Damaged: The Heartbreaking True Story of a Forgotten Child

She nodded vigorously, but I suspected her acquiescence was more to speed lunch along rather than a genuine commitment. ‘I’m hungry! I want crisps and chocolate.’ She lumbered down the stairs, bumping into the banister. I caught up with her in the kitchen, as she flung open the drawers and cupboards.

‘OK, wait a minute, I’ll find you something.’ I took down a multipack of variety crisps and let her choose one. She wrenched open the packet of smoky bacon, and started cramming fistfuls into her mouth. ‘What would you like in your sandwich? Ham? Cheese? Peanut butter? Or Marmite?’

‘Marmite and chocolate spread.’

I laughed. ‘Not in the same sandwich, surely?’

But she just stared at me, uncomprehendingly. ‘I want a drink.’

‘Can I have a drink, please?’ I corrected, deciding it wouldn’t do any harm to introduce some manners. I made one Marmite sandwich and one chocolate spread, then took down a glass and added some orange squash.

‘Me do it,’ she said, grabbing the glass from my hand.

‘All right, but gently. Don’t grab, it’s not polite.’ I showed her how to turn on the tap, then waited while she filled the glass. ‘Do you like to help, Jodie? Did you used to help at home? At your other carers’?’

She plonked the glass down on the work surface, then adopted the pose of an overburdened housewife, with her hands on her hips, her chin jutting out, and an expression of resolute grumpiness. ‘Cooking! Cleaning! And you bleeding kids at me feet all day. Don’t know why I ’ad you. You’re a pain in the arse!’

I could see she was role-playing, probably repeating what she’d heard her mother say, but I suspected there was also some truth behind it. As the eldest of three, she was likely to have had some part in bringing up her brother and sister while her parents were too drunk or drugged to care. It reminded me why we were going through this experience, and the flash of insight Jodie had given me into her past helped me to gather my energy and face the volatile moods and constant demands that I knew were coming.

The afternoon passed, I’m not certain how. We didn’t unpack, as all my time was taken up with trying to keep Jodie’s attention for longer than two minutes. I showed her cupboards full of games, which we explored a number of times, trying to find something that would engage her. She liked jigsaws, but the only ones she had any hope of completing consisted of a handful of pieces, and were designed for two-year-olds. I had seen developmental delays before in children I’d fostered, and was used to dealing with learning difficulties. Nevertheless, I was beginning to suspect that Jodie was closer to the ‘moderate’ spectrum than the ‘mild’ that Gary had described.

We sat together on the carpet, but she hardly seemed to be aware of my presence. Instead, she muttered meaningless asides to people called Paul, Mike and Sean: ‘See this bit. In there. It’s a horse. I told you! I know. Where?’

They weren’t the names of anyone in the immediate family that I knew of, so I assumed Jodie was playing with her imaginary friends. This kind of behaviour isn’t unusual in children, even in eight-year-olds, but I’d never seen a child distracted to quite this extent.

‘Who are these people?’ I asked eventually.

She looked at me blankly.

‘Paul, Mike and Sean? Are they your imaginary friends? Pretend ones, that only you can see?’

I was met with another uncomprehending gaze, then she looked menacingly over my left shoulder. ‘Mike, if you don’t watch what you’re doing I’ll kick you to death.’

When Paula and Lucy arrived home at 3.30, I was trying to manoeuvre Barbie into her sports car beside Ken. I heard the door close, followed by Lucy’s reaction as she saw the bags I hadn’t had time to move. ‘Christ. How many have we got staying?’

‘Only one,’ I answered.

To prove it, Jodie jumped up and dashed down the hall. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded, hands on hips, assuming the grumpy housewife pose again.

The girls said nothing, but I knew what they were thinking. With her odd features and aggressive posture, she wasn’t exactly the little foster sister they’d been hoping for.

‘This is Jodie,’ I said positively. ‘She arrived at lunchtime. Jodie, this is Lucy and Paula.’

She stuck out her chin, in a take-me-on-if-you-dare attitude.

‘Hello,’ said Lucy, with effort.

‘Hi,’ Paula added weakly.

Jodie was blocking their path, so I gently placed a hand on her shoulder to ease her out of the way. She pulled against me. ‘Get out!’ she suddenly exploded at the girls. ‘This is my home. You go!’

I was shocked. How could she believe this when I’d told her about the girls and shown her their rooms? They laughed, which was understandable, but not advisable. Before I could stop her, Jodie rushed at Paula, kicking her hard on the shin. She jumped back and yelped.

‘Jodie! Whatever are you doing?’ I shouted, as I turned her round to face me. ‘That’s naughty. You mustn’t kick. This is their home as much as it is yours. We all live together. Do you understand?’

She grinned.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked Paula. She’d experienced aggression from foster siblings before – we all had – but never so immediate and pronounced.

She nodded, and I eased Jodie back as the girls went up the stairs. They always spent time unwinding in their rooms when they got home from school, while I prepared dinner. I took Jodie through to the kitchen, and reinforced again how we all lived as one family. I asked her if she’d like to help, but she folded her arms and leant against the worktop, muttering comments, most of which were impossible to follow. ‘They’re not mine,’ she grumbled.

‘The potatoes?’ I responded. ‘No, I’m peeling them for dinner for us all.’

‘Who?’

‘Who are these for? For all of us.’

‘In the car?’

‘No. You came here in the car. We’re in the kitchen now.’

‘Where?’ she asked, lifting the lid on the pan I’d just set to boil.

‘Be careful, Jodie,’ I said. ‘That’s very hot.’

‘I was walking,’ she said, and so it went on, with Jodie mumbling disjointed phrases, as though she had a basket of words and pulled them out at random.

She helped lay the table, and I showed her which would be her place. We always sat in the same places, as the children preferred it, and it made life easier.

‘Paula! Lucy! Dinner,’ I called. Adrian was playing rugby that evening, so his dinner was waiting for him in the oven. The girls came down and we all took our places. Once she was seated Jodie suddenly became angry that she couldn’t sit in Lucy’s place.

‘Lucy always sits there, Jodie,’ I explained. ‘It’s her place. And that’s your place.’

She glared at Lucy, then viciously elbowed her in the ribs.

‘Jodie, no! That hurts. Don’t do it. Good girl.’ I knew I should ask her to apologize, but it was our first meal together so I let it slide. She was still staring at Lucy, who shifted uncomfortably away. ‘Come on, Jodie, eat your meal,’ I encouraged. ‘You told me you like roast chicken.’

The front door opened and Adrian came in, still muddy from playing rugby. He was over six feet tall, and stooped as he entered the kitchen. I hoped Jodie wouldn’t find him intimidating, but reassured myself that he had a gentle manner, and children usually warmed to him.

‘Adrian, this is Jodie,’ I said.

‘Hi Jodie,’ he smiled, taking his plate from the oven and sitting opposite her. She transferred her glare from Lucy to him, and then wriggled down in her chair, and started kicking him under the table.

‘Jodie. Stop that,’ I said firmly. ‘No kicking or elbowing. It’s not nice.’

She scowled at me, then finally picked up her knife and fork and started eating. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She could barely grip the knife and fork, and her movements were so uncoordinated that her mouth had to be inches from the plate to have any chance of getting the food in.

‘Would you like a spoon?’ I asked after a while. ‘If I cut it up first, it might be easier.’