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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ