Memoirs of a Social Worker: we must do better for our children in care

Published by Professional Social Work magazine, 14, February, 2023

Memoirs of a social worker

“Where’s your mamma gone.” The other residents would sing this song to new kids arriving at the emergency unit. But unlike the 70s hit of that title, there was no chirpy, chirpy, cheep, cheep chorus accompanying it.

Residential social work was the start of my career and although 30 years ago, many horrific events remain clear in my memory. The provision was a result of the council closing a network of small family group homes, the preferred model in the 80s. Despite being broadly successful, they were deemed too expensive.

From the 90s onwards less traumatised kids were moved into foster families, the most troubled sent to children’s homes, creating a two-tier system. Residential became the equivalent of council sink estates.

The following is just one account of what was a cauldron of volatility working in a children's home.

It began when Jenny, a vulnerable young woman with thick rimmed glasses and badly cut hair, was admitted. Seeing her, a member of staff wryly observed: “She will soon wish the stork had dropped her down a different chimney.” Her parents had wilfully rejected her. 

Then there was Shane. He had some serious issues with women and snarled that he would strangle his mother but could not stand to touch her. Spewing misogyny, he made even the most hardened workers flinch. 

Curtis had been repeatedly sexually abused in one of the large institutions. Every morning he would ritually hang a teddy bear screaming: “Die Mr Jones”, before throwing this effigy out of the window. The other young people distanced themselves from him due to his bizarre behaviour. 

Marcus had been punched in the nose by his dad, a local gangster who callously pinned a note on him saying: “I need to be in care.” Despite being only 12, he was keen to emulate his father. Masked with a bandana, he prowled around the local shopping centre, a fake gun down his baggy trousers. He would shove terrified kids into the wall, ‘taxing’ them of all their possessions.

Yet in quiet moments he loved playing badminton with me, although he would flip when it was time to go to bed. He clearly needed a positive, caring father figure.

Kirsty, a Traveller kid, was hard as nails. She had had a baby at 14 that was looked after by her mother who had her at the same age and was now a grandmother at 28. Kirsty had fists of fury and would scrap with anyone. Fortunately for staff she was not hostile toward them. Someone had the bright idea of buying a punch bag for young people to unleash their fury on. Her gloves would thunder against it. 

Leanne was heavily pregnant and said she did not know who the father was. Staff commented on her lack of maternal instinct, noticing she never cradled her bump. She would viciously belt me in the stomach as I passed her, confident I could do nothing to retaliate. I vividly recall the pain. Her mother was white, her father was Black. She floored an older worker who suggested she was Black with an uppercut, screaming abuse at her.

Leanne kicked a female colleague in the stomach despite knowing she was suffering from painful endometriosis.

I worked in this tinderbox for three years and found increasingly that every shift was a test of commitment and stamina. In theory young people were only meant to stay there for a brief period. As is often the case this remit had long gone out of the window.

Appallingly, children were fed stale ‘second day’ bread, epitomising the bleakness. Local youths used to regularly brick the windows in. The council would only replace them if it was a kid’s bedroom - otherwise they were simply boarded up.

We would sit working downstairs in the office deprived of natural light. Someone wrote: “Fuck off nobeds” on the drab chip board. With a small gap in the last word, it read “Fuck off no beds”. Perhaps a desperate a member of staff had written it. 

Conspiring together Shane, Marcus, Kirsty, and Leanne told Jenny they would take her to the precinct to get a decent haircut. Marcus had a mean streak which combined explosively with Shane’s misogyny.

Pulling out a flick knife, he ruthlessly cut through Jenny’s clothes leaving her exposed in just her underwear. They kicked her repeatedly while she lay on the pavement, stamping on her glasses.

Fortunately, her survival instinct kicked in. She staggered blood soaked into a nearby pub where smoking men propped up the bar, cherry picking from holdalls of stolen goods. The regulars were shocked to see her stumble in landing on the beer-soaked Wilton Axminster. Despite obvious risks to their illicit livelihoods, they immediately called the police, fearing she had been raped. 

It was 9.45pm when I was called to attend the police station, 15 minutes before I went off. I was exhausted after a long day. What followed were harrowing interviews with both perpetrators and victim. A cop asked Leanne how she could assault anyone while heavily pregnant? Tearfully, she told us how she was repeatedly collected by taxi drivers. They would take her to a house where men raped her. They threatened to cut her face if she resisted.

Having heard Leanne’s graphic disclosures, the two male officers mumbled about the information being passed on to their Public Protection Unit, although it seemed this was never followed up. I thought, why not just go and arrest them now? The fact there were multiple abusers explained why Leanne did not know who the child’s father was.

To say it was a memorable shift is an understatement. By daybreak, in other words 4am, the interviewing cop shuffled us out the exit into the sunrise so I could take the kids back. He said to them: “Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your lives.”

Turning to me, he said: “Remember us saying that in the 70s?” I said I didn’t as I had been at primary school then. He looked surprised and said the stress of the job must be catching up with me!

Vivid memories of the events above and many others like it have always convinced me that wherever possible it is better to try to keep young people out of the care system.

I remember a meeting where victims like Jenny were referred to as child prostitutes. A colleague said she did not think we could call them that anymore. The team looked bemused and asked why not? Because they were under the age of consent, said my colleague.

Marcus told his own traumatic tales. He was regularly deployed to move drugs into a neighbouring area for a small amount of cash. He’d be met by scruffy eight-year-old kids on rusty BMX bikes. Wraps were hastily exchanged for money. He went on to set fire to his room, leaving it blackened and charred.

Prior to this, I tried to get a lighter from him. Shoving it down his pants he accused me of being a nonce and screamed it out the window, even though I had stepped a foot away from him. Frightened neighbours who had taken to videoing us looked on in concerned disbelief. They campaigned relentlessly to have the home closed.

I haven’t even covered the regular assaults on staff. Incidents such as a colleague being jumped on by one of the young residents and six of his mates even though he was trying to prevent him from smashing his hands through a window.

During my three years at the home there were attempted rapes, kettles of boiling water thrown at staff and baseball bats viciously wielded.

Has the care system for the most vulnerable children improved in the last 30 years?

Physical assaults may have decreased, but the most traumatised children are often placed far outside their local area, destroying all ties with family and community. Private companies are making obscene profits charging up to £20,000 a week for barely acceptable accommodation, often in ex-council flats.

Many young people have more than three placements a year. Inevitably this will leave them with long lasting psychological scars from the trauma of frequent moves.

Council run children’s homes are very resistant to looking after young people with complex needs. The registered managers fear it will affect their Ofsted rating. In contrast, despite the violence of the 90s, very few kids were kicked out of residential homes.

Undoubtedly some young people thrive in care and possibly it is the best option for them. However, there is a proportion of highly disturbed young people still being severely let down.

There needs to be genuine investment in specialist provision rather than allowing fat cats to make obscene profits. I can only assume many of these donate generously to the party currently in government.

Historically, residential care was grossly inadequate and for our most vulnerable children. Inexcusably, this remains the case today.

A last word on Curtis, who was left severely traumatised by the abuse he suffered as a child. Despite much therapy, he went on to take his own life, swinging like the teddy bear he used to hang every morning.

We can and must do better.

 Sam Waterhouse is a newly retired social worker who has spent most of his career working in the south of England. His no holds barred memoir is being serialised by PSW throughout 2023.

Names have been changed to protect identities.

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