by Cathy Glass
‘Snow!’ Adrian cried at 7.30 a.m., his voice reverberating around the house.
Within minutes Paula and Lucy were out of bed and at their bedroom windows, echoing: ‘Snow! It’s been snowing!’ Paula then went into Lucy’s room, remembering to knock on the door first, and joined her at her bedroom window. Still in my dressing gown, I joined Adrian at his bedroom window.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ I called, loud enough for the girls to hear in Lucy’s room.
‘Yes! Can we play in it?’ they replied.
‘Of course!’ Adrian shouted back.
As the four of us gazed out from the two bedroom windows over the back garden, the winter sun began to rise, a fiery glowing ball that cast a pink tinge over the white snow.
‘It’s magic,’ Paula called.
And it truly was.
I’d never seen children dress so quickly (well, not since the last time we’d had snow the previous winter). Twenty minutes later, they were dressed, with coats, scarves and gloves on, and in the garden, making footprints in the virgin snow, throwing snowballs and generally having fun. I joined them in the garden for a while and then said I would go in and feed Toscha – who’d taken one look at the snow and dashed back inside – and also get some breakfast going. ‘How does egg, bacon and beans sound?’ I asked.
‘Great,’ they replied.
As I turned, a large snowball hit me on the back. ‘You wait!’ I called to Adrian. ‘I’ll get you!’ But my feeble attempt fell far short of its target as Adrian ran for cover.
I hoped the fresh air and exercise would give Lucy an appetite, but when I called them in for breakfast she didn’t want the cooked breakfast, just a bowl of cornflakes. I suggested she might like a piece of toast as well, but she shook her head. However, she did have milk and sugar on the cornflakes and ate them all, which was something. After breakfast the children returned to the garden, while Toscha and I stayed in the warm. The three of them played in the snow until their hands and feet were cold and their noses glowed red. When they came in I hung their wet gloves and coats on the radiators to dry and made them a hot chocolate, which Lucy enjoyed.
At about one o’clock I said I’d make a light lunch and I asked Lucy if she liked pasta. She said she did, but at the table she only ate about half a dozen pasta shapes and one thin slice of warm French bread. I didn’t try to encourage her to eat more, as I didn’t want to turn her eating into an issue, but Paula, who had a good appetite, said: ‘Is that all you’re having, Lucy?’
Lucy gave a small nod and I could see how self-conscious she felt.
‘It’s fine, just have what you want,’ I said lightly, for pressuring her to eat wouldn’t help.
As we neared the end of lunch the phone rang and Adrian, guessing it was his father, flew from the table and answered it in the living room. John, my ex-husband, usually saw the children every third or fourth Sunday and telephoned on the Sundays he didn’t see them. Paula, hearing Adrian say ‘Hi Dad’, left the table and joined him on the sofa in the living room, waiting for her turn to speak to her father.
I explained to Lucy who John was. She had finished eating, but stayed at the table with me. ‘Is he a nice man?’ she asked.
Difficult question, I thought, considering he’d run off with a younger woman six years previously. ‘Yes,’ I said generously. ‘He loves Adrian and Paula.’
There was a moment’s pause and then Lucy said: ‘My dad used to hit me. That wasn’t nice, was it?’
Chapter Thirteen
‘Do Our Best’
I looked at Lucy and for the first time since she’d arrived I caught a glimpse of the anger she must have been feeling about everything she’d been through, and then it was replaced with sadness.
‘No, it certainly wasn’t nice,’ I said. ‘Adults should never hit a child, not even if they are naughty, which I can’t imagine you were.’ As well as being concerned by what Lucy had just told me about her father, I was also puzzled, as it didn’t tie up with what I’d read in the referral. ‘Lucy,’ I said, ‘I might be wrong, but I didn’t think you ever saw your father?’
She gave a small shrug and looked away. ‘The social worker told me he was my stepfather, but I always had to call him Dad.’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘His name was Dave?’
‘Yes. I lived with him for a long time.’
‘You did,’ I said, recalling this from the referral. ‘Did you ever tell anyone Dave was hitting you?’
‘I told Mum,’ Lucy said in a small, tight voice. ‘But she didn’t believe me. He never hit me when she was there.’
‘He doesn’t sound like a nice person,’ I said. ‘Not like a father should be.’ This may sound obvious, but it wasn’t necessarily to Lucy, whose only experience of a father, as far as I knew, had been Dave.
‘He was all I had,’ Lucy said softly. ‘He was the only one around when my mum wasn’t there and my aunts left. So I tried not to upset him.’
‘Your aunts?’ I asked, again puzzled.
‘Dad’s girlfriends,’ Lucy clarified. ‘I had to call them Aunt. Dave said it was polite, because they looked after me sometimes.’
Not very polite of him to be hitting a young child, I thought.
‘So where was your mother when these aunts were living with you and Dave?’ I asked, trying to fill in some of the blanks and get a better understanding of Lucy’s past.
‘Mum used to go out and not come back for a long time. She wasn’t there much. I don’t see her often now.’ I knew this from the referral, but hearing it on a child’s lips made it all the more immediate and upsetting.
‘Did you tell the social worker about Dave, and the aunts, and your mum not being there?’ I now asked, wondering why Lucy hadn’t been brought into long-term care sooner.
Lucy paused and I saw some of the anger flash across her eyes again, before it was replaced by hurt. ‘It wouldn’t have done any good,’ she said despondently. ‘He was nice when anyone came.’ Then she quickly changed the subject and said: ‘Is it all right if I go to my room until Paula’s finished on the phone?’
‘Yes, of course, love. You don’t have to ask. This is your home. Do as you wish.’
Leaving the table, Lucy went upstairs. I felt so sorry for her. What an appalling, disruptive past she’d had, with her mother in and out of her life, Lucy in and out of care and a string of unrelated strangers looking after her. How much of what Lucy had told me was known to the social services I couldn’t gauge from the referral, but with Lucy upstairs and Adrian and Paula still in the living room talking to their father, I took the opportunity to add what Lucy had said to my log notes. I’d already begun Lucy’s folder with the referral and now I added what Lucy had told me about her stepfather. Sadly, from my past fostering experience, I knew that more disclosures were likely to follow and that they could get worse. Only when a child feels settled and secure do they find the courage to reveal what has happened to them, and often it’s shocking.
On Sunday afternoon we went for a short walk to our local park, taking some bread to feed the ducks. We weren’t out for long as it began to rain, which quickly turned the snow to slush. I was pleased the children had made the most of playing in the snow earlier, for if the rain continued the snow would be gone by morning. I now knew from Lucy that her school opened at 8.00 a.m., so on the way home from the park I told the girls that the following morning I planned to take Lucy to school first and then take Paula afterwards. Lucy said there was no need for me to take her as she could go on the bus, but I said she could go by bus the following week, once she was more familiar with the area and I’d shown her the route, and as long as her social worker agreed. For this week, I’d feel happier if I took and collected her in the car. I explained that it would also give me the opportunity to introduce myself at her school’s office, check that they had my contact details and hopefully make an appointment to see her teacher.
‘Why do you want to see my teacher?’ Lucy asked, a little suspicio
usly, as she squished through the puddles of melting snow.
‘To say hello and ask how I can help you with your school work. Is that OK?’
‘Sure,’ she said easily. ‘It’s just that no one ever did that before.’
Well, they should have done, I thought.
I made roast chicken for dinner that evening, with roast potatoes, peas and carrots, having checked with Lucy first that she liked these foods. However, I was quickly realizing that Lucy liking a food didn’t mean she would eat it. At dinner she managed a few carefully chewed mouthfuls of chicken, one roast potato and a spoonful of peas; not enough to feed a gnat, as my mother would have said. I saw Paula and Adrian glance at Lucy’s plate as she set down her cutlery, having left more than she’d eaten, but they didn’t say anything and neither did I. Once the rest of us had finished, I simply asked Lucy if she’d had enough and when she nodded I took her plate away, hoping that when she felt more settled her appetite would grow. Toscha ate the chicken. Lucy didn’t want any pudding, but did have a few grapes.
That evening I made sure all three school uniforms were laid out ready for the following morning, and then began the bath and bedtime routine. When it was Lucy’s turn to go up, she said she didn’t need a bath as she’d had one the night before. I said that we usually had a bath or a shower every day, but then she said she was too tired.
‘Even for a quick shower?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said.
So I gave her the benefit of the doubt and didn’t insist. So often in parenting we have to decide which issues to focus on and which we can reasonably let go. While good hygiene is important, as long as Lucy had a bath or shower the following day then little harm would be done. When she’d been with us longer, she’d fall into our routine of bathing or showering each day, just as she would take on other aspects of our family life and routines.
As I went to bed that night I was feeling quite positive. The weekend had gone far better than I’d expected, considering that on Friday evening, only forty-eight hours previously, Lucy had been shut in her bedroom at her previous foster carers’ house, refusing to come out or even talk to anyone. Now, here she was, just two days later, talking and playing and making herself at home. I should have realized, with all my years of fostering, that this was the ‘honeymoon’ period, as we refer to it, and Lucy’s behaviour would deteriorate.
The following morning I arrived at Lucy’s school at 8.25 a.m. and parked in one of the visitor’s bays. I knew I was short of time: Paula’s school started at 8.55 and I had a return journey of twenty minutes. We’d left home later than I’d planned, as Lucy had forgotten one of her school books and we’d had to return to collect it.
‘Reception is over there,’ Lucy said helpfully, as we climbed out of the car and I pressed the key fob.
I hurried across the car park, a child on each side of me. Most of the other children arriving were without parents or carers, coming to school alone or with friends. I wondered if Lucy felt embarrassed having me here. ‘I’ll drop you off at the gates tomorrow,’ I said, reassuring her. ‘I’m just coming in for today.’
She nodded, but didn’t say anything.
Inside the building, I introduced myself to the receptionist while Lucy and Paula sat on the chairs in the waiting area. I find that receptions in large secondary schools can sometimes be impersonal compared to those of smaller primary schools, where friendly office staff know all the children by name and welcome visitors. Having introduced myself, I explained that I was Lucy’s new foster carer and asked the receptionist if my contact details were on file. She checked and found they weren’t, so I gave her my address and telephone number, which she wrote on a piece of paper.
‘Is this Lucy’s permanent address?’ she asked, glancing up.
‘Yes, for the year.’
She made another note, although I couldn’t see what it was.
‘Also,’ I said, ‘I’d like to make an appointment to see Lucy’s teacher, Miss Connor, please.’
‘You’ll need to arrange that with Miss Connor herself,’ she replied – not terribly helpful.
‘How do I do that?’
‘Phone the school at lunchtime; she won’t be teaching then.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, and turned to the girls. They stood ready to leave.
‘Have a good day then, love,’ I said to Lucy, as she swung her school bag over her shoulder.
She gave a small nod. ‘Bye, Paula, see you later.’
‘Bye,’ Paula said, with a little wave.
We watched Lucy go through the swing doors that led into the main body of the school, and then Paula and I left the building and hurried to the car. Fortunately, most of the traffic was going in the opposite direction, so I arrived at Paula’s school just as the bell was going. I gave her a big kiss, said a quick goodbye and drove home. I hadn’t been in long when the phone rang and it was Jill, my support social worker, from the agency I fostered for.
‘Well done,’ she said, as soon as I answered. ‘Pat tells me you performed a miracle and Lucy is with you now.’
‘She is,’ I said, appreciating the praise. ‘I’ve just returned from taking her to school.’
‘Excellent. So how’s she doing? Settling in?’
‘Yes, she’s doing fine.’
‘Has Lucy’s social worker, Stevie, been in touch yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘She’ll be phoning you later to arrange a visit, and I need to see you and Lucy too. Can I come after school tomorrow?’
‘Yes, half past four would be good. Give us a chance to have a drink and a snack first.’ Both the child’s social worker and the carer’s support social worker have to visit as soon as possible after a child has moved in.
‘I’ll see you at half past four then,’ Jill confirmed. ‘Do you have any immediate concerns about Lucy?’
‘Only her eating,’ I said. ‘But I’ll discuss that with you tomorrow.’
‘All right. See you tomorrow. And well done.’
‘Thank you.’
I was smiling as I put down the phone. We all like praise – a verbal pat on the back – and foster carers are no exception. I really appreciated Jill’s words, her recognition that I had done well to persuade Lucy to move in without a big scene, and I continued the day with renewed energy – even while doing the housework.
An hour later the landline rang again.
‘Hello, it’s Lucy’s social worker, Stevie. I need to see Lucy, but my diary’s full until Friday, so I’ll come then at half past three.’
‘Can we make it a bit later?’ I said. ‘We won’t be home from school then. Half past four would be better.’
I thought I heard a small sigh before she said: ‘Very well. See you at half past four.’ And with no goodbye, she hung up.
I excused Stevie’s brusqueness on the grounds that, like most social workers, she undoubtedly carried a huge workload and did a very difficult job.
It was only as twelve noon approached that I realized I hadn’t thought to ask the school’s receptionist what time the school broke for lunch – the time I was supposed to phone Lucy’s teacher – so I took a chance and telephoned at 12.30. I gave my name and said that I would like to speak to Miss Connor.
‘She’s at lunch,’ the receptionist said.
‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘I was asked to telephone at lunchtime to speak to her.’
‘Hold the line and I’ll see if she’s in the staff room.’
The line went quiet and then a series of clicks followed before a male voice said: ‘Hello, staff room.’
‘Is it possible to speak to Miss Connor, please?’ I asked, in my best speaking voice.
‘Should be,’ he said, sounding friendly and jovial. ‘I’ll ask her.’ I heard him call across the staff room: ‘Miss Connor, are you free?’
‘Yes, she is,’ he said. ‘She’s on her way.’
A moment later a young woman’s voice answered. ‘Hello?’
I gave my n
ame again and said that I was Lucy’s new foster carer and that I thought it would be a good idea if we could meet soon.
‘Yes, absolutely, the sooner the better,’ Miss Connor said enthusiastically. ‘I’m pleased you’ve phoned. I knew Lucy was having to move again. I could see you after school this afternoon, if that suits you?’
‘Yes, please. Although I’ll have my younger daughter with me.’
‘No problem. Come to my classroom when you arrive. It’s E1; reception will direct you. I’ll keep Lucy with me at the end of school.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll look forward to meeting you.’
‘And you.’
Miss Connor came across as a very pleasant, well-organized and approachable lady. I was looking forward to meeting her and having the opportunity to discuss Lucy’s progress and what help she might need with her learning.
That afternoon disappeared in a trip to the local shops for groceries, and then it was time to collect Paula. Paula knew she had to come out quickly this week and not lag behind chatting to her friends, as we would be collecting Lucy from school. Adrian had a front-door key and would let himself in as usual.
