was to move Jodie to new carers, which was clearly in no one’s interests – especially not Jodie’s. And who would take her anyway, with her complex needs, and at such short notice?
The meeting went as I had expected. We discussed all the possible options, before deciding on the sensible course: namely, to do nothing. I was relieved to get out of there and was just shaking my head at the monumental waste of time we had all been through when Eileen caught up with me in the corridor.
‘Cathy, just before you go, can I give you this? It’s a Christmas present for Jodie. Her father asked me to pass it on to her.’
I stared at her, astonished, as she held out a well-used Tesco carrier bag.
‘I’m not sure it’s really appropriate, Eileen,’ I said, with forced diplomacy and reminding myself of my professionalism. ‘Contact has been suspended, and present-giving is usually classified as contact, particularly in a case like this. Jodie feels very hostile towards her parents at the moment, understandably.’
‘Oh, right,’ she replied, mulling this over. ‘Do you want me to give it back then?’ As she said this, she pulled the unwrapped present out of the bag, presumably to show me how harmless it was, and that I was being over-cautious. It was a bright pink, long-sleeved T-shirt, with ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’ printed on the front in big sparkly letters. Eileen looked at it, then held it up. ‘So you don’t think Jodie would like it?’ she said.
I was almost lost for words as I looked at her holding up a T-shirt that was just about the most bitterly ironic thing I’d ever seen.
‘Eileen,’ I said, slowly and deliberately, ‘Jodie has been sexually abused by her father, probably for most of her life. I don’t think a T-shirt calling her daddy’s little girl is very appropriate, do you? If I gave her this, Jodie would be terrified by the sight of it.’
The penny dropped. ‘Oh, yes. Right, I take your point. We’ll give it back then. Have a lovely Christmas!’
By the time I reached my car, I was still shaking my head in astonishment.
I was determined to make sure Jodie enjoyed Christmas, and started to feel part of the family. I knew from sad experience that foster children have often missed out on Christmas in the past. In fact, because they’re at home for at least two whole days, and their parents tend to drink more, it can be the worst time of year for many children.
I remembered my previous placement, Callum, a sweet-natured ten-year-old. Callum had lived with his mother, who was a non-functioning alcoholic. That meant that she was incapable of leading a normal life, she was too locked into the prison of her alcohol dependency. The Christmas before Callum came to me, his father had sent him a cheque, which his mother had subsequently taken and spent on drink. On Christmas Day, she’d woken up after midday with a hangover, and then tried to make Christmas dinner. She hadn’t done any shopping, so she’d peeled the breadcrumbs off some chicken nuggets, and tried to pass it off to Callum as roast turkey.
Despite her drink problem, Callum’s mother hadn’t been violent or abusive towards him, but her alcoholism had been such that Callum had had to look after her, rather than vice versa. For the previous three years, he hadn’t had a single Christmas or birthday present. The Christmas he spent with us, I bought him a skateboard, helmet and kneepads, and when he opened them he ran out of the room, because he didn’t want us to see him cry.
On Christmas morning, Jodie was up before six as usual, but she seemed to regard it as just another day. The previous night, we had all hung pillowcases on our doors, and these were now full of presents. I led Jodie downstairs and showed her that the glass of sherry, mince pie and carrots had all disappeared, which meant that Father Christmas had come to visit in the night.
‘That’s nice, Cathy,’ she replied, as if humouring me. Throughout the morning, even as we opened up the presents under the tree, Jodie remained fairly flat, but she did seem to have some understanding of the importance of the day. She behaved well and generally joined in with the family. As I watched her, I hoped that, even though she wasn’t showing much enthusiasm, the goodwill of the day was having some impact, and that she would remember it fondly in the future.
In the afternoon my parents arrived, along with my brother Tom, his wife Chloe and their six-year-old, Ewan. Suddenly the house was full of noise and excitement, and I realized how cut off we had all become from our normal lives. For one thing, I hadn’t had any adult company for more than a week. Jodie had met all of my family before when they had come round to visit me in the usual run of things, and they always included the children I fostered, treating them like members of the family. Nonetheless she seemed a little startled when they all arrived at once, and she remained inhibited for most of the day.
After I’d made a round of drinks, we all gathered together in the lounge, ready to exchange presents. My family had brought some for us, and we had kept theirs under the tree, ready and waiting. We were all excited, but I could see that this was another ritual which was new to Jodie. As the presents were handed out, she stared at the others, taking cues on how to behave. She watched Ewan as he opened a present, and then she followed suit. She looked at it blankly, and I had to coax her to show excitement.
‘That’s lovely, Jodie, isn’t it? You can play with that this afternoon. Will you say thank you?’
She did as she was told, but without any of the excitement and shining eyes that Christmas usually brought to children. Throughout the day, she didn’t seem ungrateful for what she was given, and she did seem to like some of her gifts, but it was sad to see her having to mimic the enthusiasm and happiness that came naturally to the others.
After dinner we sat around and played games, as we slowly recovered from the meal. The girls worked hard to include Jodie, but she grew irritable, perhaps worn out by the excitement of the day. She went through the motions of playing the various games, but didn’t seem to derive any pleasure from them. When she didn’t win she became angry, and slammed her fist on the arm of the sofa. When she did win she was flat; she couldn’t take any pleasure from it, and couldn’t celebrate gregariously with the others. When we cheered for her, she joined in, but it seemed hollow.
Some time later she seemed to become frustrated and started holding her nose. I ignored it at first, suspecting that she was simply seeking attention, but when she persisted I eventually asked what was wrong.
‘My nose hurts,’ she said, her voice muffled by her hand.
‘Oh dear,’ I replied. ‘Can I take a look?’ She removed her hand, but squirmed away when I tried to touch her face. ‘I can’t see anything wrong. Is there anything I can do?’
‘It hurts!’ she moaned.
‘Why does it hurt, Jodie? Have you done something to it?’
‘It hurts.’ She was getting louder, and did seem to be in pain.
‘OK, well, come with me, and we’ll put a cold flannel on it.’ I took her into the bathroom and put the wet flannel to her face. ‘Can you tell me what you did, Jodie, to make it hurt?’
‘It was him. He whacked me in the face.’
‘Who, Jodie?’
‘Daddy! He thumped me,’ she wailed, sounding like she was about to cry.
I
