by Cathy Glass
Patrick nodded, cleared his throat and shifted slightly in his chair. He looked at me as he spoke. ‘First, Cathy, I would like to thank you for coming here today and considering looking after my son when I am no longer able to. I can tell from the way you talk that you are a caring person and I know if Michael comes to stay with you, you will look after him very well.’ I gave a small smile and swallowed the lump rising in my throat as Patrick continued, so brave yet so very ill. Now he was talking I could see how much effort it took. He had to pause every few words to catch his breath. ‘It will come as no surprise to you to learn I was originally from Ireland,’ he continued with a small smile. ‘I know I haven’t lost my accent, although I’ve been here nearly twenty years. I came here when I was nineteen to work on the railways and liked it so much I stayed.’ Which made Patrick only thirty-nine years old, I realized. ‘Unfortunately I lost both my parents to cancer while I was still a young man. Cathy, you are very lucky to have your parents, and your children, grandparents. Cherish and love them dearly; parents are a very special gift from God.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I said, feeling my eyes mist. Get a grip, I told myself.
‘Despite my deep sadness at losing both my parents so young,’ Patrick continued, ‘I had a good life. I earned a decent wage and went out with the lads – drinking too much and chasing women, as Irish lads do. Then I met Kathleen and she soon became my great love. I gave up chasing other women and we got married and settled down. A year later our darling son, Michael, was born. We were so very happy. Kathleen and I were both only children – unusual for an Irish family – but we both wanted a big family and planned to have at least three children, if not four. Sadly it was not to be. When Michael was one year old Kathleen was diagnosed with cancer of the uterus. She died a year later. She was only twenty-eight.’
He stopped and stared at the floor, obviously remembering bittersweet moments from the past. The room was quiet. Jill and Stella were concentrating on their notepads, pens still, while I looked at the envelope of photographs I still held in my hand. So much loss and sadness in one family, I thought; it was so unfair. But cancer seems to do that: pick on one family and leave others free.
‘Anyway,’ Pat said casually, after a moment. ‘Clearly the good Lord wanted us early.’
I was taken aback and wanted to ask if he really believed that, but it didn’t seem appropriate.
‘To the present,’ Patrick continued evenly. ‘For the last six years, since my dear Kathleen was taken, there’s just been Michael and me. I didn’t bring lots of photos with me, but I do have one of Michael which I carry everywhere. Would you like to see it?’
I nodded. He tucked his hand into his inside jacket pocket and took out a well-used brown leather wallet. I watched, so touched, as Patrick’s emaciated fingers trembled slightly and he fumbled to open the wallet. Carefully sliding out the small photo, about two inches square, he passed it to me.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘What a smart-looking boy!’
Patrick smiled. ‘It’s his most recent school photo.’
Michael sat upright in his school uniform, hair neatly combed, slightly turned towards the camera, with a posed impish grin on his face. There could be no doubt he was Patrick’s son, with his father’s blue eyes, pale complexion and pleasant expression: the likeness was obvious.
‘He looks so much like you,’ I said as I passed the photo to Jill.
Patrick nodded. ‘And he’s got my determination, so don’t stand any nonsense. He knows not to answer back and to show adults respect. His teacher says he’s a good boy.’
‘I’m sure he is a real credit to you,’ I said, touched that Patrick should be concerned that his son’s behaviour didn’t deteriorate even when he was no long able to oversee it.
Jill showed the photograph to Stella and handed it back to Patrick. Patrick then went on to talk a bit about Michael’s routine, foods he liked and disliked, his school and favourite television programmes, all of which I would talk to him about in more detail if Michael came to stay with us. Patrick admitted his son hadn’t really had much time to pursue interests outside the home because of Patrick’s illness and having to help his father, although Michael did attend a lunchtime computer club at school. ‘I’m sure there are a lot of things I should have told you that I’ve missed,’ Patrick wound up, ‘so please ask me whatever you like.’
‘Perhaps I could step in here,’ Stella said. We looked at her. ‘I think the first issue we should address is the matter of Michael’s religion. Patrick and Michael are practising Catholics and Cathy’s family are not. How do you both feel about that?’ She looked at Patrick first.
‘Well, I won’t be asking Cathy to convert,’ he said with a small laugh. ‘But I would like Michael to keep attending Mass on a Sunday morning. If Cathy could take and collect him, friends of mine who also go can look after him while he’s there. I’ve been going to the same church a long time and the priest is aware of my illness, and does what he can to help.’
‘Would this arrangement work?’ Stella asked me.
‘Yes, I don’t see why not,’ I said, although I realized it would curtail us going out for the day each Sunday.
‘If you had something planned on a Sunday,’ Patrick said, as if reading my thoughts, ‘Michael could miss a week or perhaps he could go to the earlier mass at eight a.m.2019;
‘Yes, that’s certainly possible,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ Patrick said. Then quietly, almost as a spoken afterthought, ‘I hope Michael continues to go to church when I’m no longer here, but obviously that will be his decision.’
‘So can we just confirm what we have decided?’ Stella said, pausing from writing on her notepad. ‘Patrick, you don’t have a problem with Cathy not being a Catholic as long as Michael goes to church most Sundays?’
‘That’s right.’ He nodded.
‘And Cathy, you are happy to take Michael to church and collect him, and generally encourage and support Michael’s religion?’
‘Yes, I am.’
Both Jill and Stella made a note. Patrick and I exchanged a small smile as we waited for them to finish writing.
Stella looked up and at me. ‘Now, if this goes ahead, and we all feel it is appropriate for Michael to come to you, I know Patrick would like to visit you with Michael before he begins staying with you. Is that all right with you, Cathy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you, Cathy,’ Patrick said. ‘It will help put my mind at rest if I can picture my son in his new bed at night.’
‘It’ll give you both a chance to meet my children as well,’ I said.
Jill and Stella both wrote again. ‘Now, to the other question Michael has raised with me,’ Stella said: ‘hospital visiting. When Patrick is admitted to hospital or a hospice, will you be able to take Michael to visit him?’
‘Yes, although I do have my own two children to think about and make arrangements for. Would it be every day?’
‘I would like to see Michael every day if possible, preferably after school,’ Patrick confirmed.
‘And at weekends?’ Jill asked.
‘If possible, yes.’
It was obviously a huge undertaking, and while I could see that of course father and son would want to see as much of each other as possible I was wondering about the logistics of the arrangement, and also how Adrian and Paula would feel at being bundled into the car each day after school and driven across town to the hospital instead of going home and relaxing.
‘Were you thinking Cathy would stay for visiting too?’ Jill asked, clearly appreciating my unspoken concerns.
‘Not necessarily,’ Patrick said. ‘Cathy has her own family to look after and Michael is old enough to be left in the hospital with me. It would just need someone to bring and collect him.’
‘If Cathy wasn’t able to do it every day,’ Jill said to Patrick, ‘would you be happy if we used an escort to bring and collect Michael? We use escorts for school runs sometimes. All the
drivers are vetted.’
‘Yes, that’s fine with me,as raised he said. ‘It shouldn’t be necessary for a long time, as I intend staying in my home for as long as possible, until I am no longer able to look after myself.’ Which made me feel small-minded and churlish for not agreeing to the arrangement outright.
‘It’s not a problem,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ll make sure Michael visits you every day.’
‘Thank you, Cathy,’ Patrick said, then with a small laugh: ‘And don’t worry, you won’t have to arrange my funeral: I’ve done it.’
I met Patrick’s gaze and hadn’t a clue what to say. I nodded dumbly. Jill and Stella made no comment either, for what could we possibly say?
‘So,’ Stella said, after a moment, ‘do either of you have any more questions or issues you wish to explore?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘No,’ Patrick said. ‘I would like it if Cathy agreed to look after Michael. I would be very grateful.’
I was looking down again, concentrating on the floor. ‘And what is your feeling, Cathy?’ Stella asked. ‘Or would you like some time to think about it?’
‘No, I don’t need more time,’ I said. ‘And Patrick deserves an answer now.’ I felt everyone’s eyes on me. Especially Jill on my right, who, I sensed, was cautioning me against saying something I should take time to consider. ‘I will look after Michael,’ I said. ‘I’d be happy to.’
‘Thank you,’ Patrick said. ‘God bless you.’ And for the first time I heard his voice tremble with emotion.
Chapter Five
Treasure
Usually, once I’ve made a decision I’m positive and just get on with the task in hand. But now, as I left the council offices and began the drive to collect Paula from nursery, I was plagued with misgiving and doubt. Had I made the right decision in offering to look after Michael or had I simply felt sorry for Patrick? What effect would it have on Adrian and Paula? What effect would it have on me? Then I thought of Patrick and Michael and all they were going through and immediately felt guilty and selfish for thinking of myself.
I switched my thoughts and tried to concentrate on the practical. At the end of the meeting we’d arranged for Patrick and Michael to visit the following evening at 6.00. I now considered their visit and what I could do to make them feel relaxed and at home. Although I’d had parents visit prior to their child staying before, it was very unusual. One mother had visited prior to her daughter staying when she was due to go into hospital (she didn’t have anyone else to look after her child); another set of parents had visited before their son (with very challenging behaviour) had begun a respite stay to give them a break. Both children were in care under a voluntary care order (now called a Section 20), where the parents retain all legal rights and responsibilities. This was how Michael would be looked after, but that was where any similarity ended: the other children had returned home to their parents. And whereas the other visits had been brief – I’d showed the family around the house and explained our routine – I thought Patrick and Michael’s visit needed to be more in-depth, to give them a feeling of our home life which would, I hoped, reassure them both. I decided the best way to do this would be for us to try and carry on as ‘normal’, and then tormented myself by picturing Patrick and Michael sitting on the sofa and Adrian and Paula staring at them in silence.
At dinner that evening I told Adrian and Paula that Patrick and Michael would be coming for a visit the following evening to meet them and see the house. ‘So let’s make sure they feel welcome and the house is tidy,’ I added, glancing at Adrian.
He looked at me guiltily, for even allowing for the fact that eight-year-old boys were not renowned for their tidiness the mess he managed to generate sometimes was incredible. It was often impossible to walk across his bedroom floor for toys, all of which he assured me had to remain in place, as otherwise his game would be ruined. I was never quite sure what exactly ‘the game’ was but it seemed to rely on all his toy cars and models – of dinosaurs, famous people and the planets – covering the carpet and being scooped up and then put down again in a different places by a large plastic dumper truck, which made a hideous hooting sound when it reversed. But the game had kept him, visiting friends and sometimes Paula occupied for hours in recent months, and had only been tidied away when I’d vacuumed.
‘Suppose I’d better tidy my room,’ Adrian muttered, understanding my hint.
‘That would be good,’ I said.
‘Is Michael coming to stay, then?’ Paula asked.
‘Yes, but not tomorrow. Tomorrow he and his father are just coming for a visit so that they can see what our home is like before Michael has to move in.’
‘When’s he moving in?’ Adrian asked.
‘I’m not sure yet. It will depend on his father. I met him today. He’s a lovely man. Sometimes he has to speak slowly to catch his breath.’ I thought I should mention this so that the children wouldn’t stare or, worse, comment. Adrian was old enough to know not to comment, but I could picture Paula asking Patrick, ‘Why are you talking funny?’ as a young child can.
‘Why does he speak slowly?’ Paula now asked.
‘Because he’s ill,’ Adrian informed her.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Sometimes it takes all Patrick’s energy to talk, although he does very well.’
‘I see,’ Paula said quietly, and we continued with our meal.
The following day I took Adrian to school, and Paula to nursery, and then did a supermarket shop. I came home and by the time I’d unpacked all the bags it was time to collect Paula from nursery. The afternoon vanished in playing with Paula and housework, and it was soon time to collect Adrian from school. Those who don’t have children sometimes wonder what stay-at-home mothers (or fathers) find to do all day; and indeed I was guilty of this before I gave up work to look after my children and foster. Now I know!
At 5.40 p.m the children were eating their pudding when the doorbell rang. ‘You finish your meal,’ I said, standing. ‘It might be Patrick and Michael arriving early.’
Although the children hadn’t mentioned Michael and his father since the previous evening, they hadn’t been far from my thoughts, especially when I’d prepared the spare bedroom that afternoon so that it would look welcoming when Michael saw it. Now as I went down the hall towards the front door my heart began pounding as all my anxieties and misgivings returned. I just hoped, as I had done prior to the meeting, I didn’t say anything silly or embarrassing that would upset Patrick and now Michael.
Taking a deep breath, I opened the door with a smile. ‘Hello,’ I said evenly. ‘Good to see you both.’
‘And you,’ Patrick said easily. ‘This is Michael.’ Patrick was standing slightly behind his son and again looked very smart in a blazer and matching trousers. Michael was dressed equally smartly in his school uniform but looked as anxious as I felt.
‘Hi, Michael,’ I said. ‘Come in. Try not to worry. It’s a bit strange for me too.’
He gave a small nervous laugh and shrugged as they came into the hall. Patrick shook my hand and kissed my cheek, which I guessed was how he greeted all female friends and acquaintances. ‘Lovely place you have here,’ he said.
‘Thank you. Come on through and meet Adrian and Paula.’
I smiled again at Michael and then led the way down the hall and to where the children were finishing their pudding.
‘We’ve interrupted your meal,’ Patrick said, concerned.
‘Don’t worry, they’ve nearly finished. This is Adrian and Paula, and this is Michael and his dad, Patrick,’ I said, introducing everyone.
‘Good to meet you,’ Patrick said to Adrian and Paula.
‘Hi,’ Adrian said, glancing up from his pudding. Michael said nothing.
‘Say hello, Michael,’ Patrick prompted.
‘Hello,’ Michael said reluctantly.
‘Why can’t we have a girl?’ Paula grumbled.
Patrick frowned, puzzled, and looked
at me. ‘It’s Paula’s little joke,’ I said, throwing her a warning glance.
Patrick smiled at Paula while I asked Michael, ‘Have you had a good day at school?’ I wasn’t sure who felt more awkward – the children or the adults.
Michael thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and shrugged.
‘Answer Cathy,’ Patrick said.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Michael said formally. ‘Your dad tells me you’re doing very well at school,’ I said, trying to put him at ease and get some conversation going.
Michael dug his hands deeper into his trouser pockets and shrugged again.
‘Take your hands out of your pockets,’ Patrick said firmly, catching his breath. Then to me, ‘I’m sorry, Cathy, the cat seems to have got my son’s tongue. He’s usually quite talkative.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit strange for everyone. I’m sure they’ll all thaw out soon.’ Adrian and Paula had finished their pudding and were now sitting staring at Michael, not unkindly, just eyeing the newcomer up and down. ‘Shall I show you around the house first?’ I asked Patrick. ‘Then afterwards the children can play together for a while.’
‘Thank you, Cathy,’ Patrick said with a smile. ‘That would be nice.’ Michael said nothing.
Adrian and Paula stayed at the table while I turned and led the way into the kitchen. ‘Very nice,’ Patrick said.
‘And through here,’ I said going ahead, ‘is the sitting room. From here you can see the garden and the swings.’ Patrick joined me at the French windows while Michael hung back.
‘Your garden looks lovely,’ Patrick said. ‘Do you do it all yourself?’
‘Yes, it keeps me fit,’ I said, smiling. ‘I usually garden while the children are out there playing. The bottom half of the garden with the swings is for the children. There are no plants or flowers there, so they can play and kick balls without doing any damage.’
‘Good idea. Come and have a look, Michael,’ Patrick encouraged. ‘What a lovely big garden!’
