrified. ‘Good grief, no. He wouldn’t do that. But if I tell Jo, he’ll be furious and may leave us. I couldn’t cope alone.’ Unacceptable though this reason was, fear of being left alone and unable to cope is a reason why many women fail to report an abusive partner.

‘Your children must come first,’ I said.

‘I know. I’ll tell her,’ Caz said too easily. She rested her head back with a heavy sigh, overwhelmed by all she was having to face. She was very different now from the controlling woman who’d sat propped up on her pillows in a hospital bed with her daughters in attendance and issuing her complaints and orders. Cocooned, looked after, and away from the problems at home, I could see why she’d been in no hurry to return.

‘Is there anything I can get you?’ I asked.

‘You could make me a nice cup of tea,’ she said.

‘Sure. How do you like it?’ I stood and crossed to the kitchen.

‘Milk and two sugars. There should be some clean mugs in the cupboard above the sink.’

I opened the cupboard door, took out the mug – there was only one that was clean – and then filled the kettle and switched it on. As I moved around the kitchen making tea, Caz struck up a conversation from her chair at the other end of the room. ‘Did you see that programme the other night about eating disorders?’ she asked.

‘No, I don’t think I did.’

‘It said that many people who have an eating disorder have experienced some form of abuse. It doesn’t have to be physical abuse, it can be emotional – where a person puts you down the whole time. I wasn’t always fat, you know. I started comfort eating because I was so unhappy at home and it’s continued. My friend, Bet, says if I don’t do something soon I’ll eat myself to death. I think she could be right. How is Max doing with his diet?’

‘Good,’ I said, glancing in her direction. I couldn’t see her face as the chair was facing away – towards the television. ‘He’s been losing about three pounds a week. He’s eating well,’ I reassured her, ‘but taking more exercise.’

‘Which I can’t do,’ she said flatly. ‘Even if I went on a diet, I wouldn’t lose weight. I can’t even walk, let alone exercise.’ She had a point.

‘I know it must be difficult for you at present,’ I said, placing a tea bag into the mug. ‘But I’m sure the health centre would be able to suggest a diet and fitness plan to suit you. Did Kelly and Paris go?’

‘Yes, but the classes aren’t running now. They start again in September when the staff are back from their holidays.’

I concentrated on pouring the boiling water into the mug, then found some milk in the fridge. There was an opened packet of sugar on the work surface and I added two teaspoonfuls as Caz had wanted. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her why she didn’t use a sweetener instead, but that may have sounded rude. I carried the mug of tea to her. ‘Don’t you want one?’ she asked.

‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

‘You couldn’t fetch me a biscuit as well, could you?’ she said with a guilty smile. ‘I find tea a bit wet without one,’ she joked. ‘There should be a packet of chocolate digestives on the work surface somewhere.’

I returned to the kitchen, found the open packet of biscuits and took it to her.

With her tea in one hand and the biscuits on her lap, she deftly took the top biscuit out of the packet and dunked it into her tea before taking a bite. ‘Hmm,’ she sighed, savouring the melting chocolate on moist biscuit. ‘I know I shouldn’t, but you need a few treats in life, don’t you? Would you like one?’

‘No, thank you.’

Taking a sip of tea, she peeled off the next biscuit and, dunking it, ate it with the same pleasure, then the next. As I watched her pop one in after another, absorbed in the pleasure, I saw the comfort eating of the abused child. With her shoulders always slightly rounded and her head hung forward, her posture was that of the victim, which she had been for most of her life. It was pitiful and demeaning, and as one biscuit quickly followed another I saw that Caz could no more stop eating them than she had been able to stop her stepfather’s abuse.

‘Here, take them away,’ she said eventually when there was one left, and threw the packet to me.

I returned it to the kitchen. ‘Shall I get Max a drink?’ I asked. He hadn’t appeared since we’d arrived.

‘He’ll come out and get one when he’s ready,’ she said.

I sat with her again, wondering if I should go now. There was still forty minutes of contact left, not enough time for me to return home, but I didn’t want to outstay my welcome.

‘Do you need anything?’ I asked.

‘New feet.’ Her smile was bittersweet. Then suddenly she froze as the front door could be heard opening and then banging shut. ‘Dan?’ she said under her breath.

‘I’ve forgotten me fucking wallet,’ he cursed from the hall. ‘None of them wankers at the bar would stand me a round. Supposed to be me fucking mates!’

‘He’s been drinking,’ Caz whispered. ‘You’d better go.’

Dan came into the living room with a lit cigarette between his fingers. ‘Not more bleedin’ social workers,’ he cursed, referring to me. ‘Haven’t you got better things to do?’

‘This is Max’s foster carer,’ Caz reminded him timidly and clearly unsettled.

He grunted an acknowledgement and, placing the cigarette between his lips, began searching the living room, presumably for his wallet.

‘I don’t think it’s in here. I would have seen it,’ Caz said. ‘Try the bedroom.’

With another grunt he went out, leaving a trail of smoke behind him.

‘You’d better go,’ Caz said again. ‘Take Max with you. There’s not long left.’

‘I could come back later for him?’ I offered.

‘No. I’ll see him tomorrow and I need to lie down. Max!’ she then called. ‘Time to go.’ And to me: ‘If he doesn’t appear, shout upstairs for him, will you?’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ I said. ‘You’re sure you’ll be OK?’

‘Yes. You go,’ she said, clearly wanting me out.

I went into the hall and to the foot of the stairs. Dan could be heard cursing as he searched the main bedroom. ‘Max, we’re going!’ I called.