I Miss Mummy: The true story of a frightened young girl who is desperate to go home. Cathy Glass
continued to look at me in wonder but didn’t move. I gently eased her legs out of bed and helped her to stand. ‘This way,’ I said cheerily, taking her hand. ‘The toilet is round here.’ I led her from the bedroom and round the landing to the toilet, where I opened the door.
She stood looking in, making no attempt to use the toilet. ‘Can you manage by yourself?’ I asked. ‘Or do you need some help?’ At her age she should have been able to manage the toilet alone, although I’d looked after many children who couldn’t. ‘Do you want some help?’ I asked again.
Alice slowly shook her head and began to raise her dress. I held the door to, giving her some privacy, and waited for her to finish. Hearing it flush, I went in, ran some water in the sink and helped her to wash her hands. I guessed Alice probably had these self-care skills but was so overwhelmed at present she needed help. I dried her hands on the towel and then led her back along the landing towards her room.
Paula appeared from her room. ‘Hi, Alice,’ she called, smiling and giving a little wave.
Alice started, unblinking and overawed.
‘This is Paula, my daughter,’ I reminded her. ‘You remember you saw her last night?’ A little smile crossed Alice’s face. ‘She remembers,’ I said to Paula. ‘She’s just very shy at present.’
‘See you at breakfast,’ Paula said. ‘I’m going to shower and dress.’
She gave another little wave and Alice very cautiously raised one hand and gave a little wave back.
At the age of four a child should normally be able to dress him or herself, apart from tricky bits like doing up buttons and shoelaces. But as Alice had come into care with so little information, I’d no idea what she was capable of doing. And given that she was clearly overwhelmed, if not traumatized, I told her I would help her dress. She cooperated by raising her hands so that I could easily draw her dress up and over her head. As I changed her into the clean clothes I also, unfortunately, had to keep a lookout for any marks or bruises which might have suggested she’d been physically abused, and which I’d have to tell the social worker about as soon as their offices opened. Alice, like all children coming into care, would have a medical but it might not be arranged for another two to three weeks.
I’ll never forget the time, in my early years of fostering, when I stripped an eighteen-month-old toddler ready for his bath only find his torso covered in angry bruises and red weals, which turned out to be cigarette burns. It was late in the evening on the day he’d arrived and I was completely shocked. I quickly wrapped him in his clothes again and, leaving the bath, fled to Accident and Emergency at our local hospital. They examined and X-rayed him and kept him in overnight (I stayed with him). The paediatrician’s report showed that the toddler had eighteen recent bruises, thirteen cigarette burns and two (old) fractures to his ribs. I’d been so shocked and horrified that anyone, let alone a parent, could inflict such cruelty on a small child that the memory of that night had stayed vivid. But as I now changed Alice thankfully there were no marks of any description and she looked very clean and well cared for.
Once I’d helped her into the new tracksuit I sat her on the bed and, kneeling at her feet, began putting the socks on her. As I worked I could feel her large eyes looking at me, probably wondering who on earth this strange woman was, who was nothing like her nana. I could hear the rest of the family getting ready: Lucy’s music was on, Paula had finished in the bathroom and was now in her bedroom getting dressed, and Adrian was in the shower.
‘OK, love,’ I said. ‘Ready.’ I lifted Alice off the bed. ‘Let’s go downstairs for some breakfast and you can tell me what you’d like to eat. We’ve got lots of different cereals, or you can have toast, or egg, or whatever you like.’ (Within reason, I thought.)
Alice looked up at me, her little mouth slightly open in wonder; then she slipped her hand into mine. I smiled, and we went out of her bedroom and towards the top of the stairs. Before we began downstairs she drew me to a halt, and I looked down into her big brown eyes.
‘Cathy?’ she asked quietly, and innocently. ‘Are you going to be my mummy now?’
I could have wept. ‘Oh, love,’ I said, bending down so I was at her height. ‘I’m not your mummy, but I will be doing mummy things for you. While you are with me I’ll look after you – make your meals, take you to nursery, play with you and take you to the park. Is that OK?’
Alice considered this for a moment and then said, ‘Is that what mummies do?’
‘Yes, love, usually, or perhaps it was your nana and grandpa who did those things for you?’
She gave a small nod. ‘Yes, my nana and grandpa did mummy things, while my mummy was ill. I miss my nana and grandpa. Can I see them soon?’
‘Yes, I hope so, love.’ And again I wondered why Alice hadn’t been allowed to stay with her grandparents, who seemed to have done a good job of looking after her and were obviously much loved.
Alice was very quiet at breakfast, which was hardly surprising, given the unfamiliarity of everyone and everything around her. Between the children and me we’d managed to coax from her that she’d like cornflakes for breakfast, ‘Like I have at my nana’s,’ she said. Relieved that I could give her some continuity, even if it was only breakfast, I’d tipped cornflakes into a child’s china bowl decorated with Beatrix Potter characters, added milk and a sprinkling of sugar, and joined the rest of the family at the table. I’d had to rummage in the cupboard under the stairs for the child booster seat which Alice now sat on so she could reach the table – it was some time since we’d fostered a child as young as Alice. Now she sat at the table at the right height with her spoon resting in the untouched bowl of cornflakes and stared at us in amazement.
I was sitting next to Alice and as I ate my breakfast I encouraged Alice to eat hers. I filled the spoon with cornflakes and left it on the edge of the bowl for her to put it into her mouth – she was too old to be fed as a baby or toddler. But invariably the spoon never left the bowl; or if it did it stopped en route to her mouth; or when she did manage a mouthful, she chewed for so long she almost forgot what she was doing. Alice, bless her, was mesmerized by us, overwhelmed and in a complete daze. She hardly took her eyes from Adrian, who was sitting diagonally opposite her. He had eaten three wheat biscuits, and was now on his second slice of toast and jam.
‘Perhaps you could encourage Alice to eat?’ I said quietly to him across the table.
Adrian looked at Alice and smiled kindly. ‘Come on Alice, eat up. You want to be a big strong girl, don’t you?’
Alice’s eyes characteristically widened and she continued to stare at Adrian, mesmerized, the spoon still resting on the bowl. ‘Come on, eat up,’ he tried again. ‘I’m winning.’
Alice grinned at Adrian, which I supposed was something, but her spoon lay untouched. Presently I filled it and then, with her holding the end of the spoon, I guided it to her lips. I was sure, as I had been previously about Alice knowing how to dress herself, that she had these skills but was simply overawed. Breakfast was therefore very slow and piecemeal. Adrian and Paula finished and left the table to get ready for school, which left Lucy sitting opposite Alice, and me at Alice’s side. Ironically, it was Lucy, whose eating I had grave concerns about, who finally persuaded Alice to eat her cornflakes.
‘Let’s eat our cereal together,’ Lucy said gently, smiling at Alice from across the table. ‘Do what I do, and copy me. Dip your spoon into your bowl, like this,’ she said, showing her. ‘Now scoop up the biggest spoonful ever, and pop it in!’
Alice laughed, and then to my great relief she followed Lucy’s example with a spoonful of her own. Five minutes later both bowls were