you’re safe here, honey. Do you understand?’
The tiniest nod told me that she’d heard so I reached around the corner and grabbed a notepad from the bookshelf beside her bed. ‘Good. Now, this notepad is especially for you. On one page I’d like you to write down all the foods you really don’t like and then I’ll make sure I don’t give them to you. On the other side you can make a list of your favourites. Is that OK?’
She shook her head and began barking again.
‘Does that mean no?’ I knew that food was one of the issues that children found most frightening when coming into care. The upheaval of leaving home, being separated from their parents and having to adjust to a whole new environment full of strangers was daunting enough. To then be confronted with strange, unfamiliar food seemed to be the tipping point for many children, often making their first mealtimes a traumatic experience, with lots of tears.
In the past I had found the tension at the dinner table could be avoided by finding out beforehand what the children liked to eat. Phoebe continued to shake her head and I wondered about the extent of her learning disabilities. Developmental delays weren’t unusual in children who were brought into care, although Phoebe, coming from a middle-class background, wasn’t a typical example of a Looked After Child. I knew the latest neuroscience research suggested that high levels of stress in infants could have a damaging impact on the brain, affecting future learning. Perhaps she was unable to write?
‘I only eat porridge.’
‘That’s fine,’ I said, in a reassuring tone. ‘Porridge makes a great breakfast – we often have porridge too. But what else do you like to eat? Pizza? Roast, maybe?’
Phoebe began to retch, her throat making sickening noises as she heaved. Her eyes bulged and she leaned over, projecting the contents of her stomach over the carpet. She flapped her arms as if in a spasm, spattering the vomit that clung to her fingers all around the room.
I couldn’t believe how quickly the vomiting came on. As I leapt towards her she howled, her eyes swivelling back to reveal the whites. I grabbed hold of her hands to stop her from dancing in the mess but she fought away.
‘No, please, leave me, no!’
‘It’s alright, sweetie. Come to the bathroom and I’ll clean you up.’
My hands were sticky with vomit and my own stomach lurched as a foul smell rose to my nostrils. Guiding her into the bathroom, I held my breath and began filling the bath. Squeezing a generous amount of bath gel into the water, I swirled it around, knowing she would probably feel more comfortable in the water if it was full of bubbles.
‘Right, get those clothes off, sweetie.’
Phoebe began to pant, backing herself into the corner of the room. She looked terrified.
‘Would you prefer to clean yourself up?’ I tried to keep my voice even, soothing. I wasn’t surprised that she might feel too self-conscious to undress in front of a stranger, but why panic-stricken? She looked up at me with bulging eyes and gave an almost imperceptible nod.
‘OK, I’ll go and clean up your room. There’s soap and shampoo on the side. Call me if you need me, won’t you?’
I hesitated for a moment but she didn’t move so I walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar.
After conducting a hurried clean-up in her room I knocked on the bathroom door.
‘All OK in there, honey?’
There was no answer. I guessed that she had her ears under the water, rinsing off shampoo.
‘Phoebe?’ Ducking my head around the door, I gasped in shock. ‘Phoebe, no!’
Lunging towards the bath, I snatched the open bottle of bubble bath from her hands. Blood sprung from her lip and I realised that I must have caught her gum on the rim of the container as I yanked it away. Clamping her fingers over her mouth, she stared at me in horror.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, Phoebe, but you mustn’t drink that. It’ll make you ill.’
She lowered her hand, staring at the string of bloody saliva entwined around her fingers. I expected her to cry but she continued to gape as droplets of blood spilt from her mouth into the bath water. Her whole body was trembling.
‘Did you hear me, Phoebe?’ I said, the metallic taste of panic filling my voice with urgency. She didn’t answer but a strange gurgling sound came from her throat. I began to tremble myself, worried that the thick liquid might congeal in her airways and choke her.
‘Don’t move. I’ll be right back.’
I dashed out of the bathroom and downstairs, grabbing a carton of milk from the fridge. If there were harsh chemicals in the potion, I guessed that milk might be the gentlest way to dilute the effects. As I darted back up the stairs my mind came up with a dozen catastrophic scenarios. What if she’d decided to start on the shampoo while I was gone? What if she lay convulsing on the other side of the door? Charging back into the bathroom, I was relieved to find Phoebe wedged between the toilet bowl and the bath. She was still naked and trembling with cold, her thin legs hugged protectively to her chest. Draping a small hand towel around her shoulders wasn’t easy in the confined space but I did the best I could.
‘Here, drink this,’ I said in a shaky voice. ‘It’ll make your throat and tummy feel better after drinking that yucky stuff.’
She shook her head, recoiling from me. I forced a soothing tone.
‘Come on, sweetie, have some milk and then we’ll go and explore the garden.’
She looked at me, unmoving. At the best of times it can be frustrating when a child flatly refuses to do as they are told. When their safety is at risk it can be exasperating. My usual coercion strategy is to make sure I have a few treats planned so that I can use them as leverage but at that moment there wasn’t any time for mind games.
I was tempted to grab her by the shoulders and yell, ‘DRINK IT!’ but instead I took a few calming breaths and reached for the empty bottle, scanning the label for advice. Avoid contact with eyes. If product enters eyes, rinse immediately with warm, clean water was all it said, but nothing about what to do if a vulnerable child whose care had been entrusted to you takes it into her head to down the half-full bottle in one.
‘Phoebe, please,’ I said, not too proud to use a begging tone. ‘Drink some milk and then we’ll get you dry.’
‘Drink some milk and then we’ll get you dry,’ she gurgled back, her pupils wide and staring.
Irritation cleared my head and I held up a large bath towel.
‘Come on then, up you get.’
Her bony hand darted out and she grabbed the towel, wrapping it around herself in a half-crouched position. The ends of the towel draped into the bath and over the toilet seat. When she finally stood up the floor got a soaking but at that moment a slip hazard was the least of my problems. Not wanting to let her out of my sight, I darted into my bedroom to grab the cordless telephone and guided her back into her own room.
‘You get dried and dressed while I make a phone call. Don’t worry, I won’t look.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t look.’ Her voice rippled as though speaking underwater. Clasping the towel tightly around herself she went to her suitcase and rifled through the clothes. It struck me as peculiar that she showed no concern for her own welfare: when my own children were unwell, if they ever caught on that I was worried about them, they would ask endless questions, seeking reassurance. But it seemed as if Phoebe didn’t remotely care that she might be in danger. I wondered whether she lacked the mental capacity to understand the consequences of her actions.
A quick call to our local surgery reassured me that there was no need to dash to the hospital for an emergency stomach pumping. According to the doctor, children’s bubble bath was non-toxic