Damaged: The Heartbreaking True Story of a Forgotten Child

‘I don’t have a car,’ said Gary gently. ‘And you’re staying with Cathy. Remember we talked about it? This is your lovely new home now.’ He picked up his briefcase and got halfway to the door, then Jodie opened her mouth wide and screamed. It was truly ear piercing. I rushed over and put my arms around her, and nodded to Gary to go. He slipped out, and I held her until the noise subsided. There were no tears, but her previously pale cheeks were now flushed bright red.

The last person left was Jill. She came out into the hall and got her coat.

‘Will you be all right, Cathy?’ she asked, as she prepared to venture out into the rain. ‘I’ll phone about five.’ She knew that the sooner Jodie and I were left alone, the sooner she’d settle.

‘We’ll be fine, won’t we, Jodie?’ I said. ‘I’ll show you around and then we’ll unpack.’

I was half expecting another scream, but she just stared at me, blank and uncomprehending. My heart went out to her; she must have felt so lost in what was her sixth home in four months. I held her hand as we saw Jill out.

Now it was just the two of us. I’d been in this situation many times before, welcoming a confused and hurt little person into my home, waiting patiently as they acclimatized to a new and strange environment, but this felt different somehow. There was something in the blankness in Jodie’s eyes that was chilling. I hadn’t seen it before, in a child or an adult. I shook myself mentally. Come on, I cajoled. She’s a little girl and you’ve got twenty years’ experience of looking after children. How hard can it be?

I led her back into the living room and, right on cue, Toscha reappeared. I showed Jodie the correct way to stroke her, but she lost interest as soon as I’d begun.

‘I’m hungry. I want a biscuit.’ She made a dash for the kitchen.

I followed and was about to explain that too many biscuits aren’t good, when I noticed a pungent smell. ‘Jodie, do you want the toilet?’ I asked casually.

She shook her head.

‘Do you want to do a poo?’

‘No!’ She grinned, and before I realized what she was doing, her hand was in her pants, and she smeared faeces across her face.

‘Jodie!’ I grabbed her wrist, horrified.

She cowered instantly, protecting her face. ‘You going to hit me?’

‘No, Jodie. Of course not. I’d never do that. You’re going to have a bath, and next time tell me when you want the toilet. You’re a big girl now.’

Slowly, I led my new charge up the stairs and she followed, clumsy, lumbering and her face smeared with excrement.

What had I let myself in for?

Chapter Four A New Little Sister (#ulink_88513b16-ac2f-5dbe-901b-d7eb30b8f7a3)

Foster carers aren’t saints. We’re just ordinary parents with space in our homes and hearts for one more. But as I turned on the shower, and helped Jodie out of her clothes and her soiled underwear, I wondered if my heart was truly big enough. I put her under the shower of hot water and began to sponge her down. My stomach lurched as the heat intensified the smell, and I closed my mouth and tried to breathe through my nose. I cleaned her face and hands, then between the folds of pale skin around her middle. Jodie was pear-shaped, which is unusual for a child, and she had hips like a middle-aged woman. She was docile, though, lifting her arms in the air and making no effort to help. She seemed to enjoy being treated like a baby. I consoled myself that at least the rest of the family weren’t home to witness the new arrival’s house-warming trick.

I couldn’t help feeling puzzled by it – she hadn’t been distressed by her accident at all, and it was unlikely that someone of her age had no bowel control and wasn’t aware of when they were about to do a poo. So had it been deliberate? Surely not. It was probably anxiety.

I helped her out of the bath and wrapped a towel round her. ‘Dry yourself, Jodie, while I put these in the wash.’ I scooped up the soiled clothes and carried them downstairs to the washing machine. I added a few drops of disinfectant to the soap, and turned the dial to 80 degrees. The sound of Jodie talking to herself floated down from the bathroom and I could hear her muttering isolated words and phrases which didn’t string together, and didn’t make any sense.

Returning down the hall, I took the largest suitcase and heaved it upstairs. ‘You OK, Jodie?’ I called, as I crossed the landing.

Silence, then, ‘Yeah,’ before she lapsed into gobbledegook once again.

In her bedroom, I unzipped the case, and picked out joggers, a jumper and underwear, and carried them through to the bathroom. She was standing as I’d left her, wrapped in the towel but still dripping wet.

‘Come on,’ I encouraged, ‘dry yourself. You’re a big girl now.’

She shook her head sulkily, and I started patting her dry. She was like a seven-stone infant, and very cumbersome, and I was sure some of this was due to the rolls of fat.

‘Don’t want those,’ she said, spying the clothes I’d brought in.

‘OK, when you’re dry we’ll find some others. You’ve got lots to choose from. Now come on before you get cold.’

She pulled out of the towel and darted naked along the landing to her room, where she began rummaging through the clothes. She held up a pair of pink shorts and a T-shirt. I tried to explain that they weren’t suitable for the chilly weather, but I might as well have been talking Russian for all the response I got.

‘How about these jeans?’ I said, holding them up. ‘And this blue top is nice and warm. Now find yourself some underwear and get dressed, come on, quickly.’

She held up a pair of knickers and struggled into them, then continued picking over the clothes. She was chattering continuously, but when I tried to join in the conversation she would stare at me blankly, before continuing with her search, and the next unintelligible monologue. Finally, she settled on a pair of black trousers and a grey jumper, and stood waiting for me to dress her. Just to hurry things along, I gave in to this demand, then began clearing up the heaps of discarded clothes, folding and hanging them in the drawers and wardrobe. Jodie had said nothing about her bedroom, and when I asked if she liked it, she responded with a blank, dismissive stare. She picked up a soft toy, and hurled it at the door. ‘Not mine! Don’t want it!’ Her face screwed up in anger.

‘OK, but don’t throw it. I’m sure you’ve got lots of your own. I’ll put these away and find some of yours. You’d prefer that, wouldn’t you?’ I gathered up the other toys and moved towards the door.

‘Where you going?’ she demanded, her scowl intensifying.

‘To put these away and bring up some of your own toys.’ I smiled and left, aware another scene had been narrowly averted.

I dropped the unwanted toys on to my bed, then went downstairs and opened some of the holdalls. They were filled with clothes, a ridiculous amount; she couldn’t possibly have worn them all if she’d changed three times a day for a fortnight. The next bag I opened was crammed full of small plastic toys: dolls, animals and gifts from McDonald’s. It was like a school fête tombola. I lugged the bag upstairs.

‘Have a look at these,’ I said brightly, ‘while I sort out the rest of your clothes. There’s a toy box under the bed, you can put them in there.’

Her face softened, and we worked side by side for a few minutes, although I sensed the peace was tenuous. I wasn’t wrong. Five minutes later she threw a plastic crocodile into the box, then ran out of the room, and into Adrian’s bedroom next door.

I followed. ‘Jodie, would you like to look around now? We can unpack later.’ She was pressing the buttons on Adrian’s mobile, which he’d left recharging by his bed.

I went over and gently took it from her. ‘We won’t touch that, it’s not ours. This is Adrian’s room.’ She looked at me doubtfully. ‘He’s my son. He’s at school. You’ll meet him later.’

She dropped the phone on the floor, then took a flying leap on to the bed, where she started clumsily bouncing up and down. I reached for her hand. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the other rooms, then fix you some lunch.’

The mention of lunch sealed it, and with another leap she was beside me, floorboards juddering, and then she dashed out, along the landing and into the next bedroom.

‘This is Lucy’s room,’ I said, catching up. ‘She’s fifteen. She’s been with us for two years and you’ll meet her later too.’

She rushed out of Lucy’s room and round to Paula’s, where she spotted Paula’s rag-doll pyjama case propped on the bed.

‘Mine. Mine!’ she cried, snatching it to her chest. ‘I want it.’

‘It’s Paula’s,’ I said gently. ‘It’s special, she got it for her birthday.’

‘Mine,’ she growled. ‘I want it. Get me one or I’ll kick you.’

I frowned and gently prised it from her arms. Was that how she’d accumulated all those toys: buy it or I’ll kick you? I repositioned the doll on the pillow, then took her hand and led her out. I opened the door to my room just enough for her to see in. ‘This is where I sleep, but of course it’s private. All our bedrooms are private, and we don’t go into each other’s unless we’re asked.’

She grinned, with a strange grimace that gave her an unpleasant, malevolent air. She stared at the double bed. ‘Have you got a man?’

I shook my head. ‘No, I’m divorced. I have a big bed all to myself.’

She threw me a pitying look, and I decided she’d seen enough of my bedroom, and closed the door. On the landing I took the opportunity to reinforce our privacy rule. ‘Jodie, we all have our own bedrooms and they have our special things in them. No one will come into yours, and you mustn’t go into anyone else’s without being asked. Do you understand?’