by Cathy Glass
We returned to the living room. Paula sat on my lap while Lucy sat on the sofa next to Lily. ‘I’ve explained to Lucy what permanency will mean for her,’ Lily said, addressing me. ‘And she’s happy for us to go ahead. I’ve also explained that she will still be in care and I will be visiting her to make sure she’s all right.’
‘I don’t mind now,’ Lucy said. ‘I like Lily.’
Paula shot Lucy a quizzical glance, clearly taken aback by her sudden change of attitude towards social workers, having previously refused to see any. I could understand why Lucy felt differently. Now she was no longer living under the constant threat of being moved again, her social worker had changed from being her enemy to her ally.
‘I’ve also spoken to Bonnie,’ Lily continued, addressing me. ‘She’s confirmed she’s happy for Lucy to stay with you, and, as you know, she would like to see Lucy a couple of times a year. It’s over six months since she last saw her and she’s back in town for a while, so I’m going to set up contact for next week. I’m thinking of Wednesday. Are you able to collect Lucy from school and take her to contact?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
Lily made a note. ‘Bonnie has asked if she can have your telephone number so she can phone Lucy on special occasions – Christmas and birthdays. Before I give her your number, I wanted to confirm it was all right with you first.’
‘Yes, that’s fine with me. It’ll be nice for Lucy to speak to her mother between seeing her.’ If there are safeguarding concerns, then the parents of a child in care are not given the foster carer’s contact details, but there were no such concerns here.
‘Well, I think that’s all for now,’ Lily said, as she finished writing. ‘Do you have any questions?’
‘I can’t think of any,’ I said. I looked at Lucy, who shook her head.
‘Phone me if you think of anything,’ Lily said to us.
She packed away her notepad and pen and stood. ‘I’ll let you get on with your dinner then – something smells good!’
‘It’s casserole,’ Paula said, finally brave enough to speak.
‘Hmmm, my favourite,’ Lily said.
‘You’re welcome to stay and have some, if you’d like to,’ I offered. ‘There’s plenty.’
‘That’s kind of you, but I need to be going now. Thanks anyway.’
We all stood and then, to Lily’s surprise, Lucy went over and threw her arms around her. ‘That’s for letting me stay,’ she said. ‘And thank your manager. I’m very happy.’ From which I guessed that Lily had explained her manager’s role in the decision.
‘I’m very pleased for you,’ Lily said. ‘It’s at times like this that I know why I became a social worker.’ She kissed Lucy on the head.
The girls and I saw Lily to the front door and said goodbye. Once she’d gone, Paula went upstairs to fetch Adrian for dinner while Lucy helped me serve. Lucy ate well, and after we’d eaten I telephoned my parents and told them the good news. They were of course delighted.
‘Will you continue fostering now Lucy is staying?’ Mum asked.
‘Oh yes. We have the room and it worked out well with the children we looked after on respite.’
‘As long as you don’t overdo it,’ Mum cautioned, as she had before.
‘Don’t worry. Adrian, Lucy and Paula are a big help. In fact, I couldn’t manage without them.’ Which was very true. Fostering is a whole family commitment.
The children stayed up later than usual, and by way of a little celebration we had microwave popcorn and lemonade while watching a DVD. We would have another celebration in March when the permanency panel passed my application and Lucy staying became official. But for now, this marked the day when our lives changed forever – although in practice nothing changed, as Lucy was already part of my family.
That night Lucy’s second wish was granted – it snowed. We woke on Saturday morning to find the world outside had been transformed into a winter wonderland, as we had done almost a year before. I didn’t need to provide entertainment for the children that weekend; it was ready-made. We spent the mornings in the garden building a snowman and having snowball fights, and then in the afternoons we dragged our toboggans to the park nearby, which had a hill ideal for tobogganing and was very popular when it snowed. We saw friends and neighbours there; children of all ages and their parents, gliding down the slippery snow-covered hill on anything they had available, including tea trays. The four of us took turns using our two toboggans, climbing to the top and then flying down the shiny slope, over and over again. It was great fun and we didn’t notice the cold. We only started for home in the late afternoon, when the air chilled and the sun began to sink, turning the white snow a magical, glistening icy pink.
Monday was a normal school day, as there wasn’t enough snow to keep people at home. At school, Paula told most of her friends that Lucy was staying, so she now had a sister. I didn’t know if Adrian told his friends – he’s a very private person and doesn’t always share news – but when Lucy arrived home she had told at least one friend, for she said, ‘Can my friend Josette come to tea on Friday?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, delighted.
‘And Cathy, I’m seeing my mum on Wednesday. I’m sure it’s her birthday soon. I want to get her something, but I won’t have a chance to go into town. Can you get me a card and present for her, please?’
‘Yes. I’ll go tomorrow, and we need to make a note of the date for next year.’
‘Don’t get her one of those sloppy cards, though,’ Lucy added matter-of-factly. ‘The ones that say things about being a wonderful mother. She knows she’s been crap. You’ve been more of a mother to me than she ever was.’
I couldn’t find it in my heart to tell her off for saying ‘crap’. That Lucy could accept her mother for what she was, and still care about her, touched me deeply.
‘I’ll find something suitable,’ I said.
The following day, after I’d taken Paula to school, I drove into town, and after much deliberation found a birthday card I thought would be appropriate. I bought a present for Lucy to give to her mother: a silver photograph frame in which I would put a photograph of Lucy, a box of chocolates and a box of toiletries. I also had another front-door key cut, which I gave to Lucy when she arrived home from school.
‘And when do I have my own front-door key?’ Paula demanded haughtily, with her hands on her hips.
‘When you start secondary school,’ I said. ‘That’s when Adrian had his key.’
‘And suppose I’m home before you, how will I get in?’
‘Paula, you’re ten. I meet you from school and you’re never home alone.’
‘I suppose I’ll just have to accept that then,’ she said with the same air, and with her hands still on her hips she marched off theatrically.
I’m sure the youngest child in a family grows up faster than the older ones.
I showed Lucy the presents and card I’d bought for her mother. She was pleased. ‘The card’s good,’ she said, and I was relieved. On the front were printed the words: To Someone Special. Inside there was a short verse, which ended: ‘… although we can’t be together, I’ll be thinking of you on your special day. Happy Birthday’. I didn’t know what Lucy wrote in the card – she took it to her room to sign, and I didn’t ask. What she wrote was personal, between her and her mother.
Jill telephoned the next day and said she needed to see me. She had the paperwork ready for me to read and sign as part of my application to the permanency panel.
‘That was quick,’ I said, aware of how many forms needed to be completed.
‘I started completing the forms last September,’ Jill said. ‘Then, when your application didn’t go ahead, I filed them away. I’ve completed the agency’s part, but there are some boxes on the forms for you to fill in.’ We made an appointment for Jill to visit on Thursday at half past ten.
On Wednesday, the day Lucy was having contact with her mother, I arranged for Paula to go to a friend’s
house after school, rather than spend over an hour in the car on a cold winter’s night. Adrian would let himself in as usual. It also meant that I didn’t have so much rushing around to do, and I arrived at Lucy’s school in plenty of time. The wrapped presents and card were in a gift bag on the back seat. I parked in one of the visitors’ bays in the school’s car park, where I’d arranged to meet Lucy. While I waited for school to finish, I listened to the radio. I wasn’t anxious at the thought of meeting Bonnie again, just sad that life hadn’t been kind to her and had resulted in her having to give up her daughter. I thought it said a lot about Bonnie that she had been able to put her daughter’s best interests first. Knowing her mother had accepted that she would be better off in care had without doubt helped Lucy settle in and fully integrate into my family.
Lucy was one of the first to come out of school. She saw my car, ran over and, jumping into the passenger seat, kissed my cheek.
‘Hi, love,’ I said. ‘Have you had a good day?’
‘Yep!’ she said, and fastened her seat belt. ‘Josette’s mother says Josette can come to tea on Friday, but she wanted your address and telephone number, so I wrote it down and gave it to Josette. I hope that’s OK?’
‘Yes. Absolutely. Parents need to know where their children are and that they are safe, no matter how old they are. I’d do the same.’
‘Josette’s already asked if I can go to her house the following Friday,’ Lucy said, excited. ‘Is that OK? I’ll get her address.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And her mum said to say thank you for offering to take Josette home afterwards.’
‘She’s welcome,’ I said. ‘They sound a nice family.’
‘Yes, they are.’
Lucy continued chatting as I drove, mostly about Josette and another girl she was making friends with. We arrived at the contact centre with ten minutes to spare. I parked the car and we got out, with Lucy carrying the gift bag. Inside the centre we gave our names to the receptionist and then signed the visitors’ book. The receptionist said that Bonnie had already arrived and was in Red Room. ‘Go on in,’ she said. ‘The contact supervisor will be with you shortly.’
Now that the care proceedings had finished and as there were no safeguarding issues, having a contact supervisor present wasn’t so critical and was really only to monitor contact and make sure it was a positive experience for Lucy. It was quite possible that future contact would take place away from the centre – in the community, as it is known – and without a supervisor, which would make the time Lucy spent with her mother more relaxed and natural. The door to Red Room was ajar and I followed Lucy in. Bonnie was sitting on the sofa flicking through a magazine, which she returned to the magazine rack as we entered.
‘Hello,’ she said to Lucy, standing and taking a step towards her.
‘Hi,’ Lucy said. Going over, she kissed her mother’s cheek.
I saw that Bonnie was surprised. She drew back slightly. She didn’t return the kiss or hug her daughter. I don’t think she could.
‘Hello, Bonnie,’ I said, going over. ‘Nice to see you again.’
‘And you,’ she said softly, with a small smile.
‘Happy Birthday,’ Lucy said, handing her mother the gift bag.
‘For me?’ Bonnie said, genuinely amazed. ‘How did you know it was my birthday?’
‘I thought it was about now,’ Lucy said. ‘But I didn’t know the exact date.’
‘It’s tomorrow,’ Bonnie said. ‘Thank you so much. How lovely of you to remember.’
My heart went out to her; she was so pleased, I wondered if she’d ever had a present and card on her birthday before. As I looked at Bonnie, I saw that, although it was only a little over six months since I’d last seen her, she’d aged. She looked as though she’d lost weight and was very pale. She was again dressed fashionably in jeans and a zip-up top and even had on a little make-up, but there was a remoteness about her. Her eyes looked distant and slightly glazed. I remembered reading in the paperwork that she’d been on anti-depressants at various times in her life, and I wondered if she was on them now, to help her cope.
The supervisor came into the room, introduced herself and sat at the table. ‘I’ll go now,’ I said.
‘You can stay if you like,’ Bonnie said.
The supervisor was as surprised as I was by this offer; usually the natural parents can’t wait for the foster carer to leave.
‘No, this is your special time, for you and your daughter,’ I said to Bonnie. ‘I’ll come back in an hour at the end of contact.’
‘Open your presents, Mum,’ Lucy said, sitting on the sofa.
‘Yes, I will,’ Bonnie said, sitting beside her daughter. ‘I’ll open my card first, and then my presents. I’ve got three presents!’ she exclaimed, peering into the bag. There was a touching childlike naivety in her enthusiasm and, as I left, I thought that if there was ever a case of a mother in need of looking after as much as her child, it was Bonnie. I wished I could have taken her home and looked after her too.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Thunderstorm
I went for a short walk while Lucy saw her mother, but the evening was so cold I soon returned to the contact centre, where I sat in the waiting room and flicked through a couple of old magazines someone had left there. My thoughts returned to Bonnie and Lucy, now in Red Room. A lot had happened in the interim since they’d last seen each other and I wondered if Bonnie would talk to Lucy about the court case and why Lucy was staying with me. I felt I should say something to Bonnie, perhaps to reassure her that I would take good care of Lucy, and thereby acknowledge the responsibility I felt for looking after her long term. I decided to see what Bonnie said and to take my cue from her.
The hour’s contact came to a close and, leaving the waiting room, I went to Red Room where I knocked on the door and went in. The room was unusually quiet for the end of a contact, as I remembered it had been the last time Lucy had seen her mother. Bonnie and Lucy were sitting side by side on the sofa, close, but not touching, just like the last time. I smiled as they looked up, and then the contact supervisor said to them: ‘Time to pack away now.’ Although the only item that needed putting away was the pack of playing cards Lucy held in her hand. There were no other games or toys out.
Lucy stood and crossed to the toy cupboard and put away the cards.
‘What have you been playing?’ I asked, filling the silence.
‘Snap,’ Lucy said.
‘It’s the only card game I know,’ Bonnie said, with an embarrassed laugh.
‘It’s a fun game,’ I said. ‘We play it at home.’ Although in truth it was a game for much younger children, and we only played it when we had small children visiting us.
The room fell silent again, and Lucy returned to the sofa and took her coat from the arm of the chair. Bonnie stood and picked up her jacket too. ‘Thank you for the presents,’ she said to me.
‘You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘Did the social worker give you my telephone number, as you asked?’
‘Yes. Thank you,’ Bonnie said quietly. ‘It will be nice to talk to Lucy sometimes. But don’t worry, I won’t make a nuisance of myself and keep phoning.’
Once again my heart went out to her. ‘Phone whenever you want,’ I said. I knew I was taking a chance, as Bonnie might have phoned continuously, which would have been very unsettling for Lucy, but from what I knew of Bonnie I didn’t think she would.
‘I’ll take good care of Lucy,’ I added.
‘I know you will,’ Bonnie said. ‘Lucy’s told me how happy she is with you. I can’t thank you enough for looking after her. She’s had so many moves, and not everyone has been as kind to her as you have.’
A lump immediately rose in my throat. Bonnie’s self-effacing manner, with no hint of resentment that I had stolen her role as parent, made me want to reach out and hug her. I didn’t, because I knew she would find that very difficult.
‘There’s no need to thank me,’ I said
. ‘We are all very pleased Lucy can stay. Hopefully one time you’ll be able to meet Adrian and Paula.’
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ Bonnie said. ‘Thank you. Well, goodbye then, love,’ she said, turning to Lucy. ‘Take care, and be good for Cathy.’
‘Goodbye,’ Lucy said.
There was something so very sad and a little strange in this emotionless farewell, especially as Lucy was always so tactile with us at home. I didn’t offer my hand to Bonnie for shaking – I doubted she would have accepted it – so I said simply, ‘Look after yourself then, Bonnie. Phone when you’re ready.’
‘I will,’ she said, with a small smile.
I felt I had missed an opportunity to say more to Bonnie, but I didn’t know what else I could say. Anything I considered sounded trite and even patronizing. Bonnie picked up the gift bag and returned to sit on the sofa to wait until we had left the building.
‘Bye, Mum!’ Lucy called, as we went.
‘Bye, love,’ Bonnie replied.
As we went through the door, I turned and smiled a final goodbye. Bonnie was sitting on the sofa with the gift bag clutched protectively to her chest, as if it was her most treasured possession, and perhaps it was. She reminded me of one of those child refugees you see in photographs, who have all their possessions in a bag that they hold close, in case anyone should try to snatch it.
Lucy linked her arm through mine as we left the contact centre. In some respects it was a relief that there hadn’t been a big emotional scene when Lucy had parted from her mother. It can take days or even weeks for a child to fully recover from the upset of saying goodbye at the end of an emotionally charged contact. I hoped Bonnie had some good friends whom she could confide in and who would support her, for she seemed so alone in the world, and we all need at least one shoulder to cry on.
