The Silent Cry: Part 3 of 3: There is little Kim can do as her mother's mental health spirals out of control

Copyright

Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the children.

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2016

FIRST EDITION

© Cathy Glass 2016

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available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780008153717

Ebook Edition © February 2016 ISBN: 9780008156596

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Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter Eighteen: Child Abuse

Chapter Nineteen: Unwelcome News

Chapter Twenty: Waiting In

Chapter Twenty-One: Last Resort

Chapter Twenty-Two: A Reprieve

Chapter Twenty-Three: Going Home

Epilogue

Suggested topics for reading-group discussion

Cathy Glass

If you loved this book …

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

About the Publisher

Chapter Eighteen

Child Abuse

It’s very sad, I think, that while many children enjoy regular birthday parties – going to them and holding them – other children do not. It doesn’t take much to give a child a little birthday party, an experience they’ll enjoy and remember to mark their special day. You don’t need an expensive professional entertainer, an elaborate dressing-up theme or a costly outing; just a few balloons, a sandwich tea and lots of enthusiasm from the organizer. I was determined that we’d make Samson’s party as authentic as possible, given the short notice and the fact that there’d just be the four of us and it wasn’t his birthday.

Once home, I sent Samson and Adrian into the garden to run some laps, as Samson was now higher than ever at the thought of his party. While the boys ran off some energy I took Paula with me into the kitchen where I quickly made some jellies and put them in the fridge to set. I knew I had ice cream in the freezer. We’d have to pretend with the birthday cake, but I could put together a party tea with some sandwiches, crisps and biscuits. I called the boys in and made us all a drink and a snack, then with the children still seated at the table I produced some sheets of coloured card and crayons and showed them how to make party invitations, which I explained to Samson was the first step in having a party – inviting people to come. As it was going to be Samson’s birthday party, I said he would need to give Adrian, Paula and myself an invitation each. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen the kids at school give them out,’ he said cheerfully, and my heart went out to him.

This activity kept everyone occupied for half an hour – I helped Paula make hers. I then gathered together the invitations and told Samson what he needed to write in each card and how to spell our names. To begin with he didn’t understand why he shouldn’t give himself an invitation, so I explained that as it was his party he would know the details – the date, time and place. This wasn’t obvious to him, as he’d never had a party before. Once the invites were written, he carefully slid them into the envelopes, printed our names on the outside and ceremoniously gave them out. We opened them with excited exclamations of ‘Wow!’ and said we’d love to go to his party, which was at two o’clock that afternoon.

I then set up a board game at the table to keep Samson amused while I found a spare birthday card, which, out of sight of Samson, Adrian and I wrote in. I helped Paula write her name. I hung ‘Happy Birthday’ banners in the living room, which was to act as Samson’s house where the party would take place. Adrian helped me blow up balloons and I pinned a couple of them to the door of the living room to show where the party was being held. We then wrapped up some small gifts – I always had a few spare. After lunch I sent Samson for another run in the garden (he was getting hyper again) while I prepared some party food. At one-thirty he began counting off the minutes until two o’clock when he bellowed at the top of his voice: ‘It’s time for me party!’ He ran into the living room, slamming the door to ‘his house’ behind him so hard in his excitement that the building shook. Holding a present each, Adrian, Paula and I knocked on the door.

‘Who is it?’ he yelled from the other side.

‘Cathy, Adrian and Paula,’ I replied.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

Adrian laughed, for of course this wasn’t how you greeted guests coming to your party, but Samson wasn’t to know – he’d never done it before.

‘We’ve come to your birthday party,’ I said through the door. ‘We’re all very excited. Can we come in?’

‘I’ll think about it,’ Samson said, which made Adrian laugh even more. Samson then asked, ‘Have you brought me a present?’

‘Yes,’ I said as Adrian giggled.

‘OK. You can come in then.’ The door quickly opened and he relieved us of our gifts. ‘Cor, proper presents!’ he said, taking them to the sofa to unwrap them. ‘These aren’t the ones I brought.’

‘Happy Birthday,’ Adrian and I said as Samson began tearing off the wrapping paper.

His face was a picture. ‘Cor, thanks,’ he said, after opening each gift. He had a Batman jigsaw puzzle from Adrian, a word-search book from me and a small, boxed car from Paula, who was looking rather bemused by what was going on. After the door had slammed Toscha had fled to the bottom of the garden and taken refuge on top of the shed. Samson opened the card and I helped him read what we’d written:

To Samson,

Have a lovely party.

Best wishes from Cathy, Adrian and Paula.

‘We usually stand our cards on the mantelpiece,’ I said to Samson. He handed me the card and I put it in pride of place in the centre.

‘Now can we play games and win prizes?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said.

I’d already thought of some games that would work with just the few of us – musical chairs, hunt the thimble, pass the orange, musical statues and sleeping lions. I had some little prizes ready (from my emergency store), but Samson wanted to use the ones he’d brought with him when Adrian, Paula or I won a game. I was therefore able to express genuine surprise when I opened my prize to find a toy ambulance with three wheels missing and half a stale biscuit in the rear. Adrian had a pick-up truck for a prize and Paula a small toy horse. Indeed, many of the prizes we opened were from a toy farmyard set, including a dog-chewed farmer, bales of hay with teeth marks and a scarecrow with a leg missing. We thanked Samson – it was thoughtful of him, although I’d have to make sure he took his toys home with him. As a foster carer I knew difficult situations could arise if parents discovered their child’s possessions were missing, even if the child had given them away. But for now his prizes were part of our play and we were as delighted with ours as Samson was with his – which he would be keeping.

Tea was a success, especially the jelly and ice cream, and cake. I still had over half the cake Gina had given to me, so I decorated it with six candles and set it on the table with the round side facing Samson. He knew it had a piece missing, but it didn’t matter. It was the fun of the experience that counted. We sang ‘Happy Birthday’, he blew out his candles and we all cheered. Samson enjoyed blowing out the candles so much that I had to relight them three times. I helped him cut the cake into four slices. I asked him if he’d had a birthday celebration when he had been six, but he shrugged and changed the subject, so I guessed he hadn’t.

‘What happens now?’ he asked as he crammed the last mouthful of cake into his mouth.

‘Well, at the end of a party the host usually sees the guests out and thanks them for coming.’

‘Can we have some more games?’ he asked, not wanting the party to end.

‘All parties have to end some time,’ I said. ‘And then you have the happy memories to look back on.’ We’d been playing at parties for over three hours. ‘One more game of sleeping lions and then you can say goodbye to your guests.’

It actually turned into three games of sleeping lions and another of hunt the thimble before Samson announced it was time for us to go. Grabbing Adrian’s arm, he began pulling him roughly towards the living-room door.

‘No, Samson,’ I said, intervening. ‘You don’t treat your guests like that. You have to be gentle and see them out nicely or they won’t want to come again.’

Fortunately Adrian saw the funny side of it and was laughing rather than looking worried. In fact, I’d noticed that Adrian had generally seemed more relaxed around Samson during the afternoon, I think possibly because he’d seen Samson’s vulnerable, childlike side when he’d been so involved in enjoying his party.

‘You just walk to the door with them,’ I said to Samson. ‘Thank them for their present and say goodbye.’

Which he now did. Having let Adrian out of the living room, I kept hold of Paula’s hand while he saw us out. ‘Thank you for my party,’ he said.

‘You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘Thank you for asking us.’

It hadn’t taken much, but I could see it had meant a lot to Samson, and doubtless he would have some happy memories of playing parties that afternoon. Later, I left the boys doing a word-search puzzle while I took Paula up for her bath and bed. Once she was settled, I brought the boys up and then discovered that Samson, having done his own packing, had very little in his backpack apart from the prizes he’d brought with him and his wash bag. I found some pyjamas that fitted him in my spares and a change of clothes for the following day. All foster carers keep spare clothes of different sizes for both sexes for emergency use. As the boys had done a lot of running around and were quite sweaty I thought they should both have a bath, so I settled Samson in his room where he continued the word search while Adrian had his bath. Then Adrian went to his room while I ran Samson’s bath. Although Samson had good self-care skills, I made sure the water was the right temperature, then I waited by the bathroom door to check he climbed in safely. As he did I saw a large, angry bruise on his right buttock. My immediate thought was that it must have happened today while he’d been playing. He was so boisterous in his play he often literally threw himself into a game, landing on his knees or bottom. Foster carers have to log any accidents that happen to a child they are looking after and make a note of even minor injuries. I would also need to tell his grandmother what had happened when I returned him.

‘That’s a big bruise,’ I said as he sat in the water. ‘Do you know how you did it?’

‘Where?’ he asked, examining his arms and legs. Like many boys his age they were dotted with small, fading bruises from tumbles during play.

‘No, the one on your bottom,’ I said.

He turned to try and see but it was out of view. ‘Dunno,’ he said, disinterested, and began splashing water on himself.

‘Do you remember when you could have done it?’ I asked. ‘Did you sit down very heavily in the garden, or on the patio?’

He shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘OK. Wash yourself. I’ll wait here.’

I stood on the landing by the bathroom door to give him some privacy while he washed himself. I knew he wouldn’t be long; most boys his age don’t linger in the bath or shower. I didn’t think playing musical chairs could have given him the bruise – we’d used cushions – and I couldn’t imagine that sitting heavily on the carpeted floor could have caused it either. I therefore assumed it must have happened in the garden or possibly before he’d come to me. I’d still have to make a note of it and mention it to his gran.

Samson had a predictably quick bath and clambered out. Drying his front, he stood with his back to the mirror and then craned his neck round to look over his shoulder to see the bruise.

‘Oh, that,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Me dad’s girlfriend did that. She’s always whacking me.’

‘Is she?’ I said. ‘That doesn’t sound right. With what?’

‘Whatever she has,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘The broom handle did that. It blimmin’ hurt.’ He continued towel-drying himself.

‘I’m sure it did hurt,’ I said. ‘She shouldn’t be hitting you.’

‘I shouldn’t have been naughty,’ he replied.

‘It was still wrong of her to hit you,’ I said. While the law in England at present allows a parent to give a child a small slap or tap on the hand when chastising them, hitting the child so it leaves a mark is illegal. It’s also child abuse and cruel. Foster carers, childminders, teachers and other childcare workers are not allowed to smack a child, and personally I have never slapped my own children. I use sanctions – the loss of a privilege – and firm talking to curb negative behaviour.

‘When did it happen?’ I asked Samson as he began pulling on his pyjamas.

‘Friday,’ he said. ‘When I saw me dad. I don’t like her, but he lives in her flat so I’m supposed to show her respect.’

Pity she hadn’t shown Samson some respect, I thought. ‘Does your dad know she hits you?’

‘Yeah, of course, he’s there,’ Samson said, as though it was a daft question.

‘Have you told your gran?’ I asked.

‘Nah. I’d get into more trouble if she found out I’d been rude. Although she doesn’t beat me.’

‘It’s very wrong to hit people,’ I said. ‘And no one should hit a child. How often does it happen?’ I wondered if it was a one-off and she’d lost her temper, although that wouldn’t justify it. The severity of the bruise suggested she’d really lashed out and lost control.

‘Every time I see her,’ Samson said. ‘I hate her and she hates me. Do I have to brush my teeth again? I did ’em this morning.’

‘Yes please, you should brush your teeth every night and morning.’ He gave a groan but picked up his toothbrush and toothpaste from where I’d left them ready on the basin. ‘What’s your dad’s girlfriend’s name?’ I asked.

‘Tanzy,’ he said, squirting a very generous measure of paste onto his toothbrush.

‘I’ll need to tell your social worker so she can stop it happening.’

‘That’s OK with me,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to see me dad any more when she’s there.’

I waited while he brushed his teeth and then I saw him into bed. I tucked him in, dimmed the light, as he liked it, and then gave him a kiss and hug as his gran did.

‘What are we seeing at the cinema tomorrow?’ he asked as he snuggled down.

‘There’s a cartoon film showing about dinosaurs,’ I said.

‘Do they fight each other and eat people?’ he asked, his eyes widening in anticipation.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ I said, although I hoped the film wouldn’t be frightening, as Paula would be with us. I’d chosen a film with a Universal rating that was suitable for all ages of children and with a subject matter that would appeal to Samson and Adrian. ‘Night then, love,’ I said, smiling at him.

‘Night,’ he said, and then looked at me thoughtfully as though he had something to say.

‘Yes?’ I asked.

‘While you’re telling me social worker about Tanzy hitting me with a broom you’d better tell her about the other stuff too. Like when I stay there and she shuts me out of her flat. And locks me in the bathroom when her and Dad go to the pub. Gran never does that. And the time she really lost it and tried to strangle me. Me dad stopped her. Just as well or I’d be bleedin’ dead.’

I looked at him carefully. ‘She did all those things?’ I asked, appalled and trying to hide my shock.

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s very wrong,’ I said. ‘I will tell your social worker and I expect she’ll want to talk to you about what happened. She’ll want the details, so it’s important you tell her, all right?’ It was best if I left further questioning to his social worker who, having worked with the family for some time, knew the case well.

Samson nodded. ‘It is wrong of her to do these things, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Very wrong.’

‘I told me dad she shouldn’t be treating me like that, but he said if I made trouble she’d chuck him out and he’d have nowhere to live.’

‘He’s an adult,’ I said. ‘He can look after himself. He’ll find somewhere else to live if necessary. Where he lives isn’t your problem. And as your father he should be protecting you and keeping you safe. Not letting you get hurt.’

‘I wish me mum had stayed,’ Samson said thoughtfully. ‘But I guess that’s life.’ With a shrug he turned over, ready for sleep.

I touched his shoulder. ‘Night then, love. Sleep tight, and see you tomorrow.’

‘Night,’ his voice came from under the duvet. ‘Thanks for me party.’

‘You’re welcome, love.’

Sad and worried, I came out, closing the door behind me. I believed what Samson had told me about his father’s girlfriend. His matter-of-fact resignation to being punished and his childlike description convinced me it was true, but it would be for the social services to investigate. I’d telephone his social worker first thing in the morning. The poor kid, I thought, and I wondered how much of his bad behaviour resulted from the abuse he was suffering. He must be angry, and in children anger often comes out in challenging behaviour.

I went into Adrian’s room, spent some time lying with him, then said goodnight and checked on Paula. She was sound asleep. Downstairs, I wrote notes on what Samson had told me and then I finished washing the dishes and tidying up from the party, although I left Samson’s birthday card on the mantelpiece. With my dissertation finished I didn’t feel guilty watching some television, then after the ten o’clock news I let Toscha out for a run and went up to bed. I didn’t sleep. As soon as I started to drift off my thoughts went to Samson and what he’d suffered, and would still be suffering if something wasn’t done. I appreciated how much patience it took to look after him, even for a short while, but there was no justification for hitting him or locking him in or out of the flat. My anger rose, not just towards the girlfriend, but also towards Samson’s father, who’d put his own needs first and failed to protect his son. By standing by and doing nothing he’d been an accomplice in the abuse and was as much to blame as his girlfriend.

It was after midnight before I finally fell asleep and then the following morning Samson was wide awake at six o’clock. I settled him in his bedroom with some toys while I showered and dressed. After breakfast, and as soon as the social services’ offices opened at nine o’clock, I told Samson and Adrian that I needed them to look after Paula while I made an important telephone call. Samson rose to the responsibility and held Paula’s hand, which was sweet. I left the three of them seated on the floor in the living room playing with a selection of games, while I went into the hall to make the call. I could hear them from there. I think Samson knew what the call was about, but there was no need for me to tell Adrian; he was used to me making and receiving important calls in connection with fostering.

Samson’s social worker was at her desk and she went very quiet as I described the bruise and what Samson had said. Then she gave a heartfelt sigh, which seemed to say, ‘Not more suffering … When will it end?’

‘We’ve had concerns about the level of care Samson has been receiving for some time,’ she said. ‘But this is new. I’ll need to speak to him. I can’t make it today or tomorrow. My diary is full. I’ll see him on Thursday morning when he’s home. Does he know you’re telling me?’

‘Yes. I told him I’d tell you.’

‘Good. Reassure him he’s done the right thing in telling you and I’ll see him on Thursday. I think I’ll need to set up supervised contact at the family centre for Friday so he can still see his father, but I’ll explain that to him on Thursday. How is he?’

‘Not too bad. He wasn’t upset when he told me. He seemed to think he deserved being treated like that because he was naughty.’

‘The poor kid. And how is his behaviour generally with you?’

‘Very manageable.’

‘So if we do need to bring him into care, you could foster him, rather than just do respite?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you, Cathy.’

We said goodbye and I put the phone down and returned to the living room. Just in time! Samson was pretending Paula was Superwoman and had stood her on the coffee table and was now telling her to leap off.

‘That’s not looking after her,’ I said to both boys as I lifted her off.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ Adrian said guiltily. Samson glared at me.

‘Can’t have any fun here,’ he grumbled. And from then on the day went downhill. Perhaps it was because he knew that what he’d told me would have repercussions, or maybe he was just testing me, I didn’t know, but he spent the entire morning trying to wind me up, teasing Adrian and Paula, and unable to settle to anything for more than five minutes. Eventually, although I didn’t like doing it, I said that unless his behaviour improved we wouldn’t be going to the cinema, and he settled down – until we were in the cinema. Then, with limited sanctions available in the cinema to curb his behaviour, he made the most of it by throwing popcorn, kicking the back of the seat in front, jumping up and down, whooping, shouting, giving a running commentary on the film at the top of his voice and generally making a spectacle of himself. Those around us kept turning and shushing him. Adrian looked embarrassed (as I was) and even told him to sit down and be quiet. Some of Samson’s behaviour was natural exuberance – excitability – but most of it wasn’t. He was testing the boundaries to the limit. The word ‘manageable’ I’d used earlier to describe his behaviour to his social worker came back to haunt me and I wondered what on earth I’d done by offering to foster him more permanently.

‘Samson,’ I eventually hissed in his ear. ‘You have to settle down, now. Do you understand me? You’re spoiling it for others.’

‘Don’t care,’ he said rudely.

‘Well, I do, so sit still, stop kicking the seat and shouting or we’ll have to leave, and you’ll miss the rest of the film.’ Indeed, I didn’t know why a member of staff hadn’t asked us to leave already. Perhaps no one had reported us yet.

‘You wouldn’t do that,’ he challenged me. ‘You paid for the tickets. It would be a waste if we didn’t see the film.’

‘Try me,’ I said, meeting his gaze.

He did, and kicked the seat in front so hard that the boy sitting in it jolted forward. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to his mother, who’d turned round and glared at me, annoyed. Then to Samson I said, ‘Right, that’s it. You’ve been warned. We’re going now.’ I picked up my handbag from the floor and moved to the edge of the seat.