her trust in adults.
Later that day, Jodie’s social worker Eileen paid us a visit, her second in almost ten months. Predictably enough, it went much like the first and was not a success. Jodie was hostile from the start, and Eileen had great difficulty relating to her. It is usual to leave the social worker and child together, so that they can talk privately, but each time I tried to busy myself away from the lounge, one of them would immediately call me back in. Jodie would want another drink, or a jigsaw, or the television turned on, or Eileen would want to ask something trivial. For some reason Eileen seemed to want me there; I suspected she was anxious, or possibly even afraid of Jodie. After going back and forth a number of times, I decided I might as well join them, so I sat down with Jodie, and tried to get her to calm down and speak more quietly. A quarter of an hour later Eileen picked up her briefcase and, with a tight-lipped smile, left. She had done her duty.
‘Good riddance,’ said Jodie, and slammed the door behind her.
I didn’t disagree.
Chapter Twenty-Two The Fox and the Owl
It was mid-January. After a brief lull, the weather had turned bitterly cold, and we had three full days of snow. Jodie relished the excitement, and on the few occasions when I couldn’t immediately take her out into the snow, she would gaze out of the window, transfixed.
The children’s moods had lifted too. Now that they were back at school they seemed to have found a new burst of empathy for Jodie. Paula, in particular, appeared to have benefited from venting her frustrations before Christmas. We hadn’t actually arranged the sleepover yet, but she had had a number of friends round, and had made a point of encouraging Jodie to join in as part of the group, bless her.
One such afternoon Paula’s friend Olivia came for lunch, and they decided to go for a walk in the snow. My street is on the rim of a large valley, and the views are quite spectacular. Jodie pouted when she realized they were leaving, so Paula asked if Jodie and I would like to join them. Jodie was thrilled, so the four of us wrapped ourselves in coats, scarves and boots, and headed out.
As we walked up towards the high street, Paula and I each took one of Jodie’s hands, as the pavement was icy. However, despite our best efforts Jodie kept slipping over, each time falling on her bottom. The third time it happened, she remained sitting on the pavement. She crossed her arms, rolled her eyes, and sighed theatrically, ‘Here we go again!’
Paula and I grinned at each other in delight. Jodie’s usual response to this kind of adversity would have been a bitter tirade: ‘Who put that bloody ice there? Why are they doing that to me? It’s your fault! Hate you!’ and so on. Instead, she’d seen the funny side, and actively made an effort to try to make us laugh. It might not sound like much, but for us it felt like progress, and we joined in gratefully.
Jodie’s first day of school was approaching, so I took her shopping for her new school uniform. We bought two navy skirts, two jumpers with the school logo printed on them, and three white short-sleeved shirts. Jodie had behaved well in the shop, enjoying the attention, but she became angry when I opted for knee-length socks rather than tights. She wanted to have tights like Lucy and Paula wore, but I knew she’d have difficulty putting them on again after P. E. In the end, I came up with a sensible compromise, and bought Jodie a pair of white, lacy tights that she could wear at weekends.
As we arrived home, Jill phoned and told me apologetically that the couple she had been considering for respite wouldn’t be able to do it. Reason left unstated.
‘Great,’ I said tetchily. ‘I’m promised regular breaks because of the high level of Jodie’s needs, but because of that high level of needs it’s impossible to find a carer.’
‘I’m sorry, Cathy. I’ll keep looking.’
‘Yes, please do. Outside the agency if necessary.’ What I meant by this was that Jill should approach a different fostering agency for a carer. This wasn’t ideal, as standards varied, and the carers could be some distance away, but it was only one weekend and I needed a break.
On the Friday of that week we had arranged a visit to Jodie’s new school. The visit wasn’t till the afternoon, but Jodie was up early, as usual, and she immediately got dressed in her new uniform. I didn’t think this was a good idea, but I was anxious to avoid any unnecessary confrontation, so I let her keep it on, and tucked an apron round her while she ate. Despite my efforts, by the time she’d had her breakfast and lunch her uniform contained a good helping of both. I sponged off the stains as best I could, and we arrived at the school gates looking reasonably smart for the afternoon session.
Abbey Green hadn’t been my first choice, but as we arrived I was immediately impressed. The small, carpeted reception area was bright and welcoming, and the smiling receptionist greeted us warmly.
‘Hello there, Jodie. It’s very nice to meet you,’ she said, and then phoned through to the Head, who appeared with courteous promptness.
‘Adam West,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘Hi, Jodie. Very pleased you can join us.’
He could only have been in his mid-thirties, but his friendly, informal manner quickly put me at ease. ‘I thought we’d start with a tour of the school, then you can spend some time with Jodie’s class, if that sounds all right?’
‘Fine,’ I said, then turned to Jodie. ‘That sounds good, doesn’t it?’ She hid behind me, clinging to my skirt, all her bravado evaporated.
He led the way through the double doors and along a short corridor. ‘There are six classrooms leading off the main hall,’ he explained, ‘which doubles as a canteen and gym.’ As we went in, I could smell the residue of boiled greens and gravy, one constant factor shared by thousands of schools all over the country. The walls of the hall, like those of the corridors, were lined with examples of the children’s work, and Mr West proudly described the various projects that had inspired this work. There were paintings, drawings, essays, poems and computer printouts, all based on a handful of themes, such as faraway lands, water, animals and designing a house. He was so enthusiastic and child-centred in his approach that I thought to myself: if this school can’t cater for Jodie’s needs, then no one can.
We arrived at Jodie’s classroom, and the Head knocked before we went in. A sea of faces looked up curiously, before returning to their work.
‘Caroline Smith,’ he said, leading us to the class teacher. ‘This is Cathy Glass, and this is Jodie.’ We shook hands. ‘The lady over there is Mrs Rice, the classroom assistant. She’ll be helping Jodie.’
I glanced over to the table and smiled. Mrs Rice was a homely woman in her early fifties, wearing a floral patterned dress. She gave us a little wave. Jodie’s confidence had increased during the tour, and she started wandering between the tables, peering over the children’s shoulders. One boy shifted uncomfortably.
‘Jodie, come here,’ I called. But she ignored me.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘They’re just finishing a piece of creative writing from our literacy hour. She can look.’
Mr West took his leave. ‘If you have any questions, I’ll be in my office at the end of the day.’
I thanked him, then spent some minutes with Mrs Smith, as she explained how the tables were grouped. She suggested I have a look around, so I did, feeling intrusively conspicuous. I felt like a giant as I walked among the miniature tables
