by Cathy Glass
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s fine. Hopefully I’ll meet Danny’s father then.’
‘Hopefully I’ll have met him by then,’ Terri said pointedly. ‘He’s a bit elusive. I think that’s everything then. So unless there is anything you want to say we’ll bring Danny in now so I can have a chat with him.’
We stood and went out through the kitchen. Terri waited on the patio and called, ‘Hello, Danny! Nice to see you again. How are you doing?’
I saw Danny start slightly at hearing her voice, but he didn’t turn or look at her. He squatted down and stroked George. The girls were close by. Terri shivered, having left her coat indoors. ‘Let’s go inside, Danny,’ she called to him. ‘It’s cold out here. I want to talk to you. Nice rabbit.’
Danny concentrated on George and ignored her.
‘I think we have to go in now,’ I heard Lucy say to Danny, but he shook his head.
George, who’d had a good run, was now sitting contentedly nibbling grass.
‘Come and tell me all about your rabbit!’ Terri tried again from the patio. ‘I spoke to your mother this morning, Danny, and you’re seeing her again tomorrow. That’s nice, isn’t it?’ Although Terri was well meaning and trying to engage with Danny, I thought she was giving him too much information to process all at once, so it was easier for him to do nothing. But I could also see that there was a touch of obstinacy in his refusal to come in or even acknowledge her.
‘Come on, Danny, let’s go in, it’s cold,’ Lucy said, and she and Paula began up the lawn towards us.
Danny stayed where he was, head down and stroking George. Clearly we couldn’t stay out here forever and Danny needed to do as he’d been asked, so leaving Terri on the patio I went down the lawn to Danny. Although he had his head down I stood in front of him so I was in his peripheral vision where he could at least see my feet and legs. ‘Danny, we are going indoors now. It’s time to put George in his hutch. Do you want to put George in his hutch or shall I?’
‘Me,’ he said without hesitation. Straightening, he began up the lawn towards the house, with George following.
‘Mum’s very good with children,’ Lucy said to Terri.
‘I can see that,’ Terri said. I didn’t explain to her the magic of the closed choice.
Inside, we took off our shoes, which were wet from the grass, but Danny kept his coat firmly on. I decided not to make an issue of it; he’d done as I’d asked in putting George away, so he could stay in his coat for now if he wished. Guiding children’s behaviour is always a balancing act between what they have to do and what can be reasonably let go and accommodated. Lucy and Paula disappeared upstairs, and Danny came with me and Terri into the living room. Adrian would be home later, having stayed for chess club after school. I took some toys out of Danny’s toy box, including the cars he’d been playing with previously, and arranged them on the floor. He sat by them and began playing with a lorry, silently pushing it round in circles. Social workers usually spend some time alone with the child when they visit, so that the child has the opportunity to talk about issues they may not feel comfortable voicing in front of their carer. Now Danny was settled and playing, I asked Terri, ‘Do you want to speak to Danny alone?’
‘Yes, please,’ she said.
‘Danny, Terri is going to talk to you for a while,’ I said. ‘I will be in the kitchen making dinner.’
He didn’t look up but concentrated on pushing the toy lorry in the same circle. He didn’t appear distressed, so telling him again that I would be in the kitchen, I went out of the living room, pulling the door to behind me but not completely closing it. I fed Toscha and then began peeling vegetables, but two minutes later I heard Terri call from the living room: ‘Cathy! Can you come? There’s been an accident.’
I immediately went in to find Danny standing in a puddle of urine.
Chapter Eighteen
Footprints in the Snow
I cleaned Danny, reassured him that he’d done nothing wrong and then left him in his bedroom to change into clean clothes while I took his wet clothes downstairs and put them in the washing machine. I filled a bucket with warm water, added disinfectant and went into the lounge where Terri was writing up her notes.
‘Does Danny wet himself often?’ she asked as I scrubbed the carpet.
‘No. This is the first time since he’s been with me,’ I said.
‘I guess he was worried by my visit,’ she said.
‘I guess he was,’ I agreed.
Terri left soon after, calling goodbye to Danny from the hall as she went. Usually the child’s social worker looked at the child’s bedroom when they visited, but I think Terri realized that wasn’t appropriate now and might upset Danny further. He came downstairs once she’d gone and played silently in the living room with his toys while Paula watched television. He didn’t seem very interested in television and often ignored it if it was on. After dinner I talked to him again about Terri’s role, but he looked sad and, at one point, close to tears. It would take time for him to trust her and appreciate she was trying to help him and his parents – for now, though, Terri was the reason he couldn’t be at home.
The following day, Tuesday, Danny was very quiet after contact, and the same was true after contact on Thursday. I asked him both times if there was anything worrying him, but he shook his head, either unable or not wanting to tell me. His behaviour at school deteriorated during the week too, and the social start he’d made on Monday – where he’d wanted to make friends with everyone – disappeared. He didn’t join in any class activities and kept his distance from the other children. He spent most of his time with Yvonne or the other classroom assistant, drawing and painting patterns or creating them out of anything that came to hand. As I’d told Terri, Danny could see patterns everywhere and appeared to depend on them for comfort. I suppose there is something comforting in a pattern, where their repetition is reliable and guaranteed. Much safer to know which shape or colour comes next, compared to the unpredictability and randomness of life’s events.
At home with us Danny spent nearly all his time (when he wasn’t with George) making patterns. He arranged his toy cars in an increasing circle, with over thirty vehicles spiralling out from the centre, the smallest in the middle and the largest – the buses, lorries and road diggers – nose to tail on the outer ring. He took out the Lego again but now created a pattern of squares within squares instead of parallel lines. There were three boxes of coloured dominoes in his toy box and he emptied out the tiles and laid them end to end to create a giant triangle of colour and number sequences. The children and I often offered to play with him but he wasn’t interested, preferring to play by himself. I also noticed that when Danny was in the garden with George he walked in patterns: a circle, a figure of eight and a large square, which he dissected by crossing from corner to corner. Possibly he’d always done this, but it couldn’t have been as pronounced as it was that week or I would have noticed it before.
I made a note of Danny’s behaviour in my fostering log and also that he was very quiet and withdrawn. When I mentioned to Reva that Danny seemed rather quiet she said he’d been like that during contact, and also compliant – doing exactly what he’d been told – which she’d taken as a positive sign. I didn’t want to worry Reva, but I knew from years of fostering that children in care often believe that if they’re very ‘good’ they will be allowed to go home. Was this what Danny was thinking? That if he was quiet and obedient he could return home? If a child believes he or she is responsible for being in care, they carry a huge burden of guilt, not only about their own fate but that of their parents too. When the opportunity arose I had a chat with Danny. ‘Love, lots of children live with foster carers like me,’ I said. ‘It is to help their mummies and daddies. The children haven’t done anything wrong. It’s not their fault they are in foster care.’
He didn’t reply – I hadn’t expected him to – but I would repeat the message from time to time as I had with other children I’d fo
stered.
Late Friday morning Reva telephoned and she was angry. ‘That bloody social worker!’ she stormed. ‘She’s threatening us with a court order if we don’t have Danny assessed by the educational psychologist! Richard is furious and I agree with him. How dare she! We placed Danny in care voluntarily. I needn’t have done so. I could have carried on as I was and no one would have been any the wiser.’
That wasn’t actually true, for Danny’s teacher had raised concerns, so it would only have been a matter of time before Reva and Richard had been asked to attend a meeting with a social worker. But I could understand why Reva was angry; she was frightened at the prospect of losing Danny for good.
I was about to say something conciliatory when she said, ‘Richard agrees that we should remove Danny from foster care while we still can. I don’t want you to collect him from school this afternoon. I’ll go and bring him home. I’ll collect his belongings from you another time. If necessary we’ll move out of the area.’
‘That won’t help, Reva,’ I said.
‘Why not?’ she demanded. ‘He’s our child. We can do what we like.’
You can’t, I thought, but didn’t say. ‘Reva, calm down and listen to me, please. If you take Danny out of care now, without the agreement of his social worker, the social services will go straight to court and apply for an Interim Care Order. He’ll be back in care immediately and you will have little say in the matter.’
‘They can’t do that!’ she snapped.
‘They can if they have concerns for the child,’ I said.
‘Why? Because Richard refused to meet with Terri and doesn’t want his child seeing a shrink!’
‘Well …’ I hesitated, ‘there are other concerns as well, aren’t there?’
‘Like what?’
‘Your drinking, Danny’s social isolation. Also, you weren’t coping before, which is why you put Danny into care.’ It sounded harsh, but Reva needed to understand the gravity of the situation if she removed Danny from care.
‘I’m going to speak to my solicitor,’ she said, and hung up.
Two hours later Reva telephoned again. This time she was subdued and, I guessed, had had a good cry, for she sounded fragile.
‘Sorry for speaking to you like that,’ she began quietly. ‘It’s not like me. I was upset.’
‘It’s all right. I understand.’
‘Our solicitor has spoken to Terri,’ she said. ‘And I’ve agreed to leave Danny in care for now, but I’m having extra contact next week. It’s half-term holiday, so he won’t be in school. I’m going to have him Tuesday and Thursday afternoon from twelve till six. Terri said to tell you.’
I thought it would have been nice to be asked – either by Terri or Reva – if this fitted in with my arrangements, but as a foster carer I’d become used to having arrangements changed, sometimes at the last moment, and then having to fit in with them.
‘Richard doesn’t know that I’ve agreed to this yet,’ Reva said. ‘He’s in a meeting, so I’ve left a message on his voicemail. He won’t be pleased Danny is still in care and we have to answer to Terri. He’ll probably blame me, but I’m used to that. The solicitor said it was the best he could do for now.’ I guessed that somewhere in the discussion the solicitor had ‘done a deal’ with Terri: extra contact in exchange for Danny staying in voluntary care under a Section 20. The social services wouldn’t want to apply for a court order unless there was no alternative. It’s costly, time-consuming and leaves the parents feeling impotent and embittered. Care Orders are only used as a last resort.
Reva apologized again for her rudeness earlier and then said she’d see me at ten o’clock the following morning for Saturday contact. Before she said goodbye she added, ‘And I’ve agreed to see my doctor about my drinking.’ So I guessed that had also been raised by Terri.
That evening I served chicken nuggets, chips and baked beans for dinner. It was the end of the week and having processed food occasionally doesn’t do anyone any harm. Everyone enjoyed it and it was a relatively easy meal for Danny to eat – he cut the chips and chicken nuggets in half, arranged the pieces around his plate and then ate them in colour order, chicken first, chips and then the baked beans. After dinner we did a little of his homework and then I began his bath and bedtime routine, which still took about an hour and a half. I tipped his bath toys into the water as I usually did, but he took them all out again except for the dinghy and the diving man, which he played with continuously while I washed his hair, throwing the diver into the water, holding him under and then saving him. The time the toy diver spent under the water grew longer and longer, and as Danny held him under he chanted, ‘Drowning, drowning, drowning.’ His face was creased in anguish, as though empathizing with someone drowning. What with this and the way he often threw himself back in the bath and stayed under the water, he seemed rather obsessed with drowning. It crossed my mind that possibly this was how Danny felt – as though he was drowning. We often refer to drowning metaphorically when were are unable to cope – drowning in sorrow, regret, too much work. Was Danny drowning in everyday life?
‘Save the diver,’ I encouraged Danny, which he did. Only to hold him under the water again.
On Saturday morning I dropped Danny off at his house for the day and then returned home to collect Adrian, Lucy and Paula, who had forgone their lie-in and were dressed, ready to visit Nana and Grandpa. I’d suggested the visit to them the evening before and they’d jumped at the chance. It was only a short visit as I had to be home in plenty of time for when Danny was returned, but we had a very pleasant and relaxing few hours with my parents, although I think we all felt someone was missing. Mum said a few times she hoped it wouldn’t be long before Danny could visit her and Grandpa too, as our other foster children had done.
When Reva returned Danny that evening she seemed reserved and a little standoffish with me. She didn’t want to come in, although the night was cold, and called a quick goodbye to Danny from the doorstep. He went straight through the house to see George. I asked Reva if she’d had a good day, and she replied, ‘Pleasant enough, thank you.’
‘And how was Danny?’ I asked.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you on Tuesday. I’ll collect him and bring him back to you.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
She said a rather curt goodbye, turned and left. I had the feeling I’d just been assigned to ‘them’ in a ‘them and us’ situation, putting me on the side of the social services. It was a pity when this happened, as it made working with the parents more difficult, when we should have all been working together for the good of the child.
As soon as I woke on Sunday morning, even before I’d opened the curtains, I knew we’d had some snow in the night. That glow, the unusual stillness, the muted sound, all suggesting nature had cast its magical white cloak. There wasn’t much snow – about an inch – but any snow is exciting when it’s a relatively rare occurrence. When the children woke, Adrian, Lucy and Paula were as enchanted by it as I was, but Danny seemed bemused, not only by the snow but our excited reaction to it. Toscha was unsure and gingerly tiptoed around the edge of the patio, past the patio doors where Danny and I were looking out. I explained to Danny very simply what snow was – frozen rain.
‘Frozen rain,’ he repeated.
‘I wonder what George will make of the snow when you take him for a walk later,’ I said. But the sentence was too complicated and Danny looked blank. ‘You can take George in the snow later,’ I said.
‘George in the snow later,’ he echoed, no less bemused.
As there wasn’t enough snow to make a snowman I suggested we walk to our local park where we could feed the ducks, who were always hungry in winter, and make footprints in the snow while it was fresh. We’d done this in previous winters and it was fun, especially seeing the ducks trying to walk on the icy pond. Adrian, Lucy and Paula readily agreed to the outing, and Danny nodded, although I wasn’t sure he had much idea of what he was nodding to. We h
ad a quick breakfast: porridge for us, and Danny wanted his usual – ‘Cornflakes in a bowl, with milk and half a teaspoon of sugar, please.’ After breakfast we wrapped up warm in our coats, scarves and gloves. Reva hadn’t packed any boots for Danny, so I found some in my spares that fitted him.
‘Not mine,’ Danny said, at first refusing to put them on.
‘I know they’re not yours,’ I said. ‘But you are going to wear them to walk in the snow.’
Danny looked at the boots and made no move to put them on.
‘You can’t wear your shoes,’ Lucy said. ‘Your feet will get wet and cold.’ We were all in the hall by then, at the front door, waiting for Danny to put on the boots.
‘Do you want to put the right boot on first or the left one?’ I asked him, resorting to the ‘closed choice’ again. ‘Right or left?’ I repeated, touching each boot.
‘Right,’ Danny said quietly and began putting on the boot.
‘Good boy,’ I said.
Once Danny had his boots and gloves on, Adrian opened the front door. I went out last with Danny and locked the door. Danny took one step into the snow on the front path, stopped dead and screamed.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Lucy asked, spinning round.
‘Sshh, you’ll wake the whole street,’ I said. ‘It’s early.’
Danny, rooted to the spot, stared horrified at his boots.
‘He’s scared of the snow,’ Paula said, and offered him her hand.
Danny didn’t take it but, still staring at his feet, screamed again.
‘Oh no! Be quiet,’ Lucy said, embarrassed.
A bedroom window opened above us and my neighbour, Sue, poked her head out. ‘Everything OK, Cath?’ she asked.
‘Yes, sorry,’ I said. ‘I hope we didn’t wake you.’
‘No, my family are up. Beautiful, isn’t it?’
