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.
How
Committed Can You Be?
There
are some who argue that real residential work involves care workers
actually living alongside the children and young people in the children’s
home or school. The merits of this are said to be that the young
people experience, in a deeper sense, that the adults are sharing
in their life experience and that they are really fully committed
to them. From the adult carer’s perspective it is argued that
they get to know the resident more speedily and thoroughly and so
are able to offer more meaningful and effective care and therapy.
I
would not radically disagree with this philosophy except to point
out, from my own past experience, that it is a way of life that
few are equipped for or able to sustain.
During
the early part of my carer as a residential worker I came across
some care workers, mainly single women, who were running small group
homes, as they were called, with only minimal help. Some were really
dedicated people who almost literally gave their lives for children
they cared for. Many of the children had entered the home aged seven
or eight and remained there until they left school, and they saw
their carer as a substitute parent and would return to visit them
with their own children in later life.
Other
such carers became exhausted and / or bitter, feeling they were
letting life pass them by or that they were being exploited, which
in some cases they were. They were paid a pittance and had little
help, allowing the local authority to sit back and do nothing.
In
larger homes the ideal model was said to be the man and wife, with
perhaps a few children of their own, as a happy model of a family
for the children in the home or school to learn from and gain security.
In exceptional circumstances this worked but sometimes at a cost
to the workers’ own family.
I
came across a number of embittered children who felt that their
parents had more time for the children in the home than for them.
They would either react with fury at some perceived unfairness or
would quietly try to disrupt the household.
All
of these thoughts came to mind as I worked at Chestnuts, running
a home for 16 difficult young people, in the early 1970s. I had
been married 3 years and had a young daughter of two. My wife, also
a residential worker, did some part-time work in the home and would
bring Sarah over with her.
Children
and staff knew that they would please us by being friendly with
Sarah, and most seemed genuinely fond of her, but some saw such
behaviour as a way to curry favour. A few of the children were jealous
of a child with caring parents and it could make them feel angry
and occasionally spiteful.
At
one time I agreed reluctantly to accept a boy, Derek, on a regular
basis for respite care from a psychiatric unit. He could be very
impulsive. Once he set off back to the unit on a stolen bicycle
and was apprehended by the police cycling merrily along the motorway.
More alarmingly, he would throw knives at people when upset and
often aggressively refuse to go to bed.
One
night he had a violent outburst and I finally had to restrain him.
In revenge he threatened to put a knife in the back of my daughter
Sarah. I knew it was only anger but it was a chilling warning about
the way in which a disturbed child could sense one’s area
of vulnerability.
Although
the aim was to make Chestnuts a happy relaxed place, and this was
often the case, it was inevitable in caring for emotionally damaged
young people that there would be times of upset and occasional serious
disruption.
My
wife and I lived at the gate-house at the entrance to the drive
that led to the large Edwardian house that accommodated the young
people. One night, about 1 a.m., we were sleeping soundly in our
bed when I was woken by a light flashing on the ceiling.
I
got out of bed and opened my window to find was going on.
“Don’t
come out here, mate”, shouted a male voice.
I
rang over to the main building to find out if they knew what was
happening.
“It’s
Eileen”, Jane told me. “She’s been raped and the
police are in the grounds with dogs hunting for the rapist”.
“Well,
why didn’t someone call me?” I asked irritably.
“We
didn’t want to disturb you”, came the naïve reply.
It
later transpired that Eileen, who was 17, had not been raped but
had begun her period while she was out late and had let her fears
and imagination run wild. Eventually some of Eileen’s behaviour
became so odd and violent that she had to be sectioned under the
Mental Health Act.
Although
I felt a commitment to the children and to the staff living and
working at Chestnuts, when we learnt that my wife was expecting
our second child we began to question whether it would be wise or
fair to bring up our children in such an environment. We knew that
some of the challenges we had faced would either eventually impact
on our children or mean that we had to make a choice about whom
we gave priority to in a time of crisis.
With
some feeling of a job half-done, I decided to look for employment
that did not require that I and my family lived in residence.
With
in a couple of months I had found the job that I considered would
be an ideal use of my skills but would free me up to be an ordinary
family man. I had been successful in applying for the post Homes
Advisor in a rural county in the East of England.
It
was with some feelings of guilt at letting staff, but above all
the children, down, that we I departed from the Chestnuts. I had
genuinely tried to mix work with family, just at the time when I
was beginning my own family, but it had not worked, perhaps because
of this factor. Now I must enter another stage in my career.
To
be continued……
