pie was. ‘I have biscuits for me tea.’
‘This is dinner,’ Paula said. ‘We have a cooked meal at dinner.’
‘It’s potato and minced meat,’ I said.
‘I want me biscuits,’ Aimee said. ‘Me mum packed ’em.’
Aimee slid off her chair quicker than I’d seen her move before, and going into the hall returned with the dirty plastic supermarket carrier bag she’d arrived with. She dumped it on the table where we were about to eat and began taking out its filthy contents, all of which were grey and stank of stale smoke: a dirty threadbare pyjama top; a chewed and filthy teddy bear; a pair of torn faded knickers; one filthy sock; and a half-eaten packet of chocolate biscuits. I moved the cottage pie to one side, away from the disgusting pile of rubbish that was Aimee’s belongings. Aimee quickly peeled off the top biscuit from the packet and began stuffing it in her mouth.
‘No more,’ I said. ‘You can have another biscuit after your dinner.’ I quickly gathered up her belongings and returned them to the plastic carrier bag, which I put on the floor.
‘Biscuits are me dinner,’ Aimee said, her mouth full.
She was about to take another biscuit from the packet when, to her utter amazement and my surprise, Lucy leant across the table and whisked the packet out of Aimee’s hand. ‘Cathy said no more,’ Lucy said with a sweet placatory smile.
‘Give ’em back!’ Aimee demanded aggressively.
‘Later,’ Lucy said. ‘Things are different in foster care. They are much better. I used to have biscuits for my dinner before I came into care. Now I eat all the nice meals Cathy cooks, just as you will.’
‘No, I ain’t,’ Aimee said.
‘You can have another biscuit after your dinner,’ I said.
‘I don’t like dinner,’ Aimee said, swallowing the last of the biscuit with a loud gulp.
‘Try some and you may,’ I said, throwing Lucy and Paula a reassuring smile, for they were both looking concerned.
I served the dinner on to the plates, giving Aimee a small portion, which I placed in front of her. I sat down and Lucy, Paula and I started eating while Aimee sat with her arms folded across her chest and her face set in defiance, scowling and angry. Then after some moments she picked up her knife and fork and plunged them into her dinner, clearly with no idea how to use them. She certainly wasn’t the first child I’d looked after who didn’t know how to use cutlery because they’d only ever eaten finger food at home.
‘Like this,’ I said, showing her how I was holding my knife and fork. ‘Or you can use your spoon if it’s easier.’
I saw Aimee glance at Lucy and Paula and perhaps she wanted to be like them for, to her credit, she picked up her knife and fork and made a good attempt to use them. She managed to get some food into her mouth and, finding the taste acceptable, scooped up some more, so that gradually as Lucy, Paula and I continued eating so too did she.
‘Well done,’ I said as she cleared her plate. Then to all three girls: ‘Would you like pudding now or later?’
‘Later,’ Paula and Lucy said.
‘I want me biscuits now,’ Aimee said.
I nodded to Lucy, who’d tucked the packet of biscuits on to the chair next to her, and she passed the packet to Aimee, who set upon them ravenously. After four biscuits I said, ‘That’s enough for now. You’ll make yourself ill.’
Aimee ignored me and took another biscuit from the packet and began stuffing it into her mouth. I knew I had to start as I meant to carry on and it wasn’t in Aimee’s best interest to gorge on biscuits. I quickly popped into the kitchen and returned with an attractive brightly coloured empty tin on which I’d already printed Aimee’s name.
‘This is your special tin,’ I said with exaggerated enthusiasm. ‘This is where you will keep your biscuits and your sweets, and you can have a few each day. They’ll be safe in here and no one else will eat them.’ Experience had taught me that children from homes where food has been in short supply often hoard and then gorge food once it is freely available in foster care. Having a tin of their own often helps. But although Aimee was looking at the tin with interest, she was also peeling off yet another biscuit. I gently took the packet from her hand and put it in the tin.
‘’Ere! Give ’em to me!’ Aimee demanded. ‘They’re my biscuits.’
‘I know they are, love, and they’ll be quite safe in your tin. You can have another one tomorrow.’
‘I’m gonna tell me mum you took my biscuits and she’ll make a complaint against you!’ Aimee threatened, jutting out her chin.
I saw Lucy and Paula were about to say something in my defence but I motioned to them not to. Aimee was only repeating something she’d heard her mother say, probably in respect of her older half-siblings, all of whom were in care. I now concentrated on my next task, which was to get Aimee clean. ‘Would you like a bath or a shower?’ I asked, remembering to use the closed choice.
‘None!’ Aimee said. ‘I don’t like water.’
‘You’ll like the water here,’ Lucy said, continuing with her philosophy that things were different and better in foster care.
‘No, I won’t,’ Aimee said, folding her arms and sulking.
‘I’m going to do my homework,’ Paula said, and escaped to her bedroom.
‘Come on, I’ll show you the new tiles I put in our bathroom,’ I said to Aimee with excitement out of all proportion to my first attempt at tiling.
Sufficiently intrigued, she finally slid from her chair at the dining table and followed me upstairs and to the bathroom, where I pointed out the blue and white tiles around the bath. ‘They’re nice,’ she said, with genuine admiration.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘We have tiles in my bathroom,’ Aimee said, ‘but they’re dirty and have green stuff growing on them,’ which I assumed to be mould.
‘Well, as you can see ours are all new,’ I said. ‘No nasty green stuff here. Now, would you like a bath or a shower? What did you have at home?’
‘Nothing,’ Aimee said, her face setting again. ‘I don’t have anything.’
I thought she must have had some sort of wash sometimes, so relying on the closed choice I said again: ‘Bath or shower? You choose.’
She didn’t answer but refolded her arms more tightly across her chest like a grumpy old woman. ‘OK, I’ll decide for you, then,’ I said. ‘I’ll run you a nice warm bath.’
Aimee said: ‘I want a shower.’
‘Fine.
