The Night the Angels Came

by Cathy Glass

  Cathy Glass

  SUNDAY TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  The Night the

  Angels Came

  The true story of a

  child’s loss and the love

  that kept them alive

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Preface

  Chapter One - It’s a Cruel World

  Chapter Two - Proud of My Children

  Chapter Three - Are You Going to Die Soon?

  Chapter Four - So Brave Yet So Ill

  Chapter Five - Treasure

  Chapter Six - Lonely and Afraid

  Chapter Seven - Comfortable

  Chapter Eight - Michael’s Daddy

  Chapter Nine - A Prayer Answered

  Chapter Ten - A Child Again

  Chapter Eleven - Friends and Neighbours

  Chapter Twelve - Good and Bad News

  Chapter Thirteen - An Evening Out

  Chapter Fourteen - ‘May Joy and Peace Surround You’

  Chapter Fifteen - Boyfriend

  Chapter Sixteen - An Empty House

  Chapter Seventeen - Attached

  Chapter Eighteen - News and No News

  Chapter Nineteen - The Power of Prayer

  Chapter Twenty - Hospital

  Chapter Twenty-One - Support

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Improving

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Worry Mode

  Chapter Twenty-Four - The Night Sky

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Staying Positive

  Chapter Twenty-Six - A Few Days’ Rest

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Premonition

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Time with Dad

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - The Stars Glow Brightly

  Chapter Thirty - The Meeting

  Chapter Thirty-One - The Right Decision

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Heaven

  Chapter Thirty-Three - Leaving Michael

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Cathy Glass

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Preface

  Children usually come into foster care as a result of abuse or severe neglect. Very occasionally, and sadly, it is as a result of one or both parents being very ill or even dying. This is the true story of Michael, whose courage, faith and strength in the face of so much sorrow will stay in the hearts of my family and me for ever.

  Chapter One

  It’s a Cruel World

  ‘Cathy,’ Jill said quietly, ‘I need to ask you something, and you must feel you can say no.’ ‘Sure, go ahead, Jill. I’m good at saying no,’ I returned light-heartedly.

  Jill gave a small laugh but I now realized she sounded subdued – not her usual cheerful self. Jill is my support social worker from Homefinders, the agency I foster for, and we get on very well.

  ‘Cathy,’ she continued, ‘we need a foster home for a little boy called Michael. He’s just eight. He has been looked after by his father for the last six years since his mother died when Michael was just two.’ Jill paused, as though steeling herself for something she had to tell me, and I assumed it would be that the child had been badly neglected or abused, or that the father had a new partner and no longer wanted the child. I’d answered the telephone in the sitting room and I now sat on the sofa, ready to hear the details of the little boy’s suffering, which would still shock me even after hearing many similar stories in the nine years I’d been fostering. However, what Jill told me shocked me in an entirely different way.

  ‘Cathy,’ Jill said sombrely, ‘Michael’s father, Patrick, is dying. He has contacted the social services and asked if a carer can be found to look after Michael when he’s no longer able to.’ ‘

  Jill paused and waited for my reaction. I didn’t know what to say. ‘Oh, I see,’ I said lamely, as images and thoughts flashed through my mind and I grappled with the implications of what Jill was telling me.

  ‘Patrick loves his son deeply,’ Jill continued, ‘and he has brought him up very well. Patrick has been battling against cancer for two years but the chemo has been stopped now and he’s on palliative care only. He’s very thin and weak, and realizes it won’t be long before he has to go into a hospital or hospice. He has asked if Michael can get to know his carer before he goes to live with them when Patrick has to go into hospital.’

  ‘I see,’ I said again, quietly. ‘How very, very sad. And there’s no one in Michael’s extended family who can look after him?’ Which is usually considered the next best option for a child whose parents can’t look after them, and what would have happened in my family if anything had happened to me.

  ‘Apparently not,’ Jill said. ‘Both sets of grandparents are deceased and Patrick is an only child. There’s an aunt who lives in Wales but Patrick has told the social worker they weren’t close. She hasn’t seen Michael since he was a baby and Patrick doesn’t think she will want to look after him. The social services will obviously be making more enquiries about the extended family – Patrick originally came from Ireland. But that will take time, and Patrick doesn’t have much time.’

  ‘How long does he have?’ I said, hardly daring to ask.

  ‘The doctors have given him about three months.’

  I fell silent and Jill was quiet too. It was one of the saddest reasons for a child coming into foster care I’d ever heard of. ‘Does Michael know how ill his father is?’ I asked at length.

  ‘I’m not sure. He certainly knows his dad is very ill but I don’t know if it’s been explained to him that he’s dying. I’ll need to find out and also what counselling has been offered. Obviously, Cathy, this is a huge undertaking and I’m well aware of the commitment and emotional drain on you and your family if you agree to go ahead. Not many would want to take this on. It’s bad enough if someone you know dies, but you don’t go looking for bereavement.’ She gave a small dry laugh.

  I was silent again and I gazed through the French windows at the garden, which was now awash with spring flowers. Bright yellow daffodils mingled with blue and white hyacinths against a backdrop of fresh green grass. It seemed a cruel irony that as nature was bursting into life for another year so a life was slowly ending. And while I didn’t know Michael or his father, my heart was already going out to them, especially that poor little boy who was about to lose his father and be left completely alone in the world.

  ‘What we’re looking for,’ Jill clarified, ‘is a carer who will get to know Michael while his father is still able to look after him, then foster him when his father goes into hospital or a hospice. Obviously if a relative isn’t found who can give Michael a permanent home then we will need a long-term foster placement, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. His father has said he would like to meet the carer first, without Michael present, to discuss his son’s needs, routine, likes and dislikes, which is sensible. The social worker will set up that meeting straight away.’

  ‘Jill,’ I said, stopping her from going any further, ‘I need to think about this. I mean it’s not straightforward fostering, is it? Apart from the huge emotional commitment I’m also mindful that Adrian and Paula are still coming to come to terms with their father leaving us last year. I’m not sure I can put them through this now. Adrian is the same age as Michael and sensitive; he’s bound to feel Michael’s loss personally. I don’t think I have the right to upset my family more.’

  ‘I completely understand,’ Jill said. ‘I wasn’t even sure I should ask you.’ At that moment I felt like saying: ‘I wish you hadn’t’, because now I knew about Michael and his father I felt I had a responsibility towards them and I knew it was going to be difficult for me to say no.

  ‘When do you want my answer by?’ I asked Jill.
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  ‘Tomorrow, please. Can you sleep on it and let me know?’

  ‘Yes, I will. I don’t know whether I should discuss it with Adrian and Paula. Paula is only four: she doesn’t understand about dying.’

  ‘Do any of us?’ Jill said quietly. And I remembered she’d lost her own brother the year before.

  ‘It can be a cruel world sometimes,’ I said. ‘Let me think about it, Jill, and I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Thanks, Cathy. Sorry if I’ve placed you in an awkward position. I know it’s difficult.’

  We said goodbye and I hung up. I stayed where I was on the sofa and stared unseeing across the room. I thought of Patrick raising his little boy alone after his wife’s death and the strong bond thould have resulted from there being just the two of them. I could imagine the terror Patrick must have felt when the doctors told him he had cancer; it’s a single parent’s worst nightmare – the prospect of leaving your child orphaned. I marvelled at the courage and strength Patrick must have shown in dealing with the gruelling chemotherapy while looking after Michael. How he’d found the inner resources to come to terms with his dying and concentrate on making arrangements to have his son looked after when he was no longer able to I didn’t know. What incredible courage, what sadness. I wouldn’t have done so well, I was sure. But could I help Michael and his father? Did I have the right to bring all their sadness into my house? Did I want to? At that moment I knew I didn’t. Standing, I wiped a tear from my eye, and left the room to busy myself with some housework to take my mind off the great sadness I had just heard.

  Chapter Two

  Proud of My Children

  That afternoon when I met Adrian from school and then collected Paula from the friend she’d been playing with for the afternoon, I gave them an extra big hug and held them close. Life is so short and precious, but sometimes it takes a tragic reminder of just how fragile life is for us to really appreciate our loved ones and make the most of every day.

  The April afternoon was still warm and I suggested we go to the park rather than straight home. Adrian and Paula happily agreed. Clearly other mothers had had the same idea, for when we arrived at the park it was busy, especially in the children’s play area. Adrian ran over to the large slide while I went with Paula into the gated area for under-fives. I stood to one side and watched her as she ran around and then had goes on the little roundabout and rocking horse; then she called me to help her into a swing. As I lifted Paula in I heard Adrian shout, ‘Look, Mum!’

  I looked over to the adjacent play area, where Adrian was on the bigger swings, as usual working the swing as high as it would go. He wanted me to admire his daring feat. I smiled and nodded my appreciation of his courage, then called my usual warning, ‘Hold on tight!’, which made him work the swing even higher. But that’s Adrian, and I guess boys in general.

  Paula liked a more leisurely and genteel swing and as I pushed her I kept an eye on Adrian. He had left the swing, having jumped off while it was still moving, and was now on the rope ladder that was part of the mini assault course. My thoughts went again to Michael, as they had been doing on and off all afternoon, since Jill’s phone call. Was Michael still able to enjoy simple pleasures like running free and playing in a park, I wondered, or had his life closed in to the illness of his father? With no immediate family to share the burden and help out, Michael’s life must surely centre around his father’s condition, especially now he was so very ill. I looked again at Adrian and for a horrendous second my thoughts flashed to a picture of him being told I was terminally ill. I shuddered and changed direction, and thought instead about the meeting Patrick had requested with the foster carer. I was sure I couldn’t do it. Not meet a dying man and discuss looking after his son when he was no longer able to. Perhaps if I’d had a strong religious faith and sincerely believed Patrick was going on to a better life it would have been easier, but my faith wasn’t that strong. Like many, I believe in something but I wasn’t sure what, and while I hoped for a life after death I wasn’t wholly convinced. Death, therefore, held a shocking finality for me and was something I avoided contemplating at all costs.

  By the time we got home, despite a pleasant hour in the park, I was feeling pretty down and a failure for not being able to offer to look after Michael. Then something strange happened, portentous in its timing – a sign, almost.

  Adrian and Paula were watching children’s television while I made dinner. I could hear the dialogue on the television from the kitchen. It was an episode in a drama series – the children’s equivalent of adult soap. It dealt with everyday issues as well as family crises. So far the series had covered a new baby in the family, a visit to the doctor, going into hospital, parents divorcing and a parent drinking too much. Now, to my amazement, it appeared to be dealing with the death of a loved one. I left the dinner cooking and joined the children on the sofa. Admittedly it wasn’t a parent dying but a grandparent, but the timing of this episode didn’t escape me. It showed the family visiting Grandpa while he was in hospital, him ‘drifting comfortably into an endless sleep’, followed by the funeral and him ‘being laid to rest’. While the relatives were upset that they would not be seeing Grandpa again they rejoiced in having known him. They shared their special memories and his adult daughter said, ‘He will live for ever in our memory’, so the programme ended on a very positive note.

  I returned to the kitchen deep in thought and finished cooking the dinner. Despite the programme I was no more convinced I had what it took to see Michael through his father dying, and indeed if I should. As I’d said to Jill, Adrian and Paula didn’t need any more sadness after their father leaving, and it would be impossible that they wouldn’t become involved. Then, as we ate, I decided to reverse the decision I’d made earlier – not to discuss Michael’s situation with Adrian and Paula – and gently sound them out. It was, after all, their home Michael would be coming into and their lives he would be part of.

  ‘You know the fostering we do?’ I said lightly, introducing the subject.

  ‘Yes,’ Paula said. Adrian nodded.

  ‘Are you both happy to continue and have another child come to live with us for a while?’ It was a question I asked them from time to time and I didn’t automatically assume they wanted to continue fostering.

  Adrian nodded again, more interested in his dinner than what I was saying, while Paula glanced up at me furtively, hoping I wouldn’t notice she was stacking her peas into a pile rather than eating them.

  ‘Have a few,’ I said, referring to the peas. ‘You need to eat some veg.’ Paula had recently gone off anything green (which obviously included most vegetables) after her best friend had told her caterpillars were green so they could hide in vegetables and she’d found a caterpillar on her plate hiding in some broccoli. ‘Good girl,’ I said, as she stabbed one pea on to her fork. ‘And you’re happy to continue fostering as well?’

  ‘Yes, I like it,’ Paula confirmed.

  Now I knew that all things being equal they were happy to foster another child, I felt more confident in talking specificall about Michael’s situation.

  ‘I had a phone call from Jill earlier today,’ I began, ‘about a little boy called Michael who will be needing a foster home shortly.’

  ‘A boy, great!’ Adrian said, without waiting for further details. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Same age as you – eight.’

  ‘Fantastic! Someone to play with at home.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Paula moaned. ‘I want a girl, my age.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t put in an order for a specific type of child,’ I said. ‘It’s a case of who needs a home,’ which they knew really. ‘And in the past you’ve all got along, whatever the age of the child, boy or girl, and even with the teenagers.’

  ‘When’s he coming?’ Adrian said, completely won over by the prospect of having a boy his own age come to stay, while Paula gingerly lifted another pea on to her fork and scanned it for any signs of wildlife.

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nbsp; ‘I’m not sure he is coming to us yet,’ I said carefully. ‘Jill’s asked me to think about what she’s told me because it’s a difficult decision to make. You see, Michael’s father is very ill and he won’t be able to look after Michael for much longer, which is why he will need a foster home. But I’m not sure Michael coming to live with us is right for our family.’

  Adrian looked at me quizzically. ‘Surely he can stay with us while his father gets better?’

  I felt anxiety creep up my spine as I steeled myself to explain. ‘Unfortunately Michael’s father is very, very ill and I’m afraid he is not likely to get better. You know the programme you’ve just been watching?’ I glanced at them both. ‘About the grandpa dying? Well, I’m afraid that’s what is likely to happen to Michael’s father.’

  Adrian had now stopped eating and was staring at me across the dining table, appreciating the implications of what I was saying. ‘His father is dying and Michael is my age?’ he asked. ‘His dad can’t be very old.’

  ‘No, he’s not. It’s dreadfully sad.’

  ‘His dad can only be your age,’ Adrian clarified, clearly shocked.

  I nodded.

  ‘Can’t his mum look after him?’

  Adrian asked. ‘Unfortunately Michael’s mother died when he was little.’ Adrian continued to stare at me, his little face serious and deeply saddened, while Paula, so innocent I could have wept, said, ‘Don’t worry: the doctors will make Michael’s daddy better.’

  I smiled sadly. ‘Love, sometimes people get so very ill that the doctors do all they can, and give them lots of medicine, but in the end they can’t make them better.’

  ‘And sometimes doctors are wrong,’ Adrian put in forcefully. ‘There was a guy on the news last week who was told by his doctor he had only six months to live, and that was ten years ago!’

  I smiled at him. ‘Yes, sometimes they do get it wrong, and make the wrong diagnosis,’ I agreed, ‘but not often.’