Copyright

Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

HarperElement

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperElement 2006

Copyright © Cathy Glass 2006

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015 Cover images © Jessamyn Harris/Getty Images (child, posed by model); Shutterstock.com (background)

Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

This book is a work of non-fiction based on the recollections of Cathy Glass. The names of people, places, dates and the detail of events have been changed to protect the privacy of others. The author has warranted to the publishers that, except in such minor respects not affecting the substantial accuracy of the work, the contents of this book are true.

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Source ISBN: 9780007236343

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780007279753

Version: 2016-08-17

Also by Cathy Glass

Damaged

Hidden

Cut

The Saddest Girl in the World

Happy Kids

The Girl in the Mirror

I Miss Mummy

Mummy Told Me Not to Tell

My Dad’s a Policeman (a Quick Reads novel)

Run, Mummy, Run

The Night the Angels Came

Happy Adults

A Baby’s Cry

Happy Mealtimes for Kids

Another Forgotten Child

Please Don’t Take My Baby

Will You Love Me?

About Writing and How to Publish

Daddy’s Little Princess

The Child Bride

Saving Danny

Girl Alone

The Silent Cry

Dedication

To my family for your continuing love, patience and understanding.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Also by Cathy Glass

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One: Emotional Blackmail

Chapter Two: The Road To Jodie

Chapter Three: The Arrival

Chapter Four: A New Little Sister

Chapter Five: Self-Harm

Chapter Six: A Very Troubled Child

Chapter Seven: Contact

Chapter Eight: Julie

Chapter Nine: Disclosure

Chapter Ten: Reporting

Chapter Eleven: Cooking And Cleaning

Chapter Twelve: Monsters

Chapter Thirteen: Integration

Chapter Fourteen: The Park

Chapter Fifteen: Past And Present

Chapter Sixteen: The Spider’s Web

Chapter Seventeen: Nosy Cow

Chapter Eighteen: Fire

Chapter Nineteen: Special Little Girl

Chapter Twenty: Christmas

Chapter Twenty-One: A New Year

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Fox And The Owl

Chapter Twenty-Three: Granddad

Chapter Twenty-Four: Friends

Chapter Twenty-Five: Denial

Chapter Twenty-Six: Links In The Chain

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Silence

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Assessment

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Therapy

Chapter Thirty: Green Grass And Brown Cows

Chapter Thirty-One: High Oaks

Chapter Thirty-Two: Overnight Stay

Chapter Thirty-Three: Goodbye

Chapter Thirty-Four: Progress

Epilogue

Suggested Topics for Reading-group Discussion

Acknowledgements

Sample Chapter

Cathy Glass

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

About the Publisher

Prologue

In Britain today, there are over 75,000 children in the care of their local authority. These are the lucky ones. Concealed behind this figure are countless others; defiled, abused and undiscovered by Social Services, often until it’s too late.

This book tells the true story of my relationship with one of these children, an eight-year-old girl called Jodie. I was her foster carer, and she was the most disturbed child I had ever looked after. I hope my story will provide an insight into the often hidden world of foster care and the Social Services.

Certain details, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the innocent.

Chapter One Emotional Blackmail

The phone rang. It was Jill, my link worker from the fostering agency.

‘Cathy, it’s not two carers, but five,’ she said. ‘Five, since coming into care four months ago.’

‘Good heavens.’ I was astonished. ‘And she’s only eight? That must have taken some doing. What’s she been up to?’

‘I’m not sure yet. But Social Services want a pre-placement meeting, to be certain she doesn’t have another move. Are you still interested?’

‘I don’t know enough not to be. When?’

‘Tomorrow at ten.’

‘All right, see you there. What’s her name?’

‘Jodie. Thanks, Cathy. If you can’t do it, no one can.’

I warmed to the flattery; it was nice to be appreciated after all this time. Jill and I had been working together now for four years and had established a good relationship. As a link worker for Homefinders Fostering Agency, Jill was the bridge between the foster carers and social workers dealing with a particular case. She coordinated the needs of the Social Services with the foster carers, and provided support and help as it was needed. An inexperienced foster carer often needed a lot of back-up and explanations of the system from their link worker. As Jill and I had been working together for some time, and I was an experienced foster carer, we were used to each other and got on well. If Jill thought I was up to the task, then I was sure she meant it.

But a pre-placement meeting? It had to be bad. Usually the children just arrived, with a brief introduction if they’d come from another carer, or with only the clothes they stood in if they’d come from home. I’d had plenty of experience of both, but none at all of a pre-placement meeting. Usually there was a meeting between everyone involved in the case as soon as the child had been placed in foster care, but I’d never been to one held beforehand.

It was my first inkling of how unusual this case was.

The following morning, we went about our normal, quiet routine of everyone getting up and dressed and having breakfast, and then the children made their way off to school. I had two children of my own, Adrian who was seventeen, and Paula, the youngest at thirteen. Lucy, who had joined the family as a foster placement two years ago, was fifteen and now a permanent member of our family, just like a daughter to me and a sister to Adrian and Paula. She was a success story: she had come to me hurt and angry and had, over time, learned to trust again, and eventually settled down to a normal existence where she had only the usual teenage angst to fret about, instead of the turmoil she had known as a child. I was proud of her, and she was testament to my belief that love, kindness, attention and firm boundaries are the basis of what any child needs to flourish.

As I saw the children off to school that morning, I felt a twinge of apprehension. The child I was going to learn about today would most certainly need all those things in abundance, and if I took her on I would have to be prepared to say goodbye to my relatively peaceful, steady routine for a while, until she learned to trust me and settled down, just as Lucy had. But that was the point of fostering – it wasn’t easy by any means, but the rewards were so enormous. Besides, I had fostered almost continuously for over twenty years now and wasn’t sure I could really remember what life before it had been like.

Once the children had left, I went upstairs and quickly changed from my joggers into a pair of smart navy trousers and a jumper, and headed for the Social Services offices. I’d been going there for years now, and the journey there was as familiar as the one to my own house. I also knew the drab grey décor, fluorescent lighting and air of busy activity and only-just-contained chaos very well indeed.

‘Cathy, hello.’

As I entered the reception area, Jill came forward to meet me. She’d been waiting for my arrival, and walked up to me with a welcoming smile.

‘Hi, Jill. How are you?’

‘Oh, fine, thanks. You’re looking well.’

‘Yes – life is good at the moment. The children are doing well, completely wrapped up in their lives and in their schools. Time for another challenge, I suppose.’ I smiled at her.

‘We’d better get along to this meeting. I think they’re ready for us.’ Jill led me along the corridor to the meeting room. As we entered the room, it was obvious at once that this was a big case: there were already about a dozen people sitting round the enormous oblong mahogany table. What did it mean? From what Jill had told me, I could tell that this was not a run-of-the-mill fostering situation – not many children get through five carers in four months – but then, no child was ever run-of-the-mill. They were always unique and their troubles distinctly their own. Removing a child from its parents was never going to be a humdrum, everyday event; it was always traumatic, emotional and difficult.

Nevertheless, something told me that this was far more complex than anything I’d yet encountered. I felt another stab of apprehension, like I had when Jill first told me about the case the day before, but I was also interested. What could this child be like, to warrant so much involvement from so many people?

Jill and I took the two vacant chairs at the far end, and I felt every eye was on me, assessing my suitability.

The chairman was Dave Mumby, the Social Services team leader, and he began the round of introductions. On his left was Sally, the ‘guardian ad litum’: she was appointed by the courts to represent Jodie’s interests. The lady next to her introduced herself as Nicola, Jodie’s home tutor.

Home tutor? Why isn’t the child in school? I wondered.

Next was Gary, Jodie’s current social worker. He explained that he was about to leave the case, and hand Jodie over to Eileen, who was sitting next to him. I looked at Eileen carefully – if I was going to take Jodie, then Eileen and I would have to work closely together. At first glance she was nondescript: a woman in her forties with an unruffled and calm air about her. So far, so good.

I wasn’t surprised that I was already witnessing a change of social worker. It happened all the time – it was the nature of the job that people had to move on – but it was unfortunate for the children and families involved, who were always having to learn new faces, build trust and forge fresh relationships with endless strangers. Although I knew it was something that couldn’t be altered and was just part of the system, with all its flaws, nonetheless I felt for Jodie. Changing social worker would mean yet more disruption for her, and I wondered how many social workers she’d been through already.

Next, Deirdre introduced herself. She was the agency link worker for Jodie’s current foster carers. Then it was my turn, and the eyes of everyone around the table turned to me.

I looked around the table, meeting the various gazes. ‘I’m Cathy Glass,’ I said, as clearly and confidently as I could. ‘I’m a foster carer from Homefinders Fostering Agency.’ There wasn’t much more I could add at this stage, when I knew so little about what was going on, so I passed on to Jill.

After Jill came someone from the accounts department, followed by a member of the local authority’s placement team. As they spoke, I looked over at Gary, Jodie’s current social worker. He was young, and could only have been in his mid-twenties. How successful had he been at forging a relationship with Jodie? I wondered. Perhaps Eileen, as a woman, would fare better at empathizing with the little girl, so the change of social worker might be for the better in this case. I hoped so.

Once the introductions were complete, Dave thanked us for coming, and gave a brief outline of what had been happening, or to use the correct terminology: the case history to date. I warmed to Dave immediately. He was gently spoken but forthright, and looked directly at me as he spoke. I made a mental note of the salient points: Jodie had been on the ‘at-risk’ register since birth, which meant that Social Services had been monitoring the family for eight years. Although there had been suspicions of emotional and physical abuse by Jodie’s parents, no steps had been taken to remove her or her younger brother Ben and sister Chelsea. Then, four months ago, Jodie had started a house fire by setting light to her pet dog – I shivered at this, struck by the peculiar cruelty of such an act – and that had been the catalyst for Social Services to take her and her siblings into care. Ben and Chelsea had both been placed with foster carers and were doing well. But Jodie exhibited ‘very challenging behaviour’. I heard Dave deliver this euphemism and raised my eyebrows. All foster carers knew what that really stood for. It meant ‘completely out of control’.

‘I think it would be useful,’ said Dave, looking at me, ‘for you to hear from her social worker now. Gary’s been on the case for two years. Feel free to ask any questions.’

Despite his youth, Gary was confident and methodical as he gave me an overview of Jodie and her family.

‘I’m afraid that the general picture isn’t good, as you’d expect. There’s severe disruption inside the family. Jodie’s mother is an intravenous drug user and her father is an alcoholic. In recent years, Jodie’s suffered a number of injuries while at home, including burns, scalds, cuts, bruises and a broken finger. All of these were recorded at hospital, and although it was suspected that some of the injuries were non-accidental, it was impossible to prove that this was the case.’

Gary went on with his tale of neglect and misery while I concentrated on absorbing the facts. It was an appalling case history but I’d heard similar stories many times before. Nevertheless, it never ceased to amaze and horrify me that people could treat their children with such cruelty and indifference, and I was already feeling for this poor little girl. How could any child grow and be normal in such circumstances, and with such parents as her role models?

Gary continued, ‘Jodie’s no longer in school because of the recent moves, which is why she’s been assigned a home tutor. She has learning difficulties and a statement of special needs.’

That was straightforward enough – I was used to looking after children with developmental delays and learning difficulties. I suspected that Gary was giving me the censored version of Jodie’s case history. In all my years of fostering, I’d never heard of a child going through five carers in four months. When he paused and looked at me, I seized my opportunity.

‘It would be helpful if you could tell me the make-up of the families of the previous carers,’ I said, hoping to discover clues to explain why Jodie had gone through so many, so fast. ‘How many children did they have, and were they older or younger? Had the carers had experience with this type of child before?’

Gary coughed and looked a little shifty. ‘The previous placement breakdowns were purely circumstantial,’ he said. ‘One of the couples were first-time carers and Jodie should never have been placed with them – that was an error on our part and it’s no surprise that it didn’t work out.’

That was fair enough, but as he went through the other placements, he sounded unconvincing to my ears: the others had all been experienced professionals, and yet one couple had lasted only three days. Gary’s explanation that circumstances were to blame was clearly a damage limitation exercise for Jodie’s sake, so that I didn’t get frightened off.

Deirdre, who was the link worker representing Jodie’s present foster carers, felt obliged to speak up in their defence. After all, if Jodie was as harmless as Gary was making out, it didn’t exactly reflect very well on their ability to cope.

‘Jodie has delayed development,’ she said. ‘In most respects, she acts like a three-or four-year-old rather than an eight-year-old. She throws terrible tantrums and is consistently aggressive and uncooperative. Her behaviour is violent, abusive and destructive. Even though she’s only been with Hilary and Dave a short time, she’s already broken a number of objects, including a solid wooden door.’

I raised my eyebrows. Quite a feat for an eight-year-old. But Deirdre wasn’t finished yet, and she went on with her litany of Jodie’s faults and shortcomings. Jodie’s carers had described her as ‘cold, calculating, manipulative, very rude and totally unlikeable’. Harsh words to pin on a little girl.

Surely, I thought, someone could say something nice about her, even if it was only that she liked her food. Children in care tend to eat ravenously, because in the past many of them haven’t known when the next meal would arrive. But no, not so much as ‘she does like her chocolate’. It appeared that Jodie did not have a single endearing feature. Instead, there was just a list of transgressions, with a footnote that her present carers had found her physically frightening: Jodie was a big girl, and she had threatened them.

I looked at Jill and we exchanged glances. Threatened them? I thought to myself. But she’s only eight years old! How dangerous can she be? I began to feel as though I was on Jodie’s side. What must it be like, having everyone dislike you so vehemently? No wonder she wasn’t able to settle anywhere.

The next person to speak was Sally, the guardian ad litum, who briefly outlined the legal position: Jodie had been taken into the care of Social Services under what is known as an Interim Care Order; that meant she’d been removed from home against the parents’ wishes and was now in the temporary care of the local authority. Proceedings to decide Jodie’s future were now beginning; if the court judged that she was better off at home, and all the fears for her safety there were put to rest, then she would be returned to her parents’ care. If not, and the court still considered that she would be in danger if returned home, her care order would become a Full Care Order, and Jodie would be permanently removed from her parents, to long-term fostering, adoption, or – the least likely option – some kind of residential care home. This whole process is lengthy and complicated, and while it is supposed to take as little time as possible, it usually takes at least a year, sometimes longer, before the court comes to a final decision.

When Sally had finished, she was followed by the home tutor, Nicola, who explained that she’d been teaching Jodie for a month, using material that was working towards Key Stage One, which is designed for pre-school children. This might sound shocking but, in my experience, it was not unusual. I had, in the past, cared for children who couldn’t read or write long after their peers had mastered the three Rs. A difficult background and home life often seems to produce children who are unable to learn as quickly as those from a stable family.

Next, the finance representative confirmed that funding would be available to continue the tutoring until a school had been found. I glanced at the clock on the wall: nearly an hour had passed. Everyone had had their say, and Dave was looking hopefully at Jill.

‘If Cathy doesn’t take her,’ he said, ‘our only option will be a residential unit.’

This smacked of emotional blackmail, and Jill rose to my defence. ‘We’ll need to consider what’s been said. I’ll discuss it with Cathy and let you know tomorrow.’

‘We need to know today,’ said Deirdre bluntly. ‘She has to be moved by midday tomorrow. They’re adamant.’

There was silence around the table. We were all thinking the same thing: were these foster carers as unprofessional as they sounded? Or had Jodie somehow driven them to this level of desperation?

‘Even so,’ said Jill firmly, ‘we’ll need time to discuss it. While I haven’t heard anything that would make me advise Cathy against it – she’s very experienced – the decision must be hers.’ She looked sideways at me.

I felt everyone’s eyes on me, and a desperate desire to hear that I would be willing to take this little girl on. So far, I had heard from Gary that she was an innocent victim whose extraordinary record of getting through carers was nothing to do with her, and from Deirdre that she was a little devil incarnate, whose size, strength and sheer nastiness were completely out of proportion to her age. The truth, I felt, must lie somewhere in between. Even taking a balanced view, however, I could see that Jodie was a handful, to say the least.

I was unsure. Was I ready to take on a child with behavioural problems at this level? Could I – and more importantly, could my family – take on the kind of disruption it would surely involve? I couldn’t help quailing a little at the thought of embracing the sort of challenge I was sure this child would pose. But on the other hand, my formula of love, kindness and attention mixed with firmness had not let me down yet, and when all was said and done, Jodie was only a child; a little girl who had been given a terrible start in life and who deserved the chance to begin again and have a little of the happiness every child needed. Could I really let her face the alternative? Now that I’d heard her story, could I really walk away?

I knew at that moment that I couldn’t. I had to give her that chance. As soon as I’d walked into that room, I’d known in my heart that I would take Jodie. I wouldn’t be able to turn my back on her.

‘She’s too young to go into a residential unit,’ I said, meeting Dave’s look. ‘I’ll take her and give it my best shot.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Jill, concerned.

I nodded, and there was an audible sigh of relief, particularly from the accounts lady. It costs upwards of £3,000 a week to keep a child in a residential unit, so getting me to take her for £250 a week was a good piece of business.

‘That’s wonderful, Cathy,’ said Dave, beaming. ‘Thank you. We all think very highly of you, as you know, and we’re delighted that you’re willing to take this one on.’

There was a murmur of agreement and a general feeling of a burden being lifted. The meeting was over. For now, the problem of Jodie was solved. Everyone stood up, gathered their things and prepared to get back to work, move on to other cases and think about other situations.

But for me, a few words and a snap decision had changed my life. For me, the problem of Jodie was only just beginning.

Chapter Two The Road to Jodie

I had started fostering twenty years before, before I had even had my own children. One day I was flicking through the paper when I saw one of those adverts – you might have seen them yourself. There was a black-and-white, fuzzy photograph of a child and a question along the lines of: Could you give little Bobby a home? For some reason it caught my eye, and once I’d seen it I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I don’t consider myself a sentimental person, but for some reason I couldn’t get the picture out of my mind. I talked about it with my husband; we knew we wanted a family of our own at some point, and I was looking forward to that, but in the meantime I knew that I could give a good home to child who needed it. I’d always felt a bond with children and had once had ambitions to teach.

‘We’ve got the room,’ I said, ‘and I know I would love working with children. Why don’t we at least find out a little bit more about it?’

So I picked up the phone, replied to the advertisement and before long we found ourselves on an induction course that introduced us to the world of foster care. Then, after we’d satisfied all the requirements and done the requisite training, we took in our first foster child, a troubled teenager in need of a stable home for a while. That was it. I was hooked.

Fostering, I discovered, is by no means easy. If a carer goes into it expecting to take in a little Orphan Annie, or an Anne of Green Gables, then he or she is in for a nasty shock. The sweet, mop-headed child who has had a little bad luck and only needs a bit of love and affection to thrive and blossom and spread happiness in the world doesn’t exist. Foster children don’t come into your home wide-eyed and smiling. They tend to be withdrawn because of what has happened to them and will often be distant, angry and hard to reach, which is hardly surprising. In worse cases, they can be verbally or even physically aggressive and violent. The only constant factor is that each one is different, and that they need attention and kindness to get through their unhappiness. It is never an easy ride.

The first year of fostering was by no means easy for me – and come to think of it, no year since has been what I would call ‘easy’ – but by the end of it I knew I wanted to continue. A foster carer will generally know almost at once if it is something they want to carry on doing or not, and certainly will by the end of that first year. I’d found something I had a talent for, and that was extremely rewarding and I wanted to carry on, even while I had my own children. I found that the difference I made to my foster children’s lives, even if it was a small one, stayed with me. It was not that I was the most selfless being since Mother Teresa, or that I was particularly saintly – I believe that we do these things for our own ends, and mine was the satisfaction I got from the whole process of making things better for children who needed help.

While my children were small I fostered teenagers, as it’s usually recommended that you take in children who are at a different stage to your own. As Adrian and Paula grew up, I began to take in younger ones, which meant that I never had to deal with the kind of serious drug problems that are endemic among a lot of teenagers these days – for which I am most grateful. My two grew up knowing nothing other than having foster children living with us, so it was something they accepted completely. Of course, when they were little, they were sometimes frustrated at having to share me with other children. Foster children, by definition, need a lot of time and attention and sometimes that felt never-ending to my two. After a day of pouring my energies into fostering, with its meetings and training, I would then have paperwork to see to, and that took its toll on the amount of time I had left over for my own family. But no matter how much they resented missing out on some of my time, they never took it out on the foster children who shared our home. Somehow, they seemed to understand that these children had come from difficult backgrounds, and that they had had a rough start. In their own way, my children were sympathetic and did their best to make life a bit easier for whichever troubled child was living with us. It’s something I’ve noticed in other children besides my own – there is often a lot more understanding and empathy there than we would expect.

Adrian and Paula have certainly had to put up with a lot over the years – particularly when my husband and I divorced – but they have never complained about all the troubled youngsters coming and going in their home. Over the years, we’ve experienced all types of children, most of whom have exhibited ‘challenging behaviour’. The majority of children who come to me have suffered from neglect of one sort or another, and funnily enough that is something I find relatively easy to understand. When parents have addictions to drink or drugs, or suffer from mental problems, they are obviously in no fit state to care for their children properly and look after their needs in a way they might be able to if they could overcome their problems. This kind of parenting is not purposefully cruel in the way that actual physical and sexual abuse is cruel – it is a sad side-effect of a different problem. The ideal outcome is that a child will be returned to its parents once the factors that caused the neglect, such as addiction, have been remedied.

A child who has suffered from neglect will have had a miserable time and can arrive in my house in a very troubled state. They can be full of brashness and bravado, which is usually a disguise for a complete lack of self-esteem. They can often be out-and-out naughty, as a result of having no boundaries or parental guidance at home, and as a way of seeking attention. Their anger and resentment can stem from the unpredictable nature of life at home, where nothing was ever certain – would Mum be too drunk to function today? Would Dad be spaced out or violent? – and where the borders between who was the adult and who was the child, and who was caring for whom, were often blurred. They may try to destroy things, or steal, or be manipulative and self-seeking. And, to be honest, when you know what some of them have had to put up with in their short lives, who can blame them?

The way that I’ve found is usually best with children from this kind of background is fairly simple: I provide stability and a positive environment in which good behaviour is rewarded with praise. Most children desire approval and want to be liked, and most are able to unlearn negative behaviour patterns and accept different ones when they realize how much better and easier life is with the new order. For many of them, a regular routine provides a blessed relief to the chaos and unpredictability of life at home, and they soon respond to a calm, positive environment where they know certain things will happen at certain times. Something as simple as knowing for sure when and where the next meal is coming from can provide an anchor for troubled children who’ve only ever known uncertainty and disappointment. Routine is safe; it is possible to get things right inside a routine – and getting things right is lovely when it means being praised, approved of and rewarded.

Of course, simple as it may sound, it is never easy and straightforward. And sometimes children come to me who’ve suffered much more severe levels of abuse, and who need much more professional help to get through their experiences. Many have learning difficulties and special needs. Some are removed from home too late, when they’re teenagers and have suffered so much that they are never able to get over what has happened; they’re not able to respond to a positive environment in the way a younger child might, and their futures look a lot bleaker.

Nevertheless, almost all my fostering experiences have been good ones, and the child has left our home in a better place than when they arrived.

As I drove home from the meeting at Social Services that day having agreed to take on Jodie, I knew that this child might be more of a handful than most, and wondered how best to tell the children about our new addition. They wouldn’t be best pleased. We’d had children before with ‘challenging behaviour’, so they knew what was in store. I thought of Lucy, who’d been with us for nearly two years, and was very well settled. I hoped Jodie’s disturbed outbursts wouldn’t set her back. Adrian, at seventeen, kept pretty much to himself, unless there was a crisis, or he couldn’t find his shirt in the morning. It was Paula I was most worried about. She was a sensitive, nervous child, and even though Jodie was five years younger than her, there was a risk she could be intimidated. Emotionally damaged children can wreak havoc in a family, even a well-integrated one. My children had always reacted well to the other children who had joined our family, even though we’d had a few rocky times, and I had no reason to think that this time would be any different.

I suspected the children wouldn’t be surprised by my news. It had been a few weeks since our last foster child had left, so it was time for a new challenge. I usually took a break of a couple of weeks between placements, to refresh myself mentally and physically, and give everyone time to regroup. I also needed to recover from the sadness of saying goodbye to someone I’d become close to; even when a child leaves on a high note, having made excellent progress and perhaps returning home to parents who are now able to provide a loving and caring environment, there is still a period when I mourn their going. It’s a mini-bereavement and something I have never got used to even though, a week or two later, I’d be revved up and ready to go again.

I decided to raise the subject of Jodie over dinner, which was where most of our discussions took place. Although I consider myself liberal, I do insist that the family eat together in the evenings and at weekends, as it’s the only part of the day when we’re all together.

For dinner that night I served shepherd’s pie, which was the children’s favourite. As they tucked in, I adjusted my voice to a light and relaxed tone.

‘You remember I mentioned I was going to a pre-placement meeting today?’ I said, aware they probably wouldn’t remember, because no one had been listening when I’d said it. ‘They told me all about a little girl who needs a home. Well, I’ve agreed to take her. She’s called Jodie and she’s eight.’

I glanced round the table for a reaction, but there was barely a flicker. They were busy eating. Even so, I knew they were listening.

‘I’m afraid she’s had a rough start and a lot of moves, so she’s very unsettled. She’s had a terrible home life and she’s already had some foster carers. Now they’re thinking of sending her to a residential unit if they can’t find someone to take her in, and you can imagine how horrible that would be for her. You know – a children’s home,’ I added, labouring the point.

Lucy and Paula looked up, and I smiled bravely.

‘Like me,’ said Lucy innocently. She had moved around a lot before she finally settled down with us, so she knew all about the disruption of moving.

‘No. Your moves were because of your relatives not being able to look after you. It had nothing to do with your behaviour.’ I paused, wondering if the discreet message had been picked up. It had.

‘What’s she done?’ Adrian growled, in his newly developed masculine voice.

‘Well, she has tantrums, and breaks things when she’s upset. But she’s still young, and I’m sure if we all pull together we’ll be able to turn her around.’

‘Is she seeing her mum?’ asked Paula, her eyes wide, imagining what for her would be the worst-case scenario: a child not seeing her mother.

‘Yes, and her dad. It will be supervised contact twice a week at the Social Services.’

‘When is she coming?’ asked Lucy.

‘Tomorrow morning.’

They all glanced at me and then at each other. Tomorrow there would be a new member of the family and, from the sounds of it, not an easy one either. I knew it must be unsettling.

‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured them. ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine.’ I realized I’d better be quick, as once dinner was over they’d vanish to their rooms, so I cut straight to the chase and reminded them of the ‘safer caring’ rules that were always in place when a new foster child arrived. ‘Now, remember, there are a lot of unknowns here, so you need to be careful for your own protection. If she wants you to play, it’s down here, not upstairs, and Adrian, don’t go into her room, even if she asks you to open a window. If there’s anything like that, call me or one of the girls. And remember, no physical-contact games like piggy back until we know more. And, obviously, don’t let her in your room, OK?’

‘Yes, Mum,’ he groaned, looking even more uncomfortably adolescent. He’d heard it all before, of course. There are standard codes of practice that apply in the homes of all foster carers, and my lot were well aware of how to behave. But Adrian could sometimes be too trusting for his own good.

‘And obviously, all of you,’ I said, addressing the three of them, ‘let me know if she confides anything about her past that gives you cause for concern. She’ll probably forge a relationship with you before she does with me.’

They all nodded. I decided that that was enough. They’d got the general picture, and they were pretty clued up. The children of foster carers tend to grow up quickly, as a result of the issues and challenges they’re exposed to. But not as quickly as the fostered children themselves, whose childhoods have often been sacrificed on the pyre of daily survival.

After dinner, as expected, the children disappeared to their rooms and the peace of another quiet evening descended on the house. It had gone off as well as I could have expected and I felt pleased with their maturity and acceptance of the situation.

‘So far so good,’ I thought, as I loaded the dishwasher. Then I settled down myself to watch the television with no idea when I’d next have the opportunity.

Chapter Three The Arrival

It was a wet and cold spring day in April. Rain hammered on the windows as I prepared for Jodie’s arrival. She was due at midday, but I was sure she’d be early. I stood in what was to be her new bedroom, and tried to see it through the eyes of a child. Was it appealing and welcoming? I had pinned brightly coloured posters of animals to the walls, and bought a new duvet cover with a large print of a teddy bear on it. I’d also propped a few soft toys on the bed, although I was sure that Jodie, having been in care for a while, was likely to have already accumulated some possessions. The room looked bright and cheerful, the kind of place that an eight-year-old girl would like as her bedroom. All it needed now was its new resident.

I took a final look around, then came out and closed the door, satisfied I’d done my best. Continuing along the landing, I closed all the bedroom doors. When it came to showing her around, it would be important to make sure she understood privacy, and this would be easier if the ground rules had been established right from the start.

Downstairs, I filled the kettle and busied myself in the kitchen. It was going to be a hectic day, and even after all these years of fostering I was still nervous. The arrival of a new child is a big event for a foster family, perhaps as much as for the child herself. I hoped Jill would arrive early, so that the two of us could have a quiet chat and offer moral support before the big arrival.

Just before 11.30, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find Gary, soaking wet from his walk from the station. I ushered him in, offered him a towel and coffee, and left him mopping his brow in the lounge while I returned to the kitchen. Before the kettle had a chance to boil, the bell rang again. I went to the door, hoping to see Jill on the doorstep. No such luck. It was the link worker from yesterday, Deirdre, along with another woman, who was smiling bravely.

‘This is Ann, my colleague,’ said Deirdre, dispensing with small talk. ‘And this is Jodie.’

I looked down, but Jodie was hiding behind Ann, and all I could see was a pair of stout legs in bright red trousers.

‘Hi, Jodie,’ I said brightly. ‘I’m Cathy. It’s very nice to meet you. Come on in.’

She must have been clinging to Ann’s coat, and decided she wasn’t going anywhere, as Ann was suddenly pulled backwards, nearly losing her balance.

‘Don’t be silly,’ snapped Deirdre, and made a grab behind her colleague. Jodie was quicker and, I suspected, stronger, for Ann took another lurch, this time sideways. Thankfully, our old cat decided to put in a well-timed appearance, sauntering lazily down the hall. I took my cue.

‘Look who’s come to see you, Jodie!’ I cried, the excitement in my voice out of all proportion to our fat and lethargic moggy. ‘It’s Toscha. She’s come to say hello!’

It worked – she couldn’t resist a peep. A pair of grey-blue eyes, set in a broad forehead, peered out from around Ann’s waist. Jodie had straw-blonde hair, set in pigtails, and it was obvious from her outfit alone that her previous carers had lost control. Under her coat she was wearing a luminous green T-shirt, red dungarees and wellies. No sensible adult would have dressed her like this. Clearly, Jodie was used to having her own way.

With her interest piqued, she decided take a closer look at the cat, and gave Ann another shove, sending them both stumbling over the doorstep and into the hall. Deirdre followed, and the cat sensibly nipped out. I quickly closed the door.

‘It’s gone!’ Jodie yelled, her face pinched with anger.

‘Don’t worry, she’ll be back soon. Let’s get you out of your wet coat.’ And before the loss of the cat could escalate into a scene, I undid her zip, and tried to divert her attention. ‘Gary’s in the lounge waiting for you.’

She stared at me for a moment, looking as though she’d really like to hit me, but the mention of Gary, a familiar name in an unfamiliar setting, drew her in. She wrenched her arms free of the coat, and stomped heavily down the hall before disappearing into the lounge. ‘I want that cat,’ she growled at Gary.

The two women exchanged a look which translated as, ‘Heaven help this woman. How soon can we leave?’

I offered them coffee and showed them through to the lounge. Jodie had found the box of Lego and was now sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, making a clumsy effort to force two pieces together.

Returning to the kitchen, I took down four mugs, and started to spoon in some instant coffee. I heard heavy footsteps, then Jodie appeared in the doorway. She was an odd-looking child, not immediately endearing, but I thought this was largely because of the aggressive way she held her face and body, as though continually on guard.

‘What’s in ’ere?’ she demanded, pulling open a kitchen drawer.

‘Cutlery,’ I said needlessly, as the resulting clatter had announced itself.

‘What?’ she demanded, glaring at me.

‘Cutlery. You know: knives, forks and spoons. We’ll eat with those later when we have dinner. You’ll have to tell me what you like.’

Leaving that drawer, she moved on to the next, and the next, intent on opening them all. I let her look around. I wasn’t concerned about her inquisitiveness, that was natural; what worried me more was the anger in all her movements. I’d never seen it so pronounced before.

With all the drawers opened, and the kettle boiled, I took out a plate and a packet of biscuits.

‘I want one,’ she demanded, lunging for the packet.

I gently stopped her. ‘In a moment. First I’d like you to help me close these drawers, otherwise we’ll bump into them, won’t we?’

She looked at me with a challenging and defiant stare. Had no one ever stopped her from doing anything, or was she deliberately testing me? There was a few seconds’ pause, a stand-off, while she considered my request. I noticed how overweight she was. It was clear she’d either been comfort eating, or had been given food to keep her quiet; probably both.

‘Come on,’ I said encouragingly, and started to close the drawers. She watched, then with both hands slammed the nearest drawer with all her strength.

‘Gently, like this.’ I demonstrated, but she didn’t offer any more assistance, and I didn’t force the issue. She’d only just arrived, and she had at least compromised by closing one.

‘Now the biscuits,’ I said, arranging them on the plate. ‘I’d like your help. I’m sure you’re good at helping, aren’t you?’

Again she fixed me with her challenging, almost derisory stare, but there was a hint of intrigue, a spark of interest in the small responsibility I was about to bestow on her.

‘Jodie, I’d like you to carry this into the lounge and offer everyone a biscuit, then take one for yourself, all right?’

I placed the plate squarely in her chubby, outstretched hands, and wondered what the chances were of it arriving intact. The digestives pitched to the left as she turned, and she transferred the plate to her left hand, clamping the right on top of the biscuits, which was at least safe, if not hygienic.

I followed with the tray of drinks, pleased that she’d done as I’d asked. I handed out the mugs of coffee as the doorbell rang, signalling our last arrival. Jodie jumped up and made a dash for the door. I quickly followed; it’s not good practice for a child to be answering the door, even if guests are expected. I explained this to Jodie, then we opened it together.

Jill stood on the doorstep. She was smiling encouragingly, and looked down at the sullen-faced child staring defiantly up at her.

‘Hi,’ said Jill brightly. ‘You must be Jodie.’

‘I wanted to do it,’ protested Jodie, before stomping back down the hall to rejoin the others.

‘Is everything all right?’ Jill asked as she came in.

‘OK so far. No major disasters yet, anyway.’ I took Jill’s coat, and she went through to the lounge. I fetched another coffee, and the paperwork began. There’s a lot of form filling when a child is placed with new carers, and a lot of coffee. Gary was writing furiously.

‘I’ve only just completed the last move,’ he said cheerfully. ’Not to mention the three-day one before that. Is it Cathy with a C?’

I confirmed that it was, then gave him my postcode and my doctor’s name and address. Jodie, who’d been reasonably content watching him, and had obviously been party to the process many times before, decided it was time to explore again. She hauled herself up, and disappeared into the kitchen. I couldn’t allow her to be in there alone; quite apart from the risk of her raiding the cupboards, there were any number of implements which could have been harmful in the wrong hands. I called her, but she didn’t respond. I walked in and found her trying to yank open the cupboard under the sink, which was protected by a child lock, as it contained the various cleaning products.

‘Come on, Jodie, leave that for now. Let’s go into the lounge,’ I said. ‘I’ll show you around later. We’ll have plenty of time once they’ve gone.’

‘I want a drink,’ she demanded, pulling harder on the cupboard door.

‘OK, but it’s not in there.’

I opened the correct cupboard, where I kept a range of squashes. She peered in at the row of brightly coloured bottles.

‘Orange, lemon, blackcurrant or apple?’ I offered.

‘Coke,’ she demanded.

‘I’m sorry, we don’t have Coke. It’s very bad for your teeth.’ Not to mention hyperactivity, I thought to myself. ‘How about apple? Paula, my youngest daughter, likes apple. You’ll meet her later.’

‘That one.’ She tried to clamber on to the work surface to retrieve the bottle.

I took down the bottle of blackcurrant and poured the drink, then carried it through and placed it on the coffee table. I drew up the child-sized wicker chair, which is usually a favourite.

‘This is just the right size for you,’ I said. ‘Your very own seat.’

Jodie ignored me, grabbed her glass, and plonked herself in the place I had vacated on the sofa next to Jill. I sat next to Gary, while Jill pacified Jodie with a game on her mobile phone. I watched her for a few moments. So this was the child who was going to be living with us. It was hard to make much of her so early on; most children displayed difficult behaviour in their first few days in a new home. Nevertheless, there was an unusual air about her that I couldn’t quite understand: it was anger, of course, and stubbornness, mixed with something else that I wasn’t sure I had seen before. Only time would tell, I thought. I observed Jodie’s uncoordinated movements and the way her tongue lolled over her bottom lip. I noted almost guiltily how it gave her a dull, vacant air, and reminded myself that she was classified as having only ‘mild’ learning difficulties, rather than ‘severe’.

A quarter of an hour later, all the placement forms had been completed. I signed them and Gary gave me my copies. Deirdre and Ann immediately stood to leave.

‘We’ll unpack the car,’ said Ann. ‘There’s rather a lot.’

Leaving Jodie with Gary and Jill, I quickly put on my shoes and coat, and we got gradually drenched as we went back and forth to the car. ‘Rather a lot’ turned out to be an understatement. I’d never seen so many bags and holdalls for a child in care. We stacked them the length of the hall, then the two women said a quick goodbye to Jodie. She ignored them, obviously feeling the rejection. Gary stayed for another ten minutes, chatting with Jodie about me and my home, then he too made a move to leave.

‘I want to come,’ she grinned, sidling up to him. ‘Take me with you. I want to go in your car.’

‘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

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?’

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.’

‘My gloves,’ she said. ‘It’s hot.’ Then, for no apparent reason, she jumped up, ran round the table three times, then plonked herself down, and started eating with her fingers. I motioned to the rest of the family to say nothing, and the meal passed in an unnatural, tense silence.

I was relieved when dinner was over, and I suggested to Jodie that she might like to help me load the dishwasher. As she came into the kitchen, she spotted Toscha sitting contentedly by the boiler.

‘Why’s it looking at me?’ she demanded, as though the cat had some malicious intent.

‘She’s not looking at you, sweet. Cats often sit and stare into space. She’s found the warmest spot.’

Jodie lurched towards the cat with large, aggressive strides, and I sensed another kick was about to be delivered. I quickly intercepted her. ‘Come on, Toscha’s old, we’ll leave her there to sleep.’

I decided the dishwasher could wait until Jodie was in bed, and took her into the lounge. I tried to amuse her with more games and puzzles, while Adrian, Lucy and Paula did their homework upstairs. By seven, I was exhausted. She needed one-to-one attention to keep her involved in anything, and the meaningless chatter that never stopped was starting to get on my nerves.

‘Let’s go up and finish your unpacking before bedtime,’ I suggested.

She stood up. ‘I want the park.’

‘Not today, it’s too late. But we’ll go tomorrow if it’s nice.’

She turned her back and started talking to David, another imaginary friend. I caught the odd words – ‘you see … in there! …’ – but nothing that related to the park or the games we’d played, and I consoled myself that her imaginary world would fade in time as she started to feel safe with us. It took a mixture of coercion and repetition to persuade her upstairs, where we unpacked another bag, then changed and washed her ready for a story at eight. She found a book she’d brought with her: The Three Little Pigs. I read it to her twice, then coaxed her into bed and said goodnight. As I left, I went to turn off the light.

‘No!’ she screamed in panic. ‘Not dark. I’m scared of the dark. You stop it!’

‘All right, sweet. Don’t worry.’ I turned it on again, then dimmed it to low, but she still wasn’t happy. She would only stay in bed if it was left on full.

‘Would you like your door open or closed?’ I asked, as I ask all the children on their first night. How they sleep is very important in helping them to feel secure and settled.

‘Closed,’ she said. ‘Shut tight.’

I said goodnight again, blew her a kiss, then closed the door and came out. I paused on the landing and listened. The floorboards creaked as she got out of bed, and checked the door was firmly secured, before returning to bed.

At nine Adrian, Paula and Lucy came down to make a snack, and we sat together in the lounge. I had the television on, but I wasn’t watching it. I was mulling over the day’s events.

‘Well, what do you think?’ I asked, smiling at Lucy as she handed me a cup of tea.

‘She’s weird,’ said Lucy, sitting down next to me.

‘I don’t like her,’ said Paula, then looked at me sheepishly, expecting to be told off.

‘And what about you, Adrian? What’s your first impression?’

‘She reminds me of that doll Chucky in the horror film. You know, the one that’s possessed by the devil.’

‘Adrian!’ I admonished, but I felt a cold shudder of recognition. With her broad forehead, staring blue-grey eyes, lack of empathy, and her detachment from the real world, she could easily have been possessed. I caught myself; whatever was I thinking? She was just a child who had been through some miserable times and needed our help – there was nothing more sinister to it than that. I had taken this challenge on and now I owed it to Jodie to see it through for as long as she needed me. Part of her problems no doubt stemmed from people falling at the first hurdle when it came to dealing with her, and passing her on for someone else to deal with. I couldn’t do that to her again.

I tried to look relaxed. ‘I’m sure she’ll improve with time.’

Chapter Five Self-Harm

Perhaps I was haunted by the lingering image of the possessed doll, for suddenly I was awake, with my eyes open and my senses alert. I turned and looked at the alarm clock: it was nearly 2.15 a.m. I listened. The house was silent. Yet something told me all was not well; a sixth sense from years of looking after children.

I eased my feet from the duvet and felt for my slippers. The house was cold, as the central heating had switched off for the night. I fumbled to get my arms into my dressing gown, tied it loosely, and opened the bedroom door. Suddenly, I gasped in shock. Jodie was standing outside the door, her face covered in blood.

‘What is it? What have you done?’ I frantically searched her face and neck for the source of the blood. ‘Where are you hurt? Tell me! Come on, quickly!’ I couldn’t find anything, but the blood was fresh.

In a trance-like state, she slowly raised her hands and showed me her palms. They were smeared with blood, but I still couldn’t find any sign of a cut. I pulled up her pyjama sleeves, and then I saw it. She had a cut on her left forearm, about an inch long, which was lightly seeping blood. I steered her into the bathroom, and took her to the sink. I turned on the tap and ran the cut under cold water. She didn’t even flinch and I wondered if she might be sleepwalking.

‘Jodie?’ I said loudly. ‘Jodie! Can you hear me?’

She grinned at her reflection in the mirror, and I knew that she was awake.

‘What happened? How did you do this?’

She met my gaze in the mirror, but said nothing.

I washed the wound thoroughly and examined it. It wasn’t deep, and wouldn’t need stitches, so there shouldn’t have been nearly this much blood. It seemed that she had smeared the blood deliberately, for maximum effect. But how? And why? No one had mentioned anything about Jodie self-harming, but I doubted this was the first time she’d done it. I looked closer, and saw there were other fine, pink scar lines running up both arms. How recent they were was difficult to tell.

‘Stay here, Jodie,’ I said. ‘I’m going downstairs to fetch a bandage.’

She grinned again. That strange, mirthless smile seemed to hold meanings I couldn’t fathom, and it gave me the shivers. I covered her arm with a clean towel, then went down into the kitchen, where I opened the first-aid box and took out a large plaster. My mind was reeling. She wasn’t even distressed, which made it all the more worrying. Just as before, with her soiling herself, there was that cool calmness and detachment that was so strange in such a young child. It was as though she didn’t feel the pain, or perhaps wasn’t even aware of what she’d done. She couldn’t have cried out when she’d cut herself, as I would have heard her – years of fostering had made me a light sleeper. I suddenly had an awful image of Jodie sitting silently in her room, squeezing the cut, then wiping the blood on her face.

Upstairs again, I found her looking in the mirror, grimacing, but not from pain. She appeared to be trying to make herself as ugly as possible, screwing up her face, and baring her teeth in a lopsided grin. I peeled the backing from the plaster, sealed the cut, then wet the flannel and wiped her face and neck clean. I washed my hands in hot soapy water, remembering too late that I was supposed to wear gloves when dealing with wounds, to prevent cross-infection. In the panic of the emergency, I’d forgotten.

When she was clean and dry again, I felt a sense of normality returning. ‘All right, Jodie,’ I said encouragingly. ‘Let’s get you back into bed.’ She still didn’t speak.

I led her round the landing as Lucy appeared at her door. ‘You OK, Cathy?’ she asked, her eyes only half-open.

‘Yes, don’t worry. I’ll explain tomorrow.’

She nodded and shuffled back to bed.

In Jodie’s room I found her duvet in a heap on the floor. There was no blood on it, but on top was a small fruit knife I’d never seen before. I picked it up. ‘Where did you get this?’ I tried to keep the accusation out of my voice.

She finally spoke. ‘Hilary and Dave’s.’ Her previous carers.

‘Do they know you’ve taken it?’

She shook her head mischievously, as though being caught out in a game. I could hardly tell her off. I was more annoyed with the carers for giving her access to it, but I did understand. I had learned only from experience that leaving a child for fifteen seconds in the vicinity of the kitchen could produce untold dangers. I’d once fostered a teenager who had self-harmed, but I’d never known a child of Jodie’s age doing it. If a child has been physically abused at home, they can have very little respect for their bodies and are often careless about hurting themselves. Deliberate self-harm is relatively rare and is usually the preserve of teenagers. I’d never heard of an eight-year-old purposefully slashing herself with a knife. It was very worrying.

‘Have you taken anything else?’ I asked gently.

She shook her head, but I checked the room anyway, then remade the bed.

‘Come on, in you get. We’ll talk about this in the morning.’

She shook her head angrily. ‘Park,’ she demanded. ‘I want to go to the park. You said.’

‘It’s the middle of the night, Jodie. We’ll go tomorrow. No one goes to the park when it’s dark. All the gates are locked.’

‘Open them!’

‘I can’t. I haven’t got the keys.’ I realized the absurdity of this conversation. ‘Jodie, get into bed and go to sleep before you wake the whole house.’

‘No. Don’t want to.’ She made towards the door.

I caught her lightly round the waist and gently drew her to me. ‘Come on, good girl, into bed and I’ll tell you a story. We’ll go to the park in the morning. When it’s light.’

She struggled for a moment, then flopped against me. I eased her into bed, and drew the duvet up to her chin. I looked at her little head on the pillow, blonde hair falling over her face. I perched on the bed and stroked her forehead until her features relaxed. ‘Jodie, you must be hurting very badly inside to cut yourself. Is there anything you want to tell me?’

But her eyes were already heavy with sleep. ‘Story,’ she mumbled. ‘Free ’ickle pigs.’

‘All right.’ I continued to stroke her forehead, and began the story which I knew by heart. Her eyes closed and her breathing deepened. I kissed her cheek, then quietly came out and closed the door.

At five o’clock I was woken by a loud crash. I threw on my slippers and dressing gown, and staggered to her door, disoriented from lack of sleep. I gave a quick knock and entered. ‘Jodie! Whatever are you doing?’

She was up and dressed, with a football in her hand, and the contents of the shelves strewn across the floor.

‘Put that away,’ I said crossly. ‘You don’t play ball in here.’

‘I do.’ She clutched it protectively to her chest.

I went to take the ball from her, but she gripped it tighter. I was annoyed with myself, as I should have known it would only make her more defensive. I changed tack. ‘OK, Jodie. You put it down and get back into bed. If you can’t go to sleep, sit quietly and look at a book. I’ll tell you when it’s time to get up.’

I didn’t wait for a reply, but came out and closed the door. Without a full-scale confrontation, I hoped she might do as I’d asked. I waited and listened. The room fell silent, so I returned to bed, and propped myself on the pillows. Five minutes passed, then I heard her door open, and then another. I ran along the landing in my nightdress and saw Adrian’s door open. I rushed in and found her trying to climb into bed with him.

‘Jodie! Come away,’ I cried. ‘Not in there.’

I eased her off. She was a big girl, and a dead weight without cooperation. Adrian groaned and turned over. I put my hands under her arms, and manhandled her out on to the landing. She plonked herself down on the floor, folded her arms, and set her face into a scowl. I took a deep breath, and knelt down beside her.

‘Jodie, you can’t stay here, pet. Come into your bedroom and we’ll put the television on. Everyone else is asleep.’

She thought about this for a moment, then threw herself on to all fours and started crawling towards her room, her hands and feet thumping on the floorboards. I followed her in, relieved that I’d had even this much cooperation. She sat on her bedroom floor, cross-legged, staring expectantly at the blank screen. I switched the TV on, and flicked through the channels. It was too early even for children’s programmes, but the football seemed to capture her interest.

‘Keep the volume down,’ I whispered, ‘then you won’t wake the others.’

I wrapped the duvet around her shoulders, then returned to my room for my dressing gown and slippers. I went downstairs and turned the central heating on. It wasn’t worth going back to bed. I wouldn’t be able to sleep now – my thoughts were going nineteen to the dozen and my head was buzzing with everything that had happened.

I made a cup of coffee, and took it into the lounge. Jodie’s room was directly above, and all was quiet. I sat on the sofa, resting my head back, and took a sip. Suddenly, the calm was shattered by a man’s voice, booming loud with distortion. I gasped – the racket was bound to wake the whole house. I rushed upstairs to her room, and instinctively turned off the TV.

‘It’s mine,’ she shrieked, and lunged at me with her hands raised into claws. ‘I want it. Get out! Get out of my fucking bedroom!’

I took her by the shoulders, and held her at arm’s length. ‘Jodie, calm down and listen to me. I told you to keep the volume low. Everyone is asleep and you’ll wake them up with this noise. When you’re calmer, we’ll put it on again. Do you understand?’

She made eye contact. ‘I want the TV.’

‘I know, but shouting and swearing won’t get it.’

I was too tired to give her a lengthy lecture. ‘Now sit down and I’ll switch it on, but keep the volume low.’

She resumed her cross-legged position on the floor, and I turned the TV on. I tucked the remote into my pocket, and returned to the lounge. I sat and yawned, as the sun rose on a crisp spring morning. Our first night together was over.

Chapter Six A Very Troubled Child

‘You mustn’t thump, kick, bite or push,’ I said, for the third time that morning. ‘Not Lucy, Paula, me or anyone. It hurts. It’s bad. Do you understand?’

She said nothing. It was nearly 11.30 on Saturday, the day after Jodie had arrived, and the girls had come downstairs after their weekend lie-in. Lucy was greeted with a kick from Jodie.

‘I don’t want to have to tell you again, Jodie. Do I make myself clear?’

She pulled a face and stomped off down the hall.

‘Sorry, Lucy,’ I said. Lucy shrugged. We all knew there was not much to be done about Jodie’s vicious behaviour except to keep reinforcing that it was bad and that she mustn’t do it.

A moment later Jodie reappeared, her fists clenched and flaying the air. ‘It’s them! I’ll kick you to death! Get out! I hate you all!’

Her eyes blazed as she tried to kick Paula this time, who deftly stepped out of the way. I went towards her, and avoided the kick aimed at me. ‘Jodie,’ I said evenly, ‘Jodie. Calm down and come here.’

She screamed, then dropped to her knees and started thumping her face and head viciously. She badly wanted to hurt herself. As Jodie pounded her head with her fists, I knelt down behind her and took hold of her arms, crossing them in front of her body. She was still screaming, and her legs were thrashing, but with her arms enfolded she couldn’t harm herself or me. I held her close, so that her back was resting against my chest. The screaming and thrashing reached a peak, and then eventually subsided. I waited patiently until she was calm, then slowly relaxed my hold.

‘OK?’ I asked gently, before I finally let go.

She nodded, and I turned her round to face me. We were both still on the floor. Her cheeks were red and blotchy, and she looked surprised, probably because I’d managed her anger, rather than fleeing for safety into another room. A moment later I helped her up, then took her into the kitchen, where I sponged her face and gave her a drink. She was calm now, calmer than I’d seen her since she first arrived. I hoped she’d got something out of her system.

Paula reappeared in the kitchen. ‘Jodie, would you like to do a jigsaw puzzle with me?’ she asked casually.

‘That’s a lovely idea,’ I said, amazed at Paula’s resilience and generosity. She understood that Jodie’s violent behaviour wasn’t directed at her personally; Jodie wanted to strike out at the whole world because she was hurting so much, and whoever was standing in her way would bear the brunt of her pain. Paula could sense this, and was prepared to forget and offer friendship and time. I was very proud of her.

‘Shall we go to the cupboard and choose one?’ Paula asked.

We found a jigsaw and went through to the lounge, where Paula and Jodie settled down to assemble the puzzle. I left them to it and returned to the kitchen to prepare lunch. I could hear Paula suggesting where the pieces should go, and Jodie replying, ‘That’s it, my girl. You can do it.’ She was like a little old woman, but at least she was relating to Paula in a positive way.

With her short attention span, it didn’t take long for Jodie to become bored, so Paula laid out some paper on the kitchen table, and tried to help her paint, while I made a cup of tea. Jodie could barely grip the paintbrush, and couldn’t grasp the concept of painting a picture ‘of ’ something.

‘What’s that you’re painting, Jodie?’ Paula asked.

‘Dark.’

‘Is it a sheep, or a horse? That looks a bit like a big horse.’

Jodie didn’t respond, intent on her clumsy project.

‘Maybe you could paint the sky with this nice blue?’

‘No. Black,’ Jodie said.

Despite Paula’s encouragement, Jodie continued to paint nothing but large, dark splodges, with no interest in the other colours, and no apparent desire for the paintings to represent anything. I’d seen this before; children who have been abused and are hurting sometimes only use very dark colours. It’s as if their senses have shut down and they don’t notice anything about the world around them, so they don’t see colours and shapes in the same way normal children do.

We ate lunch in relative calm, although it felt more like dinner to me, having been up for so long. The peace lasted into the afternoon, and I thought now would be a good time to take the photograph of Jodie that was required for the Social Services’ records. I fetched my camera, and explained to Jodie why I was taking it.

‘Is it all right to take your picture, sweet?’ I asked. It was important to give Jodie as much control as possible, to increase her feeling of stability and security.

She shrugged, which I decided to take as consent. Paula moved to one side, so I had just Jodie in the picture. I looked through the lens, and framed her head and shoulders against the wall, centring her in the viewfinder.

‘You can smile, Jodie,’ I said. She was looking very stern.

I saw her mouth pucker to a sheepish grin, then an arm came up, and she disappeared from view. ‘Very funny, Jodie. Come on, stand still.’ I was still looking through the lens. Then her other arm came up, and with it her jumper.

I lowered the camera. ‘Jodie, what are you doing?’

‘Taking off my clothes.’

‘Why?’ asked Paula, and quickly pulled Jodie’s top back into place.

She didn’t answer. She was staring at me, but not scowling, so I quickly took the photograph and closed the camera. ‘Jodie, we don’t normally take our clothes off for a photograph,’ I said. ‘Why did you do that?’

She took a piece of the jigsaw and tried to place it. ‘Want to,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘Want to. My clothes.’

‘I know, sweet, but why take them off for a photograph? I didn’t ask you to.’

She turned to Paula. ‘You helping, girl, or not?’

I smiled at Paula, and nodded for her to continue. I went over to my filing cabinet under the stairs and unlocked it. I wasn’t going to jump to conclusions about Jodie’s behaviour, but I had to make a note of it in the log. I took out the desk diary that the fostering agency had supplied and settled down to write everything that had happened so far. The ‘log’ is a daily record of a child’s progress, and is something that all foster carers keep. It is used to update the social workers and to monitor the child’s progress, and it’s sometimes used as evidence during care proceedings in court. I was assiduous about keeping it up to date because I knew only too well how one incident could blend into another and how disturbed nights could all seem the same after a while. Detail was important: only with careful notes could a pattern of behaviour start to emerge. I made a note of exactly what had happened: the self-harming in the night and the strange detachment; the lashing out at other people and violent tantrums marked by Jodie’s desire to hurt herself; and this strange and unsettling response to having her photograph taken. Why had she started to take her clothes off?

I was resolute that I would not rush into any hasty judgements. I needed to accept Jodie exactly as she was for the time being and then see what came from the pattern of her behaviour. I was uneasy, though, and also found it cathartic to be able to put it down on paper.

With the other two out for the day, Paula and I took it in turns to entertain Jodie throughout the afternoon, but despite this, and for no apparent reason, she threw another full-scale tantrum. I allowed her to continue for a few minutes, hoping it would run its course. When it didn’t, and the high-pitched screaming became intolerable, I enfolded her in my arms as I had before, until she had calmed down. Later, I made another note of Jodie’s erratic behaviour in the log. I was doing a lot of writing.

Our first weekend with Jodie was an exhausting and disturbing experience. Although none of us said anything, it was obvious that we were all thinking the same thing. But it was early days and we all knew from experience that children can settle down after an initial bout of odd behaviour.

‘She’s a very troubled child,’ I said to Jill when she phoned the following Monday to see how things were going. I told her about the self-harming and the violent and aggressive tantrums.

‘Yes, that is bad,’ said Jill. ‘It’s very disturbed behaviour, particularly in such a young child. Do you think you can cope with her?’

‘I’m determined to try,’ I said. ‘She’s hardly been here five minutes. I want to give her as much of a chance as possible. Besides, we knew she was not going to be easy from the start so we can’t be surprised if she’s a handful at first. I’m keeping detailed notes of everything that happens, though.’

‘Good. We’ll just have to monitor it and see how it goes. You’re definitely the best person she could possibly be with, so as long as you’re happy, I know she’s in safe hands.’

I listened out for Jodie – she was occupied watching a Tiny Tots video – and then went through my log for Jill, trying to think of something positive to say. ‘She eats well. Actually, she gorges. I’m having to limit her intake. She nearly made herself sick yesterday. Apart from a healthy appetite, she doesn’t have much else going for her at present, I’m afraid.’

‘Do you think she can be contained within a family, Cathy? If she can’t, the borough will have to start looking for a therapeutic unit, and they’re few and far between. I have every faith in your judgement.’

I appreciated the compliment, but it was small comfort. I was already exhausted. I was worried about whether or not I’d be able to see this through and the prospect of failing before I’d even begun did nothing for my stamina. ‘She’s got contact with her parents tomorrow and her tutor’s coming for a couple of hours next week. Perhaps a familiar face might help settle her. She’s been seeing her tutor since September.’

‘OK, Cathy, we’ll see how it goes. I’ll update Eileen. What are you going to do with her today?’

‘Retail therapy. Courtesy of Tesco’s.’

Jill laughed. ‘I’ll give it a wide berth.’

Jodie apparently loved food shopping, unlike the rest of my family who could think of nothing worse than a trip to the supermarket. She was in her element, pushing the trolley up and down, telling me what we should or shouldn’t buy. In fact, she was so enthusiastic I had to limit her exuberance, and return some items to the shelves.

This wasn’t unusual; children in care often seem to feel that all their problems can be solved by a bottomless purse. Children I’d looked after often had a desperate need for material goods. In the homes they had come from money was often short, and when there was any it was frequently spent on drink, drugs or cigarettes. When I started buying my foster children little treats, they would often find it very exciting and pleasurable: treats were something they had very little experience of. But I always had to be careful about managing their expectations, as they could very quickly become demanding and assume they’d be given anything they wanted. Jodie was a different case, though; from the looks of her luggage and her weight, treats had never been in short supply – which meant that she was used to getting anything she fancied. I hoped it wasn’t going to be too much of a struggle restricting her to a sensible limit, but experience was already teaching me to expect a battle.

‘Three packets of cereal is plenty,’ I said. ‘Choose one you’d like and we’ll put the others back.’

She wanted them all, of course, and every packet of biscuits, and every dessert in the freezer cabinet, so I was spending as much time taking things out of the trolley as I was putting them in, but at least she was occupied and content.

It took nearly two hours to complete the weekly shop, and as we finally reached the check-out Jodie spotted the display of sweets, tantalizingly placed at the side of the aisle. I started unloading the trolley on to the belt, and told her to choose a bar of chocolate as a treat, because she’d been such a good girl and helped.

‘One,’ I repeated, as the bags of sweets started raining into the trolley. But I could see her previous cooperation was waning fast. ‘Take the chocolate bonbons, you like those.’

‘Want them all!’ she shouted, and then sat on the floor defiantly.

The woman queuing behind us was clearly unimpressed by my parenting skills, and shot me one of those looks. I unloaded the last of the shopping, including the bonbons, onto the conveyor, and put the other sweets back on the rack. I watched Jodie out of the corner of my eye. Her anger was mounting, as she crossed her legs, folded her arms and set her face in a sneer. She kicked the trolley so that it jarred against my side. I clenched my teeth, pretending that it hadn’t hurt. I pulled the trolley through the aisle and positioned it at the end, ready to receive the bags of shopping.

‘Are you going to help me pack?’ I said, trying to distract her. ‘You were a big help earlier and I could do with your help now.’

She refused to make eye contact, and I began to wonder how I was going to remove her from the aisle, but I was determined that she wouldn’t get what she wanted by making a scene in public.

‘Don’t want those sweets,’ she suddenly yelled. ‘Don’t like them.’

I looked at her. ‘Don’t shout, please. I’ve said you can choose one, but hurry up. We’ve nearly finished.’

People were now openly staring. Petulantly, Jodie hauled herself to her feet, picked up a family-sized bag of boiled sweets and threw them at the cashier.

‘Jodie!’ I turned to the cashier, who was busy exchanging meaningful glances with the woman behind us. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I paid, apologized again, and we left.

Outside, I ignored Jodie’s screams for the sweets and pushed the trolley fast towards the car. I unlocked the doors and strapped her under her belt. ‘Stay there while I load the bags into the boot. I’m cross, Jodie. That was very naughty.’

I watched her through the rear window. Her jaw was clenched as she muttered to herself and thumped the seat beside her. I knew how she felt; I was in the mood for thumping the seat myself. It had been a draining experience already and all I could do was prepare myself for more hurricanes and hysteria. Giving in to tantrums wouldn’t help her or me in the long term.

I took the trolley back, then got into the front seat.

‘Give me the sweets,’ she growled. ‘Want them now.’

‘When you’ve calmed down and apologized, Jodie. I’m not having that behaviour in public.’

‘Give me them, or I’ll poo on your back seat,’ she threatened.

‘I beg your pardon? You most certainly will not!’ So, I thought, she was prepared to soil herself if I didn’t give her exactly what she wanted. Is that what had happened on the first day? Was this her trying to exert her will, rather than anxiety or poor bowel control? And much as I didn’t want her to make a mess on the back seat, I wasn’t prepared to give in to this kind of blackmail.

‘Jodie, if you mess on the back seat deliberately you won’t get any sweets all day. You can’t just make a fuss and get everything you want. I’m sure you didn’t at your previous carers.’

‘Did. Everything. I made them.’

I started the car and pulled towards the exit. I didn’t doubt that what she was saying was true. Given Jodie’s appalling behaviour, it was no wonder her previous carers had given in to her demands, just to keep her quiet. Presumably, this was how she’d acquired the piles of clothes and toys that she’d arrived with. I glanced in the rear-view mirror. She stuck out her tongue, then started kicking the back of my seat.

‘Jodie, I know it’s a hard lesson, pet, but being naughty won’t get you what you want. Just the opposite, in fact.’

‘I had everything I wanted at home,’ she said, suddenly more coherent.

‘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.

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