The Saddest Girl in the World. Cathy GlassЧитать онлайн книгу.
I always ask the fostered child this when they first arrive; it's an intrusion in their personal space to just assume they want a kiss.
She nodded slightly and I leant further forward and kissed her forehead. ‘Night, love, sleep tight. We'll have a good day tomorrow. We'll unpack first — it's nice to have all your things around you. I'm so pleased you have come to stay with us.’
I hesitated again, hoping, wishing, she would say something, some verbal acknowledgement that she was all right and not in need of anything. But there was absolutely nothing.
‘Night, love,’ I said again. ‘Would you like your bedroom door open or closed?’ She gave a small shrug. ‘OK, I'll close it a little.’
With a final glance at her I came out and pulled the door to without shutting it fully. Adrian was in the bathroom, having changed into his pyjamas, and was now finishing his washing and teeth brushing. I waited on the landing until he came out, and then I saw him into bed. ‘If you're reading tonight, it's only for a short while,’ I said. Although we didn't have to be up early for school in the morning, if Adrian didn't have enough sleep, he was not at his best, to put it mildly. Kissing him goodnight, I left him reading by the light of his lamp and came out and shut his bedroom door right to, as he liked it. I looked in on Paula, who was fast asleep; then I listened outside Donna's door. There was no sound, but I didn't go in in case I disturbed her. I would check on her later on my way to bed.
I went downstairs, locked the back door, and then flopped on to the sofa in the lounge and put my feet on the footstool. I was absolutely exhausted, and it seemed incredible that only ten hours had passed since I had received Jill's call about Donna. It wasn't only anxious anticipation of Donna's arrival, and welcoming her, that had drained me, but the relentless effort to get any form of acknowledgement from her, and the worry about what was really going on inside her head. As I sat on the sofa and slowly, gradually, began to relax, I realised that even though I had fostered over thirty children, Donna was the first to have spent an entire evening in the house and gone to bed without uttering a single word. I wondered just how long she could keep it up.
Donna maintained her vow of silence, if that is what it was, for the whole of the weekend. Not having slept well on Friday night, I rose early on Saturday morning, and went downstairs for a coffee. At 8.00 I heard movement coming from Donna's bedroom and I went up, knocked on her door and entered.
She was in her nightdress, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the carpet. I asked her if she had slept well and if she needed anything, and was met with the same shake of the head. I left her to get dressed, and she finally came down at nearly 10.00, by which time Paula and Adrian had long since eaten their breakfasts and were playing in the garden. I asked Donna what she would like for breakfast and gave her the options — a choice of cereal, toast or egg and bacon. But there was no response other than a shrug, so, unable to decipher her preferred menu, I gave her the safe bet of cornflakes, followed by toast and honey, with a drink of juice, which she ate slowly and in silence, alone at the table. I had taken my coffee to the table as I gave her the breakfast, but she seemed so uncomfortable with my presence that eventually I busied myself in the kitchen and left her to eat alone. When she had finished, I told her to go and brush her teeth and have a wash, which she did without comment, while I cleared away her breakfast things.
If I had thought it was hard work the previous evening, it got steadily worse during the day, and not wishing to be unkind, it was like having a zombie in the house. Her downcast face, her stooped shoulders, her slowly lumbering gait would have suggested depression had she been an adult, and I thought that if she didn't improve over the weekend I would phone Jill and Edna first thing on Monday and suggest I take her to the doctor.
After Donna had finished in the bathroom I told her we would unpack her things. I had already carried up all the bags and boxes and stacked them on the landing. I now pulled the large suitcase into her bedroom and, setting it on the bed, opened it. ‘We'll hang up these clothes in the wardrobe,’ I said, and I began unfolding her jeans and joggers and draping them on to the hangers. Then I took the jumpers and T-shirts and laid them in neat piles in the drawers of the wardrobe. Donna stood by in silence, her head slightly lowered and her arms loosely folded in front of her, watching me but not helping, although I encouraged her often.
It was obvious which clothes Mary and Ray had bought — they were new — and which had come with her from home — a selection of worn and faded joggers and T-shirts which not even a jumble sale would have taken. I stacked the old clothes at the bottom of the wardrobe, although clearly she would be wearing the new ones, and those I bought for her. There is a great temptation for foster carers to throw out all the rough stuff children bring with them when they come into care, but these are familiar things for the child in an otherwise unfamiliar and strange environment, and it is important they are kept until the child feels comfortable about letting them go; which was why Mary had packed them and sent them with Donna.
There were two pairs of plastic trainers with the toes out and the laces missing, which I placed at the bottom of the wardrobe, leaving the new trainers and sandals beside her bed. There were a few pieces of very old school uniform — a bobbled sweatshirt and a torn T-shirt, both with the school's logo, and a badly stained skirt. Donna had come into care right at the end of the summer term, so Mary and Ray hadn't replaced her school uniform; I would do so at the start of the next term. There were half a dozen pairs of new pants and socks, and a few pairs of white faded grey, which I packed at the bottom of the wardrobe. There was a badly stained and ripped anorak, which I assumed had been Donna's coat before coming into care, and also a new lightweight summer jacket, which I hung in the wardrobe. As I worked, separating and sorting the clothes, Donna continued to stand a little way from me, either shaking her head or nodding if I asked her something that required a yes or no answer, or shrugging if my question needed a choice.
I talked as I worked, and continually sought her opinion and advice on where things should go, in the hope of getting her to join in. ‘Shall we put this in here? This is a pretty top — where did you get it from? We'll make this the drawer for your underwear,’ and so on, but there was absolutely no response. Once the suitcase was empty, I heaved it on to the top of the wardrobe out of the way and asked Donna to bring in the last of the bags and boxes from the landing, which she did. These appeared to contain her personal things — two worn books, a torn magazine, a bare and grubby doll, a new story CD, and a crayoning book with felt-tip pens. I told Donna I would leave her to put those things away, and I opened the empty drawers, and also pulled out a store-away box from under the bed.
One of the carrier bags which I had looked in and put to one side seemed to contain an assortment of what looked like old rags. I now picked it up, and I felt Donna watching me from under her lowered eyes as I pulled it open for a closer look. There were a couple of very old vests and pieces of what looked like torn-up sheets. I wondered if these were comforters — I'd had children of Donna's age and older arrive with chewed and torn security rags and blankets which they obviously needed to keep with them until they were no longer needed. But these were very dirty and I thought that Mary would have washed them if Donna had to have them close to her, and one smelled distinctly of disinfectant.
‘What are these for?’ I asked lightly. But there was no reply, not even a shrug. ‘Shall I get rid of them?’ Donna shook her head rigorously, with more enthusiasm than she'd shown in response to any of my previous questions. ‘I'll put the bag in the wardrobe then,’ I said. I slid open the door at the bottom of the wardrobe, which was a separate compartment, and placed the bag inside. I had a feeling that Donna was still watching me intently, although for the life of me I couldn't imagine why this bag of old and dirty rags was of any importance to her.
‘I'll leave you to unpack that last box,’ I said, ‘then come down, and we'll have a drink and a snack before we go to the shops.’
I went downstairs, where I made up some fresh lemonade, dropped in some ice cubes and prepared a plate of cheese on crackers, which I placed on a tray. I called Donna, who came down straight away, and