A
personal account of over 40 years’ experience in the residential
child service in the United Kingdom, based on involvement in the
services as a practitioner and manager.
Names and places have been changed for obvious reasons.
"Seeking
Child Care Skills"
Trust
me to get on the wrong bus. This was not an auspicious start to
my year on the training course leading to the Home Office Certificate
in the Residential Care of Children and Young People (CRCCYP).
As
soon as I realised that the bus had turned down a road prior to
my stop I rang the bell, got off and walked the mile or so back
to my training college.
The
College was in a small suburban town and approached via a park leading
to a spacious campus. There was also a training course for budding
actors on site, which later explained why I had passed a small group
of young men and women in fencing outfits parrying too and fro with
rapiers. (I thought surely we don’t need such skills for child
care).
When
I arrived, the first plenary session had already begun. A quietly
spoken older lady was in the process of telling the room of thirty
or so men and women, (women being the vast majority) about what
was to come.
“Greene
… Gus ... sorry I’m late ... got the wrong bus”,
I spluttered.
“Do
find a seat Mr Greene. You’re the last one”, replied
Miss Sphinx, the Course Director.
Luckily
there was a place right at the back and I collapsed thankfully into
temporary obscurity.
Things
got better from there on. I had feared it was going to be a course
full of psychoanalytic theory, for this was 1966, and much behaviour
was being explained exclusively in these terms. I did not dismiss
such insights but, being a bit of a free spirit, did not like the
idea of having to blindly subscribe to the new orthodoxy.
The
course was, however, in border territory. By that I mean it was
just at the point of moving from the era of believing that the task
of the carer was primarily a physical one of attending to children’s
physical needs to the acceptance that the formation of a child’s
personality had much to do with the quality of early parenting and
subsequent allowance for this.
We
watched the now famous heart-rending films of the Robertsons about
child deprivation in residential nurseries and studied Bowlby’s
book on Child Care and the Growth of Love. We sat in parks
and did child observations, (we’d probably be arrested now),
so that we could appreciate how ‘normal’ children behaved.
We
also did gardening and cookery, because as future houseparents it
was considered that we would need these skills. We did puppetry
and sports and bookbinding.
We
went away as a group on some activity weekends. I recall an enjoyable
stay in a Youth Hostel and a walk in the New Forest.
It
was all very civilised and unpressured. Yes, we did have essays
and projects to do but we had little criticism or target-setting
and in that regard it was probably all too gentle and not what we
would today call robust enough.
Our
metal was, however, tested on two quite long placements and the
Officers in Charge of the homes where we were placed was required
to give a full report of our performance.
My
first placement was in an assessment and observations centre in
South London. There were over thirty children of all ages there
and life was quite hectic.
One
of my tasks was getting the young boys’ dormitory up at seven
in the morning. This was no mean feat. Calling ten boys aged from
four to ten from their beds to get ready for breakfast and, in most
cases, for school, by 8.30 took some doing.
Many
of the children would have wet beds, which some, for shame and/or
laziness, would try to hide. This meant overseeing that they disposed
of their wet linen, got clean sheets and bathed.
Then,
with the close proximity of the boys, quarrels and fights would
erupt. Some boys could not find the right socks or shirts. I breathed
a big sigh of relief as their bus or taxi sped them off to school.
My
next placement was in a rural county. I was placed in one of a small
group of cottages on the outskirts of a large village. There were
seven children aged from ten to sixteen and just two houseparents
in the cottage, a married couple.
I
had been at the home a week when the couple informed me they were
going on holiday for two weeks the next day.
”You
seem to be managing well “, they said, ”but if you have
any problems just give the Superintendent a shout”, and away
they went.
Students
on placement were often seen as relief staff. I’m sure this
wouldn’t happen now.
Luckily
I did cope. I was even able to sit down with the children and watch
England win the World Cup on the TV.
The
course lasted a year and was one of fourteen courses for residential
workers all over England and Wales. There were also two advanced
courses, at the Universities of Bristol and Newcastle-upon-Tyne
respectively. They were co-ordinated by the Home Office Central
Training Council in Child Care (CTC).
These
courses were all abandoned in the eighties as the Central Council
for Training and Education in Social Work (CCETSW) took over and
introduced other worthy courses such as the Certificate in Social
Service in the perennial attempt to create a fully trained residential
child care work force.
In the 1960s we thought we had cracked it and were on our way to
a professionalised service, but we were to some extent optimistic
innocents abroad. Residential care has proved over the last fifty
years or so to be a vulnerable service to be buffeted about by politicians
and social work theorists and managers.
My
next task in 1967 was to find a job where I could apply my newly
found skills.
To
be continued……
