Another Forgotten Child by Cathy Glass Read Free Book Online

there was something about the size and shape of the bruises that I couldn’t identify and unsettled me. The bruises didn’t require medical attention, but I’d obviously make a note of what I’d found in my fostering log and then tell Jill and Kristen the following day.
    ‘Sit on the floor and take off your socks now, good girl,’ I said to Aimee, sure she could do this simple task without help. She did as I asked and sat down, and then very clumsily managed to pull off both her filthy and holed socks. ‘Now step out of your joggers,’ I said, testing the bath water with my hand. ‘They’re easy to take off. You just pull them down.’
    Aimee yanked down her joggers and stepped out of them, to reveal more bruises running down both legs, from her thighs to her ankles – there were even some bruises on her feet. Most of the bruises were the same size and shape as those on her body and arms – round and small – although there were some larger ones on her knees and shins, consistent with falling over.
    ‘How did you get all these?’ I asked.
    ‘I fell over.’
    She stepped out of her pants to reveal more small round bruises on her buttocks. ‘And the ones on your bottom?’ I asked. ‘How did you get those?’
    ‘Same,’ Aimee said, tossing her pants on top of the pile of smelly rags that were her clothes. She stood at the side of the bath, making no attempt to get in.
    ‘Get into the bath while the water is nice and warm,’ I said.
    She reached out to my hand for me to help her and I steadied her while she climbed into the bath. Then she stood looking at me.
    ‘Sit down,’ I said.
    ‘What, in the water?’ Aimee asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘So you can have a bath and wash all over.’
    Very gingerly and slowly Aimee began to lower herself into the bath, and as the warm water lapped against her skin she gave a little sigh of pleasure. ‘This is nice,’ she said.
    ‘Good,’ I said, relieved. I passed her a new sponge and fresh bar of soap. ‘Now rub the soap on to the sponge and then all over your body.’
    But she just sat there with a smile on her face, enjoying the feel of the warm water without actually washing, despite my further encouragement.
    ‘This is nice,’ she said again. ‘I like the warm water.’
    ‘Aimee,’ I said suspiciously, ‘have you ever had a bath before?’
    ‘No.’ She grinned sheepishly.
    ‘So did you usually have a shower at home?’
    ‘No. All the water was cold and I don’t like cold water.’
    ‘Wasn’t there any hot water in your flat at all?’ I asked, aware that this was not as uncommon in poor homes as one might think.
    ‘No,’ Aimee said, shaking her head.
    ‘So you never had a hot shower or bath?’
    ‘Never. I stood in the kitchen and Mum used one of those.’ Aimee pointed to the face flannel draped on the rail at the side of the bath. ‘But the water was cold, so I didn’t like it.’ From which I deduced that Aimee had been given a stand-up wash in cold water and had never had a bath or shower in her life.
    ‘Did your social worker, Kristen, know there was no hot water in your flat?’ I now asked.
    ‘Of course not!’ Aimee said, surprised at my ignorance. ‘Me and Mum told her the meter had just run out and we were going to get some more tokens, but we never had the money.’ She giggled at the deceit she and her mother had perpetrated on the social worker, and not for the first time since I’d begun fostering I was shocked by the ease with which a social worker had been duped.
    ‘Why didn’t you tell Kristen there was no money for hot water?’ I asked. ‘She could have helped you.’
    Aimee looked at me, confused, and I guessed it was because she wasn’t used to hearing that a social worker could help. So often parents view social workers as the enemy.
    ‘Mum said if we told Kristen I would be taken away and put in care like my brothers and sisters,’ Aimee said. ‘Mum said I wasn’t to tell her about the water. There