Olivia whimpered. ‘We don’t fink we like showered.’
‘There’s nothing to be scared of,’ said Mike in his best reassuring voice. ‘Casey and Kieron and me all have a shower every day. It’s lovely. You’ll enjoy it. Tell you what –’ He gestured towards Ashton. ‘Ashton’s the eldest, and he’s a big boy, so how about he goes first? That way he can show you how easy it all is. Come on Ash!’ he said jovially. Ashton looked terrified but, bless him, he got off the bed and followed Mike, albeit very reluctantly, into the bathroom.
Olivia, at this, leapt up and followed the pair of them, huddling nervously behind me in the doorway. Us helping the children shower was unusual in itself. But one of the things Anna had mentioned as an afterthought was that they’d both need quite a lot of help with personal care – washing, hair washing, toileting, teeth cleaning – since they had no idea how to look after themselves. This was something that would have to be written into the safe-care agreement; a document that every carer has created for them and filed, for each different child they look after. It details care specifics such as whether the child is allowed to play outside, whether they are fit to travel alone and so on, and also contains details that cover the carer in the case of any allegations, including whether help with personal care is needed, and the specifics of privacy in the child’s bedroom.
That this short placement would be quite physical was clearly evident, and I was reminded, as Mike helped Ashton to take his raggy clothes off, that we would need to be sure the document covered that. Then, when he’d done, Mike turned on the shower and, having checked the temperature, helped Ashton to stand in it. It was only seconds before the air was filled with a series of piercing screams. ‘Arrrgh!’ he cried. ‘Arrrgh! It really hurts! Get me out!’
Mike had had his back to me, but now he turned around, his expression grim.
‘Grab me a towel, Case,’ he said. ‘I need to get him out of there.’
I grabbed one from the pile of clean ones we’d brought in from the airing cupboard, and it was only as I thrust it at Mike that I could properly see all the raw sores that covered Ashton’s skinny little body.
I threw the towel over him myself, while Mike turned off the water, and tried to calm him while gingerly patting him dry through the fabric. I had never seen anything quite like it.
‘There, there, sweetheart,’ I said to him. ‘It’s okay now. No shower. Perhaps a bath would be best.’
He nodded, sniffing away his tears. ‘I can do a bath,’ he said bravely. It was gut-wrenching. Horrible. How could these kids be in this state and the social worker have no idea?
‘How long have you had all these nasty sore spots all over you, sweetie?’ I asked him.
He shook his head, his wet hair forming commas on his brow. ‘I dunno. A long time. I dunno. Always?’
Olivia too was covered in similar sores and scabs, just as we’d anticipated. Scabies, I guessed. Something like that, anyway. We’d have to have a doctor check them out and treat them as soon as possible. Many looked infected and were weeping. It was as grim a sight as I’d seen in a long time, and had particularly upset Kieron, who’d had tears in his eyes when he’d come to see the source of the commotion, while Mike and I had got Ashton out of the shower.
We helped Ashton carefully into the bath and Mike and I tried to gently wash him, between us, while Kieron perched on the loo seat, with Olivia on his lap, trying to stem her increasingly fearful tears.
This was as up close and personal as we’d been as a foster family, and though our modern bathroom no way resembled that Victorian orphanage, I wondered what anyone might make of the scene, should they see it – they could be forgiven for thinking we’d procured these two little ones via time-travel, because they really did look like they belonged in another age. It was hard to believe how much filth and grime came off Ashton that day. We sponged him gently – never scrubbing – but even so, the grisly gnarly scabs kept sloughing off, revealing bright red inflamed skin underneath. It was so pitiful it even made tears well in my own eyes. They’d obviously been living like animals.
This was brought home most forcibly when I tried to clean his battered feet and, taking a good look at them, because they looked so odd, decided Ashton must have webbed toes. It was very rare, but not that rare, so he could well have. ‘Mike,’ I said, nudging him. ‘Take a look at this.’
He did so, peering closely, then said quietly, ‘Oh, Case …’ He gently started massaging the webbing between Ashton’s big toe and the next one, and we both gasped when a triangle of something plopped into his supporting hand. We both looked at it, horrified. It was dirt! A big grey plug of dirt! A further inspection, which I found difficult to make without gagging, revealed all his toes similarly glued together by solid filth. Mike had to use a toothbrush to remove the disgusting deposits in their entirety, revealing skin between the toes that was completely raw and livid.
Next up was to clear the filth from the bath sides and plug hole, and do Olivia, who was in no better state than her brother. Only then could we properly dry them both – being as gentle as we could – and, finally, put them both in clean clothes. As Riley wouldn’t be arriving for at least another hour, I had Kieron achieve this by rummaging in his wardrobe, and finding two of his big T-shirts to put them in.
And so it was, half an hour later, that they were arranged with him at the dining-room table – looking tiny and pink, in their band-name emblazoned T-shirt ‘dresses’, their hair doused in nit lotion, their bodies in left-over calamine (Levi had recently had chickenpox) – nibbling shyly on toast. I’d made a pile of it and plonked it in the centre of the table. I didn’t want to give them more so late, for fear of spoiling their tea.
Kieron, by now, had got over his shock, and seemed keen to entertain them – he’d brought down a big sketch pad and some felt pens – so I took the opportunity to pop into the garden for a cigarette.
Mike was already out there, sitting at the garden table, in the sunshine, with his back to me, his head resting in his hands.
I went over to him and rubbed his shoulder. ‘You okay, love?’
He straightened. ‘No, not really. God, love, it’s appalling. I have never seen anything like that in my life. Well, except perhaps on telly, but – sheesh! I just can’t believe the state of them! Can you?’ I shook my head. ‘I can’t believe,’ he went on, ‘that any mother or father – particularly a mother – could allow her own children to get into such a state.’
I sat down and lit my cigarette. ‘I know, but, love, it happens. And if she’s got learning difficulties, too … But I do know what you mean. It’s one thing to see it in the papers or on the news, but, this – having to clean up those kids – I agree. It is shocking. It really brings it home.’
In truth, it wasn’t perhaps quite as shocking for me as it was for Mike and Kieron. My years in school had given me plenty of insights into the state of kids from some impoverished families. But not like this; this was neglect on a completely different scale.
But at least we’d got them clean, I thought, which was a start. Now it was just a case of doing what we could for them, before passing them all on to their long-term carers. And we could do so much, I thought, putting out my cigarette, and going back inside. And the feeling was endorsed when I went back into the dining room to find them huddled up on either side of Kieron, who was playing a game with them, starting to draw cartoons and having them try to be the first one to guess which characters they were.
It was a
