As soon as the water began spurting from the showerhead Aimee squealed from behind me. ‘I ain’t having that on me!’
I switched off the shower and turned to face her. So far she’d only taken off her navy jumper, which was filthy, to reveal an equally filthy T-shirt. ‘Aimee,’ I said carefully, ‘you need to have a shower or a bath tonight. Then once you’re clean you’ll be able to watch some television. It would be a great pity if you lost television time on your first night, wouldn’t it?’ This may have seemed harsh but Aimee was used to having her own way and I could see how determined she could be. For hygiene’s sake alone she needed to have a bath or shower; her skin and clothes were filthy and she smelt. Also if I didn’t start to put in place a routine and boundaries now it would become more difficult the longer I left it.
‘Can I watch me telly in bed?’ Aimee asked.
‘Once you’ve had your bath, yes,’ I said. Not blackmail but positive reward.
‘I’ll have your bath, then,’ Aimee said, scowling.
‘Good girl.’ I turned to the bath and switched on the taps, adjusting the temperature as the water ran. But by the time the bath was ready Aimee still hadn’t undressed and seemed to be waiting for me to do it for her. ‘Take off your T-shirt,’ I encouraged.
‘Can’t,’ Aimee said, not attempting the task. ‘You do it.’
‘Aimee, you are eight years old, love. I’m sure a big girl like you can undress herself.’ Children are usually taught self-care skills by the time they’re five and go to school, but Aimee shook her head.
‘I’ll help you,’ I said. ‘But I would like you to learn how to dress and undress yourself. How did you manage to change for PE and swimming at school?’ For I knew the teachers wouldn’t have undressed her.
‘Didn’t do them,’ Aimee said.
‘What, you never did PE or swimming?’
‘No.’
I was sure Aimee must be wrong – physical exercise is an essential part of every school curriculum – but I’d mention it the following day when I took Aimee to school. Now I began easing up her T-shirt and showing her how to undress. ‘Like this,’ I said. Aimee raised her arms cooperatively but had no idea what to do next.
‘Who dressed you at home?’ I asked.
‘Mum.’
Underneath the T-shirt was an equally dirty and torn vest. ‘You like your layers,’ I smiled. ‘Aren’t you hot with all this on?’ The rest of us wore one layer in our centrally heated house.
‘It’s cold at home,’ Aimee said. ‘What makes your house hot?’
I didn’t answer, for having taken off Aimee’s vest I was now staring at the small bruises dotted all over her chest. I stepped around her so I could see her back and that too was covered in the same small bruises, as were her arms and neck. The bruises were all roughly the same size, small and round, about the size of a small coin. They were in various stages of healing: some were old and faded while others looked new.
‘How did you get all these bruises?’ I asked carefully, pointing to the ones she could see on her arms and chest.
‘I fell,’ Aimee said. ‘I keep tripping over things.’
It was possible the bruises were a result of falling, I supposed. Some children are accident prone, and it’s often the overweight children who aren’t used to physical activity and have never developed good coordination and balance as more active children do. It was possible, yet there was something about the size and shape of the bruises that I couldn’t identify and unsettled me. The bruises didn’t require medical attention, but I’d obviously make a note of what I’d found in my fostering log and then tell Jill and Kristen the following day.
‘Sit on the floor and take off your socks now, good girl,’ I said to Aimee, sure she could do this simple task without help. She did as I asked and sat down, and then very clumsily managed to pull off both her filthy and holed socks. ‘Now step out of your joggers,’ I said, testing the bath water with my hand. ‘They’re easy to take off. You just pull them down.’
Aimee yanked down her joggers and stepped out of them, to reveal more bruises running down both legs, from her thighs to her ankles – there were even some bruises on her feet. Most of the bruises were the same size and shape as those on her body and arms – round and small – although there were some larger ones on her knees and shins, consistent with falling over.
‘How did you get all these?’ I asked.
‘I fell over.’
She stepped out of her pants to reveal more small round bruises on her buttocks. ‘And the ones on your bottom?’ I asked. ‘How did you get those?’
‘Same,’ Aimee said, tossing her pants on top of the pile of smelly rags that were her clothes. She stood at the side of the bath, making no attempt to get in.
‘Get into the bath while the water is nice and warm,’ I said.
She reached out to my hand for me to help her and I steadied her while she climbed into the bath. Then she stood looking at me.
‘Sit down,’ I said.
‘What, in the water?’ Aimee asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘So you can have a bath and wash all over.’
Very gingerly and slowly Aimee began to lower herself into the bath, and as the warm water lapped against her skin she gave a little sigh of pleasure. ‘This is nice,’ she said.
‘Good,’ I said, relieved. I passed her a new sponge and fresh bar of soap. ‘Now rub the soap on to the sponge and then all over your body.’
But she just sat there with a smile on her face, enjoying the feel of the warm water without actually washing, despite my further encouragement.
‘This is nice,’ she said again. ‘I like the warm water.’
‘Aimee,’ I said suspiciously, ‘have you ever had a bath before?’
‘No.’ She grinned sheepishly.
‘So did you usually have a shower at home?’
‘No. All the water was cold and I don’t like cold water.’
‘Wasn’t there any hot water in your flat at all?’ I asked, aware that this was not as uncommon in poor homes as one might think.
‘No,’ Aimee said, shaking her head.
‘So you never had a hot shower or bath?’
‘Never. I stood in the kitchen and Mum used one of those.’ Aimee pointed to the face flannel draped on the rail at the side of the bath. ‘But the water was cold, so I didn’t like it.’ From which I deduced that Aimee had been given a stand-up wash in cold water
