The Girl Who Just Wanted to Be Loved Read online

  Keeley was standing a few feet away from all of the other children who had gathered around Ben. She was clutching Jinty the ragdoll defensively to her chest, and her lip was curled angrily.

  ‘Liar!’ she said again, scowling at Ben’s sister.

  ‘You’re the liar,’ Ben’s sister repeated.

  ‘Keeley, I want you to tell me what happened,’ I said calmly. ‘Did you pinch Ben’s arm or is there some other explanation?’

  ‘Dunno,’ she shrugged insolently, jutting her chin up and arching her dark eyebrows. The expression on her face said, ‘What do I care? Prove it!’

  ‘How can she just say “dunno”?’ Ben’s sister shouted. ‘She pinched him so hard he’s bleeding, look! I saw her do it!’

  The girl held up the bloodied tissue and pointed out that there were indents still visible on the inside of Ben’s forearm. It certainly looked feasible that he had been pinched, and pinched very hard indeed. Several of the other children backed up the account Ben’s sister had given, but Keeley refused point blank to admit she had done anything wrong.

  ‘Perhaps it was an accident?’ I offered. ‘Is that possible, Keeley? Did you snatch Ben’s arm too hard without meaning to, during the game of tag? Perhaps you caught him with your nails, by mistake?’

  ‘No, I told you. I didn’t even touch him!’ she yelled, eyes narrowed into a steely stare.

  ‘You did!’ chorused several of the other children. ‘We saw you!’

  ‘Liars! I was nowhere near him. He said he would steal Jinty off me and so I was keeping away from him, if you must know!’

  Ben looked up and gave her a withering look. ‘Why would I want your stupid doll?’ he sniffed. ‘You’re lying, liar!’

  I ended up bringing Keeley in and advising Ben’s sister to take him home to his mum. Later on, when Jonathan was home after closing the shop, I popped round to see Ben’s mother. Most of the neighbours knew we were foster carers and thankfully Ben’s mum was very understanding and told me not to worry; Ben was fine and no lasting harm had been done.

  ‘What did you say to Ben’s mum?’ Jonathan asked afterwards.

  ‘I apologised profusely and said I would have words with Keeley again, when perhaps she had had time to reflect and might tell the truth. I also said it wouldn’t happen again.’

  It was Jonathan’s turn to raise an eyebrow now, and I knew exactly what he was thinking.

  ‘It could happen again, couldn’t it?’ I said, stating the obvious.

  ‘Unfortunately, yes,’ he replied. ‘Keeley might look angelic, but she’s no angel, is she?’

  ‘No, she’s not,’ I conceded.

  ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘So far I’ve just asked her to think about what the other children may be feeling, to try to get her to focus on the result of her bad behaviour, but she went on the defensive again. I also told her that it was her behaviour that was not acceptable, not her, but that made no difference either. In fact, it just seemed to make her angry. I don’t think she understood what I was trying to say.’

  Focusing on the behaviour being bad, rather than the child herself, was something Jonathan and I had been taught time and time again by foster care trainers. It was a simple but very effective method of helping to get through to a child whose behaviour was lacking, but in Keeley’s case I might as well have been talking to the wall.

  Shortly after, Keeley appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking sheepish.

  ‘I’ve hurt myself,’ she said, holding out her arm. There was an angry red mark on her forearm, in more or less the same place where Ben’s arm had been pinched. ‘I’m bleeding,’ she said. ‘Look.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ I said, immediately getting to my feet. ‘Let me get some gloves and I can clean it up.’

  I’d recently been to a training session in which it was reiterated that foster carers must always wear protective gloves when dealing with blood or indeed any bodily fluids, as you never knew if a child had been exposed to HIV/Aids in their past. The Social Services’ policy was that foster carers are only informed about HIV/Aids in a child on what is described as a ‘need to know’ basis and so you always had to play it safe and follow what is known as ‘safe care procedure’.

  I kept a box of gloves in the kitchen cupboard at all times, and so I grabbed a pair as quickly as possible, then took a tissue and dabbed away the tiny spot of blood in the middle of the small wound on Keeley’s arm.

  She stood very still, a deadpan expression on her face.

  ‘How did this happen, sweetheart?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Well, can you have a think? Can you tell me what you were doing just before this happened?’

  ‘Cutting my hair.’

  ‘Cutting your hair? What with?’

  To my horror, Keeley then put her hand in the front pocket of her jeans and pulled out a long coil of her glossy black hair, which she unwound and held up in front of her face. It was only then that I noticed a thick stub of short hair, about an inch wide, protruding from one side of her forehead.

  ‘Oh, love! Whatever have you done this for?’ I exclaimed. ‘And how did you cut it?’

  For safety reasons we would never have left scissors lying around the house. Not only is this common sense when there are children in the house, but also all foster carers are taught this as basic safe practice. Also, Jonathan and I had once looked after a child who cut herself, and so we were always very vigilant about keeping any sharp objects out of sight and reach, including tweezers, razors and kitchen knives. It had become second nature to us, to the point where even Jonathan’s tool shed had appropriate locks on the door and every drawer of his tool chest.

  ‘I used my scissors, because I didn’t like the way it looked,’ Keeley said, staring at me with unblinking eyes.

  ‘Your scissors? I didn’t know you had scissors.’

  ‘Yes. They’re only small ones and they are not very good. I keep them in my pencil case, for cutting at school.’

  I took some comfort from the fact that the scissors Keeley had used were most probably those semi-blunt, round-ended safety ones, meant only for paper cutting in the classroom. This would explain the rough, stubby cut; at least, thank God, she hadn’t been manoeuvring a large pair of sharp scissors in front of her face.

  ‘I think your hair is beautiful, sweetheart. It always looks absolutely lovely. I can’t understand why you would want to change it in any way. When I was your age my hair was short and straight. I’d have done anything for a head of pretty curls like yours. You’re a lucky girl.’

  ‘I’m not. I hate my hair. I don’t like the colour, or the curls.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that’s how you feel,’ I soothed, realising I wasn’t going to convince Keeley to change her mind. ‘But the thing is, you won’t make it look better by cutting it yourself. Please don’t do that again, Keeley. If you want to change the style, then it’s something we can talk about.’

  ‘OK,’ she nodded. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’d also like you to give me the scissors from your pencil case. From now on I will look after them. If you want to use them at home you need to ask me, and I will sit with you while you do your cutting. There’s no need to carry them to school, they have plenty you can use in the classroom.’

  ‘OK. Sorry, Angela.’

  She gazed at Jonathan and me with puppy-dog eyes, as if she wanted us to offer more sympathy and more attention. I didn’t think this would be helpful, as she clearly wanted to wallow. Instead, I swiftly turned my attention back to her arm, cleaning her little cut with a splash of warm water and applying a dab of antiseptic cream.

  ‘There we are!’ I said brightly. ‘Now then, we thought we’d go to the cinema this evening. Would you like that?’

  Keeley looked bemused.

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell me off?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Er, hurting my arm, and cutting my hair?’

  ‘Well, you don’t know how you hurt your
arm, so how can I tell you off for that? And we’ve talked about your hair. I understand you didn’t do it to be naughty. You did it because you’d like to change your hair, didn’t you?’

  Keeley nodded half-heartedly.

  ‘And now you know that you can talk about changing your hair, if that is what you want to do, but that you can’t cut it yourself. You agree with that, don’t you?’

  Keeley nodded again, but still appeared perplexed that her mischief had not created a bigger drama.

  I went on to explain that I was not allowed to arrange for Keeley to have a haircut without permission from her mother or social worker, but I told her that if she came to stay with us again this was something we might be able to look into arranging, if her mum agreed.

  ‘I’m not that bothered, really,’ she replied, looking slightly exasperated at my response. ‘My hair’s not that bad.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s good,’ I replied chirpily. ‘Now then, Scooby Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed has just come out. Do you fancy that?’

  ‘Yes!’ Keeley said. ‘I love Scooby Doo!’

  ‘That’s great, so do I. I’ll book the tickets.’

  Later, when Keeley was out of earshot, Jonathan whispered that he was glad I hadn’t mentioned what else was showing at the cinema.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Look,’ he smirked, pointing to a listing in the local paper for the film Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen. ‘That one might have been a bit too close to home!’

  The two of us hadn’t actually discussed Keeley’s evident penchant for drama at this point, but we didn’t have to. It had been clear to see and, in any case, more often than not Jonathan and I have quite a telepathic understanding of what the other is thinking.

  ‘So you’ve worked that out too?’ I smiled. ‘She’s a bit of an attention seeker, isn’t she?’

  ‘Well, it’s not exactly rocket science,’ Jonathan replied, giving me a smile. ‘I guess we’ll have to keep an eye on that, won’t we? I think we could be in for a few more amateur dramatics, don’t you?’

  3

  ‘Can I come and stay again?’

  The cinema trip was a great success. The two boys we had staying with us, Carl, who was fifteen, and Phillip, thirteen, chose to stay at home, which Keeley seemed very pleased about.

  ‘So it’s just me and you watching the film, Angela?’ she had asked excitedly.

  ‘You, me and Jonathan,’ I replied.

  ‘You’re both taking me?’ she asked, furrowing her brow.

  ‘Of course. We both love going to the cinema and we love all types of films.’

  ‘Really? That’s good.’

  My mum, Thelma, had been vetted and passed by Social Services to babysit for any foster children we had staying with us, which was an arrangement that worked very well. Mum was in her seventies now and had suffered from rheumatoid arthritis for a long time. She was not as active as she used to be, but her mind was as sharp as ever and all the foster children we had staying with us over the years seemed to really appreciate her company. Carl and Phillip were no exception. The three of them often had a game of cards or watched snooker on TV together, which Mum thoroughly enjoyed. Also, I think the boys felt they had a bit more free reign in the house when Jonathan and I were off the scene, though this was not actually true, as Mum never missed a trick.

  Anyhow, Keeley was delighted with the early evening arrangements and chatted excitedly all the way to the cinema.

  ‘Can I sit in the middle?’ she asked as we all took our seats in the auditorium, and of course Jonathan and I both said that she could.

  ‘Can I hold the popcorn too?’

  ‘Yes, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘As long as you don’t eat it all!’

  ‘No, I won’t, I promise! You can have as much as you like.’

  Keeley giggled and munched her way through the film and it was a pleasure to be in her company. Driving home, she discussed all the characters and decided that she liked bespectacled Velma better than the more glamorous, flame-haired Daphne.

  ‘Velma’s very clever, isn’t she?’ I said. ‘Is that why you like her the best?’

  ‘No,’ Keeley said thoughtfully. ‘I just don’t like Daphne. She’s too pretty. She’s probably a bitch.’

  ‘Keeley!’ I gasped, shocked at how easily the word tripped off her tongue. ‘You can’t use language like that, it’s not nice.’

  ‘Sorry. Pretty girls are always bitches though. I don’t like the pretty girls at school.’

  ‘But you are a very pretty girl, Keeley. How would you like it if people said nasty things about you, just because of the way you look, and perhaps even before they got to know you?’

  ‘Well they wouldn’t, because I’m not pretty.’

  ‘That’s not true, sweetheart. You are a very pretty girl indeed.’

  ‘You’re only saying that,’ she huffed. ‘I know I’m not.’

  Just like when we’d discussed her hairstyle, it was clear Keeley wasn’t going to budge on this. This time I could see this was more than an attention-seeking ploy; Keeley really did seem to have a genuinely low opinion of her appearance, and that was something I would need to keep an eye on too.

  The next day Keeley asked if she could play out again and I reluctantly agreed, telling her that I was going to sit out on the bench and watch, to make sure there was not a repeat of any trouble at the rec.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she said defensively.

  ‘I never said it was. We don’t want any more trouble though, do we? I’ll be there, to make sure you’re all right.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, narrowing her eyes. ‘Can you go on that bench over there though?’

  She pointed to the bench furthest from the area where all the children played.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, realizing she was worried I might cramp her style.

  Keeley had brought a skipping rope with her and she told me she was practising for a sponsored skip that was taking place in her school the following week.

  ‘I’ll sponsor you,’ I said, hoping the encouragement would make her focus on the practice rather than winding up the other kids, as I feared she might try to do.

  I sat myself down and then watched as Keeley entered the play area. I was relieved to see her go straight up to two girls and start talking. They looked about the same age as Keeley, and moments later the girls both sat down on the grass and watched Keeley skip. After a few minutes Keeley let one of the other girls have a turn skipping while she sat down next to her friend. They all seemed to be getting along fine, but then the girls suddenly ran off together, leaving Keeley alone.

  As soon as they had gone I saw Keeley turn around and glance over at me. I smiled back and gave her a little wave. The next minute Keeley ran out of the play area, taking herself onto the patch of field furthest from me. Then she began skipping very quickly and rather recklessly along one of the concrete paths surrounding the grassy park area. Seconds later she tripped herself up – apparently on purpose, though I couldn’t be certain – and then she dropped to her knees and stayed on the ground, looking quite helpless.

  Once again, I found myself running across the rec. From what I had seen I didn’t think Keeley could have really hurt herself, at least not badly, but of course I wanted to make sure she was OK.

  ‘Are you all right, sweetheart?’ I shouted over, but she was crying now and covering her face with her hands, and she didn’t reply.

  When I reached Keeley’s side I was shocked to see that both her knees were badly grazed and bleeding.

  ‘I fell over,’ she said. ‘It was an accident, sorry.’

  ‘There’s no need to say sorry, love. Come on, let’s get you inside.’

  ‘I’m useless at skipping.’

  ‘No, you’re not. I saw you skipping beautifully, and sharing nicely with those two girls.’

  Keeley smiled through her tears as she walked tentatively back to the house, and once she was sitting at the kitchen table, her knees cleaned and dr
essed with two large plasters, she seemed to be not just all right, but in her element.

  ‘I like you looking after me, Angela,’ she beamed, as I quickly noted down the details on an accident sheet. ‘Can I come and stay again?’

  I was required to keep detailed notes and diaries for Social Services, and on the sheet I made a note of exactly what I’d observed on the rec, the time Keeley’s accident took place and how I had responded and treated her.

  It was time-consuming filling in so much paperwork but I was always happy to do it, and still am. When Jonathan and I had started out as foster carers in 1987 there were no such formalities and even the scant paperwork that was generated within Social Services sometimes went astray. Thankfully, when records were computerised during the nineties this problem went away, and nowadays the system is even better. I think the notes and records that carers are required to keep not only help Social Services provide the best, safest and most consistent care for a child – not to mention an accurate report in case an incident leads to a court case – but they can also help foster carers to take stock and move forwards. In my experience, being obliged to sit down and write a precise summary of what has happened in a daily log can be therapeutic. On many occasions putting pen to paper has helped me make sense of a situation, or made me see it from another angle, which I think can only be a good thing.

  Just as Keeley was asking me if she could come and stay again, Jonathan walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh dear, Keeley, have you been in the wars again?’ he asked kindly, but she looked straight through him and turned to me once more.

  ‘Can I, Angela?’ she implored very seriously. ‘Can I come and stay with you again?’

  ‘I’ll talk to your social worker,’ I said, not wanting to make any promises I may not be able to keep. ‘Leave it with me, sweetheart. I’d like that too.’

  4

  ‘We can’t keep any secrets’

  Keeley came for a second visit two weeks later, and this time she turned up with her head full of hundreds of lice and a bruise on her cheek.