Fear of Falling

by Cath Staincliffe

  Your birth-daddy is called Neville. Neville lived in another town but he visited you and Debbie.

  Debbie loved you very much but she didn’t feel very well sometimes, so she found it hard to look after you.

  ‘You could put in more detail here as Chloë gets older. About the drug abuse and the violence.’

  ‘Won’t that be hard for her?’ I said.

  ‘Chloë needs her story to be honest and clear. You can judge how much you share and when.’

  ‘How do you put something like that?’ Mac said.

  ‘There are templates you can look at online,’ Adrian told us. ‘I’d say something like “Debbie took drugs to try to make herself feel happy but then she didn’t have money for food and clothes and to keep the house warm. When Neville visited he and Debbie would argue. Sometimes Neville hit Debbie.” It’s factual but it’s not using emotive language.’

  ‘How old would she be, when she could hear that?’ I said.

  ‘Take a lead from her. But I’d say by the age of six or seven.’

  ‘Seven! Really? It seems so brutal.’

  ‘From the outside it can seem that way but, remember, Chloë has lived all this. It’s already happened to her. All the research shows that hiding past trauma, denying the facts of life with the first family, keeping it a secret from the child, causes even more emotional damage in the long run.’

  I returned to the book. Sometimes Neville and Debbie went out and left you on your own. Babies don’t like to be left on their own. They need someone there all the time to look after them. It was like a grotesque bedtime story.

  This is Adrian, your social worker. Adrian wanted you to be looked after all the time. He took you somewhere safe. First you lived here with Maxine. A terraced house, no picture of Maxine. And then you went to live with Rita and Gerry, your foster-carers. Here are Rita and Gerry. An older couple, both with grey hair; she wore hers in a long ponytail, and had apple cheeks. He had a moustache and beard, a pot belly.

  Here are your foster-brothers, Sam and Joe, and your foster-sister, Ella-Mae. The children were together on a roundabout. Here is Bingo the rabbit. Chloë standing by the rabbit’s cage. You like to stroke Bingo and help Rita feed him.

  Adrian looked for a for-ever family for you. Here are your new mummy and daddy, Lydia and Mac.

  Here is their house. It felt strange to think of Chloë being told that we were her new parents before she’d set eyes on us.

  ‘Has Neville been in touch?’ Mac said.

  ‘No. He’s not registered on the birth certificate so he has no parental rights. He spent some time in jail for affray around the time Chloë was born. Given the violence involved in the relationship, and the lack of any involvement since Chloë’s removal, we won’t be recommending any letterbox contact between you and him.’

  I handed him back the book.

  ‘Now, Friday,’ he said, ‘the meeting with Debbie. I thought it would be useful to go over what you might expect. Areas to talk about and what to avoid. You can ask Janette if you think of anything else before then.’

  ‘I just want this to be over,’ I said to Mac, on the drive to the family centre to meet Debbie. ‘We’re taking the woman’s child.’

  My legs felt unsteady, my mouth chalky as we walked up to the building.

  This is what Chloë will look like when she’s a woman, I thought, when we were introduced. Debbie was only nineteen, barely an adult herself. Thin as a rake. I felt huge compared to her.

  Janette sat to one side and the three of us were in easy chairs around a low table.

  Debbie was clearly nervous, her hands shaking, her voice too, when she said in a broad Yorkshire accent, ‘I wanted to see you and give you this for her.’ A pink teddy bear.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘We hope she’ll be happy with us – and we’ll be able to tell her that we met you and talked.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ She coughed. Her lips were dry and cracked.

  Mac said, ‘Are there any things we can tell her about the family, any hobbies or talents that got passed on?’

  ‘You’re Irish?’ she said.

  ‘That’s right. Been over here a long time now.’

  ‘My granny, she were Irish. She were a singer, with a dance band and that. They all liked to sing. I like singing.’ She darted glances around the room as she talked but didn’t look at either of us directly. ‘That’s nice,’ I said. We knew that Debbie’s mother had left Debbie to be looked after by her grandma, and Debbie had gone into care herself at the age of eleven when her grandma had had a stroke and died.

  ‘What music do you like?’ I said.

  ‘All sorts. Britney, Westlife, Craig David.’

  ‘What about TV?’ Mac said.

  ‘Big Brother, EastEnders, Trisha. Watch owt, really.’ She scratched at her arm and coughed.

  ‘Why did you choose Chloë as a name?’ I said.

  ‘I liked it, that’s all. I decided before she were born. And if it was a boy then Cody.’

  ‘What was the birth like?’ I said.

  ‘It were hard. They give us an epidural but it still hurt. She were born at midnight, near enough. I’d been going all day. On us own. Her dad, he were inside then. Didn’t know if I’d see him again.’

  ‘Is there anything you can tell us about Neville that Chloë might want to know?’

  ‘Not really.’ Her face closed down.

  ‘Did he work?’ I said.

  ‘He did tiling for a bit. What d’you do?’ she said.

  ‘I work in health care,’ I said.

  ‘And I’m an illustrator,’ Mac said. We had to be careful not to give any information that might help identify us.

  ‘Drawing and that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s good. I like drawing. She’ll like drawing.’ She started to cry, saying, ‘Sorry, sorry,’ and wiping at her face. I felt myself choke up too. She was wearing mascara and eyeliner and it began to streak.

  Mac cleared his throat.

  ‘We’ll write every year,’ I said, ‘let you know how she’s doing.’

  ‘Right.’

  Debbie would visit Chloë one last time to say goodbye and then she wouldn’t be allowed to see her again until Chloë reached eighteen and could decide for herself if she wanted any contact.

  ‘We thought we could get Janette to take a photo of us all, for Chloë,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. That’d be good.’

  ‘Your mascara . . . you might want to . . .’ I said.

  ‘Fuck!’ she said. ‘It’s supposed to be waterproof.’ We both laughed. A moment’s connection, and I wanted to comfort her, to reassure her, but I couldn’t, not beyond saying, ‘We’ll look after her, we’ll give her everything we can. We’ll love her and keep her safe.’

  Keep her safe? Was it arrogance or naivety on my part?

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The day we were introduced to Chloë we met first with her foster-carer and Adrian at a family centre in Bradford.

  ‘I’ve brought some photos for you to keep,’ Rita said. ‘We take them regularly. Lot easier now it’s all digital.’

  ‘You’ve been fostering a long time?’

  ‘Twenty-three years,’ she said.

  Rita was clearly a heavy smoker. I could smell it on her and the first fingers on her right hand were stained conker brown. I imagined what she did was so full on and stressful that smoking would be a relief.

  ‘What can you tell Lydia and Mac about Chloë?’ Adrian said.

  ‘She’s quiet. Hangs back. Cautious, you know,’ Rita said.

  ‘Frightened?’ Mac said, concerned.

  ‘More wary. Weighs it all up, you know. She’s a bit behind with her speech and language. She’s not one for cuddles. Doesn’t like being held or touched. It makes her anxious.’ How sad that was. And why? Had she been sexually abused? Or beaten? There was nothing about that in the reports, and Mac and I had said we wouldn’t consider a child with that background. There must be some
other reason. But I’d have all the time in the world to reassure her, to coax her to trust me, like taming a shy, wild creature. Take it gently and slowly until she’d come to snuggle up with me, making up for all the loving hugs she’d missed.

  Rita said, ‘And it makes getting her dressed and stuff like that harder.’

  ‘Is she in nappies?’ Mac said.

  ‘No. Toilet-trained. She was really quick with that. She doesn’t wet the bed either. Which is practically unheard-of.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘What else? We’ve had some tantrums, rages. It’s impossible to tell what sets her off.’

  ‘Has she got a favourite colour?’ I said.

  ‘No, don’t think so,’ Rita said.

  ‘What about food?’ Mac said. ‘What does she like?’

  ‘Toast, bananas, cereal – the more sugar the better. Fish fingers. Won’t touch anything green or anything she doesn’t recognise.’

  ‘What does she like to play with?’ I said.

  ‘She’s got a Snoopy Dog that goes everywhere. She likes most of the toys,’ Rita said.

  ‘OK,’ Adrian said. ‘Shall we make a move?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. But suddenly the enormity of what was happening hit me. I was about to meet my daughter. It was too much, too immense. It was like looking over a precipice. My nerves jangled, the hairs on my neck lifted. I couldn’t do this. It was all a mistake.

  Mac looked at me, raised his eyebrows, held out his hand. I don’t know if he sensed that I needed reassurance or if he was after some for himself.

  Rita’s husband Gerry was at home with Chloë; the other foster-children were at nursery. We saw him at the window as we arrived, kneeling up on the sofa. Standing beside him, her face just visible, was Chloë. He said something and she slipped from sight.

  Inside, wet clothes were draped on the radiators and the smell of fabric conditioner was heavy in the air, sickly and chemical. Rita took us straight into the living room. The house was a similar size to ours but their living room and dining room were knocked through.

  Chloë was sitting on the floor, her back to us, her fine blonde hair a puff of bright colour. She was playing with a toy farm set, pushing buttons that opened gates or made sounds. A cow mooed.

  ‘Give her a minute,’ Rita said. ‘Let me take your coats.’

  ‘Here, I’ll do it.’ Gerry took them out.

  Adrian sat next to Chloë. ‘Hello, we’ve brought someone to see you. Someone very special. Your new mummy and new daddy.’

  Chloë pressed a button. Baaa. How much did she understand? She wasn’t even two years old.

  ‘They’ve come to say hello. Can you see them on the sofa?’

  She pressed a button, jabbed at it three times. Woof woof woof.

  ‘Shall we show your new mummy and new daddy this game?’

  A twitch of her shoulder and she scooted a little further away from Adrian.

  ‘OK. In a minute, yes?’

  I could feel the tension building across my shoulders and my stomach churning.

  Rita spoke: ‘I think we’ll take your new mummy and daddy to see Bingo. And you can give him some dinner.’

  Chloë dipped her head, swivelled round and stood. She bobbed down and picked up her Snoopy toy to bring with her. She glanced up at Rita briefly but didn’t look at either of us.

  My heart turned over. I wanted to touch her, hug her, pull her close. She was tiny. Two months older than Freya but she looked half the size. So skinny. She was beautiful. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I was besotted, and scared, and euphoric, and sick. All the things love brings.

  She ran into the hall and we filed out after her, first Rita, then me and Mac.

  The back garden was a muddy lawn with a small trampoline on it, a Wendy house and one of those rockers made of moulded plastic. At the far end was the rabbit hutch. I could see the black rabbit.

  ‘He likes these leaves,’ Rita said. She picked some cabbage from a box beside the hutch. She passed me a piece and stepped aside so I was immediately behind Chloë.

  ‘He likes cabbage, does he, Chloë?’ I said.

  No reply.

  The smell of hay and rabbit pee hit me. I remembered arguments with my mum about cleaning out the hutch. And the awful morning when I saw the hutch door had been ripped open.

  I crouched down beside Chloë. ‘I had a rabbit called Moppet when I was a little girl.’ I held the cabbage out to her. ‘Will you give it to him?’

  She didn’t respond. I glanced up at Rita.

  ‘Your new mummy can feed him,’ she said.

  I pressed the cabbage to the chicken wire.

  The rabbit came and tugged at it, nose and whiskers twitching. ‘He loves that,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ Rita said.

  Chloë ran up the path.

  I looked at Mac. Was she going to ignore us completely? He gave a rueful smile.

  While Rita and Gerry made tea, the rest of us went back into the living room.

  ‘Where’s the bricks?’ Adrian said.

  Chloë moved to the corner and pulled a plastic box on wheels into the centre of the room.

  Mac and I got down on the floor. Chloë picked out Stickle Bricks.

  ‘Can I have some?’ Mac said. When she didn’t respond he put his hands in and got a pile. ‘Some for you.’ He passed me a handful. ‘Some for me.’

  Mac fixed his pieces together, rummaged in the box for more. ‘There, a doggy.’ He put it down in front of Chloë and she pushed it over.

  ‘OK,’ Mac said. ‘Has he fallen over? Or is he going to sleep? Night night.’

  Chloë pressed some Stickle Bricks together.

  ‘What’s that, Chloë?’ Adrian said.

  ‘Bricks.’

  I laughed. It was impossible not to stare at her. I wanted to drink her in, capture everything about her. My daughter.

  Rita and Gerry brought our drinks in and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Chloë, will you help me share out the biscuits?’ Rita said. ‘Give one to Adrian.’

  Chloë took the small plate to him.

  ‘Now one for your new daddy.’ She did the same.

  ‘And one for your new mummy.’

  Chloë hesitated. Shy? Rebellious? Confused?

  ‘That looks yummy,’ I said.

  But Chloë moved to Rita and held out the plate. ‘Oh, OK, one for me first,’ Rita said. ‘Thank you. One for New Mummy now.’

  I wanted Rita to stop. I didn’t want Chloë’s reluctance to acknowledge me highlighted any more. I looked at Adrian, hoping he’d pick up on my discomfort, but before he could register it, Chloë came to me and thrust out the plate so fast that both biscuits slid off into my lap. ‘Whoops, never mind.’ I returned one to the plate. ‘Thank you. That’s lovely,’ I said. I took a bite.

  Chloë tilted her face up and met my gaze. Her eyes were greenygrey. She looked guarded, suspicious. I smiled and said, ‘Thank you,’ again and she turned away.

  When we left, Chloë didn’t say goodbye. I hoped she might look out of the window, show some interest, but there was no sign of her, just a blank black rectangle reflecting the street.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ‘Last night of freedom.’ Bel raised her glass to toast us. We’d all met up for drinks in the Fenton.

  ‘How’s it gone so far?’ Colin said.

  ‘We’re knackered already,’ Mac said. He had been charging about from the shop to our meetings with Chloë, taking on evening appointments to make up for lost time.

  I nodded. ‘She was with us all afternoon yesterday. Brought some of her toys and clothes over. She’s very reserved. It’s going to take time.’

  ‘When do we get to meet her?’ Javier said.

  ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘We have a couple of weeks just settling her in. Her social worker thinks that’s best. No visitors. My mum and dad are itching to come.’

  ‘I shan’t be surprised if we find my lot camping out in the alley,’ Mac said.

  ‘What surname are
you going to give her?’ Colin said.

  ‘Kelly-Ross, hyphenated,’ I said. ‘Chloë Kelly-Ross.’

  ‘They’ve had you practising it all, then?’ Bel said.

  ‘Yes. Doing stuff at the foster-carers’ first. Giving her a bath, making meals. Putting her to bed. She hates having her hair washed.’

  ‘Didn’t we all?’ Colin said. ‘I screamed the place down.’

  ‘You still do,’ Javier said.

  ‘Once! Once I got shampoo in my eyes and you thought it was funny.’

  Javier grinned.

  ‘It’s unreal,’ I said to Bel, when we went to the bar, ‘that she’s coming tomorrow and staying. Not just overnight but for ever.’

  ‘No going back now,’ Bel said.

  ‘I know. It’s scary. I can’t get my head round it. That we’ve got her, that she’s ours.’ I raised my hand to try to catch the bar staff’s attention. ‘And what if I get it wrong? What if something goes wrong?’

  ‘You’ll be great. We all make mistakes – fuck knows I do. Cos we’re learning on the job. They’ll all need therapy when they’re grown-up. Like the poet said, they fuck you up.’ She leaned forward and gave our order.

  ‘Bye-bye, Chloë. You get in the car now. Your bag’s there and Snoopy’s waiting for you,’ Rita said.

  Chloë stood unmoving, feet planted firmly on the ground, head lowered. Studiously avoiding eye contact. A frown wrinkled her brow.

  Rita looked across the roof of the car to Mac, then at me. Pulled a face. Rita was upset, I could tell from her voice, brighter and more brittle than usual. She’d confided in us that it was a real wrench to say goodbye, especially to a child like Chloë, whom she had become very fond of. ‘We even talked about adopting her ourselves a while back,’ she’d said, ‘but we’re too old. It wouldn’t be fair on her even if we could get them to bend the rules.’

  Rita stooped down. ‘You want me to lift you in, Chloë?’

  Chloë’s shoulders rippled, a shrug of rejection.

  ‘You climb in, then.’

  I hated the stand-off.

  ‘Mummy and Daddy are getting in,’ Rita said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I climbed in to demonstrate. So did Mac.

  ‘Now Chloë,’ Rita said.

  I held my breath. Would she kick off? I glanced at Mac. His face was drawn, worried. We’d witnessed one of Chloë’s rages when we’d taken her out to the park near Rita’s house.