Another Forgotten Child by Cathy Glass Read Free Book Online Page A

were lots of things I couldn’t tell Kristen.’ She suddenly stopped.
    ‘Like what?’ I asked gently, lathering the soap on to the sponge for her.
    ‘Nothing,’ Aimee said. ‘They’re secrets and I’ll get shouted at if I tell.’
    ‘Who will shout at you?’ I asked.
    ‘No one,’ Aimee said, clamming up.
    ‘All right. But sometimes it helps to tell a secret. Bad secrets can be very worrying, not like the surprises we have on our birthdays. When you feel ready to tell me I will listen carefully and try to help,’ I said, although I knew it could be months, possibly years, before Aimee trusted me enough to tell me. I also knew that ‘secrets’ when the child had been threatened into not telling always involved abuse.
    The bath water turned grey as Aimee washed; indeed the water was so dirty that I drained the bath and refilled it with fresh water. I explained to Aimee that I would just comb her hair before bed and then wash it in the morning after the lotion had done its job properly. I helped her out of the bath, wrapped her in a towel and left her to dry herself while I went to the ottoman in my bedroom for some clean pyjamas that would fit her. When I returned she was still standing with the towel around her, having made no attempt to dry herself.
    ‘Come on, dry yourself,’ I encouraged.
    ‘No, you do it,’ she said.
    ‘I’ll help you. But you need to learn to dry yourself at your age.’ I showed her what to do – how to pat and rub the towel over her skin – but I didn’t do it for her. I guessed that the reason Aimee didn’t know how to towel dry herself was that, never having had a shower or bath, she’d never had to do it. This level of neglect – of even the most basic requirements – is a form of child abuse.
    After about ten minutes, and with a lot of encouragement, Aimee had dried herself. ‘These should fit,’ I said, and held out the nearly new clean pyjamas I kept as spares for such an emergency.
    ‘Not wearing them!’ Aimee sneered, pulling a face and shrinking from the pyjamas I held. ‘They’re not mine.’
    ‘They’re yours for now,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll buy you some new ones after school tomorrow.’
    ‘Ain’t wearing them,’ Aimee said again, her face setting. ‘I want me own.’
    ‘You haven’t brought any with you,’ I reminded her gently.
    ‘Yes I have!’ Aimee snapped, jutting out her chin. ‘They’re in me bag downstairs.’ I now remembered the threadbare and filthy pyjama top Aimee had tipped on to the dining table when she’d been looking for her biscuits.
    ‘There was only the top, love, no bottoms, and it needs washing.’
    ‘I want me top,’ Aimee demanded rudely. ‘I’ll wear me knickers with it, like I do at home.’ She made a move to retrieve her knickers from the pile of filthy clothes she’d taken off before her bath.
    ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘You can’t wear those pants. You are nice and clean now. If you put on those you’ll be dirty again. Wear these pyjamas for now and I’ll wash your clothes tonight, and then you can have them in the morning.’ I knew children were often attached to their own clothes and felt secure wearing them when they first came into care, and I always tried to use them whenever possible. But I was also aware that dirty clothes can harbour and transmit parasitic diseases such as scabies and ringworm; not only to Aimee but to the bed linen and anyone else who came in contact with the infected clothes. ‘Put on these,’ I said firmly, placing the pyjamas into her arms. ‘You dress while I put your things in the washing machine.’
    Before she had a chance to refuse I’d scooped up the ragged clothes and was hurrying downstairs and into the kitchen, where I threw the clothes in the washing machine. I took the pyjama top and knickers from the plastic carrier bag and put those in too. Then I added a generous measure of detergent and set the machine on a hot wash. I would have liked to have washed