Damaged, A Baby’s Cry and The Night the Angels Came 3-in-1 Collection. Cathy Glass

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СКАЧАТЬ my attention on finding Jodie a school, as her parents had made a formal complaint about her lack of education. Jodie had left her previous school when she was taken into care, and the speed of her various moves, then her behaviour, had precluded finding her a new one.

      I was flabbergasted. Jodie’s parents would now know what they were accused of. When a child makes an accusation, the parents are always informed of the nature of the allegation. Moreover, when all contact between Jodie and her parents was abruptly stopped, the reasons would have been given. I was doubly amazed that Dave was acting upon this as a priority, while delaying the meeting.

      Jill suggested that I try Harvestbank, which was a local primary school with a good record for taking children with learning and behavioural difficulties. Jodie already had a Statement of Educational Needs, which is a document outlining the child’s particular needs, completed after he or she has been assessed by an educational psychologist. Jodie’s needs were severe enough that her statement authorized funding to pay for a full-time assistant in whichever school accepted her. This meant, in theory at least, that a school might have an additional incentive to take her, if they were short on funds.

      I phoned Harvestbank, and spoke to the deputy head. She was a pleasant lady, who explained very nicely that they had more than their quota of special needs children, and were stretched to the limit. She suggested I try again in six months’ time. I thanked her, and hung up.

      Opening the Yellow Pages, I highlighted all the primary schools within reasonable travelling distance, and began making the calls. The next four schools gave me the same response: each of them was over their quota, and there was a waiting list. So much for the sweetener of extra funding. I set the phone down, and took a deep breath. I wondered if I should approach the school Adrian and Paula had gone to. It only had a small special needs department, but they knew me and my family, and I had had a good relationship with the staff. I took another deep breath, and dialled the number.

      The secretary remembered me, which was nice, and she put me through to the headmaster, Mr Rudman. We exchanged a few pleasantries on the passing of time, and he asked me how Adrian and Paula were doing. I said they were doing well, and buttered him up by telling him what fond memories they had of the school.

      ‘I’m still fostering,’ I said, and then explained about Jodie, adding that although she had behavioural problems I had found them manageable. I made light of the rapid succession of foster carers, and said his was the first school that had come to mind; a little white lie, but in aid of a good cause.

      ‘I’ll see the statement,’ he said, ‘although you appreciate I’m not offering a place. It will depend on the level of provision, and whether we can best meet her needs.’

      I thanked him effusively, then phoned Jill to arrange for the statement to be faxed over. Buoyed by this, and in dire need of some exercise after nearly an hour on the phone, I rescued Jodie from the congealed heap of paper, glue and paint which had kept her occupied.

      ‘It’s a dog!’ she exclaimed.

      ‘That’s lovely. Now we’re going for a walk to the post office.’

      I helped her wash her hands, then brushed her hair, and changed her top. By the time we left the house, she looked quite presentable, in a smart yellow T-shirt which I knew was one of her favourites.

      There was a pleasant breeze as we walked up the street, but Jodie was anxious, and grabbed my hand as a car drove past.

      ‘Cathy,’ she said.

      ‘Yes, Jodie.’

      ‘Is my dad hurting my mum?’

      ‘I hope not, Jodie,’ I replied, uncertain quite what she was asking.

      ‘He is,’ she responded. ‘Poor Mummy.’

      We carried on walking, and I watched Jodie as she frowned, apparently still troubled by this idea. Eventually, she looked up at me.

      ‘I don’t want him hurting her,’ she said, then jutted out her chin, and clenched her fists. ‘I’ll kill him.’

      Again, I wasn’t sure what to say. Did she feel guilty about leaving her mother to deal with her father alone? Should I correct her anger, or encourage her to face these issues? It might not have been very professional, but my personal feeling was that she had every right to feel angry, and every reason to want to kill him. I decided to address the possible guilt. ‘If he hurts her, Jodie, I think she should leave him, and tell the police. But she’s an adult and she can make that decision for herself.’

      I hoped she understood what I was trying to say – but then, I wasn’t even sure what she was telling me. Was she hinting at domestic violence? Perhaps she had seen her father hitting her mother. Or perhaps she had witnessed them having sex and assumed it must hurt her mother as much as it hurt her.

      I changed the subject to something lighter as we reached the high street. We walked past the various shop fronts with their colourful signs and enticing displays, and I remembered how excited I’d felt as a little girl, being taken out shopping by my parents. I could still remember my initial thrill at the strange sights in the fishmonger’s window, and the mysterious smells at the shoe-mender’s. I looked sadly at Jodie, who was staring straight ahead, alert for danger, and oblivious to the sensory pleasures around her. The world was not a place she could enjoy like any normal child; it lacked excitement and stimulation for her. She had been deadened to everything because of what she had suffered. It was heartbreaking.

      I did what I had to do at the post office, and because she had queued patiently by my side I bought Jodie a packet of Smarties as a reward. As we walked back down the high street, I noticed she had gone quiet again.

      ‘What shall we do when we get home, Jodie?’ I asked.

      She was silent, and I could see her face had set.

      ‘Is something the matter, Jodie?’

      ‘What were they starin’ at?’ she muttered. ‘Don’t stare at me.’

      ‘Who, Jodie? In the post office?’ I asked. She didn’t contradict me, so I continued. ‘But no one was staring at you, sweet. They were probably just looking at you because you look so smart in your lovely T-shirt.’

      She didn’t respond, so I decided to leave it. You could never really persuade Jodie of anything, or have any kind of discussion with her. Caring for Jodie was rather about coping with her needs, and trying to distract her before she could get too upset. We walked a little further, as a middle-aged man in a suit came the other way.

      ‘What’s he fuckin’ starin’ at?’ Jodie muttered as he approached. As far I could see, the man didn’t seem to be looking at us at all.

      ‘Jodie, don’t be rude.’

      As the man got closer, she said it again, louder this time: ‘What’s he blimmin’ starin’ at?’

      He must have heard this time. I smiled at the man apologetically, and he looked away, embarrassed.

      ‘Jodie, that was rude. You’ve no reason to worry, no one was staring at you.’

      ‘I’ll show ’em,’ she muttered. ‘No one’ll stare at me. I’ll kill ’em all!’

      Jodie’s mood didn’t improve once we got home, but for some respite I let her watch СКАЧАТЬ