Free Damaged by Cathy Glass Page A

‘you’ll have your bath later this afternoon, because you’re going to see your parents tonight.’
    She looked at me blankly. Had she understood? She carried on playing, mashing stickle bricks together. After a moment, she asked, ‘Am I going in a van?’
    ‘No, the escort will pick you up here in a car, just like when you were at your previous carers. They’ll take you to meet your parents, and then bring you back here.’
    ‘Not going in a van. Hate them. Blimmin’ vans,’ she replied, becoming more animated.
    ‘That’s right, Jodie, the escort will pick you up in a car. I know your dad’s looking forward to seeing you. That will be nice, won’t it?’ Apparently, however, I’d lost her attention, and she returned to her playing, with a puzzled expression on her face. It was hard to tell what she made of the prospect of seeing her mother and father again.
    Jodie was difficult for the rest of the day, as I’d expected. She had two more tantrums before lunch, and caused me a minor panic when she knocked a picture off the wall, smashing the glass, then tried to pick it up. In the afternoon, I kept her occupied with a singalong video in the lounge, while I prepared dinner. At four o’clock Adrian came in warily, and was relieved not to be greeted with a kick from Jodie. He joined me in the kitchen, and told me about his day. It felt like a long time since we’d had the chance to have a chat in peace without screaming, tantrums or violent fits, even though Jodie had been with us less than a week. It was lovely to have a few moments with my son and I knew how it important it was to snatch any opportunity to spend time with my own family in the often demanding first weeks of a new placement.
    Adrian went to take his bag up to his room, and I was pleased to hear him go into the lounge first, to say hello to Jodie. However, my moment of pleasure was short-lived, as I suddenly heard him shout, ‘Oh God! Mum, come in here!’
    I rushed into the hallway, as Adrian marched upstairs. In the lounge, I found Jodie sitting on the sofa with her legs in the air and one hand in her knickers, masturbating.
    ‘Jodie, stop that!’ I said firmly.
    ‘Why?’ she barked.
    ‘If you want to do that, you go to your room and do it. It’s private. Is that clear? Now, either go upstairs or sit properly please, good girl.’
    She glared at me for a few seconds, and I prepared myself for another tantrum, but eventually she pulled her skirt down and sat up straight.
    I was puzzled and disturbed by this new incidence, of this time highly sexualized behaviour. I knew that it was not unusual for very young children to masturbate, even if it wasn’t generally talked about; but by the time a child was eight years old he or she usually had a sense that this was not something to be done in public, even when the child had learning difficulties. Was Jodie intending to be observed? Given that we were always in and out of the lounge, she must have known she’d be seen. Was she trying to shock us, or was it something entirely unconscious? An act of self-comfort, or a physical habit as harmless as sucking her thumb? I didn’t know the answer, but anything that came within the framework of sexualized behaviour had to be noted down. I made a mental note to log it in the diary, and raise it with Eileen the next time we spoke.
    When the girls arrived home from school they were both greeted with a vicious thump, and I wearily told Jodie off. She had another full-scale tantrum, and I again had to restrain her. Eventually, she calmed down, and I finished making the evening meal, which was spaghetti bolognaise. We sat down to eat, and I cut up Jodie’s spaghetti for her.
    ‘Want burger,’ she demanded, pulling a face.
    ‘We’ll have a burger another night. I’ve done this for now.’
    She picked up her plate and hurled it against the wall. It hit the wall with a crack and the plate fell in pieces to the ground. There was a vivid splash of dark