by Trisha Merry
The Cast-Off Kids
By the author of Four Waifs on our Doorstep
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2016
A CBS company
Copyright © 2016 by Trisha Merry and Jacquie Buttriss
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Trisha Merry and Jacquie Buttriss to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
While this book gives a faithful account of the author’s experiences, names and some details have been changed to protect the identity and privacy of the individuals involved. Trisha Merry is a pseudonym.
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Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-3852-2
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-4711-3853-9
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To my precious family and all of the foster children who made it possible, I want to dedicate this book to you.
Contents
1. A Rocky Start
2. Dalek!
3. Bush-Baby
4. Promises
5. Skip-Boy
6. A Steal a Day
7. Fire, Fire!
8. Disturbing the Doves
9. A Terrible Shock
10. Real Elephants
11. Gone Missing
12. The Milkman’s Tale
13. Fetch the Police!
14. Piggy-Bank Raid
15. Expelled
16. Revenge
17. Jekyll and Hyde
18. Taking Ten to Bournemouth
19. Psycho
20. Sex on the Rockery
21. The Porn Film Kids
22. Down the Chute
23. Mystery Illness
24. The Awful Smell
25. Porch-Boy
26. Scarpered
27. A Man on a Mission
28. Cold Comfort
29. The Bombshell
30. Clinging On
31. Setting Fire to the Past
32. A New Memory Box
33. Finders Keepers?
Acknowledgements
1
A Rocky Start
‘Can you take two new children this afternoon?’ asked the voice on the phone.
I crooked the receiver to my shoulder and carried on bottle-feeding our newest foster-baby. ‘How old are they?’
‘They’re sister and brother. A girl of two and a boy of one.’
‘Oh,’ I gulped. ‘That will make it eight children under five.’
‘If that’s too much for you to manage, Mrs Merry . . .’
‘No, no. That’ll be fine.’ I made a mental note to put an advert in the village shop for a part-time helper. ‘Any idea what time they’ll arrive?’
‘About two o’clock. Their father will bring them along with the social worker.’
‘Oh, that’s unusual. Do you know why they’re coming into care?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. I’m just the messenger.’
A standard reply. I shrugged as I put the phone down – we weren’t supposed to know anything, but it was always worth a try.
There wasn’t much time to get everything prepared for these two newcomers, and my husband Mike was doing overtime at his engineering works that Saturday. So, after putting baby Katie down to sleep, I phoned Val, a very good friend, to come and keep an eye on the toddlers in the playroom for a couple of hours, while I made up a cot and a bed in our smallest bedroom. I often put newly arrived siblings together for their first night or two, to help them settle in.
‘I bet you sometimes wish you’d stayed in your nine-to-five office job, don’t you?’ said Val, as we sorted out the children’s lunchtime mayhem.
‘No, never for a moment! I couldn’t stand office work, so seeing that poster for childminders seemed like my perfect way out. Mind you, I didn’t expect it to develop into fostering – that sort of crept up on us when the local authority needed more help!’ I laughed. ‘This is my perfect job. I just play all day long.’
‘And cook and wash and change nappies and . . .’ Val grinned.
‘Well, I never think about all that,’ I said. ‘It all gets done.’
Val glanced at the clock. ‘It’s nearly two now, so you go and look out for the new children’s arrival and I’ll take care of all the others.’
It was a hot, late summer’s day, so I opened all the windows wide to create a through-draught as I waited in the hall, wondering why it was the father who was bringing the children. What had happened to the mother? My imagination went into overdrive, as always. Maybe she was having another baby, or was ill, or had been in a car crash . . . or maybe she had died young. I hoped not. Would I have to be the one to tell the children? It often fell to me to break bad news, and it never got any easier.
Just after two, I heard a car pull up outside, so I watched out of the hall window. A young woman, presumably the social worker, got out accompanying a pale-faced little girl with straight blond hair in a short, angular cut. The woman plonked the toddler’s feet on the pavement, where she stood still and put her thumb in her mouth; then she leant into the back of the car and this time picked up a baby, whom she carried towards the house. She called over her shoulder and the forlorn little girl trailed dutifully behind.
As I opened the front door and stood on the doorstep to welcome them in, a lanky young man emerged from the car. He looked no more than a teenager, with his baggy, black T-shirt and dark, shoulder-length hair that looked as if it hadn’t seen a drop of shampoo for months. He hung well back behind them, carrying a battered sports bag, sauntering slowly, with his eyes down. Yet, despite his evident reluctance to be here, I remember thinking this young dad had a bit of a swagger about him.
The baby boy’s head had a thin covering of straight ginger hair, and his neat little face was bright red as he wriggled about in the social worker’s arms. It must have been nearly thirty degrees, and he was dressed in a polo-neck woollen jumper, with a nylon jacket on top, its elasticated sleeves gripping his wrists. Just seeing him dressed like that made me feel hot and prickly. No wonder he was agitated.
By contrast, the little girl was wearing a light, sleeveless summer dress and plastic sandals.
‘Hello,’ I welcomed them, with a wide smile and my warmest voice. ‘Lovely to see you.’
The boy, so small he could only just have turned one, fidgeted to get down. Meanwhile, the girl stood still and fixed me with her sombre gaze. Not a flicker of a smile. On the surface, she seemed unusually self-contained for a child of two, particularly in this situation, though I don’t suppose she knew what was happening. Underneath it all though, I detected her inner fear and distrust, like a stunned, da
y-old calf without its mother.
‘This little fellow is Paul,’ said the young woman. ‘And this is Daisy,’ she added, taking the little girl’s hand and helping her up onto the front doorstep. ‘I’m Judy, their social worker.’
‘Come in, come in.’ I stood back to let them through. ‘You look hot. The playroom is full of children already, and they’re all being well looked after, so come into the kitchen where it’s cool.’
‘I’ll go and put the kettle on for us,’ I said. ‘Or would you prefer something cold? And what do the children like to drink?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Judy, shaking her head. We both looked at the young dad, but he just pursed his lips together and shrugged.
I took a couple of beakers out of the cupboard, filled them with cold water and a splash of blackcurrant juice, screwed on the lids and handed them to the two little ones, who took them eagerly and drank several gulps each. Then I passed round the biscuit tin.
‘Do you mind if I take off Paul’s jumper?’ I asked. ‘He must be sweltering in that.’ We all looked at the baby’s face, bright red against his ginger hair. Neither of the adults replied, so I changed him into a T-shirt from the top of the ironing pile.
His cheeky smile was enough thanks, as he took out a drum from the toy-chest and started to bang it. After a few beats, Judy skilfully prised the drumstick away from him and took out a car for him to play with instead. ‘Brrm, brrm,’ she sounded, as she showed him how to move it.
He laughed and copied her, sending it clattering across the tiles, then speed-crawling after it.
‘I wish I had that much energy!’ I laughed. ‘I bet he’ll soon be running around.’
‘Yes. He’s just had his first birthday, so I’m sure he’ll be mobile in no time.’
‘He looks mobile enough already,’ I grinned. ‘Look how he’s climbing up onto that chair.’ It was true. Paul easily scaled the rungs onto one of the kitchen chairs, then stood up against the table and tried to pull himself up onto it. I dashed over to stop him falling off.
‘Yes. He’s quite a handful, isn’t he?’ Judy agreed.
I lifted him down onto the floor, with a few more cars to play with. ‘I can see I’m going to have to keep a close watch on this scrambly daredevil,’ I said, laughing at his impishness.
‘Daisy was two in June,’ added Judy. ‘They’re very different personalities. Daisy is much quieter.’
I turned to the silent young man with the sullen look, who seemed quite detached from us all. There was something creepy about him that put me on edge.
‘And you’re the children’s dad?’ I asked.
‘Oh, sorry,’ exclaimed Judy, looking flustered. ‘I should have introduced you. Yes, this is Rocky.’
‘I’m glad you’re here, Rocky. I’m sure it will help the children to settle in.’
I wasn’t sure, of course. If only he could be a bit more engaged with them – even play with them. But there seemed to be no warmth in this young dad. He was like a left-over spare part, that didn’t fit.
‘I can’t stop long,’ he muttered, as he leant down to unzip his sports bag. He opened out the sides and pushed it along the floor towards me. ‘I’ve got their clothes in here and everything’s clean,’ he said in a cocky voice.
‘Oh good.’ I nodded with a smile. ‘Did you wash them all yourself?’ I was determined to get him talking a bit if I could. Judy gave me a disapproving look, but I ignored her.
‘No,’ he admitted, with a barely concealed grin, as if he found that idea funny. ‘No, it wasn’t me. Their grandmother did all their washing. They stayed with her for a few weeks every now and then, but she just couldn’t manage them any longer. In between it was mostly me looking after them, off and on.’ He paused. ‘Their mum walked out after Paul was born, when Daisy was just turned one. So they don’t remember her.’
At that moment, Paul stood up and tumbled awkwardly, so Judy went over to pick him up. I took advantage of her temporary preoccupation to probe for more information. It was the only way to find out anything, because I knew Social Services would never tell me.
‘So you can’t keep them yourself?’ I asked.
‘No. I’m a chef,’ he explained, with an air of pride. ‘Mostly in Swindon.’ He paused. ‘But I have to move around with work and stay in digs, so I can’t have them with me . . . and there’s nobody else.’ For just a moment, his body drooped in on itself and he had a vulnerable look in his eyes. ‘I don’t know what else to do.’
‘Yes, it must have been difficult,’ I agreed. ‘I hope you’ll be able to visit the children when you can?’
‘I’ll try,’ he half-agreed, hanging his head. ‘But it won’t be easy.’
‘Well, just let me know when you want to come.’ I turned to the social worker. ‘Will that be all right?’
‘Yes, fine. As long as he lets you know beforehand.’
I wrote down our phone number on a piece of paper, which he stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans. I wondered whether he would ever look at it again.
I took Daisy’s hand and carried Paul as we went along to the playroom to join the rest of the children, with Judy right behind us and Rocky lagging further back.
‘Let’s have a look at the toys,’ I said, as I sat on the floor with our newcomers, leaving Judy to go through the forms with Rocky.
I had a lovely group of children at that time. Sheena, aged three, came and took Daisy’s hand to join her and four-year-old Chrissy, our eldest foster child, playing with some dolls. Paul crawled in a bee-line across the floor, heading straight for a red tractor. He picked it up and brandished it triumphantly, next to our other three boys, playing with a farm.
Both Daisy and Paul seemed happy enough for now, without even a glance towards their father. Children coming into care didn’t often have a parent with them, but when they did, they tended to be clingy. Not these two. They seemed wary of him. And having been moved around so much, between family members, perhaps they had gained some resilience along the way.
Judy sat on the sofa next to Rocky, whose legs twitched up and down with impatience as she explained the forms to him and gave him a pen. Rocky didn’t hesitate for a moment before signing his children away into our care. I did think that strange. I wanted to ask him more questions, but I knew the social worker would have stopped us. Foster parents weren’t allowed to know anything back in the 1960s.
Once he’d signed the forms, Rocky was clearly keen to go, but he realised Judy wasn’t yet ready to leave. He sat back and half-heartedly gazed out of the window as his children played, like a prisoner eager for his release. At one point, both Daisy and Paul came over to him, sitting on either side to show him their toys, but he failed to engage with them. I yearned for him to take an interest and give them cuddles, but no. They were just three separate souls in a line on the sofa, till the two children gave up and drifted away.
At that moment, I wouldn’t have left a dog with Rocky.
‘I need to get back,’ he said to Judy. ‘I’m working tonight.’
‘OK,’ said Judy, giving me an apologetic look.
‘Come and say goodbye to your dad, kids,’ I said, picking up Paul and taking Daisy’s hand to walk across the hall to him. Rocky looked embarrassed and hesitated.
I thought for a moment that he was going to refuse. Maybe he thought any affection would be bad for his image.
‘Bye-bye, Daddy,’ said Daisy, as if trained for this scene, which I suppose she was.
That did it. He gave in, crouched down and gave them both a brief hug. They clung a little too long for his liking, so he carefully unentwined himself from them. ‘See you soon, kids.’ He turned and left. I took the children to the front doorstep to wave, as Rocky and the social worker drove away in the car, but he didn’t even turn his head to look.
We all sat round the long wooden table in our kitchen for the children’s teatime. I was coaxing Daisy and Paul to try dipping some fingers of toast into their eggs, when Mike arrived home
from work.
‘Hello, kids,’ he said with a cheery grin, unfazed by the two new faces he didn’t recognise. It was a running joke for us that Mike never knew when he left for work in the morning how many children he would come home to – who would have gone and who else would have come. He never turned a hair. He always loved our chaotic houseful of children, in which almost nothing was ever predictable.
He took off his jacket and sat himself down at the table, taking over baby Katie’s bottle feed, while I went to get out a big tub of ice cream from the freezer to cool everyone down. Meanwhile, Paul sat in his high chair, throwing crusts at partially-sighted Brian, who valiantly felt around and managed to pick one up and throw it back, unexpectedly scoring a bullseye on Paul’s nose. I waited for the wail, but Paul just giggled. It was clear that he felt quite at home already. As for Daisy, I could see she was much more reserved. She seemed to take an interest in the older ones’ banter across the table, but she sat slightly apart, silent and still.
While Mike watched them finish their tea, I took Rocky’s old sports bag upstairs to unpack before bedtime. It was full of clothes and scratchy, grey nappies (they would have to go); pyjamas and wash bags. Even a hairbrush. But no toys or books or cuddlies. Not one favourite thing.
So I found a couple of furry animals in my secret store – a rabbit with floppy ears for Daisy and a bright yellow teddy for Paul. I put them next to their pillows, for them to find at bedtime.
‘Come on, kids,’ I called downstairs, mainly for Mike’s benefit, so that he could round them up and send them to me, while I ran a big, bubbly bath for them to play in. We washed them by turns – Mike doing the baby baths and me doing all the rest. I did the baths in shifts – first the girls and then the boys, with bubbles, bath toys and the mini sprayer for their hair. While I washed them, Mike dried and nappied the little ones and the older ones tried to dry themselves, with a little help from me.
The more children we had, the more chaotic bathtime became. It was like a production line. Everything was. Especially eating and bedtimes. But I loved it – I absolutely loved every moment of it. Fostering was a joy, although we definitely needed some help. It was time to put that ad in the village shop and cross my fingers for a fairy godmother to apply.
