Too Scared to Tell. Cathy GlassЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 to drink with your meal?’
‘Water, please.’
I poured a tumbler of water and set it at his place on the table. We tend to keep the same places at the meal table, as many families do. I showed Oskar his place. I was expecting Adrian and Lucy to arrive home at any moment and I’d just begun telling him a little bit about them when I heard Lucy let herself in the front door. ‘Hi, Mum!’ she shouted, making Oskar start.
‘Quietly, Lucy,’ I called. She bounced into the kitchen.
‘Hi, Oskar,’ she cried, delighted to see him. She was a qualified nursery assistant and I knew that sometimes she’d been asked to quell her exuberance at work, but I was pleased she was so outgoing and happy. It had been very different when she’d first come to me as a foster child, withdrawn and with an eating disorder. (I tell Lucy’s story in Will You Love Me?) She’d done amazingly well and was now a permanent member of my family. I’d adopted her and loved her as much as I did my birth children – Adrian and Paula.
Having said a few words to Oskar, Lucy went upstairs to change out of her work clothes. Five minutes later Adrian arrived home, making a slightly more reserved entrance. He came in, said hello to Oskar, kissed my cheek, asked if I’d had a good day and then went upstairs to change. I gave him and Lucy a few minutes and then called everyone to dinner. I dished up and we settled around the table to eat.
I always anticipate that our new arrival may feel uncomfortable for the first few days, surrounded by new people and customs, especially at the meal table when we are all in close proximity and the noise level rises as we talk about our day. Lucy entertained us with a funny story about a child at nursery, and Adrian said a little about his day at work as a trainee accountant. Paula talked of her day at college, and I of fostering and the part-time clerical work I did mainly from home.
As we chatted and ate, I watched Oskar but he didn’t seem to mind all the talking or being surrounded by new people. He ate well and had seconds, and a pudding. It was later, after dinner, when I began his bedtime routine, that his anxiety set in again. I’d read him a story in the living room and at seven o’clock I said it was time for bed.
‘Do I have to sleep upstairs?’