The Girl in the Dark Read online

  ‘You never know,’ I commented to Jonathan after the phone call with Wilf. ‘This could be the placement that turns her life around. If Melissa’s a nice, sweet girl by nature, how difficult can it be to get through to her?’

  ‘Exactly. Let’s hope this is a turning point.’

  We were trying to reassure one another, of course. We had to be optimistic and approach this meeting feeling hopeful, not despondent. We were going to do our very best for Melissa and help her deal with whatever problems she had, and we wouldn’t judge her on her history.

  Wilf had given us as much information as he could about Melissa, but he had not been able to tell us why she ran away. Lynne didn’t have an explanation either. All we’d heard so far was that Melissa mixed with the wrong crowd, but what made her go missing? Why would anybody want to be out on the streets in the dark and the cold? Where did she sleep and how did she survive when she disappeared for days on end?

  Jonathan and I wondered if drugs and alcohol were involved as Lynne had told us that Melissa had started to come home looking ‘dishevelled’, though neither had been specifically mentioned. Was Melissa running away so she could be out drinking and smoking, or taking drugs? We didn’t have a clue, and we had no idea just how much danger she was putting herself in by mixing with the wrong crowd.

  The following morning, after arranging staff cover for our florist shop, Jonathan and I set off to the unit to meet Melissa. It was a fairly long drive and Jonathan and I chatted and reminisced about our fostering career.

  It was 1993 now and we’d been fostering for about four years by this time. After a string of successful placements over the first three years, some involving extremely tricky teenagers who stayed long-term, a social worker we got on with particularly well had suggested we’d be ideal candidates to train as specialist carers for teenagers with complex needs.

  ‘I think you’d be perfect,’ she’d said very enthusiastically. ‘I’ve seen how patient and understanding you are. Mainstream foster care simply doesn’t work for all kids. Some need extra support and a closer eye kept on them. It doesn’t mean they’re bad kids. They are generally kids who’ve had bad things happen to them, and they need carers with a deeper knowledge of such things and the skills to tackle the repercussions of what’s happened to them in the past. I think you and Jonathan should both do the training course together.’

  Though we’d made a success of mainstream fostering, it had been more challenging than we’d ever imagined. Jonathan and I had had our doubts along the way and been tested to the limit in those early years, but we’d found it so rewarding we’d resolved to carry on for as long as we could manage. Working with teenagers had proved to be particularly gratifying. We felt we could connect with them and we’d also got used to having teenagers in the house. We always missed them when they’d gone, and so when we were approached about doing the specialist training course it wasn’t a difficult decision for us to make. Just as we’d done when we first started fostering, Jonathan and I agreed that we would give it a try and see how it turned out. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained’ was our motto and attitude, and when we embarked on the year-long course we felt excited about the future. We were in our thirties then and were both open-minded and optimistic, daring to believe we had something to offer the most difficult of kids, and hoping we might even be able to change the lives of teenagers who needed that extra bit of support and understanding.

  As we continued our car journey that day, Jonathan and I talked about the substantial amount of specialist training we’d had, attending fortnightly sessions over the previous twelve months. I think the closer we were to arriving at the unit, the more nervous and daunted we felt, because the more we reminisced. I can see now we were trying to build our confidence and buoy each other’s spirits, reminding ourselves just how much training we’d had, and how we should be equipped to deal with the toughest foster placements imaginable – including a placement like Melissa’s.

  I’ll never forget the first training session we attended. Jonathan and I, along with about twenty other foster carers, sat in a circle and had to take turns standing up and introducing ourselves. We both felt a bit self-conscious, never having done anything like that before, and to add to the stress you had to throw a foam ball to the person next to you when you’d finished saying your piece, to signify it was their turn to speak. When my turn came I dropped the ball and had the embarrassment of scrabbling under the coffee table in the middle to retrieve it. After that ‘ice-breaker’, one of the two social workers running the course stood up and gave an introductory speech.

  ‘The teenagers you take in may have any manner of behavioural or emotional problems,’ Marjory said. ‘They may be violent, angry, aggressive, rude, disruptive, scared, anxious, confused, depressed or any combination of the above. They may have been physically, sexually or emotionally abused. They may be suffering from psychological problems, possibly linked to neglect or earlier childhood trauma. We will do our best to equip you to deal with all the challenges you may be faced with.’

  You could have heard a pin drop in the room as the assembled foster carers swapped sideways glances. It sounded very alarming and serious indeed, particularly as we all knew from experience how difficult ‘mainstream’ kids could be. Could we really handle teenagers with problems so complex they needed specialist care? That was the question I imagined was on everybody’s lips.

  We launched straight into another activity, in which we each had to take turns saying a swear word. The challenge was to keep the chain going around the room. We had to pass a box of chocolates from one to the other at the same time, like pass the parcel, and when you had the chocolates in your hands it was your turn to say a swear word. The suggested words soon became more extreme, embarrassing and obscure as we went along, and if you couldn’t think of a word (or couldn’t bring yourself to say what came to your mind!) you were out. I blushed the first time I had to speak but I got used to it, and ultimately the exercise was a success. We all ended up giggling at the bizarre situation we were in, blurting out expletives to strangers.

  Neither Jonathan nor I won the chocolates, which I wasn’t unhappy about – not least because I was on a diet! The foster carer who won, with a word I don’t think I’d even heard of before, said she wasn’t sure whether to be proud or ashamed of her victory, which made everybody smile. The trainers were delighted with how we’d all responded. They told us the point of the exercise was to teach us that we mustn’t be shocked by anything we may encounter. We might be exposed to the foulest language imaginable, but if we showed our shock then the kids may take our reaction as a victory. The best way was not to react at all, but to simply state, ‘We don’t allow bad language. Please watch what you are saying,’ and remain unshaken, looking as if you’d heard it all before, even if you hadn’t and were reeling with shock.

  From that moment on I began to relax and really enjoy the course. Each session was extremely interesting and we picked up so many gems of information every time. It was clear that the training was invaluable, and not just in helping us deal with complex teenagers. Though Jonathan and I were being taught to specialise in the care of challenging teenagers – particularly those who had not progressed with other carers – we were still going to take in other foster children, as long as we had room in our house. We could both see that the knowledge we were gaining would benefit us as carers, as well as any of the children who stayed with us, regardless of their age or circumstances.

  In one session, the two social workers taking the class told us that we couldn’t be expected to like all the children we looked after, but that we had to remember that each child has something positive to offer and shows potential in something, even if that ‘something’ is not obvious at first. Our job as specialist carers was to find the positive and focus on that, and not to dwell on the negative. Similarly, we were taught that when kids arrive at our door we must never, ever pull a face at what they bring with them, or make a negative remark a
bout how something smells. A black bin bag filled with dirty clothes or a stinky toy, or items that look like rubbish, might be incredibly important to a child. Something that smells bad to you might be a comfort to a child, reminding them of home, or inspiring a memory that means a lot to them. Making a critical comment could upset or alienate them.

  When it’s time to say goodbye to a child, we were taught to always aim for ‘good goodbyes’, making them feel happy, safe and loved at the point of departure, so they would remember leaving our home in a positive way. Telling them they would be missed and that you’d enjoyed having them stay with you was important. If the reality was that you couldn’t wait to see the back of them, you were to keep this to yourself and make sure you found at least one positive thing to say, whatever that may be.

  At one memorable session the two social workers built a wall of shoeboxes. Those boxes at the bottom of the wall were labelled with the most basic of needs, such as food, water and shelter. As the wall stacked up, the boxes represented love, attention, trust, understanding, education, security and so on. When the wall was complete the social workers encouraged us to take turns in removing various different shoeboxes. The object was to show that the wall could still stand even with various blocks missing, the point being that on the surface children who have suffered trauma don’t look any different to those who have received the correct care from birth. They are still standing, but in reality their behaviour and emotional reactions may be adversely affected by disadvantages and neglect they’ve suffered earlier in their life, which are not visible or obvious to outsiders looking in. Inside, the child could be crumbling or falling apart, despite the fact they are standing tall. I found this quite an eye-opener. Sessions like that spurred me on, and I felt I was learning to be the best carer I could be, even to the most difficult and challenging of teens.

  Another of the memorable sessions Jonathan and I talked about that day was one we’ve discussed many times since, and it’s still clear in my mind all these years on. It went like this. Each foster carer picked a description of a different character out of a hat and we were then told to line up against the wall at the far end of the Social Services meeting room where we were gathered. I represented a professional black female in a wheelchair, Jonathan was a middle-class, young, white, male university student and all the other members of the group played people of various ages and reflecting a wide range of religions, social classes, physical abilities, sexualities and races.

  ‘Move one pace forward if you are guaranteed a meal on the table every evening,’ one of the social workers said. Not everyone moved forward. ‘Take another step if you can go out on your own in the evening, get in a taxi on your own and feel safe.’

  Eventually it was Jonathan, playing the university student, who was the first person to reach the far wall. The aim was to demonstrate the need for us to view each new child with an open mind about the disadvantages he or she may be faced with. We should not compare their experiences to our own, expect them to react in the same way we might or assume they will have the same abilities as us, as they may not have had the same opportunities in life, or they may be affected by any number of issues that put them at a disadvantage to others. We learned, and accepted, that we may be called upon to look after kids who came from completely different worlds, with issues we had no personal experience of yet could still be trained to deal with. Crucially, we were taught never to judge a book by its cover. We had to get to know each child and not be swayed by any preconceptions we may have had based on our own views, by the image the child projected. I found this extremely interesting, and very useful. I wanted to learn more and more, and as the months went on I had a very powerful feeling that I was in the right place, doing what I was meant to do.

  There had been times in the past, in the early years of our fostering careers, when Jonathan and I had both experienced insecurities about our ability to foster kids, but the course was filling us with confidence. This was our calling, and I couldn’t imagine a day when we didn’t foster.

  Inevitably, there were some extremely difficult sessions to contend with and, looking back, we were still very naive, despite the fact we were feeling much more secure about our abilities. One week I had to leave the room when we were given training on sexual abuse because the scenario described was so upsetting. It was about a real case of a grandfather who had never abused before but inexplicably began to abuse his granddaughter. We were told exactly how it progressed, and how he brainwashed and blackmailed the young girl. I was fighting back tears. I excused myself and had to go outside for some fresh air, as I felt I could no longer breathe in the stuffy Social Services building. One of the social workers came out to check I was OK, as she or her colleague did when anyone left the room. When she spoke to me I gasped for breath and questioned whether I could carry on, and I seriously considered giving up that day. Jonathan helped. He told me I had so much to give and encouraged me to stick at it. Lynne was a big help too. ‘Come on, Angela,’ she said. ‘You’ll be fantastic. It’s hard when you hear things like this, but it will get easier. There are a lot of kids who will lose out if you drop out now.’ By this stage – more than halfway through the training course – about a third of the group had left, having decided it was not for them.

  The following week it was me who was supporting Lynne, after we learned in some disturbing detail about children who groom and abuse other youngsters. Then it was Jonathan’s turn to question his ability to carry on, when we heard stories about ‘fire starters’ (those children who deliberately set fire to things) and damaged kids who ‘smear’ (their own faeces on walls). I rallied him round when he faltered, reminding him we already had a history of coping well with a string of difficult teens, even without the excellent specialist training we were now receiving.

  ‘I know, but are we really cut out for this?’ he lamented. ‘It’s extreme, Angela. We are volunteering to invite incredibly damaged kids into our home and our lives. I’m really not sure I can go through with it. What are we doing?’

  ‘You can’t give up now,’ I said to him. ‘Think about Vicky.’

  Vicky was a particularly challenging child who had lived with us for around three years before moving into her own flat the previous year. ‘I am, and that’s the trouble! I’m thinking about how hard it was at times, and in hindsight she was not that bad compared to the kids we’re going to encounter now. Should we be putting ourselves through this? Maybe we should stick to selling flowers? Or just stay being mainstream foster carers?’

  Our florist shop, a family business we’d inherited from my mother several years earlier, was doing very well. The rule with the specialist fostering service was that at least one of us would need to be a full-time carer. In his anxious state, Jonathan suggested he assume full responsibility for the shop while I became the main carer, but I knew this was not the way forward. I’d seen how we’d worked so well together over the previous few years, each wearing both hats and, vitally, supporting each other emotionally as well as on a practical level, both in the shop and in our fostering careers.

  The most important thing, to my mind, was that the kids benefited from us working as a team. On many occasions I’d admired Jonathan’s knack of defusing a situation with a joke or a well-timed, playful distraction. He was always great at playing with the kids, getting them outdoors and teaching them about cars and bikes, birds and gardening, and all sorts of things that were much more his forte than mine. He was endlessly engaging and inventive and still is, and they are qualities that are invaluable when looking after kids of all ages. They are also skills that are hard, if not impossible, to teach. He’s a natural in that regard, and that’s priceless and something I admire very much.

  For my part, Jonathan always said I was a master of organisation, keeping the wheels of our lives turning with a constant flow of activities, holidays and practical suggestions and ideas to keep the kids busy, interested and learning something new each day. I think that’s a pretty accurat
e description. I’m certainly one of life’s doers, and I encourage every child to do at least one productive thing each day. That’s how I was brought up, and I believe it’s a good way to be.

  At the same time, I was adamant I did not want to give up working in the shop and hand over the reins to Jonathan. It kept me at the heart of the community. I enjoyed running the florists and having an interest outside of fostering, and the kids profited from our shared involvement in it too. We gave each child who stayed with us the opportunity to work in the shop and earn some extra pocket money, and I often thought how useful it was for them to learn about the responsibilities that come with running a business. Jonathan and I were role models, showing the kids how hard work pays off and demonstrating that men and women’s jobs were interchangeable.

  I pointed all of this out to Jonathan when he had his crisis of confidence. I reminded him how we worked so well as a team, juggling the running of the shop with taking in up to three children at any one time. Some had been long-term, like Vicky, and others had come for short respite stays, ranging from a few days to a few weeks or months.

  ‘Don’t think about the hard times,’ I said. ‘Think about Vicky as she is now. Think about how far she’s come. It’s very likely she wouldn’t be thriving like she is if she hadn’t come to live with us at a crucial time in her life.’

  When Vicky first moved in with us she was a troubled thirteen-year-old who was so terrified by her past she suffered alarming episodes when she froze with fear. She left when she was nearly seventeen and in a much-improved place, strong and capable of looking after herself in a flat supported by Social Services. We were still in touch with her – we still are to this day – and we continued to help her out in any way we could. I knew Jonathan could not deny the role we’d played in helping Vicky deal with her demons and learn to stand on her own two feet. As he did as I suggested and thought about Vicky, I saw a smile spread across his face. He didn’t even have to tell me I’d got through to him. I smiled too as I pictured how well she now looked. I’m happy to say that Jonathan survived his wobble and we were back at training a fortnight later, and from that point on we never looked back.