by Cathy Glass
When Jill visited us the following morning she was able to witness all aspects of Reece’s behaviour first hand, from flying around in a prehistoric bird or shark attack (when she first arrived), to sitting quietly absorbed in a book which Jill read to him while I made us coffee. She also heard his defensiveness about anything connected to home.
‘That’s a smart sweatshirt,’ Jill complimented him. ‘Did mum buy it?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Susie sends her love. You’ll be seeing her before too long.’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Secrets,’ Jill said quietly to me when I saw her out. ‘He’s been sworn to secrecy.’ And I agreed, but the worrying thing was about what?
On Wednesday at lunchtime as Reece and I were having some soup and a roll, the phone rang. I answered the extension in the kitchen, where I could keep an eye on Reece, although he was absorbed in eating. It was a social worker called Melissa, who said she was trying to arrange contact between Reece and his mother, and as many of the siblings as possible. She said Reece’s mother, Tracey, had been into the council offices threatening them with legal action because she hadn’t seen Reece since he’d been moved to me the week before, and the court order said that she was supposed to see him twice a week. Whatever Tracey may or may not have done, she was right about this. Melissa was in a panic now, trying to arrange contact and comply with the judge’s court order.
‘It’s going to be between six and seven thirty tonight,’ she said. ‘Are you able to take and collect Reece?’
‘Yes,’ I said, aware that it is a requirement that foster carers take their foster child (or children) to, and collect them from, contact when appropriate. ‘Where is it being held?’ I asked.
‘Here, at the council offices. Tracey has been banned from the family centres. They’ve already given her a second chance, so they won’t budge. I’m arranging for two social workers and a security guard to be present. Don’t worry: you won’t have to meet Tracey. All you have to do is to phone when you arrive in the car park and someone will come down and collect Reece.’
The arrangements were unusual, to say the least. I’d never heard of contact taking place at council offices in any county, and the mention of the security guard, plus the reassurance that I wouldn’t ‘have to meet’ Tracey, was adding to my disquiet. Normally, not only would I meet the child’s parents at the start and end of contact, but I would actively try to build a working relationship with them — it benefits the child if we can all work together — but it now sounded that I was being saved from this for my own protection.
‘I’ll give you the phone number of the duty social worker,’ Melissa said. I reached for a pen, wrote down the number and read it back.
‘Thanks,’ Melissa said. ‘It’s a nightmare trying to arrange this contact. Tracey’s kids are with foster carers all over the area, and some are well outside the county. Hopefully we will be better organized by next week. Good luck.’
With Reece still eating, I went to my desk in the front room and took out the essential information forms to look up the names and ages of Reece’s extended family. Although it appeared I wouldn’t be meeting any of them, I needed to have some idea of who Reece’s half-brothers and -sisters were so that I would know who he was talking about after he had seen them at contact. I had briefly scanned the forms when Reece had first arrived but now I looked at them more carefully. Reece had two half-brothers — Brad and Sean, aged sixteen and fourteen respectively – and three half-sisters. Apart from Susie, aged ten, who had been brought into care at the same time as Reece, there were Sharon, aged eighteen, and Lisa, twelve. They all had different surnames, none of them being Tracey’s; only Reece had the same surname as his father, so that I assumed Reece was the only child of Scott and Tracey.
The forms also listed the contact details of the siblings and other important family members, as it is usual for the child to keep in touch with the extended family as much as possible. As I looked at the names and addresses of the carers where the children were living, I could see the problem Melissa had been having in trying to bring them together. All of them but one had addresses outside the county. Susie had been placed with foster carers in a neighbouring county about 20 miles away; the two half-brothers, Brad and Sean, were together in the opposite direction, about 15 miles away. Sharon, at eighteen the eldest, was in a teenage residential unit within the county, while Lisa, who it appeared had been brought up by an aunt since the age of two, was in a town which I guessed was over 80 miles away.
When children are first brought into care the social services usually try to place them with their own ‘in house’ carers inside the county, but if there are no places available, they place them with an agency carer, either within the county or as close to it as possible. Occasionally children are purposely placed out of the area: for example, a teenager who has got into trouble with the police and needs a fresh start. I noticed from the information that all the children in the family, apart from Reece and Susie, had been in care for many years, and were with permanent long-term carers. I therefore assumed that the reason for them being so widespread was that when the social services had matched the children to suitable permanent families, the best match could only be found outside the immediate area. I also noticed, as I read down the page, that the children had been taken into care at different times, beginning fifteen years previously with Sharon when she had been three. Susie and Reece had been the last to go.
Before returning the forms to my desk I made a note of the birthdays of Reece’s mum, dad and all the siblings, so I could arrange for Reece to send or give them a present and card on their birthdays, as is normal for foster carers to do. I could hear that Reece had now finished his lunch and, having swooped into the sitting room, was jumping up and down on the sofa. I returned the forms to my desk and went through to the living room.
‘Come on, off the sofa,’ I said. ‘We sit on sofas, not bounce on them. Would you like to go to the park?’
I guessed he did, for with a flying leap he was off the sofa and down the hall, fumbling to get his trainers on while yelling, ‘Park park,’ in a good imitation of a strangled parrot. I quickly joined him in the hall, where I put on my coat and shoes and then helped Reece with his coat zip.
‘You’re going to see your mum tonight,’ I said, as we left the house, ‘and maybe some of your brothers and sisters too.’ It was then I realized that since he’d arrived Reece had not once asked when he would be seeing his parents, which was very unusual. Reece had been living with his parents for over seven years and should have formed a strong enough attachment to be missing them badly, particularly as he’d been in care and away from them for only six weeks. I’d found in the past that most children, even those who had been neglected and abused, pined for their mothers (and fathers if they were in contact with one) for months. They eagerly awaited contact and asked repeatedly when they would be seeing their mums again. In my experience only the worst cases of abuse, for example Jodie (of Damaged), had resulted in the child having no bond or attachment with their parents and never mentioning them. I also realized, though, that Reece had had an awful lot on his mind with all the moves, and had probably had enough to cope with without the added burden of fretting for his parents.
‘Are you looking forward to seeing your mum?’ I asked as, hand in hand, we walked up the street and towards the park.
‘Dunno,’ he said.
‘Do you remember when you last saw her?’ I asked, for I realized that I didn’t know, and hadn’t thought to ask Melissa. Melissa had said that the judge’s order had set contact at twice a week, so I assumed it had been complied with, apart from in the disruption of Reece’s move to me.
‘Dunno,’ Reece said again, hopping along beside me and hissing at a cat.
‘Did you see your mum when you were with your other carers?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘What about your brothers and sisters? Did you see them?’
&
nbsp; ‘Think so.’
‘OK, love, I just wondered.’ It wasn’t of any great significance, other than that it helped me to gain a better idea of what had been happening.
We spent an hour in the park, which gave Reece a chance to burn off some of his energy, and arrived home again just before the girls returned from school and college. When they came in I explained I would be in and out with contact that evening, and that I would plate up the dinner and they could have theirs when they wished. Reece didn’t mention contact or that he was going to see his parents.
At five o’clock I gave him an early dinner and then persuaded him into some fresh clothes so that he would look smart for contact. I also persuaded him into the bathroom, where I ran a flannel over his face. Contact is an ‘occasion’ and I like the children to look their best; this also gives the parents less reason to complain. So often the child’s parents are angry about their child being taken into care, and they direct their anger at the carer and seize on anything and everything — from a small mark on an otherwise clean top to a tiny skin blemish for which the carer could be held responsible. Not all parents do this but a sizeable proportion do, and I can see only too clearly the reasoning behind it, although this doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. In having their child removed the parents have lost virtually all control over the child’s upbringing, and have effectively been told that their parenting wasn’t good enough. Human nature being what it is, it therefore makes some sense for them to retain what little control they still have in their child’s upbringing by criticizing the carer and wanting things done differently. Also, trying to show that the carer is doing a less than perfect job in some way minimizes their own shortcomings and failings.
However, I have worked with plenty of parents who recognize that, for whatever reason, they were not able to raise their children and want to work with me. This makes life so much easier for all concerned, particularly the child, who isn’t subjected to divided loyalties between the parent and the carer. Given that Tracey had all her children in care, and that had been so for fifteen years, I hoped she’d come to terms with this and would therefore view me as an ally and not an enemy, for the benefit of Reece.
With Reece at last settled under his seatbelt in the car, and with a couple of books to keep him amused, I headed for the council offices, which were on the other side of town. I had allowed half an hour for the journey, which would get us there in good time. Contact started at six o’clock, so I had allowed an extra ten minutes for parking and then phoning and waiting for the duty social worker to arrive. I had entered the duty social worker’s number on my mobile, which was now in my handbag on the passenger seat.
Reece was pretty quiet in the car, not looking at the books but peering out of his side window at the brightly lit shops, which were just closing. He was making a low humming noise which, although mildly irritating, was considerably less distracting than the jarring sounds of planes and cars crashing which had accompanied our previous car journeys. I had explained to Reece what was going to happen — i.e. that we would park in the council offices’ car park, and a social worker would come to the car and then take him to see his mother in a room in the building.
‘Why aren’t you taking me?’ Reece asked.
‘I don’t know which room you will be in,’ I half-truthed, ‘so they thought it would be easier this way.’ I could hardly say his mother was considered dangerous.
It was 5.50, and I was waiting for a gap in the traffic so that I could turn right into the council offices’ car park. As I glanced across I saw that the car park, which flanked two sides of the six-storey building, was virtually empty. By this time most of the council employees would have left work, so I guessed that apart from a few employees working late — the social workers, security guard and cleaners — the building would be deserted, like the car park. I knew the building was normally closed and completely in darkness by 7.00 because I’d driven past it on a couple of occasions on my way to see a friend, but clearly they would be keeping part of it open tonight for Reece’s contact, which wasn’t due to finish until 7.30.
I made the right turn and slowly drew across the car park so that I could park beneath the one lamp that lit the otherwise dark parking area. I nosed the car up to the dwarf wall that skirted the car park and nearly jumped out of my seat as Reece bellowed ‘Mum!’ at the top of his voice.
I looked over and saw a lone figure come out of shadows of the building and begin towards us. I felt my heart start to race. Pulling up the handbrake, I turned off the engine.
‘Mum!’ Reece yelled again, releasing his seatbelt.
‘Stay there until I let you out,’ I said firmly. I looked at the woman, who was now about 10 yards away. I wondered what the hell I was supposed to do. I could hardly sit in the car with Tracey outside while I phoned the duty social worker as I had been told to do: it would have been rude and also impractical. Reece was now clamouring at the window and bellowing, ‘Mum! Mum!’
I took the keys from the ignition and my mobile from my handbag, and got out. I went round and opened Reece’s door and took hold of his hand.
‘Sharky!’ a deep woman’s voice boomed from behind us. ‘Sharky, me boy!’
With Reece now beside me, I locked the car and, holding his hand so he couldn’t dash across the car park, I turned to greet Tracey. About 5 feet 8 inches tall, and very overweight, she was dressed in nylon jogging bottoms and a short-sleeved nylon Liverpool football club T-shirt, despite the cold night air. Her hair was drawn severely back in a tight ponytail that just touched the top of her broad shoulders. She came towards us with one hand thrust into the pockets of her jogging bottoms and in the other hand she held a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. For all intents she looked like a wrestler.
‘Sharky, me lad!’ she shouted again, continuing towards us. Coming right up she cuffed Reece over the head. ‘Good to see ya, Sharky.’
‘Hello, Tracey,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’m Cathy, Reece’s carer.’ It wouldn’t necessarily be obvious to Tracey who I was, as escorts are sometimes used to take children to contact if the carer can’t. As I introduced myself and saw her face fully illuminated by the lamp of the car park, I noticed how much Reece looked like her. He was her spitting image, from the pale skin to the brown hair and eyes, and even the prominent upper serrated teeth, which were less pronounced in Tracey but still evident. He was so similar to his mother he could have been cloned.
‘He wants a bleeding ‘air cut,’ Tracey said. She went to cuff him again over the head but Reece automatically ducked. Then she stood looking at me.
Although Reece’s hair was little more than stubble, Tracey’s wishes had to be adhered to, as Reece was on an interim care order (ICO). On an ICO the parents retain parental responsibility and have a say in the child’s upbringing. This remains so until a full care order has been granted by the court, when the social services take full control. Hair is often a contentious issue and carers do what the parents wish.
‘Perhaps you could tell me what you normally do with Reece’s hair,’ I said, hoping this might be the starting point for a working relationship with Tracey, for while this meeting shouldn’t have taken place, now that it had I could try to use it for the best.
‘Shave it,’ she said. ‘Number two all over. His dad done it at home, every week.’ I could see where Reece had got his shouting from, for Tracey’s normal speaking voice was very loud, almost shouting.
‘OK, fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll see to it, although I’ll have to take him to the barber’s, so it won’t be every week.’
“As he been good?’ she boomed, changing the subject. Before I could answer she’d turned to Reece and, with another cuff which Reece also missed by ducking, shouted affectionately at him: ‘You been good, Sharky? You little bugger, I bet you ain’t!’ She laughed loudly and her chest rattled, so I guessed she was a heavy smoker. I was about to say that Reece was settling in well but I didn’t get a chance. ‘He’s been moved four times ‘co
s of his behaviour, and it ain’t good!’ Tracey yelled. ‘I’m in court next week, and when I talk to the judge he’ll be having that bleeding social worker. I ain’t ‘aving me kid pissed around.’
Again I was about to open my mouth to speak and say something conciliatory but I didn’t get the chance.
‘Is he staying with you now?’ she bellowed. ‘He better be! I ain’t ‘aving ‘im moved again. It’s a bleeding disgrace. Them wankers!’
‘No, he won’t be moved again,’ I reassured Tracey. Reece was pulling on my arm and making a loud hissing noise. ‘Stand still, good boy,’ I said.
‘Do as you’re bleeding told!’ Tracey yelled, giving him another cuff over the head, which met its target this time. Reece immediately stopped the hissing and stood quiet and still, her method of child control apparently effective, if not recommended.
‘You seen his social worker yet?’ Tracey demanded.
‘No, not yet,’ I said. ‘I understand he is away at present.’
‘Fucking ‘ell, them bleeding social workers are always on holiday. All right for some! He should be ‘ere, sorting me bleeding kids out, not on ‘oliday. Do you know, I’ve got all me kids in care?’ she added as though it was something to be proud of. All except Lisa, and she’s not being fostered, she’s with me sister. Ain’t seen ‘er for years, but I’m gonna be changing that. I’ll tell the judge! Lisa’s bright, yunno.’
I nodded and thought that now I had met Tracey and talked to her I had better do as I’d been instructed and phone the duty social worker, for I had the feeling that this conversation could go on for ever. Tracey obviously had a lot of grievances and needed a sympathetic ear.
