by Cathy Glass
Michael took a couple of steps into the centre of the room, shrugged and stayed quiet. I saw how uncomfortable Michael’s sulky attitude was making Patrick feel and I felt sorry for him. Patrick was being so positive and I knew he would be wanting to create a good first impression, just as I did, but I also knew that Michael’s behaviour was to be expected. Clearly Michael didn’t want to be here, for this was where he would be staying when his father could no longer look after him. I wondered how much discussion Patrick had had with his son to prepare him for staying with me – it was something we would need to talk about.
‘There’s just the front room left downstairs,’ I said, moving away from the window.
I led the way out of the sitting room, down the hall and to the front room with Patrick just behind me and Michael bringing up the rear. Then we went upstairs, where I showed them our bedrooms, toilet and bathroom. Patrick made a positive comment about each room while Michael said nothing. When we went into what was going to be Michael’s bedroom Michael stayed by the door. ‘Very comfortable,’ Patrick said. Then to Michael: ‘Come in and have a look. You’ll be fine here, son.’
But Michael didn’t reply. He shrugged, jabbed his hands into his trouser pockets again and refused to move. I saw Patrick’s expression set and knew he was about to tell him off. I lightly touched Patrick’s arm and shook my head slightly, gesturing for him not to say anything. ‘Perhaps we could have a chat later?’ I suggested.
Patrick nodded.
‘Well, that’s the tour finished,’ I said lightly to Michael and Patrickdoo8;Let’s go downstairs and find Adrian and Paula.’
I went out of the bedroom and as I passed Michael I touched his shoulder reassuringly. I wanted him to know it was all right to feel as he did – that I wasn’t expecting him to be dancing and singing.
Downstairs, Adrian had thawed out and Paula seemed to be over her pique about not having a girl to stay. They had taken some board games from the cupboard and Adrian was setting up a game called Sunken Treasure. It was a good choice: I saw Michael’s eyes light up. ‘Would you like to play with Adrian and Paula,’ I suggested, ‘while your father and I have chat in the sitting room?’
Michael nodded, took his hands out of his pockets and slid into a chair at the table. ‘I’ve played this before,’ he said enthusiastically. I looked knowingly at Patrick and he winked back.
‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked Patrick. ‘Tea, coffee?’
‘Could I have a glass of water, please?’
‘Of course. Michael,’ I asked, ‘would you like a drink? Or how about an ice cream?’
Michael looked up from the table and for the first time smiled.
‘Is it all right if I give Michael an ice cream?’ I asked his father.
He nodded.
‘Would you like one?’
‘No, just the water, please,’ Patrick said. ‘Thank you.’
I didn’t bother asking Adrian and Paula if they wanted an ice cream because I knew what their answers would be. I went into the kitchen, took three ice creams from the freezer and, together with three strips of kitchen towel, returned to the table and handed them out. I poured a glass of water for Patrick and we went into the sitting room, where I pushed the door to so that we couldn’t be easily overheard.
‘Sorry about that,’ Patrick said.
‘Don’t worry. It’s to be expected.’
As Patrick sat on the sofa he let out a sigh, pleased to be sitting down. ‘That’s better. It’s a good walk from the bus stop,’ he said.
‘You caught the bus here?’ I asked, surprised.
He nodded, took a sip of his water, and then said easily, ‘I sold my car last month. I thought it would be one less thing for Eamon and Colleen to have to worry about. Eamon and Colleen are my good friends who are executors of my will. I’ve been trying to make it easier for them by getting rid of what I don’t need now.’
Although Patrick was talking about his death he spoke in such a practical and emotionless manner that he could have been simply making arrangements for a trip abroad, so that I didn’t feel upset or emotional.
‘All that side of things is taken care of,’ Patrick continued. ‘What money I have will be held in trust until Michael is twenty-one. I have a three-bedroom house and I was going to sell that too and rent somewhere, but I thought it would be an unnecessary upheal for Michael. It’s always been his home and he will have to move once I go into hospital, so I decided there was no point in making him move twice.’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘I think that was wise of you.’
There was a small silence as Patrick sipped his water and I watched him from across the room. I liked Patrick – both as a person and a man. Already I had formed the impression that he was kind and caring, as well as strong and practical, and despite his illness his charisma and charm shone through. I could picture him out drinking with the lads and chasing women in his twenties, as he’d said he had at the meeting, and then being a loyal and supportive husband and proud father.
‘I think you are doing incredibly well,’ I said. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t cope so well.’
‘You would if you had to, Cathy,’ he said, looking directly at me. ‘You’d be as strong as I’ve had to be – for the sake of your children. But believe me, in my quieter moments, in the early hours of the morning when I’m alone in my bed and I wake in pain and reach for my medication, I have my doubts. Then I can get very angry and ask the good Lord what he thinks he’s playing at.’ He threw me a small smile.
‘And what does the good Lord say?’ I asked lightly, returning his smile.
‘That I must have faith, and Michael will be well looked after. And I can’t disagree with that because he’s sent us you.’
I felt my emotion rise and also the enormity and responsibility of what I’d taken on. ‘I’ll do my best,’ I said, ‘but I’m no angel.’
‘You are to me.’
I looked away, even more uncomfortable that he was placing me on a pedestal. ‘Is there really no hope of you going into remission?’ I asked quietly.
‘Miracles can happen,’ Patrick said, ‘but I’m not counting on it.’
There was silence as we both concentrated on the floor and avoided each other’s gaze. ‘I hope I haven’t upset you,’ I said after a moment, looking up.
‘No.’ Patrick met my gaze again. ‘It’s important we speak freely and you ask whatever you wish. You will become very close to me and Michael over the coming months. Not to talk of my condition would be like ignoring an elephant in the room. I wish Michael could talk more freely.’
‘How much does Michael understand of the severity of your condition?’ I now asked.
‘I’ve been honest with him, Cathy. I have told him I am very ill – that unfortunately the treatment didn’t work and I am unlikely to get better. But I don’t think he has fully accepted it.’
‘Does he talk about his worries to you?’
‘No, he changes the subject. I’m sorry he was rude earlier but he didn’t want to come here this evening.’
‘It’s understandable,’ I said. ‘There’s no need to apologi Coming here has forced Michael to confront a future he can’t bear to think about – one without you. To be honest, since I heard about you and Michael I have tried to imagine what it would be like for Adrian and Paula to be put in Michael’s position, and I can’t. I can’t contemplate it. So if I, as an adult, struggle, how on earth does Michael cope? He’s only eight.’
‘By pretending it’s not happening,’ Patrick said. ‘He’s planning our next summer holiday. We always take – I mean we used to take – a holiday together in August, but I can’t see it happening this year.’
‘It might,’ I said. ‘You never know.’
‘Possibly, but I’m not giving Michael false hope.’
‘No, and I won’t either,’ I reassured him.
A cry of laughter went up from the room next door where the children were playing Sunken Treasure, followed by a roun
d of applause. ‘I think someone has found treasure,’ I said.
Patrick’s eyes sparkled as he looked at me and said, ‘I think Michael and I have too.’
Chapter Six
Lonely and Afraid
That evening Patrick and I continued talking for another hour while the children played. Our conversation grew easier and more natural as we both relaxed and got to know each other. We didn’t talk about the future again or his illness but about our separate pasts and the many happy memories we both had. He told me of all the good times he’d had as a child in Ireland and then with his wife, Kathleen. I shared my own happy childhood memories and then told him how I’d met John, my husband, and how we’d started fostering. I also told him of the shock and disbelief I’d felt when John had suddenly left me. I was finding Patrick very easy to talk to, as I think he did me.
‘Looking back,’ I said speaking of John’s affair, ‘I guess there were warning signs: the late nights at work, the weekend conferences. Classic signs, but I chose to ignore them.’
‘Which was understandable,’ Patrick said. ‘You trusted him. Trust is what a good marriage is based on.’
‘I’ve let go of my anger, but it will be a long time before I forgive him,’ I admitted.
Patrick nodded thoughtfully.
I made us both a cup of tea while the children continued playing board games; then when it was nearly 7.15 and the light outside was staring to fade, Patrick said, ‘Well, Cathy, I could sit here all night chatting with you but we’d best be off. Michael has school in the morning and I’m sure you have plenty to do.’
‘Will you be all right catching the bus?’ I said. ‘Or can I give you a lift?’
‘No, we’ll be fine, thank you. I’m sure you’d rather get started with your children’s bedtime routine.’
I smiled. As a single parent – having raised Michael alone for six years – Patrick was familiar with the bedtime routine of young children: of bathing, teeth-brushing, bedtime stories, hugs and kisses goodnight, etc. He was right: I did appreciate the opportunity of settling the children into bed rather than driving across town.
We went to the table where the children were now in the middle of a game of Monopoly. ‘Time to go, son,’ Patrick said.
‘Oh, can’t I finish the game first?’ Michael moaned good-humouredly. I was pleased to see he had now relaxed and was enjoying himself.
‘Next time,’ Patrick said. ‘You’ve got school tomorrow.’
Michael pulled a face and reluctantly stood. ‘Do you want some help packing away?’ he asked Adrian, which I thought was very thoughtful.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ll do it. You and your dad need to get on the bus.’
Michael and his father used the bathroom first and then Adrian, Paula and I showed them to the front door and said goodbye.
‘Thanks, Cathy,’ Patrick said, taking my hand between his and kissing my cheek. ‘We’ve had a nice evening, haven’t we, Michael?’
Michael nodded. He looked a lot happier than he had done when he’d first arrived; his cheeks were flushed from the excitement of the games they’d played, and Adrian and Paula looked as though they’d enjoyed playing with Michael. All of which bode well for the future.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Patrick said as he and Michael went down the front path. ‘Goodnight and God bless.’
‘And you,’ I called after them.
We watched them go and then I closed the front door. ‘All right?’ I asked the children. ‘Did you have a nice evening?’
‘Yes,’ Adrian said. ‘Michael’s OK.’
‘Is Michael’s daddy coming to live with us?’ Paula asked. ‘No, only Michael,’ I said. ‘What made you think that?’ Paula looked thoughtful, clearly having been working something out. Then she said, ‘If Michael’s daddy came to live with us, you could look after him and make him better. You make me better when I’m ill. Then when he’s better we can all live together, and Michael will have a mummy again, and we’ll have a daddy.’
Adrian tutted.
I smiled and gave her a hug. If only life were that simple, I thought. ‘It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ I said. ‘And you have a daddy: it’s just that he doesn’t live with us any more.’
That evening when the children were in bed I wrote up my log notes of Patrick and Michael’s visit. All foster carers have to keep a log – a daily record of the child or children they are fostering. In their log the carer records the child’s progress, their physical and emotional health, their education and any significant events. The log is usually begun when the carer first meets the child and ends when the cight=eaves the foster home. These log notes are then placed on the social services’ files and form part of the child’s record, which the child can read when they are older. Not only is keeping a log a requirement of fostering: it is also a valuable and detailed record of part of the child’s history. I had begun my log for Michael after meeting Patrick at the social services’ offices the day before and now continued it with their visit. It was just a paragraph saying how long they had stayed, that their visit had gone well, and while Michael had been subdued to begin with he had responded to Adrian and Paula, and the three of them had played together, while Patrick and I had talked. But as I wrote I felt as though I was writing up a friend’s visit in a diary rather than the log notes of a foster carer, so easily had we all bonded.
The following afternoon Jill telephoned to check on how Patrick and Michael’s visit had gone. ‘Very good,’ I said. ‘Much better than I’d expected. Michael was a bit quiet to begin with, but then he played with Adrian and Paula while Patrick and I chatted. Patrick’s a lovely person and very easy to talk to. He’s done a great job of bringing up Michael alone.’
Possibly Jill heard something in my voice or perhaps it was that she knew me from being my support social worker, for there was a small pause before she said: ‘Good, but you might have to put some professional distance between you and Patrick. I know how involved you get with our looked-after children and their families. Patrick is likely to be very needy in his situation with no family of his own to support him.’
‘He’s not needy,’ I said defensively. ‘And although he has no immediate family he has lots of very supportive friends.’
‘Good,’ Jill said again, ‘but just be careful. I wouldn’t want you getting hurt.’
‘All right, Jill. I hear what you’re saying. I’ll be careful.’
Jill then gave me some feedback from Stella – Patrick and Michael’s social worker – who’d spoken to Patrick that morning. Stella had confirmed that the evening had gone well from Patrick and Michael’s point of view. Patrick had sent his thanks and asked if they could visit again the following Saturday, perhaps for a bit longer. Today was Friday, so it was just over a week away.
‘I realize this is more introduction than we would normally do,’ Jill added. ‘But if it helps prepare Michael for when he moves in, when Patrick goes into hospital, then it seems appropriate.’
‘Yes, that’s fine with me,’ I said. ‘I could make us some dinner.’
‘Let’s set the time for their visit as two to six. Does that fit in with your plans?’
‘Yes, or two to seven if they are staying for dinner.’
‘OK. I’ll run it past Stella and get back to you. If I can’t reach her this afternoon, it’ll be Monday. Have a good weekend.’
‘Thanks, Jill. And you.’
When Jill phoned back on Monday afternoon she asked if we’d had a good weekend and then confirmed that Patrick and Michael would be visiting from 2.00 to 7.00 p.m. the follon the aturday. She passed on Patrick’s thanks and Stella’s gratitude for being so accommodating, but there was no need. If they came and stayed for dinner it would be more like a social event than part of the introductions for a fostering placement, and something I would look forward to, as I thought Adrian and Paula would too. As soon as Jill had finished on the phone I began planning what I would cook for dinner on Saturday. I kne
w Patrick and Michael were both meat eaters because Patrick had mentioned the roasts he liked to cook after church on Sundays, so I thought roast chicken with vegetables would be a good idea, and perhaps I’d make a bread-and-butter pudding; I hadn’t made one in ages and Adrian and Paula loved it. Planning for Saturday gave me a frisson of warmth for the rest of the day and indeed most of that week.
However, it was not to be.
On Thursday afternoon when I was standing in the school playground with Paula, waiting for Adrian to come out, my mobile rang. ‘Sorry,’ I said to the mother I was talking to, taking my phone from my pocket. Jill’s office number was displayed and I moved slightly away from the group I’d been standing with in case what Jill had to say was confidential.
‘Cathy, where are you?’ Jill asked as soon as I answered. ‘Are you collecting Adrian from school?’ She spoke quickly, suggesting it was urgent.
‘I’m in the playground now, waiting for his class to come out. What’s the matter?’
‘Patrick has just been admitted to hospital. He collapsed at home this afternoon. A neighbour found him and called an ambulance.’
‘Oh. Is he all right?’ I said, which was a really silly question.
‘I don’t have any more details, but can you collect Michael from school and look after him for the weekend? It’s what we’d been working towards but obviously it’s come early. Michael’s going to be very upset and shocked, as it’s all happened so quickly. His teacher is looking after him until you arrive. I’ll phone the school and tell them you’re on your way. You know where St Joseph’s school is?’
‘Yes,’ I said, shocked by the news. ‘I’ll go as soon as I’ve got Adrian. Is Patrick very ill?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll phone Stella after I’ve phoned the school and see what I can find out. We’ll need to get a change of clothes for Michael and also see about hospital visiting.’
‘Yes,’ I said, my thoughts reeling. The school doors opened and classes began filing out. ‘I should be at Michael’s school in about fifteen minutes,’ I said to Jill.
