Too Scared to Tell. Cathy Glass

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ a parent or relative, even if they’ve been neglected or abused. They often try to portray them in a more positive light than they deserve out of loyalty, but not so with Oskar. He seemed to be struggling with the idea of being looked after at all.

      ‘When Mummy is at home, does she make your meals and spend time with you?’ I asked lightly, picking up a toy and approaching the matter from a different angle.

      ‘She works,’ he said, watching me.

      ‘OK, but when she doesn’t work, is she the one who takes care of you?’

      He shrugged and began to look anxious, so again I let the subject drop. Once he was feeling more at ease, hopefully he’d begin to talk.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and see how the casserole is doing.’ I offered him my hand and we went into the kitchen, where Oskar waited a safe distance from the hot oven as I opened the door and gave the casserole a stir.

      ‘Hmm, that smells nice,’ he said.

      ‘Good. Another fifteen minutes and it will be ready to eat. What would you like to drink with your meal?’

      ‘Water, please.’

      I poured a tumbler of water and set it at his place on the table. We tend to keep the same places at the meal table, as many families do. I showed Oskar his place. I was expecting Adrian and Lucy to arrive home at any moment and I’d just begun telling him a little bit about them when I heard Lucy let herself in the front door. ‘Hi, Mum!’ she shouted, making Oskar start.

      ‘Quietly, Lucy,’ I called. She bounced into the kitchen.

‘Hi, Oskar,’ she cried, delighted to see him. She was a qualified nursery assistant and I knew that sometimes she’d been asked to quell her exuberance at work, but I was pleased she was so outgoing and happy. It had been very different when she’d first come to me as a foster child, withdrawn and with an eating disorder. (I tell Lucy’s story in Will You Love Me?) She’d done amazingly well and was now a permanent member of my family. I’d adopted her and loved her as much as I did my birth children – Adrian and Paula.

      Having said a few words to Oskar, Lucy went upstairs to change out of her work clothes. Five minutes later Adrian arrived home, making a slightly more reserved entrance. He came in, said hello to Oskar, kissed my cheek, asked if I’d had a good day and then went upstairs to change. I gave him and Lucy a few minutes and then called everyone to dinner. I dished up and we settled around the table to eat.

      I always anticipate that our new arrival may feel uncomfortable for the first few days, surrounded by new people and customs, especially at the meal table when we are all in close proximity and the noise level rises as we talk about our day. Lucy entertained us with a funny story about a child at nursery, and Adrian said a little about his day at work as a trainee accountant. Paula talked of her day at college, and I of fostering and the part-time clerical work I did mainly from home.

      As we chatted and ate, I watched Oskar but he didn’t seem to mind all the talking or being surrounded by new people. He ate well and had seconds, and a pudding. It was later, after dinner, when I began his bedtime routine, that his anxiety set in again. I’d read him a story in the living room and at seven o’clock I said it was time for bed.

      ‘Do I have to sleep upstairs?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes, love, that’s where the beds are.’

      ‘Can I sleep on the floor downstairs?’

      ‘No, that would be very uncomfortable,’ I said. ‘Do you sleep in a bed at your home?’ I’d fostered children before who’d had to sleep on the sofa or a mattress on the floor because there wasn’t money for a bed.

He didn’t reply but came with me to the bathroom, where I’d set out a fresh towel, toothbrush, soap, sponge, clean pyjamas and so forth from my spares.

      ‘I don’t want a bath,’ he said as soon as we went in.

      ‘Would you like a shower instead?’ I asked.

      ‘No.’ He began to look worried again.

      ‘OK, just have a good wash tonight. I expect you’re tired. You can have a bath tomorrow.’ I never usually insist a child has a bath or shower on their first night; I wait until they feel more comfortable with me.

      I ran water for him in the washbasin and then waited while he washed his face, going carefully over his cheek where the bruise was. ‘That looks sore,’ I said.

      He shrugged. I thought Miss Jordan had done well to get Oskar talking about how he got the mark on his face, as he was saying so little to me. But she’d had a term – four months – to gain his trust, while I’d only had a few hours. I hoped in time he’d start to trust me and open up. He washed his hands and brushed his teeth, then I handed him his pyjamas.

      ‘Do you need help changing into your pyjamas or shall I wait outside?’ I asked him, respecting his privacy.

      ‘I want to sleep in my clothes,’ he said, immediately growing anxious. ‘Please let me sleep in my clothes.’ His eyes filled.

      An icy chill ran up my spine. I hoped I was wrong, but a child not wanting to undress can be a sign that they’ve been sexually abused.

Chapter Three

       Protecting Oskar

      Preoccupied with Oskar’s reaction to changing into his night clothes, I picked up his pyjamas and we went round the landing to his bedroom. I certainly wouldn’t be forcing him to change, but I hoped to be able to persuade him, and also to find out the reason for his reluctance to undress. There might be a perfectly innocent explanation, although as a very experienced foster carer I had my doubts.

      It was still light outside and I asked Oskar if he liked to sleep with his curtains closed, open or open a little. On their first night I always ask a child this and other questions regarding how they like their bedroom. It’s small details like this that help them settle in a strange room. He replied, ‘I think they’re closed.’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘Do you like to sleep with your bedroom light on or off? Or I can dim it a little if you wish.’ I thought if I made his room as he was used to then he’d start to feel more secure.

      He didn’t reply so I showed him what I meant by switching the light on and off and then dimming it. ‘On or off?’ I asked again. ‘Or dimmed?’

      ‘It goes on and off a lot,’ he said. ‘It wakes me up.’

‘You mean the light flashes?’ I asked, slightly baffled. I wondered if he lived in a built-up area where car headlights caught his bedroom window, or possibly a neon shop sign flashed on and off late at night.

      ‘They keep switching it on,’ Oskar said.

      ‘Who do?’ I asked.

      ‘The people in the house.’

      ‘Oh. What people are they, love?’

      He СКАЧАТЬ