Four Waifs on Our Doorstep (8 page)

They used their wide vocabulary of swear words all the time, whether they were angry with each other, or pleased with something they’d done. If Anita had completed a puzzle, it was:
‘Fucking Hell. I’ve done it!’

I talked to Hamish one time when he shouted out a string of swear words at his sisters. ‘That isn’t a very nice way to speak,’ I said.

I remember the way he looked at me. He was such a beautiful boy and he looked at me with his great big, brown eyes.

‘Sorry. What did I say wrong?’

One day I sat them all down and told them that we were going to have a new chart.

‘Right. These are all your names and this is our stop-swearing chart,’ I explained. ‘And this is the tricky bit. You know about wiping bums and washing hands – the things
that you should be doing?’

‘Yes,’ chorused the eldest three, nodding.

‘Well, this is about something you should
not
do – swearing. All the words you must try not to say. We don’t want to hear them any more.’

‘How do we know what words we can’t say?’ asked Hamish.

‘Good question,’ I nodded. ‘Let’s make a list of them around the chart so that you can try and remember
not
to say them. What word do you think I should write
first?’

‘Cunt!’ yelled out Anita.

I turned away to hide my smile and listed all the swear words they told me, plus some others I had also heard them use. Then I got out four big jam jars, labelled them with their names and I put
a few 1ps and 2ps in the bottom of each jar.

‘What are they for?’ asked Hamish.

‘These are for your rewards.’

‘Rewards?’ Caroline tried to repeat the word as a question.

‘Yes, for when you manage not to swear.’ They all smiled and listened, so I carried on. ‘Right, we’re going to start with an hour at a time,’ I explained. ‘If
any of you can manage a whole hour without saying any of these words, I will put a big tick under your name and 2p in your jar.’

I think I was expecting them to protest a bit, but they all seemed keen on the idea, so off we went. It certainly seemed to work to begin with, though of course they slipped up quite often in
between. In fact, it worked so well that soon we made it 3p for two hours, then upped it to 5p for half a day.

Shopping and eating continued to be their number one obsessions, dominating our lives. But Caroline’s continuous diarrhoea was my greatest concern. She had it when she
came to us and it hadn’t got any better. It was getting worse. No matter how often I changed her nappies, every one was badly soiled and the smell was repulsive.

One day, when it was particularly bad, I took her down to the hospital, with all the others in tow as well. It was a nightmare wait, trying to keep the older two from terrorising the other
patients with their shouting and rushing around. It was like trying to make fish stop swimming, but worse. I think this may have worked in our favour, because it wasn’t long before we were
called through to be seen. I told the young man in a blue top why we had come.

‘What do you think it could be?’ I asked him, though he looked so young that I wondered whether he might not have done that part of the course yet.

‘Well, I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned about,’ he said with a cheery grin at Caroline, while Simon sat on the end of the bed, fingering the air holes in the
hospital blanket, completely oblivious to the mayhem across the room, where Hamish and Anita had opened a cupboard and were busily taking out trays of instruments.

‘Put those back in the cupboard and come over here,’ I said. ‘I’ve got some biscuits in my bag.’ That did the trick.

‘But surely there must be something wrong with her? Something causing this constant diarrhoea? Have you looked at her notes?’

‘Who is her GP? Do you think she would be on our system?’

I told him and asked him to check her notes, which I think he did, but nothing came of it.

‘What do they say?’ I asked in exasperation.

‘She’s with you on a care order, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, that’s right. They all are.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, Mrs Merry, but that means I can’t tell you what is in her notes without permission from the court.’

After all my years of fostering, I knew he was right, but it was so frustrating not being allowed to know what might be wrong with a needy child in my care.

‘It will gradually get better,’ he said. But it didn’t.

‘I’m going to take Caroline to see Dr Ogden,’ I said to Mike a couple of weeks later. She’d been our GP for years and she had always been so good with our previous foster
children, and not averse to bending the rules if it was in the child’s interests.

‘Good idea. Book her an appointment and I’ll look after the others while you take her.’

So the following day I took Caroline down to the surgery.

‘This child has permanent diarrhoea. Permanent,’ I said before we’d even sat down.

‘How often does she go to the toilet?’

‘All the time. As you can see, she’s still in nappies, and I’ve never changed a clean nappy on Caroline, no matter how often I change her.’

‘Really? Have you given us her details?’

‘Yes. Her name is Caroline Mackay.’

‘Ah yes,’ she said, picking up her records and starting to sift through. ‘Mmm,’ she said as she stopped to look at something, then leafed on. ‘There’s a lot
in here for such a young child.’

‘Yes, she’s had quite a few injuries I believe, and she has a speech problem, and this diarrhoea must have been going on for a while before she came to us. Does it say anything in
her notes about it?’

I waited while the doctor continued to skim through everything, until she came to one piece of white paper, which she unfolded. It looked like a printed letter.

‘Here we are,’ she said, turning to give Caroline a reassuring smile. ‘Now, let me see . . .’ She read through the details in the letter, then turned to face me.
‘Well, Mrs Merry, this is dated eighteen months ago. It’s written by a consultant at the family’s local hospital and it says that Caroline was diagnosed with an impacted
bowel.’ She paused. ‘That is just what I thought when you described how continuous it is.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said when I heard the word ‘bowel’. ‘She’s not constipated. She’s got diarrhoea.’

‘Yes, that’s right. You see, what can happen if the bowel is impacted is that the acids can make a hole in the middle, so that means constant diarrhoea, like Caroline has.’

‘Oh, I see. Is there anything she can take to make it better, or does she need an operation?’

‘No, I hope it won’t come to that. I’m going to give you a prescription for her and if you follow the instructions on the label, you should see a great improvement within a few
days.’

‘Thank goodness,’ I sighed. ‘Thank you.’

We went to a chemist on the way home and started her on the medicine straight away. That was a Thursday evening and we gave her three spoonfuls a day. I didn’t expect it to work
immediately, but it did seem to be improving within hours, so I was really pleased. All through Friday the diarrhoea lessened, until it was barely an occasional trickle.

‘It’s amazing the difference that medicine is making to Caroline,’ I said to Mike when we got up on the Saturday morning. But for the first time, she didn’t eat all her
breakfast. And she seemed quite listless and droopy. It wasn’t a very warm day, so I wrapped her in a blanket and laid her down on the settee in the study while I went to make her a drink.
When I was in the kitchen I suddenly heard a great commotion, and somebody was shouting for me. I ran to the other side of the house, where they were all gathered round her, with brown froth coming
out of her mouth. She was covered in it and the froth was everywhere.

‘Go and get the biggest towels you can find in the airing cupboard,’ I said to Mike. ‘Put her in that and I’ll pop round to the surgery.’

‘Take her straight down to A & E,’ said Dr Ogden.

Half an hour later, I was in a cubicle, next to Caroline’s bed, holding her hand and soothing her as best I could. She’d had such a fright. We all had.

‘When did she come into care?’ asked a woman registrar. ‘Do you know anything about her background?’

‘Not a lot. But she was badly neglected and had a lot of minor injuries when she came, as well as a badly broken arm, which her brother told me was caused by a male visitor.’

I saw the look she gave the nurse. Then they both left the room.

I could hear their voices talking nearby, and a male voice too, but I only managed to pick out a few words. ‘Foster mum . . . can’t tell her . . . classic case . . . penetration . .
. impacted bowel . . .’ It was enough for me to work out what they were thinking.

Only a couple of days later, when I was talking to another woman I knew who had fostered children, I mentioned all this.

‘Yes, we’ve had children with that problem too. I found out later that the most likely reason for a young child to have an impacted bowel is sexual abuse.’

I told Mike what she had said. ‘Do you think that could be the reason for Caroline’s impacted bowel?’

‘Possibly,’ he hesitated. ‘But I expect there could be other causes too.’

‘Yes. But I wouldn’t be surprised if that was it. I just wish they’d tell me. It’s so frustrating when everyone knows and they won’t say anything to us.’

‘Never mind, love. As long as we help her cope with it. That’s the main thing.’

‘Yes, you’re right. Well, at least A & E took her seriously this time and gave her a thorough examination. If they’d done that the first time I took her, maybe it
wouldn’t have made her so ill.’

‘Yes,’ Mike sighed as he opened out his newspaper.

‘But there’s always something to worry about with these four. I wonder what it will be next.’

7

A
longside the swearing chart, we had a behaviour chart, with stickers for good behaviour. The children all loved to see the columns and the jars
filling up.

‘What happens when the jar is full and we can’t get any more money into it?’ asked Hamish.

‘I’ll give you another jar.’

He beamed with pride as he went to bed that evening. But the next morning he was a different boy. The others were all sitting at the breakfast table in the kitchen, when Hamish stormed in. I
don’t know what had happened to change him, but he just went ballistic, shouting obscenities, punching Anita’s arm, pinching Caroline, then throwing his breakfast bowl, full of cereal,
onto the tiled floor, so it smashed into smithereens and splattered milk everywhere.

‘What’s the matter, love?’ I tried to give him a cuddle, but he wriggled free and kicked my leg. ‘Ouch! That hurt.’

‘Good!’ he shouted. ‘I fucking hate you. I hate this fucking place—’

‘Right,’ I interrupted him. ‘You’ve thrown away your breakfast and you’ve hurt and upset everybody, so I think we’ll have to empty your jar and you can go up
to your room. You can shout and swear as much as you like up there. Kick the furniture if you want. It’s your furniture, so if you damage it, you’re only harming yourself. Make as much
noise as you want. Nobody will hear you, so that’s fine. But don’t come down until you are ready to start the day again.’

He looked as if he was going to refuse, and for a moment I wondered how I would deal with that. But the fire fizzled out. He turned around and stomped off, up the stairs. I heard the door slam,
but nothing more for a couple of hours. I emptied his jar in front of the other three, leaving just 4p at the bottom, and they looked as subdued as I felt. This was a big setback for seven-year-old
Hamish and I worried what would happen next.

The house was unusually calm after that outburst. The two girls played quietly together for once in the playroom. Simon sat by a box of cars, taking them out one at a time and opening their
doors, opening and shutting the boot, or whatever else a particular car had on it. At least he was doing something. I was baking in the kitchen when I heard a sound behind me.

I turned round to see Hamish standing in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other, his face a mixture of embarrassment and pleading, like a puppy who’s just made a big puddle on
the best carpet. He looked so uncomfortable and unsure of himself.

‘Hello, Hame. Are you feeling better now?’

‘Yes,’ he said, barely audible.

‘Good. Then you can come over here and give me a hug.’ I held my arms wide and hoped that would break the ice for him.

He hesitated for only a couple of seconds, shrinking back like a wounded animal, then ran over and gave me that hug. I cuddled him, the flour from my hands all over his T-shirt, as I felt his
tense little body relax.

‘Look what a mess I’ve made on you,’ I laughed.

‘Sorry,’ he whispered. Then louder, ‘I’m sorry I was so horrible.’

‘You’re not horrible, Hame.’ I ruffled his hair, growing through at last. ‘It’s not you. It’s all that happened to you. All the responsibilities you had to
take on. It must have been a very hard life for you. It’s not your fault if remembering all that makes you angry sometimes. We must help you learn to cope with that anger. The only thing you
did wrong was to take your temper out on your sisters and me.’

‘Sorry,’ he repeated, looking up at me with his sad brown eyes.

‘It’s all gone and forgotten,’ I reassured him. ‘Now sit down and I’ll make you some breakfast. And after that we’ll go shopping.’

That made him smile. Then his face clouded over again.

‘What are you thinking about now?’

‘I like going shopping every day,’ he said. ‘And making sure we have enough food. But . . .’

‘But what, Hame?’

‘Well, do you think we could buy some food for my mum too?’

I put some bacon on and filled a big bowl with cereals and milk for him. ‘How could we get it to her?’

‘Well, we could buy her some sandwiches when we go to the supermarket.’

‘Yes, we could if you want, but we can’t send sandwiches through the post.’