Saving Danny. Cathy Glass
run. He came out and I led the way to his bedroom.
‘This is your bedroom,’ I said. ‘I hope you like it. It will be better once you’ve got your things around you.’
Danny didn’t comment, nor did he look around the room, but he went to his holdall and unzipped it. At the top lay a soft-toy rabbit, which he picked up and held lovingly to his cheek.
‘George,’ he said with a small sigh, and for the first time since he’d arrived I saw him smile.
Chapter Four
I was upstairs for two hours helping Danny get ready for bed. He didn’t have a huge amount in his holdall – there was a couple of changes of clothes, pyjamas, a towel and wash bag – but Danny insisted on unpacking it all himself, and he was very precise. First he spent some time deciding which drawers to put his clothes in, then he spent a long time arranging them and rearranging them until, mindful of the time, I began chivvying him along. Once he was satisfied that his clothes were in the right drawer and positioned correctly he spent more time arranging his soft toy rabbit on the pillow, repositioning it in a number of different places.
‘It won’t ever be quite the same as at your house,’ I said, for clearly Danny couldn’t replicate exactly what he had at home.
But Danny continued until he was satisfied, and then finally changed into his pyjamas, neatly folding the clothes he’d taken off and placing them squarely at the foot of his bed, as I guessed he did at home. Eventually we went round the landing and into the bathroom. I showed him where everything was, and he spent some time arranging his towel and wash things beside ours. He was probably the most precise and self-sufficient six-year-old I’d ever come across, yet at the same time there was a vulnerability about him that was younger than his years.
‘You can have a bath tomorrow evening,’ I told him. ‘There isn’t time tonight. A good wash will be fine for now.’
Danny didn’t object and I placed the childstep in front of the hand basin so that he could comfortably reach into the bowl. He then spent some moments repositioning the step, squaring it, before he was satisfied and finally stood on it. I put the plug into the sink and turned on the taps. Danny turned them off, and then on again, wanting to do it himself.
‘The water is hot,’ I said, turning down the hot tap. ‘I need to help you with this.’ His face set; he didn’t like my interference, but he was six, and in some things he had to accept my help for his own safety. ‘Hot water can burn you,’ I told him.
He didn’t reply but stared blankly at the sink. I ran the water and checked the temperature. ‘That’s fine now,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to wash your face, or can you do it?’
There was pause before he picked up his flannel, folded it in half and half again, carefully submerged it in the water, squeezed it out and began washing his face. ‘Good boy,’ I said.
As Danny washed and dried his face and then cleaned his teeth, I saw there was something measured, almost ritualistic, in the way he performed the tasks. I guessed he carried them out exactly the same way every evening. In cleaning his teeth he carefully unscrewed the cap of his toothpaste, set the cap to one side, squirted a precise amount of paste onto his toothbrush, put down the brush, screwed the cap back on the paste and then began cleaning his teeth. Such exactness was very unusual for a child, and of course it was a slow process. I realized we would have to start the bedtime routine earlier in future. When Danny brushed his teeth the movement was so regular that it created a little rhythm as the brush went back and forth over his upper front teeth, then the left and right, and the same on his lower teeth. But he appeared content, as though he enjoyed the feel of it. I began to think he could continue indefinitely, so eventually I said, ‘You’ve done a good job, Danny. You can rinse out now.’
There was a pause before he did as I’d asked. Then he patted his mouth dry on his towel and returned it to the rail, where he spent some moments squaring it before he was satisfied. I wondered how much of his precise and ritualistic behaviour was because he was anxious and how much was just part of Danny. He was certainly an unusual little fellow, and I clearly had a lot to learn about him.
It was now nearly nine o’clock, and while I’d been upstairs Adrian, Lucy and Paula had come up and were in their rooms getting ready for bed. As Danny and I went round the landing I pointed out everyone’s bedrooms, but he didn’t want to look in.
‘If you need me in the night, call out and I’ll come to you,’ I said. ‘There is a night light on the landing, but I don’t want you wandering around by yourself. So call me if you need me.’ I told all the children this on their first night, although given Danny’s lack of language I doubted he would call me. I was a light sleeper, though, and usually woke if a child was out of bed. We continued into his bedroom. ‘Do you want your curtains open or closed?’ I asked him, as I asked all children when they first arrived.
Danny didn’t reply and looked bewildered. ‘They are closed now,’ I said. ‘Are they all right like that?’
He gave a small shake of the head and then went over to the curtains and parted them slightly.
I smiled. ‘Good boy. I’ll know what you want next time. Do you sleep with your light on or off?’ This was also important for helping a child settle.
Danny didn’t say anything but went to the light switch and dimmed it.
‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘Is there anything else you need before you get into bed?’
He shook his head and climbed into bed, then snuggled down. He pulled the duvet right up over his head and drew the soft-toy rabbit beneath it.
‘Won’t you be too hot like that?’ I asked him.
There was no reply.
I tried easing the duvet down a little away from his face so he could breathe, but he pulled it up over his head again.
‘All right then, love. I’ll say goodnight.’ It was strange saying goodnight without being able to see his face. Often a child wanted a hug or a goodnight kiss, or, missing home, asked me to sit with them while they went off to sleep. Clearly Danny didn’t want any of these.
‘Night then, love,’ I said to the lump in the duvet that was Danny. Silence. ‘Do you want your door open or closed?’ I asked before I left.
There was no answer, so I left the door slightly ajar and came out. I’d check on him later. Yet as I went round the landing to Paula’s room I heard Danny get out of bed and quietly close his door. He had known what he wanted but hadn’t been able to tell me. Whether this was from poor language skills, shyness or some other reason I couldn’t say.
Once I’d checked that Paula, Lucy and Adrian were OK and getting ready for bed, I went downstairs. I would go up later when they were in bed to say goodnight. I was exhausted, but I knew I should write up my fostering notes before I went to bed while the events of the day were still fresh in my mind. All foster carers in England are asked to keep a daily log in respect of the child or children they are looking after. They record any significant events that have affected the child, the child’s wellbeing and general development, as well as any appointments the child may have. It is a confidential document, and when the child leaves the foster carer it is sent to the social services, where it is held on file.
I sat on the sofa in the living room with a mug of tea within reach and headed the sheet of A4 paper with the date. I then recorded objectively how I’d collected Danny from school and the details of how he was gradually settling in, ending with the time he went to bed and his routine. I placed the sheet in the folder I’d already begun for Danny, and which would eventually contain all the paperwork I had on him. I returned the folder to the lockable draw in the front room and went upstairs to say goodnight to Paula, Lucy and Adrian. Then I checked on Danny. He was still buried beneath the duvet and, concerned he would be too hot and breathing stale air, I crept to the