not biting her scalp, which must have given her considerable relief.
Once I was sure all areas of her hair and scalp had been saturated in the lotion I praised her again and said she could stand up straight now, and I washed my hands in the sink.
‘We need to leave the lotion on overnight,’ I said. ‘It will have dried by bedtime and I’ll comb your hair with a special fine-tooth comb before you go to bed. Then in the morning we’ll wash your hair before we go to school.’
Aimee nodded and I smiled. ‘You were a very good girl standing there all that time,’ I said pleased (and surprised) by her cooperation.
‘That’s OK,’ she said amicably. ‘I wish me mum had done it. Can I play in me bedroom now?’
‘Yes, of course, if that’s what you’d like to do. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.’
I saw Aimee into her room and made sure she was all right. She wanted to play with the box of games I’d put in there. ‘It’s a nice room,’ she said, squatting down on the floor by the toy box. ‘I like me bed. I’ll be comfortable in here.’
‘Yes, you will, love,’ I said, touched. I would have liked to put my arms around her and given her a hug, but I knew I would have to wait until she was ready and came to me for a cuddle.
I went downstairs, pleased that things were going smoothly so far. As I neared the foot of the stairs the phone began ringing and I picked up the extension in the hall. It was Jill, my support social worker, calling from her mobile.
‘Has Aimee arrived?’ she asked.
‘Yes, and I’ve treated her head lice without a problem. But Jill, I’ve never seen so many. It must have been months since she was last treated, if at all. There are sores and scabs on her scalp from where she’s been scratching. It’s a wonder they weren’t infected.’
‘Poor kid,’ Jill said. ‘Make a note in your log and obviously tell Kristen when she phones. That’s shocking neglect. What’s Aimee doing now?’
‘Playing in her room.’
‘Good. I’ll phone tomorrow to arrange a visit. I hope you have a good evening.’
‘And you.’
Having said goodbye to Jill, I went into the kitchen to continue with the evening meal. I was feeling pretty confident and buoyed up that things were going well, given Aimee’s history of violence towards her mother. I knew that Paula, shyer, quieter and more introverted than Lucy, and also concentrating on her exam work, would say hello to Aimee in her own time. When I called the girls down for dinner I heard Paula’s bedroom door open first and her footsteps go round the landing and into Aimee’s room. I heard Paula introduce herself and then they came downstairs together, with Lucy following a few steps behind.
I was aware just how grubby and smelly Aimee was and had she arrived earlier I would have given her a bath before dinner, but now I felt she should eat first, as it was getting late. I therefore suggested she just gave her hands a wash before we ate.
‘Why?’ Aimee asked.
‘It’s hygienic to wash your hands before a meal,’ I said. ‘It gets rid of all the germs and stops you from getting sick.’
‘I ain’t never sick,’ Aimee said. ‘So I don’t need to wash me hands.’
Ignoring this questionable logic I led the way to the kitchen sink, where I turned on the taps and told Aimee to give her hands a quick wash. She looked at the running water and then at me and I saw the same hesitation loaded with determination as I’d seen before in the bathroom. ‘Come on, be quick, good girl,’ I said. More hesitation and then she pushed her hands under the running water just long enough to wet them. It was better than nothing and I held out the towel for her to dry her hands on, but she ran them down the sides of her (filthy) joggers instead.
‘This is your place,’ I said to Aimee, showing her to the dining table, where Lucy and Paula were already sitting.
Aimee stared at the table and her chair but made no attempt to pull out the chair and sit. ‘Sit down, good girl,’ I said. ‘Then I can bring in the hot dinner.’
‘I can’t!’ Aimee said, slightly annoyed and glaring at me.
‘Why not?’
‘There ain’t enough room.’
I looked at the dining table with its six chairs, only four of which were being used. Of course there was plenty of room. I saw Lucy and Paula looking questioningly at Aimee too.
‘I can’t fit in there,’ Aimee said, pointing to the small gap where the chair was up against the table. ‘I ain’t that thin.’
Unable to believe that Aimee hadn’t realized that the chair needed to be pulled out from the table in order to allow enough room for her to sit down, I gently eased it away.
‘The chairs move!’ Aimee said, surprised. ‘They ain’t like that in McDonald’s. They’re glued to the floor.’
Lucy and Paula knew better than to say anything but stared at Aimee in disbelief. Could her only experience of eating at a table be at McDonald’s? It was possible. Aimee finally sat in her chair but made no attempt to draw it in close enough to the table so that she could eat. I slid the chair to the table.
‘I guess your mum and dad didn’t have a table at their flats?’ I asked Aimee.
‘No. We sit on the mattress on the floor.’
Children with parents who didn’t own a dining table certainly wasn’t unique; I’d looked after many children who’d come from homes where meals were eaten on the sofa in front of the television. But what did surprise me, indeed it took my breath away, was Aimee’s reply to my next question.
‘But surely when you’re at school, you eat your school dinner at a table with everyone else?’ I asked.
‘I never get to school in time for dinner,’ Aimee said matter-of-factly.
‘What, never?’ I asked, feeling I must have misunderstood. Aimee was in her fourth year of schooling, so it was inconceivable she had never done a full day in school which included lunch. ‘I know you were often late for school but you must have got there on time some mornings, surely?’
‘No, never,’ Aimee said adamantly, shaking her head. ‘Mum never woke up until it was too late. I tried shaking her but it weren’t no good. She was out of it.’
Probably from drugs, I thought. But I still wasn’t convinced Aimee had never been in school for a full day. Surely the school’s head teacher, the social services or the education welfare officer would have acted? In the UK it is illegal not to send a child to school or provide an acceptable alternative education, which clearly Aimee’s parents hadn’t done. I would be taking Aimee to school the following day, when I would, I hoped, find out more. Now I went into the kitchen and returned with a cottage pie, which is a favourite of ours as well as all the children I’d fostered; I’d never come across a meat-eating child who didn’t like cottage pie. Until now.
‘Yuck! What’s that?’ Aimee asked rudely as I placed the dish on the table.
