shrugged. ‘Just know. Girls like it and men do it. Mummies, daddies and girls.’
‘And were you pretending Julie was a mummy or a girl?’
‘Don’t know. A lady.’
‘OK, so if Julie was the lady, who were you pretending to be?’
‘The man!’ She frowned, impatient at my slowness.
‘Any man? Or were you thinking of one?’
She hesitated, screwing up her brow. ‘Don’t know. A daddy. A big big daddy.’
I couldn’t read anything into this. All men were daddies to her, as they are to many young children. I needed to steer her round to describing what she had seen, and where, but before I could get any further she suddenly jumped up and started kicking the doll viciously.
‘It’s her fault!’ she shouted, her eyes blazing. ‘It’s her fault! I told her no! Now look what you’ve done! I told you to keep your big mouth shut!’
I flinched as the doll’s plastic head clattered against the radiator. She was shouting at Julie as if repeating something that she’d heard. I took her arm, picked up the doll, and led the three of us to the sofa. ‘Come on, sweet, calm down. There’s no point in hurting Julie.’
She cradled the doll in her lap, and stroked her head, whispering words of comfort, trying to make her better. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You’re safe with me. Sshh. Sshh. It was wrong of the man, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, not sure if she was talking to the doll or me. ‘What the man did seemed very wrong.’ I paused. ‘Jodie, sometimes we see things that we don’t understand. It looks like people are hurting each other and it can make us very unhappy. Did you see a man kissing a woman there?’ I pointed to the doll’s legs. ‘What we call our private parts?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you see this? On television?’
‘In the bedroom and the car,’ she replied clearly.
‘The car? I don’t understand. Was there a television in the car?’
She shook her head.
‘But you saw this in a bedroom and a car?’
She nodded.
‘Whose car was it?’
‘The man’s. It was a big van.’
I paused. ‘Was it a film, Jodie, or was it real?’
She screwed up her eyes, as though blotting out the image. Her reply was barely audible. ‘Real. He was there. The girl and the daddy.’
‘And who was the girl? Do you know her name?’
She crushed the doll’s face into her chest. ‘Jodie. Me. Jodie’s bedroom. Daddy’s car.’
‘Your daddy?’
‘Yes.’
We sat quietly for some time. I had my arm around Jodie, and she had hers around Julie. My heart was thumping and my mouth was dry. This was the very worst confirmation of my suspicions. The little pieces of evidence had all been pointing this way but I had forced myself not to jump to conclusions and I’d been hoping against hope that what I feared would not be the case. I knew that Jodie had now given me the key to all her suffering, hurt, self-loathing and despair.
I had to continue asking her questions and make the most of this moment when she was willing to talk, but I was holding back. I didn’t want to hear the answers, didn’t want to know the extent of what had happened to this poor child – but my professional, practical side told me that what she said now would be crucial in determining her future, not only in terms of whether she would return to her parents, but also with a view to a possible prosecution. As part of my foster-care training, I’d attended sessions on aspects of sexual abuse. I had learned that the first disclosure is vital, as children rarely lie, and what they said should be recorded verbatim so that it could be used in court. It was important that I handled it properly. My training had told me that I must not lead her, but had to question her in such a way that would let her tell me in her own words what had happened. Unfortunately, I had not been told much more than this and I had certainly never been in a situation like this before. But I had learned how to deal gently with children who revealed experiences of violence and neglect, and I knew that I would have to draw on that now and hope that it was the right way to help Jodie open up.
I looked down at the doll. She had used it to represent herself, and it was no coincidence that she’d given it a name similar to her own. Children sometimes use role play to dramatize things that they can’t express verbally about themselves.
‘Jodie,’ I said, quietly. ‘You’ve been very brave telling me this. I know how difficult it is. Now I want you to try and tell me everything you remember so that I can help you. OK?’
She nodded.
‘Good girl.’ I paused and took a breath. I needed to be careful. I couldn’t lead her otherwise it would invalidate any evidence which might later be used in court. ‘When I came into the room just now you were pretending Julie was you and you were your daddy.’ The term stuck in my throat. ‘If we do that again do you think you can show me what happened? I know it’s difficult, pet.’
She nodded again and I gave her a hug, then took the doll from her arms and lay her on the sofa between us. I put on her pants, and covered them with the dress. If this was to be any use, she needed to show me step by step what had happened, as it would have to stand up under cross-examination.
‘OK. So Julie is now Jodie. Where is she? In the car, bedroom, kitchen, garden? You tell me.’
‘Not the garden, silly,’ she grinned. ‘The bedroom.’
‘Right, so whose bedroom is it?’
‘Mine. Jodie’s bedroom. At home.’
‘And what is Jodie wearing?’
‘Her pyjamas.’
‘So we’ll pretend these are her pyjamas.’ I pointed to the doll’s pants. ‘Is Jodie in bed or hasn’t she got in yet?’
‘In bed,’ she stated categorically.
‘And is the light on or off?’
‘Off.’
‘Now tell me, is Jodie asleep or awake?’
‘Sleep.’ She screwed up her eyes to demonstrate.
‘OK, good girl. So Jodie is asleep in her bed. Now what happens?’
We both looked at the doll. She thought for a moment, then stood and went over to the door. ‘I’m coming in,’ she growled, broadening her shoulders and stamping
