Cruel to Be Kind: Part 3 of 3: Saying no can save a child’s life

Copyright

Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2017

FIRST EDITION

© Cathy Glass 2017

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Cover photograph © Iwona Podlasińska/Arcangel Images (boy, posed by a model)

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Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008252007

Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008252069

Version: 2017-10-10

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter Seventeen: Abused Child

Chapter Eighteen: Reporting Concerns

Chapter Nineteen: When Will I See Mummy Again?

Chapter Twenty: Comfort Eating

Chapter Twenty-One: Unexpected Turn of Events

Chapter Twenty-Two: Sea Otters Hold Hands

Chapter Twenty-Three: Very Poorly

Chapter Twenty-Four: Tell Max I Love Him

Chapter Twenty-Five: Bittersweet

Chapter Twenty-Six: Tragedy

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Cruel to be Kind

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Chapter Seventeen

Abused Child

Their front door was opened unusually by Caz. Leaning heavily on her crutches, her mobility apparently no better than the last time I’d seen her, she was clearly in a lot of discomfort. ‘Hi, Mum,’ Max said, offering up the box of fruit.

‘Put them in the kitchen, will you?’ she said. ‘I haven’t got any hands free.’

‘How are you?’ I asked. Max disappeared into the darkness of the hall.

‘Not good,’ Caz said, grimacing.

‘Oh dear. What’s the matter?’

‘Everything,’ she sighed. ‘But I won’t keep you. You’ve got your kids waiting.’

‘Actually, I haven’t,’ I said. ‘They’re spending a few days with their grandparents.’

‘Do you want to come in then?’ she asked in the same despondent tone.

‘Yes.’ I smiled, pleased that I was being asked in and Caz appeared to be making an effort to get along with me. I waited on the doorstep as she awkwardly turned, easing her crutches around in little jolts until she was facing down the hall.

‘Shut the door behind you, will you?’ she said. I did as she asked and with no natural light the hall became darker still. ‘Light bulb’s gone,’ she said. ‘I can’t get up there to change it.’

‘Is no one else in?’ I asked.

‘They’re all out. Could have done with resting myself. My feet are killing me.’

‘Oh dear,’ I sympathized. ‘You should have phoned me – we could have cancelled contact tonight.’

‘Not likely! And let that social worker think I’m not coping? Quickest way to lose your kids, I’d say.’

We were now in their open-plan living room, which smelt of cigarette smoke despite the window being wide open. A large plasma-screen television stood against one wall with a sofa and two armchairs grouped in front of it. A kitchen area at the other end of the room was separated by a Formica-topped breakfast bar. I could now understand why Max went to his room to read; it was impossible to have privacy or escape from the television in this room. The television was on now, its bright lights and constantly moving images and loud dialogue dominating the room. Max had made a space for the box of fruit on the work surface and was waiting, uncertain of what to do next, presumably because his usual routine had been disrupted by me coming in. Caz noticed and said, ‘You can go to your room. Cathy can make me a drink if I want one.’

With a brief smile he turned and plodded off upstairs and a few moments later I heard his bedroom door close. Caz eased herself down into one of the armchairs, then lifted her feet onto the footstool. ‘They told me at the hospital I should keep my feet elevated when sitting,’ she said. Both her feet were bandaged now and her slippers had been cut to fit.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked. ‘I could change the light bulb in the hall.’

‘No. One of them can do it when they get back. It’s always going. It gets left on all night. Sit yourself down.’

The other armchair was occupied by one of their cats, so I sat on the sofa where I was at right angles to Caz. She picked up the remote and lowered the volume on the television until it was just a hum in the background. In front of me was a glass-topped coffee table littered with teenage magazines. A bright-red glass fruit bowl stood in the centre, but instead of containing fruit it held an attractive display of sweets – small packets of Smarties and Jelly Tots, lollipops and sherbet dips and so on. Very tempting indeed. I could picture Caz and her daughters in the evening watching television or flicking through the magazines while popping sweets, as they had done at the hospital. Jo had said it was what they did – a little family ritual. The rest of the room contained the detritus of six people living in a relatively small house where the main caregiver was incapacitated. Pans were in the sink, the draining board was stacked with cutlery and crockery, while the work surface was littered with takeaway pizza boxes and half-empty bottles of fizzy drinks. A number of beer cans had been stacked beside the overflowing bin. ‘Sorry about the state of the place,’ Caz said, nodding towards the kitchen ‘They just eat and leave me with their mess.’

‘Where have they gone?’ I asked, making conversation.

‘Dan’s out with his mates, drinking, and the girls have gone to the community hall. They put extra entertainment on in the summer. I used to go. It’s nice. You can meet people and have a cup of tea and a chat. But I haven’t been able to get there since I’ve been ill.’

‘You’ll be able to go again soon, once your foot is properly healed,’ I said encouragingly.

She looked downcast and shrugged. ‘Not so sure. They’ve put me on antibiotics again. My other foot is playing up. Two toes on that foot might have to come off.’

‘I am sorry,’ I said, shocked. ‘What a worry. Hopefully the antibiotics will start to work soon and it won’t be necessary.’

‘The nurse who changes my dressing didn’t seem too hopeful.’ Caz’s face clouded and she suddenly burst into tears.

‘Oh, Caz,’ I said, standing and going to her. ‘You poor dear.’ I went to take her hand but she pulled away. ‘Is there any other treatment you can have? Have you talked to your doctor?’

She shook her head despondently and, taking a tissue from her cardigan pocket, quickly wiped her eyes as if she didn’t have the right to cry or be upset.

‘I am sorry,’ I said again, at a loss to know what comfort I could offer.

‘It’s not just that,’ she said. ‘I feel so worthless. Sometimes I think everyone would be better off without me.’

‘Caz, don’t say that. Your family loves you lots. I saw that at the hospital. Not many teenagers would give up every evening to go to the hospital, even if it was their mother. I think you should speak to your doctor about how you are feeling. I am sure he’ll be able to help.’

‘It’s not the girls, it’s him,’ she said in the same flat voice, and for a moment I thought she meant Max.

‘Max?’ I asked, wondering what he could possibly have done to upset her.

She shook her head. ‘No. His father. Anyway, it’s not your problem.’ She blew her nose and tucked the tissue into the sleeve of her cardigan.

‘Do you have someone you can talk to?’ I asked, returning to my chair.

‘Yes, but talking doesn’t do any good.’ There was a few moments’ silence, which I broke by telling her Max was coping well and enjoying the summer holidays – something most parents of children in care want to hear. But Caz’s face clouded again and her bottom lip trembled. I made a move to go to her, but she waved me away.

‘It’s OK. You’re doing a good job with Max. Better than me.’

‘I’m doing my best to look after him until you are better,’ I said. ‘But I won’t ever replace you. You’re his mother.’ For I wondered if this might be contributing to her upset – that I was fulfilling her role. It worries many parents with children in care. ‘Max misses you very much, although he puts on a brave face. He seems to take everything in his stride, but I know he’ll be pleased when he can come home.’

She managed the faintest of smiles. ‘He’s certainly a deep one, that kid. I don’t know where he gets it from, but I think he’ll do well, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

She looked thoughtful for a moment and I saw pain in her eyes. ‘Does Max ever talk to you about his father?’

‘Not really,’ I said honestly.

‘He doesn’t tell you about how he treats me?’

‘No.’ I looked at her carefully and waited.

‘It’s not right, him seeing his father treat me like he does. It sets him a bad example.’ I nodded and waited again. ‘I’m unhappy, Cathy, dreadfully unhappy, so I comfort eat. I have done most of my life.’

‘Because of Dan?’ I asked gently.

‘He’s one of the reasons. He treats me like crap.’ Her brow creased.

‘Does he hit you?’ I asked.

‘Sometimes, but it’s what he says that hurts more. That does the real damage. He calls me names, horrible dirty names, and in front of the kids, like slut, bitch and whore. He says I’m worthless and I should be grateful he stays because no one else would.’

‘Those are dreadful things to say,’ I said. ‘Especially in front of the children. It’s abusing you and them. You don’t have to put up with it.’ Yet even as I said it I knew it wasn’t that simple.

‘But he’s right. I am a slut. Not just because of how I am now, but because of who I was.’ Her voice shook and she took a deep breath. I waited until she could continue, wondering what on earth she could mean. ‘You see, I’ve got a past, a nasty one. Dan and me were seventeen when we started going out. He was my first boyfriend, although I wasn’t a virgin. I told him everything, confided in him, and I was so grateful he still wanted me. Part of me still is. I was damaged goods, soiled. My stepfather had been having sex with me since I was nine.’

‘Oh Caz,’ I said, and instinctively reached out to touch her arm, but she withdrew it.

‘When I met Dan my stepfather was still abusing me. I didn’t know how to stop it. Dan did. He gave him a right thrashing and said if he came near me again, he’d finish the job. I don’t like being touched,’ she added. ‘Not even by my children.’ Which explained why I’d never seen her hug them. Adults who have been sexually abused can shy away from physical contact and showing affection until they work through it in therapy.

I was reeling from what I’d heard and trying to think of what to say that might help. ‘Did you tell anyone apart from Dan that your stepfather was abusing you?’ I asked. ‘You know it’s never too late to go to the police.’

She shook her head. ‘It is. He’s dead. I told my mother at the time, but she didn’t believe me, although I’m sure she must have had her suspicions. Then, when I told Dan and he beat up my stepfather, she threw me out of the house. I lived with Dan’s family until we got our own council house. My mum is dead now, but look at what she’s left me with – a life sentence. And my kids too.’ Her face clouded and she began to cry again. I felt helpless just sitting there watching her and unable to offer her any physical comfort. ‘Pass me the box of tissues, will you?’ she said, nodding to the shelf beneath the coffee table.

I handed her the tissues and, taking a handful, she wiped her eyes.

‘Does Jo know any of this?’ I asked quietly. ‘She may be able to offer you some counselling.’

‘Some of it. But not about Dan and Paris.’

An icy chill ran down my spine. ‘What about Paris?’

‘Oh, he won’t touch her again,’ she said. ‘He knows what will happen if he does. But she’s his favourite. He’s all over her, spoils her – it’s not fair on the others.’

‘Touch her again?’ I asked. ‘What did he do to her?’

‘He tried to touch her breast. He was always making comments about her breasts. Paris said he kept going into her bedroom without knocking. Then one night before I went into hospital he came home drunk and staggered into her room. He claimed he thought he was in our bedroom. Anyway, she woke to find the duvet pulled back and him with his hand on her breast. Her boyfriend fitted a lock on the bedroom door, so it won’t happen again.’ Caz seemed pretty unfazed by this, but I heard alarm bells ringing. This was sexual abuse and a father who abuses his child once is likely to do it again. He would have had plenty of opportunity while Caz was in hospital.

‘You need to tell Jo,’ I said.

‘Do I?’ Caz asked naively. The poor woman had so many issues to deal with she was struggling, but protecting her children was paramount.

‘Yes, Caz, you must,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t want the same thing happening to Paris that happened to you.’

She looked horrified. ‘Good grief, no. He wouldn’t do that. But if I tell Jo, he’ll be furious and may leave us. I couldn’t cope alone.’ Unacceptable though this reason was, fear of being left alone and unable to cope is a reason why many women fail to report an abusive partner.

‘Your children must come first,’ I said.

‘I know. I’ll tell her,’ Caz said too easily. She rested her head back with a heavy sigh, overwhelmed by all she was having to face. She was very different now from the controlling woman who’d sat propped up on her pillows in a hospital bed with her daughters in attendance and issuing her complaints and orders. Cocooned, looked after, and away from the problems at home, I could see why she’d been in no hurry to return.