by Trisha Merry
One evening, all the children were asleep, Lizzie had gone home and we’d had our supper. Mike put the bins out and I made us a hot drink to take into the sitting room. Much as I loved playing with the kids all day, and even doing the chores for them, this last hour or two before bedtime was always a calm haven to cherish some down time – just the two of us.
I picked up my knitting, while Mike read the local evening paper.
‘Oh dear!’ he exclaimed, showing me the front page headline:
ABANDONED BABY ON
ASHBRIDGE COMMON
‘Poor little scrap,’ he murmured.
‘But that’s only two or three miles away,’ I said. ‘Read it out. What does it say?’
‘Underneath the headline it says “Newborn baby found under bush”.’
‘Really? Was it alive?’
‘I don’t know. Let me find out. “An elderly couple were walking their dog across the common, when he ran off. They called him, but he wouldn’t come back, so they went after him. As they approached the far end of the common, where their dog had stopped and laid on the ground, they heard a baby’s cry.” ’
‘So it IS alive,’ I said, letting out a sigh of relief.
‘Yes.’ He read on.
‘ “As they reached their dog, he was lying down next to the baby, licking its face.” Clever dog,’ added Mike.
‘So their dog found the baby? I suppose he was following his instincts – trying to warm the baby up.’
‘Yes. I’m sure that’s it.’
‘So what did the couple do with the baby?’ I asked, impatient as ever. Babies and toddlers were my favourite people. An abandoned newborn baby seemed like the worst kind of crime, to me. But there was also the niggling feeling that the mother must have been desperate to have no other choice but to abandon her baby. Maybe she was under age, or the baby’s father was a rapist, or . . .
‘It says, “the baby had been hidden in a grassy hollow, under a leafy bush”. There’s a photo of it.’ He turned the paper round for me to see.
‘Look at that sheltered spot,’ I said, reassured. ‘Whoever left the baby there must have wanted to hide it but also protect it. Maybe they were confused – perhaps they felt they had no choice, or maybe there were mental health issues . . . but at least the baby was sheltered from the worst of the weather.’
‘Yes, except surely it would have died if those people’s dog hadn’t found it?’
‘I suppose so. But this baby didn’t die. He or she was meant to be found.’
‘Surely they would have left it by a hospital or police station if they had wanted someone to take it in?’
‘Are there any more details? Go on.’
Mike found his place again. ‘It says: “The baby was snugly wrapped in an adult’s woollen cardigan, inside a pillow case. The couple who found the baby took it back to their car and drove it straight to the hospital.”
‘Why do they keep calling the baby “it”?’ I protested. ‘This baby is not a thing – it’s a little person. A she or a he. Don’t they know?’
‘Wait a minute. There’s a bit more. Maybe it will tell us . . . “The police held a press-conference this afternoon, to make a brief statement”,’ he continued . . . ‘You’ll be glad to know it’s not an it . . . it’s a she – a baby girl. She was found under a laurel bush, so the nurses gave her the name Laurel.’
‘Oh, that’s a good name. Did the doctors check her over?’
‘Yes, it says here that when they took away the cardigan, they found she had a head injury. So they’re treating it.’ Mike sighed. ‘That’s all it says about the baby. At the bottom of the article it just says the police have asked for the mother to come forward, in case she needs medical help.’
As I got into bed that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about that poor little babe, wounded as soon as she was born. What could have happened? How? Who had placed her under the bush? Would the mother come forward? . . . so many questions going round in my head. And most of all, would she need to stay in hospital, or would they put her into care? Would they ask us to take her? I knew there were a few other carers in our area, but I hoped they would bring her to us.
It was now about two months since Daisy and Paul had arrived at our house, and they had both settled in very well. They never mentioned their dad, or asked when he would come to see them, which was unusual for newcomers.
But that Saturday morning, the morning after we’d read about little Laurel, Rocky rang and asked to visit the next day.
‘I’ll be there to pick them up at two o’clock,’ he said. ‘Get them ready and tell them I’m coming.’ Never a please or thank you from Rocky. But that was just his brash manner. I knew he didn’t mean to be rude. It worried me that he wanted to take them out, but the social worker had said that was OK, so we couldn’t stop him.
The next day, after an early lunch, I picked out some clothes from my drawers of spares – a pretty pink dress with embroidered flowers and a full skirt for Daisy; a smart blue and red shirt and shorts outfit for Paul.
‘I like this dress,’ said Daisy with a smile, as she twirled round to look at herself in the mirror. ‘Can I keep it?’
‘Yes, of course you can.’
At about ten to two, Daisy and Paul sat themselves on the bottom of the stairs, facing the front door. They wanted to be there ready for their dad when he came. I brought a kitchen chair out to the hall and sat with them, to keep them company, while Lizzie fed the baby and Mike played sponge-ball cricket with the others in the garden.
The children were in quite a state of excitement. Daisy wore a permanent smile as she smoothed out the skirt of her dress. ‘Pretty,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I hope Daddy like it.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ I reassured her.
We could hear the seconds of the hall clock ticking slowly by. Two o’clock came . . . and went. Five past two, ten past . . .
‘When will Daddy come?’ asked Daisy, while Paul was clambering up and down the first few steps in his impatience.
‘He should be here soon.’ I hoped he would, but I had the sinking feeling that he wouldn’t. This had happened before, many times, with most of the children I’d fostered. Usually there was some kind of excuse. A phone call, perhaps to say they would be late. Or they would call later to say they’d been delayed or had to go somewhere, which probably meant they’d forgotten to come, or had better things to do. We soon got to know the ones with genuine excuses and those who couldn’t be bothered. But the worst thing was when someone didn’t even let us know. It was so hard on the children.
I tried to get Daisy and Paul singing nursery rhymes with me, but that didn’t work. ‘No sing,’ pleaded Daisy. It must have been my voice that put them off. The clock seemed to be ticking faster now; quarter past, half past.
‘Come on, kids,’ I said, trying to sound cheerful and sympathetic at the same time. ‘I expect Daddy’s been held up. Let’s go out and play with the others. We’ll hear the doorbell if it rings.’ We used to have a loud outside ringer, with the garden being so long.
‘Daddy not coming?’ asked Daisy, close to tears, struggling to hold them back.
‘Maybe, sweetheart, but I’m sure he will come if he can.’
She could not contain herself any longer. The tears started to flow down her cheeks and I sat with them on the stairs, one either side, with my arms round them. When Paul saw that Daisy was crying, that set him off as well. I dabbed at each of them in turn with my hankie.
‘I want Daddy,’ sobbed Daisy.
‘Dada,’ repeated Paul.
‘I know,’ I said, giving them cuddles.
It was time to take their minds off their dad and try to cheer them up. I had a special cache of new toys for this sort of situation. ‘I know what we can do.’
‘What?’
‘Come on.’ I picked up Paul and took Daisy’s hand. ‘Let’s go upstairs. I’ve got some special toys hidden away. Do you want to come and see what they are? We could p
lay with them if you like.’
‘Yes.’ Daisy sniffed and tried to wipe away her tears with her other hand. Part of her wanted to come, but her heart wasn’t in it. She kept looking back, in case he came. Paul was different. I suppose, at that age, he might only have had a vague memory of his father, or none at all, but he was affected by Daisy’s tearfulness.
I took them up to the old sailor’s chest in our bedroom, opened it and pulled out some special toys. We played with them for a while, but I could tell that Daisy was still distracted. She kept looking out of the door.
I took them down to join the others, but she insisted on sitting on the stairs again, so Paul joined her.
‘Daddy come soon?’ asked Daisy.
‘No, darling. Daddy won’t come now.’ A few more tears, but still she sat doggedly on the bottom step, while I took Paul to join the others. Mike looked a bit frazzled, but Lizzie was still playing, while feeding baby Katie. What would I do without her?
Even when tea was ready, it was quite a job to persuade Daisy to come to the table. She ate very little.
Afterwards she went straight back to her place on the stairs. But not for long. It was soon time for baths and bed. I think she would have stayed where she was, if she could, till she fell asleep, so I had to coax her to come up with us. ‘Look, sweetheart. Daddy won’t come now. It’s too late – nearly bedtime.’
Next morning, when the phone rang during breakfast, I thought it might be Rocky, to make his excuses. Daisy obviously thought the same and followed me out to the hall. But when I picked up the receiver, I heard a woman’s voice.
‘Please could you hold on a moment?’ I asked her, then turned to Daisy.
‘It’s not Daddy, sweetheart,’ I said to her. ‘It’s a lady.’
‘Not Daddy?’ she looked forlorn.
‘No, Daisy’. I shook my head to make it clear.
She plodded slowly back into the kitchen, where Lizzie was helping us that morning. I think it must have been half-term.
‘Sorry about that,’ I said to the woman on the phone.
‘That’s all right, Mrs Merry. It’s Social Services here.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Did you by any chance see an item on the local news a couple of days ago, about a baby found abandoned under a bush?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Well, her name is Laurel and we need a temporary placement for her while we try to find her family. Will that be possible, do you think?’
‘Yes,’ I said with a smile. I was glad they were letting us have her.
‘More often than not, the mother does come forward. But this is an unusual case.’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’ I paused. ‘They said in the paper that she has a head injury. Is that something that would need treatment?’
‘I believe it wasn’t as bad as they feared; just superficial, with no fracture or anything. It’s been stitched up and Laurel is making good progress. She’s still in the hospital at the moment, but the place is surrounded by the press and we need to get her away from all that. Can you take her today?’
‘Yes, we’d love to have her. Today will be fine.’
As I put the phone down and returned to the supervised mayhem in the kitchen, I had a brainwave. This would be just the thing to take Daisy’s mind off her father’s no-show. So I told all the children we would be having another new baby in the afternoon. Then I took Daisy aside.
‘And Daisy, I’d like you to help me look after her when she comes. Will that be all right?’ I smiled to encourage her.
She paused for a moment, then smiled back. ‘Yes please.’
I prepared the cot for baby Laurel and piled up some soft, white nappies, ready for use. Then I took Daisy to choose a cuddly toy from my secret store. She chose a floppy dog and I lifted her up to place it lovingly into the cot.
When the social worker arrived with baby Laurel, Lizzie had all the other children outside in the garden, but Daisy was with me as I opened the door. The social worker handed Laurel over to me and I knelt down for Daisy to stroke the baby’s downy hair.
‘Soft,’ she said, with a sense of wonder in her voice. Then she noticed the white dressing on one side of the baby’s head and pointed at it in puzzlement, almost prodding it, but not quite. ‘What that?’
‘It’s where baby Laurel hurt her head. Now it’s getting better.’
Daisy nodded solemnly. ‘Getting better, baby.’
The social worker handed me some paperwork, full of blank spaces, and left.
‘Come on, Daise. Let’s take baby Laurel into the sitting room and talk to her a bit, so that she can get used to our voices,’ I said.
We sat on the sofa, laying the babe between us and told her who we were.
‘I’m Trisha,’ I said. ‘I’m your mummy for a little while.’
‘I Daisy, I your fwiend,’ she said proudly.
4
Promises
Six months after Daisy and Paul joined us Rocky rang for only the second time, as if nothing had happened. ‘I want to come and see the children.’
‘What happened last time, Rocky? You said you were going to come and take them out. You asked me to tell them and get them ready, which I did.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. They were all dressed up and ready, sitting on the stairs so they could see you come through the front door when you arrived. I sat with them. We waited . . . and we waited. But you didn’t come and you didn’t phone. What happened?’
‘When was that? I can’t remember. I expect I got caught up in something. Maybe I was working.’
‘You could have let us know.’
He was silent. I imagined him shrugging his shoulders.
‘Look, Rocky. You’ve got to try and come when you say you will.’
‘OK. I’m coming on Sunday afternoon. Three o’clock.’
‘Will you definitely come this time?’
‘Yes, definitely.’
‘Or let us know if you can’t.’
‘Yes. I swear I will come this time.’
‘Good. Daisy and Paul will be really excited that you are coming. They’ll sit on the stairs waiting for you in their best clothes, like last time . . .’
‘Yes, I know. I’ll be there.’
Sunday came, the children sat ready for him. We went through the same build-up as last time, choosing outfits and doing a time count-down.
Three o’clock came and went. They waited . . . and waited, but again he didn’t turn up – and no apology or excuse either. Yet again I had to take Daisy and Paul upstairs to bed, crying and upset to be let down so badly.
There were a few more times after that when he phoned to visit over the following months.
‘You promise faithfully you’ll come this time?’
‘Yes.’
But he never did. Gradually they got used to their dad being unreliable. But at least he rang occasionally . . . unlike their mother, who didn’t figure in their lives at all. Even Daisy didn’t remember her, and I think they almost started to forget about Rocky too. Well, I’m sure Paul did, but Daisy still occasionally mentioned him: ‘Do you think Daddy would like this top?’
It was sad for her, and hard for them both to have to watch other children’s parents coming to take them out. It was seeing Daisy’s solemn silence that hurt me. I always found it difficult to watch a child, especially so young, having to harden gradually every time their mum or dad didn’t turn up. If only parents realised. I used to think: Oh, for goodness sake!
The one thing that helped ease Daisy’s disappointment in her dad, over this time, was her special status in helping me look after our bush-baby, Laurel. Every now and then, she would come and whisper in my ear, ‘Baby Laurel hungry’, even though she was sleeping soundly, or she would tell me it was ‘nappy time’. Often, Laurel would wake only moments after, as if on Daisy’s cue, which was very obliging of her.
I showed Daisy how to fold the nappies and let her practise. And sometime
s Daisy would sit next to me on the sofa with her little legs stuck straight out, holding the bottle up like I’d shown her, to help feed little Laurel.
Laurel’s head wound had healed up now and the stitches were already fading away. Everybody loved her. She was such an easy-going babe, flashing her smile at everyone who came near. But she seemed most content when Daisy was with her. And these were happy times for Daisy too, who was often reluctant to join in with the other children’s games, but always happy to ‘help’ me.
Paul, by contrast, was growing into more of a lovable tyke every day, completely at ease in the only family he could remember.
We had a happy band of children at that time, who all got on well together, apart from the odd hiccups. Chrissy, our eldest, was the first to go to school. Up till that point, she had been a quiet, gentle child, her big blue eyes always smiling, as she helped the little ones with dressing or picked them up when they fell over.
But gradually, as Chrissy settled in at school, she became moody and occasionally tearful. Then her teacher asked me to come in and ‘have a word’ about her frequent outbursts. I could hardly believe this was the same child. It made me think.
‘It occurred to me later,’ I said to Mike that evening, ‘that it’s only since she started school that her birth-mother has come back into her life.’
‘Oh yes.’ He nodded. ‘But shouldn’t that be a good thing?’
‘Not Chrissy’s mum. Every time she has taken her out for the afternoon, Chrissy has had to spend the evening in the toilet. And when I ask Chrissy if she had a good time, she always says she just sat in the pub, eating crisps, nuts and raisins.’
Meanwhile, Katie was thriving and her burn scars were a little less livid now. She had developed dimples and an infectious giggle which charmed us all. Big friendly Ronnie was always the joker, while dancing-girl Sheena was the one who loved tidying up. Sheena and Daisy, just a year apart, shared a room and got on well, but they often played separately. Daisy didn’t interact much with the others and tended to enjoy solitary activities, like looking at books, or doing colouring and puzzles.
The two brothers, glum Peter and short-sighted Brian, had been with us for nearly a year now. We were all protective of Brian, especially since the Dalek episode, and they were lovely, well-behaved boys, so we were sad to hear from their social worker that they would be going home in a few days’ time. They had originally come to us because their single mother had to have a major cancer operation and had stayed on while she convalesced. Now she had been given the good news. The operation had taken away the cancer, so she wanted her boys back home again.
