Too Scared to Tell: Part 1 of 3. Cathy Glass
fine,’ I said. ‘This way.’ It was slightly unusual for a child of his age to be more interested in their bedroom than toys. Teenagers can’t wait to chill out in their own rooms, but not so with younger children.
‘Shall I put dinner on?’ Paula asked. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Yes, please. There’s a casserole in the fridge that just needs popping in the oven.’
While Paula went to the kitchen, I took Oskar upstairs. Children react differently to the stress of coming into care: some are very loud and display challenging behaviour, while others, like Oskar, are quiet and withdrawn. The latter is more worrying, as it suggests the child is internalizing their pain, rather than letting it out.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ I told him as we followed the landing round to his bedroom. He was holding my hand – in fact, gripping it quite tightly. ‘Do you have your own bedroom at home?’ I asked him as his gaze travelled warily around his room. He looked at me, confused. ‘Or do you share a bedroom?’ Information like this would usually have been available on the placement forms, had the move been planned in advance. It would have helped me build up a picture of Oskar’s home life before coming into care so I could better meet his needs; for example, if a child is used to sharing a bedroom with siblings, they might need a lot of reassurance on their first few nights of sleeping alone.
‘I sleep with Mummy,’ Oskar said.
‘OK.’ Although I wouldn’t have expected a child of Oskar’s age to be sleeping with a parent.
‘And Maria, Elana and Alina,’ he added.
‘Who are they?’ I asked, puzzled.
He shrugged.
‘Are they your sisters?’
He shook his head.
‘Cousins? Friends?’
He shrugged again and began to look very worried, so I didn’t pursue it. Perhaps he was just confused by all the changes, but I’d have to tell his social worker. He would be checking Oskar’s home and seeing the sleeping arrangements for himself before he returned Oskar to his mother’s care.
‘We’ve got a nice big garden,’ I said, drawing him to the window. His room was at the rear of the house and overlooked the garden. He was just tall enough to see over the windowsill. ‘You can play out there when the weather is nice, and we also have a park nearby.’
Oskar turned from the window to survey the room. ‘Do you like your bedroom?’ I asked. He didn’t reply. ‘Once we have some of your belongings from home in here it will feel more comfortable.’ Still no response. ‘Would you like to see the rest of the upstairs?’
He gave a small nod.
He slipped his hand into mine again and I showed him the toilet first, and at the same time asked him if he needed to use it, but he didn’t. ‘This is Adrian’s room,’ I said, moving to the next door along the landing. ‘He’s grown up now, but you’ll meet him later when he gets in from work.’ I opened Adrian’s bedroom door just so Oskar could see inside. ‘All our bedrooms are private,’ I said. ‘Just for us.’ I closed Adrian’s door and went along the landing, opening and closing the girls’ bedroom doors, the bathroom and finally my bedroom.
‘There is where I sleep,’ I said.
He looked in. ‘Do I sleep in here?’
‘No, love, in your own bedroom, the one we went in first. If you need me in the night, just call out and I’ll come to you.’
He looked puzzled and then asked, ‘Do you sleep by yourself?’
‘Yes. I’m divorced. Do you know what that means?’
He nodded. ‘Mummy is.’
‘OK. Come on, let’s find something to do,’ I said, and closed my bedroom door.
‘Shall I go to bed?’ he asked.
‘It’s a bit early yet. Come downstairs with me and you can play, then we’ll have dinner, and later you can go to bed.’
Oskar did as I asked, and once we were downstairs he came with me into the kitchen-diner where Paula was laying the table ready for dinner later. ‘Thanks, love,’ I said to her.
‘I need to get on with some college work now,’ she said.
‘Yes, you go. Thanks for your help.’
‘I’ll see you at dinner,’ she told Oskar and, with a smile, left.
The casserole was cooking in the oven and wouldn’t be ready for half an hour, so I suggested to Oskar that we go into the living room and play with some toys. He came with me, obedient and compliant but not enthusiastic. We sat on the floor by the toy boxes and I began taking out some of the toys, games and puzzles, trying to capture his interest. He watched me but didn’t join in. I wasn’t wholly surprised. It might take days, if not weeks, before he relaxed enough to play. Children vary.
‘Do you understand why you are in care and staying with me for now?’ I asked him. Although his social worker would have explained this and I had talked to Oskar about it in the car, there was so much to take in that, when stressed and anxious, it’s easy to forget.
He didn’t reply, so I said, ‘I’m a foster carer and I live here with my family. We are going to look after you, as your mummy can’t at present.’
I would have expected a child of his age to understand the concept phrased this way. Miss Jordan, his teacher, had said Oskar had a good grasp of English and his learning was above average. But Oskar looked at me blankly and then asked, ‘Does Mummy look after me?’
‘Yes, I think so. Usually.’ That was the impression I’d been given and what his social worker and teacher believed. But Oskar was looking bewildered, and given we knew so little about him, I thought I should try to clarify this. ‘Did your mummy look after you before she went away?’ I asked.
‘Looked after?’ he repeated questioningly.
‘Yes, made your meals, washed your clothes, played with you.’
‘No. Maybe. Sometimes,’ he said, confused.
‘Who else looked after you?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know all their names.’
‘The uncles who took you to school?’
‘Sometimes.’
The set-up at Oskar’s home seemed even more complex than his social worker or school had realized. Most children who come into care have a bond with and are loyal to their main care-giver, usually a parent or relative, even if they’ve been neglected or abused. They often try to portray them in a more positive light than they deserve out of loyalty, but not so with Oskar. He seemed to be struggling with the idea of being looked after at all.
‘When Mummy is at home, does she make your meals and spend time with you?’ I asked lightly, picking up a toy and approaching the matter from a different angle.
‘She works,’ he said, watching me.
‘OK, but when she doesn’t work, is she the one who takes care of you?’
He shrugged and began to look anxious, so again I let the subject drop. Once he was feeling more at ease, hopefully he’d begin to talk.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and see how the casserole is doing.’ I offered him my hand and we went into the kitchen, where Oskar waited a safe distance from the hot oven as I opened the door and gave the casserole a stir.
‘Hmm, that smells nice,’ he said.
‘Good. Another fifteen minutes and it will be ready to eat. What would you like