The Girl and the Ghosts Read online

  ‘I love the smell of freshly washed towels too,’ I smiled. ‘Now, which bedding would you like?’

  I’d accumulated a very large collection of bedding over the years and Maria feasted her eyes on the array of sheets, duvet covers and pillowcases.

  ‘These ones,’ Maria answered, pointing to a pile of bright pink sheets and duvet covers with silver stars on that were, unsurprisingly, nearly always the first choice of little girls her age.

  ‘Good choice,’ I said. ‘We can make the bed up later, after we’ve had something to eat. Now, this will be your room while you’re with us.’ I opened the door of one of the three bedrooms on the top floor of the house. ‘If you want to leave your bag on the bed for now, you can put your things away later.’

  I showed her where she could hang her clothes and how to switch on the bedside light.

  ‘Will you help me put my things away?’ she asked, suddenly sounding anxious and even younger than her years.

  ‘Of course I’ll help you,’ I answered. ‘We can do it together.’ I walked across the room and opened the top drawer of the chest under the window. ‘There’s plenty of storage for your things, and I keep a few toys in here, which you can play with if you want.’

  Maria was rooted to the spot, apparently admiring the bedroom, and for a moment she just looked at me quizzically. Then she suddenly began to balance on one leg while watching me expectantly, as if she was waiting for me to react in some way. When I smiled and nodded my head, she proceeded to cross the bedroom floor in a series of peculiar hopping movements, like someone crossing a river by jumping from one stepping-stone to another.

  After placing her backpack carefully on the bed, she turned and hopped back to the door, then set off down the stairs ahead of me. I watched as she pressed herself against the wall and paused on each step to balance precariously on one foot before placing the other one on the exposed wood that bordered the carpet on either side of the step below. She descended the whole staircase in that fashion, avoiding placing any part of either of her feet on the carpet running down the centre of each stair.

  If it hadn’t been for the look of anxious concentration on her face I might have thought she was playing in some way, but something told me this was not just a quirky, childish little game. For this reason I didn’t ask Maria what she was doing. Children who have had traumatic experiences often don’t know why they do certain things, and asking them questions they aren’t ready or able to answer can uncover buried memories that might be very upsetting or frightening for them. So, I just waited for Maria to reach the bottom of the stairs, then followed her into the kitchen, where we often ate our meals at the long, scrubbed pine table.

  Tom and Dillon had been in their bedrooms when Maria arrived, and when I called them down for dinner a little bit later on they were as friendly and pleasant to her as Jonathan and I had thought they would be.

  ‘Which school do you go to?’ Tom asked politely.

  Maria shrugged.

  ‘Do you do any sport?’ Dillon asked, giving Maria a little smile as he raised his eyebrows and looked genuinely interested in what she had to say.

  My heart swelled with pride. We had been fostering both boys for a few years by now, and we had talked several times about their early days with us. Both had described feeling awkward, self-conscious and nervous when they first arrived. Tom had said he felt like he had landed ‘on another planet’ and Dillon had used the expression ‘fish out of water’ to try to explain how strange it was to suddenly find himself living in a house he had never been in before, with people he didn’t know.

  Other children we’ve fostered have told us that, looking back, they felt mistrustful of Jonathan and me. They couldn’t understand why we would put ourselves to so much trouble for them. ‘My family didn’t care; why would you?’ is how one girl, now in her twenties, put it.

  Tom and Dillon had reassured me that they would always do their best to make other children welcome. They were being true to their word and I loved them for it, but Maria was having none of it. She didn’t say a word, and instead just watched them silently, with her head tilted to one side and her hair once again covering one eye. Of course, I didn’t put her under any more pressure; I understood she was already under quite enough for one day.

  Jonathan has always been good at joking around with the children we foster, and he did eventually manage to make Maria laugh. He did this by singing a silly song he made up about a girl called Maria. The boys were used to Jonathan bursting into song like this. They started laughing and put their hands over their ears, and thankfully Maria copied and giggled. However, as soon as I put the first dish of food on the table Maria’s laughter stopped abruptly. For a moment, she just looked at the meal I had prepared earlier with an expression of almost comically exaggerated disgust, and then announced, ‘I am not eating that.’

  ‘Do you know what it is?’ Jonathan asked her in a casual but interested tone of voice.

  Maria wrinkled her nose as if she could smell something very bad, then shook her head.

  ‘That,’ he announced dramatically, ‘is a quite spectacular fish pie, home-made by Angela! And I don’t mind telling you, she makes the best fish pie for miles around. Isn’t that right, boys?’

  Tom and Dillon readily agreed and held up their plates for me to serve them each a large, steaming portion of pie.

  Maria put her hands on her plate so I couldn’t serve her food.

  ‘Do you know what?’ I said. ‘I think you might find you like it if you try it.’

  I had been standing up to serve the pie and now I pulled out a chair and sat down at the table next to Tom, with my back to the kitchen sink. ‘So what is your favourite meal, Maria? Perhaps we can make it one evening while you’re . . .’

  ‘I want sweets,’ Maria shouted, jumping up from the table and stamping her foot.

  ‘Here you are, Jonathan,’ I said, ignoring Maria’s outburst and handing my husband the garden peas.

  Having lived for the first few years of his life in a house that echoed to the sound of angry, aggressive voices, Tom hated any kind of confrontation. As soon as Maria shouted I saw his shoulders hunch and he bent his head low over his plate, while Dillon shot me a glance of wry amusement before taking his cue from me and ignoring her too.

  Having reached to take the bowl of peas out of my hands, Jonathan only just managed to tuck in his elbow a split-second before Maria kicked the back of the empty chair beside him, narrowly missing Jonathan’s arm, and sending it crashing into the table. For a moment, her expression of sulky defiance turned into what appeared to be frozen fear. Then she took a step backwards, just out of arm’s reach, and screeched, ‘I want sweets! I want sweets!’

  ‘Thanks, love,’ Jonathan said, smiling at me across the table. ‘Have you had the peas, Tom?’

  I didn’t look directly at Maria, but I could see her out of the corner of my eye, watching us, apprehensively at first and then with mounting anger and frustration as we continued to pass bowls of food around the table as if nothing had happened.

  ‘I said I am not eating that,’ she shouted eventually from the corner of the kitchen, where she stood with her arms folded across her chest and her chin jutted upwards. Still not one of us reacted, and so Maria stomped out of the kitchen and across the hallway, where we could hear her stamping her feet and ranting about how much she hated us and the ‘shit food’ we were trying to make her eat.

  3

  ‘I dont want it to be dark’

  Jonathan and I didn’t know as much then as we do now about the psychology of ‘acting out’ and there’s still a great deal more for us to learn. But we did know that there’s always a reason why a child has a temper tantrum, and we were also very well aware that any natural instinct to scoop the disgruntled child into your arms or cave in to their demands in an attempt to make them feel better is not helpful in situations like this. It’s tough, because there have been countless times in my career as a foster carer when that
is exactly what I’ve wanted to do, but I just can’t, as it ultimately isn’t fair on the child to reward bad behaviour.

  Similarly, with children like Maria acting out in this way, ‘time out’ is not the solution to whatever problem they’re venting, even though it’s one of the suggestions some social workers still make. In my experience, it just makes the child more angry and frustrated and, because they are removed from the situation, they are less likely to learn from it. So, my response to Maria’s behaviour was to allow her to get angry while I continued to talk in a calm, reassuring voice as I ate my meal – effectively setting a good example.

  Dillon was sitting on the chair nearest the open door that led into the hallway, and he gave a gasp of surprise, then grinned when, a few moments after Maria complained about the ‘shit food’, a rolled-up scarf came sailing past his head and landed on the floor by the cooker.

  I was just about to nod at Jonathan to indicate ‘I’ll go’, in case Maria threw something that could break or hurt someone, when she suddenly reappeared in the kitchen doorway and said, in a quieter, although still grumpy voice, ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Well, it’s a good thing we didn’t eat your dinner then!’ Jonathan grinned. He pulled out the chair beside his as he spoke, then smiled at me over the top of Maria’s head when she accepted the plateful of food I dished up and then tucked in to her meal as though nothing had happened. If need be I would have provided a healthy alternative once we’d finished eating, perhaps a sandwich or something similar that didn’t require cooking, but thankfully it didn’t come to that.

  After we’d eaten, Tom and Dillon went upstairs to do their homework and I cleared up in the kitchen, while Jonathan and Maria played a game of snap at the kitchen table, which she seemed to enjoy despite an initial reluctance to play. After that we watched a bit of TV and then Maria asked me if I had any books she could read before lights out.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, delighted at the request. It’s often a struggle getting kids to read as much as they should, particularly if they come from dysfunctional homes where reading a book is not encouraged or even considered normal, as has been the case with a lot of children we’ve fostered.

  ‘What do you like reading?’

  ‘I like all kinds of books,’ she said. ‘I like stories about witches and wizards and magic things like that.’

  ‘Then I’ve got just the books for you. Come on, I’ll show you where I keep them and you can choose.’

  We have books all over the house, so many that our bookshelves are overflowing. Fortunately, the collection of stories I had in mind was stored in a cupboard in Maria’s bedroom, so I told her to say goodnight to Jonathan and led her up the stairs.

  She sprang ahead of me, and I watched as she then climbed the stairs in the same peculiar way she’d done before, avoiding any contact with the carpet.

  ‘I don’t mind if you walk on the carpet. We all do, you know, sweetheart!’ I said gently. I was worried she might trip and fall if she carried on like that, but she didn’t respond.

  Once in the bedroom I pulled out the box of books and Maria chose three from the series, which was about a witch and her cat. She turned each one over and read the back covers, devouring the words greedily as she made her selection.

  ‘Can I read them all?’

  ‘Well, let’s see what time it is when you get into bed, ready to read, shall we?’

  With that Maria began unpacking her bag as quickly as she could and, with my help, she was nearly ready for bed, with her belongings stored neatly away, in a matter of minutes. She even helped me make the bed, very willingly, even though it was a struggle for her to tuck in the sheets and put on the pillowcase with her little hands.

  I was pleased to see that Maria had a pink nightdress and dressing gown, pink furry slippers, spare school clothing and a couple of soft toys. The clothes were not in good condition, but they were adequate, and better than many I’d seen other children arrive with. There were no toiletries but that is not unusual, and I always have a stock of new toothbrushes and flannels to give to children who come without.

  As Maria got changed into her nightdress I slipped out and got her a new toothbrush from the bathroom cabinet, which I placed on her dressing table.

  ‘Great! Just your teeth to do!’ I said. ‘There’s a new toothbrush there for you.’

  ‘What colour is it?’ Maria asked as she looked towards the dressing table. She then started crossing the carpet to get it, using the same strange hopping motion she had on the stairs. It was as if she was trying to keep her feet off the carpet as much as she possibly could, which was intriguing. I didn’t say anything, as she wasn’t endangering herself and I didn’t want to push her to talk about something that might potentially trigger an upsetting reaction.

  ‘It’s red,’ I said. ‘Is that OK?’ Maria nodded, then hopped back to the bed as I added, ‘We always keep our toiletries in our rooms, so they don’t get mixed up in the bathroom.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she said, and I showed her where everything was in the bathroom and left her to clean her teeth, which she seemed to do very well. I could hear her scrubbing them for a good two minutes as I busied myself with tidying some laundry on the landing.

  Maria hopped from the bathroom to her bed and yawned as she pulled the duvet up to her chin.

  ‘I’m not tired,’ she said as she picked up one of the books from the bedside table. ‘So can I have all three?’

  ‘Let’s see how we get on,’ I said. ‘You’ve done very well getting ready for bed so nicely. Let’s start with this one, shall we?’

  Maria eyed me suspiciously.

  ‘Are you reading?’

  ‘Well, I thought I might. Did you want to read?’

  ‘I always read on my own.’

  ‘Right then,’ I said, thinking that was impressive for a seven-year-old. ‘I’ll come back in a few minutes and see how you are getting on.’

  Less than five minutes later I returned to find Maria looking very sleepy, having finished the first book.

  ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I will save the others.’

  ‘I think that’s a good idea,’ I said from the doorway. ‘It’s time to get some sleep now. Would you like me to tuck you in?’

  ‘No, I’m fine thank you. But please don’t turn out the big light,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t want it to be dark.’

  In her haste to read, Maria hadn’t bothered to switch on her bedside light and the main light was still on. Clearly, I couldn’t leave that on all night.

  ‘There’s a night light,’ I explained, walking over to the lamp on the chest of drawers and pressing the switch so it glowed. ‘I’ll leave this one on all night and just turn off the really bright one overhead.’ I flicked the switch by the door. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s pretty. I like it.’

  The lamp was in the shape of a fairy mushroom and glowed with a soft red light. All the kids who used it loved it, even much older ones.

  Maria turned on her side. ‘But I want my mummy.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, sweetheart,’ I answered. ‘Would you like a hug goodnight?’

  ‘No, I’m OK,’ she said, and I could tell from the sound of her voice that she was already almost asleep.

  Later that evening, after Tom and Dillon had gone to bed too, I read through the notes in the file Jess had given me when she dropped Maria off at the house. As I always do when reading a child’s notes for the first time, I felt a nervous knot form in my stomach, as you never know what you’re about to read, and sometimes the detail is extremely disturbing and upsetting.

  I settled in my favourite armchair and opened the file. It’s never a simple case of reading a child’s neatly explained history, laid out chronologically. We receive a synopsis, with comments made by social workers on relevant pieces of information they may have gathered from schools, doctors, the police and so on, but we don’t get to see any of the original supporting documents fro
m other sources or agencies outside Social Services.

  It can sometimes be confusing to pick through the notes, but over the years I’ve got better at it and I know what to look for, which is anything that might help me understand the child and therefore be better placed to engage with them in a positive way.

  Jess had made a hasty attempt to put Maria’s file in some order, and it told me quite a lot. The first time Maria had come to the notice of Social Services had been about eighteen months earlier, as Jess had already told me that afternoon. Maria had been living at that time with her mother, Christine, stepfather, Gerry, and two older stepbrothers, Frank and Casey. This still appeared to be the case, from what I could gather.

  Maria had been placed in foster care for about three weeks on that first occasion, apparently ‘to give her mother a break’. It didn’t state what Christine needed a break from. However, there were concerns raised by Social Services about the fact that Maria had suffered a broken arm in circumstances that were ‘not entirely clear’. I sighed when I read that. Jonathan looked across and gave me an encouraging look.

  ‘Not good?’

  ‘No, but it rarely is. I’ll fill you in when I get to the end.’

  I read that when Christine was questioned about how Maria had broken the bone so badly – it was a very nasty break – she had stated it was the result of an ‘accident’ that happened when she was playing with her older stepbrothers. Maria had told the doctors and nurses who treated her at hospital that she ‘couldn’t remember’ how it happened, which is what first rang alarm bells with Social Services back then. A quick look at the dates told me that this was when Maria was five years old.

  The notes went on to state that throughout the weeks she was in foster care Maria had asked repeatedly to go home. I knew this was no indication Maria was happy at home with her mother and stepfather, because even children who have suffered terrible abuse, and even the most awful sexual abuse, usually want to be with their parents. This horrified me when I heard it for the first time, when I was a brand-new foster carer back in the late eighties, as it didn’t seem to make any sense at all. Surely you would want to be a million miles away from your abuser, not begging to go back under their roof? Now I understand why children react like this. Their parents, however abusive, have provided them with the only life they’ve ever known. The abuse becomes their normality and, in spite of everything, offers a familiarity the children try to reclaim.