Too Scared to Tell: Part 3 of 3. Cathy Glass

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a late supper. Sammy strolled out of the living room and, finally forgiving me for leaving him, rubbed around my legs, purring. Normality had returned.

      I waited up for Adrian and Lucy to arrive home. Adrian returned at eleven and we hugged and then sat in the living room and talked until nearly midnight. He was going on his walking holiday in the Lake District with Kirsty the following day. As we talked, a text arrived from Lucy to say she was spending the night at Darren’s house and would see us tomorrow.

      I texted back, Thanks for letting me know, love. Look forward to seeing you tomorrow.

      ‘Has Lucy stayed at Darren’s much while I’ve been away?’ I asked Adrian.

      ‘Yes, most nights. His parents have been away too, so they had the house to themselves. She’s fine, Mum, don’t worry.’

      ‘You will be careful,’ I said, aware there was often lots of alcohol and drugs at music festivals.

      ‘Of course, Mum. Trust me. I’m not daft.’

      ‘I know, love. I just worry about you all, and I can’t help that.’ I wished I could worry less now my children were adults, but as most parents know that is difficult; regardless of how old they are, they’re always your little children.

      As the afternoon was warm, we spent most of it outside and had dinner there too, pretending we were still on holiday. Adrian texted our Glass WhatsApp group to say he and Kirsty had arrived safely in the Lakes and were going to get something to eat. Lucy, Paula and I texted back to wish them a good time.

      On Monday morning I took him food shopping, then after lunch, while he was playing, I printed a dozen of the nicest holiday photos of Oskar to give to his mother at contact. I then completed my review form and helped Oskar to complete his. I would take the forms with me to the review, rather than post them, to make sure they arrived in time, as the review was on Wednesday. There was now a marked difference in Oskar’s replies compared to his first review form, when he’d been scared, unhappy, anxious and harbouring the painful secret of the abuse he’d suffered. Now his replies were far more positive. He circled many more emojis with happy, smiling faces and wrote that he liked seeing his friend Leo, going to the gym and swimming. I said I’d take him swimming during the summer holidays and we could also arrange some play dates with Leo if he wished.

      At five o’clock we telephoned Roksana and she answered straight away. Stressed, she told Oskar her plane had been delayed by over five hours and then cancelled, and she’d had to catch another, later flight and was now having to go to work having not had any sleep. Oskar remarked curtly that he was tired too and cut the call.

      ‘That was a bit rude,’ I told him. He looked at me sheepishly.

      ‘Why?’ I asked. Most parents would consider it preferable to have a family member look after their child if they can’t.

      ‘Roksana wants Oskar to live in this country,’ Andrew replied. ‘She believes he will have a better standard of living and education, and more opportunity to do well.’

      Andrew continued to say that he didn’t see a problem with Oskar phoning his aunt once a week if he wanted to, but that I should monitor the calls, as I was doing when he phoned his mother. I didn’t have Dol’s telephone number, so Andrew found it in his file and read it out to me. He then began winding up by saying that he’d see Oskar and me at the review on Wednesday. ‘Andrew,’ I said, before he had a chance to say goodbye, ‘Roksana told me that Oskar’s abusers have been caught.’

      ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ he said. ‘I don’t know when the court case is yet.’

      ‘So they are being held on remand in prison?’

      ‘Let’s hope they stick to the bail conditions then,’ I said dryly.

      ‘Was that my social worker on the phone?’ Oskar asked as I returned to the living room.

      ‘Yes. How did you know?’

      ‘You always go out of the room when he phones.’

      I smiled. ‘That’s so I don’t disturb you. I tell you what you need to know. The good news is that you can phone your Aunty Dol once a week.’

      His little face lit up. ‘When?’

      ‘We’ll start on Saturday, as it’s not that long since you last spoke to her.’

      ‘Goodie,’ he said.

      I could have added: ‘And the bad news is that your abusers are out on bail.’ But of course I didn’t. I wouldn’t be telling Oskar that unless he absolutely had to know. He was doing well now, and I didn’t want to send him back to those dark days of being scared, withdrawn and anxiously looking over his shoulder for black cars every time we went out – although it wouldn’t stop me from checking.

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