Mummy Told Me Not to Tell: The true story of a troubled boy with a dark secret. Cathy Glass

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СКАЧАТЬ which was now increasingly about his feet aching, or his legs hurting, and how much further was it?

      By the time we reached the house and were going up the path Reece was telling me, ‘I ain’t walking no more. You use the car.’

      ‘We probably will use the car tomorrow,’ I said, putting my key into the lock and opening the front door.

      ‘Silly cow, you should have used it now,’ he said. And although his comment was related to his previous comment, which I supposed was progress, it wasn’t a comment I appreciated.

      ‘Reece don’t say that, please. It’s rude.’

      ‘Silly cow,’ he said again louder, running off down the hall.

      I wasn’t convinced the walk had had the desired effect, for Reece seemed to recharge the moment we entered the house. It took me five minutes to persuade him out of his coat and shoes. Then, abandoning my attempt to get him interested in some of the games and puzzles, I called up to the girls for a volunteer to read Reece a story while I finished cooking the dinner.

      ‘I’ve got homework,’ Paula called.

      ‘I’m on the phone,’ Lucy said.

      ‘Well, put it this way, girls,’ I called up, above the noise of Reece’s imitation Boeing/pterodactyl, ‘if you want to eat then someone needs to read to Reece.’

      They immediately appeared from their bedrooms and came down, and I felt guilty for my terseness. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘It’s impossible for me to do anything with him zooming around like this. Reece!’ I said loudly, above the noise of what could have been a plane landing on reverse thrust or a pterodactyl swooping on its prey. ‘Go into the living room and choose a book. Lucy and Paula will read you a story.’

      The mention of the words ‘book’ and ‘story’ was like the off switch being pressed again. Reece dived into the living room and on to a sofa, where he sat quietly waiting for the girls with a book open on his lap. I waited as Lucy and Paula sat either side of Reece and began taking it in turns to read the pages of Shirley Hughes’s Alfie’s Feet. Reece sat mesmerized. It seemed that when he was absorbed in something visual his mind and body were able to switch off and relax, but the second the visual stimulus stopped, hyperactivity kicked in, big time. Whether this was the reason for him watching a lot of television while at home, or the result of, I obviously didn’t know, but one thing was for certain: I was going to be reading a lot of books, particularly with him not being in school.

      Fifteen minutes later I called through to say that dinner was ready. Reece appeared first. ‘This is your place,’ I said, showing him to his seat at the table. ‘Lucy will sit here’ — I patted the chair beside him — ‘and Paula opposite.’ Reece sat where I had shown him and the girls took their places. I served a chicken casserole, explaining to Reece what it was. He looked at it, and then up at me with a huge appreciative grin.

      ‘Cor, this looks nice,’ he said.

      ‘Thank you, love,’ I said. ‘That was polite.’ I took my place at the end of the table and felt that things were looking up.

      Reece picked up a piece of chicken with his fingers and popped it into his mouth. ‘Hmm, yummy,’ he said, chewing loudly.

      ‘Good,’ I said, ‘but try to use your fork. It’s better than fingers for this meal.’ He looked at the fork and then at me and popped another piece of chicken into his mouth with his fingers. I picked up his fork, stabbed a piece of chicken and laid the fork on his plate, ready for him to use. Somewhat clumsily he gripped the fork in the palm of his hand like a spoon and pushed the meat into his mouth. Then he resorted to using his fingers again.

      ‘Reece, have you never used a knife and fork before?’ I asked lightly. The girls looked up.

      ‘Don’t know,’ Reece said.

      I skewered another piece of chicken on to his fork and left him to take it to his mouth, which he did. Then he attempted to use his fingers for the boiled potatoes.

      ‘Would you like a spoon?’ I asked, for I could see the peas and gravy were going to cause him a real problem. Reece nodded. I fetched a dessert spoon, which he used quite successfully, so I guessed that that was what he had been used to. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ I said, smiling.

      He grinned back. ‘I use me fingers for Chicken Dippers and burgers.’

      I nodded and thought that here was another child who had never had to master a knife and fork because they had only ever eaten ‘finger food’. I’d recently read a newspaper article which had highlighted the number of ‘well brought up’ children from good homes who didn’t know how to use a knife and fork properly because so much of their diet hadn’t required one.

      Reece had a very healthy appetite and wanted seconds. Although he was heavily built, he wasn’t so much fat as solid, and as he was a growing boy I gave him a second helping, and a yoghurt and piece of fruit for pudding. Considering that he obviously wasn’t used to sitting still at the table and using cutlery he had done very well and I praised him. However, as soon as he’d finished the last mouthful of banana he was up and off, zooming around and yelping at the top of his voice. Lucy and Paula read him another story while I cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. Then I read him a story before explaining it was time for his bath.

      ‘Don’t want one,’ he said and was off the sofa and chasing around again. Paula came out of her room and tried to take hold of his arm, narrowly missing a headbutt.

      ‘Reece, don’t do that,’ I said. Then to Paula: ‘Let me. I’ll call if I need help.’

      I waited until he was doing a return lap of the landing and caught hold of him lightly by his arm. I encircled him as I had done before to get him off my bed. He struggled briefly before laughing and relaxing against me. I gave him a cuddle; then, with a mixture of cajoling and promises of a bedtime story, I managed to run the bath and get him into it. Reece wasn’t able to undress himself (another skill I would have to teach him another day) so I did it, and as he sat in the bath pretending to be a shark, I realized that neither had he the first idea about washing himself. It would have been helpful if the previous carers had written down some of this detail so that I could have anticipated and better accommodated Reece’s needs in the first few days. As it was, apart from knowing about his love of burgers and Chicken Dippers, I was working in the dark. I showed him how to lather the soap on to the sponge and then encouraged him to run it over his body. Although I was happy to wash his back and neck it was important to teach him to take care of most of his washing, particularly his private parts. This is another example of giving a child responsibility for his or her own body and nurturing self-respect.

      ‘Wash your feet and knees,’ I encouraged, ‘and between your legs. Do you have a name for your private parts?’

      ‘Willy,’ he responded with a laugh. ‘Sharks have willies but no legs.’

      ‘Well, wash your willy and your legs.’

      I waited while he squashed the sponge on various parts of his body, which would be sufficient for now. Then I ran the sponge over his shaved head — there wasn’t enough hair to shampoo. Letting out the water, I wrapped him in the bath towel.

      A mixture of more cajoling and repetition saw Reece into his pyjamas, and after another bedtime story, for which he sat on the beanbag with me squatted beside him, I eased him into bed.

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