Where Has Mummy Gone?

by Cathy Glass

  I served rice pudding for dessert. It was a winter favourite of ours and despite Melody’s initial reluctance to try it, saying it looked like sick, she ate it all, and then asked for seconds. ‘Can I take some for my mum?’ she said as she finished the second bowl. ‘I think she’d like it.’ My heart went out to her.

  ‘Yes, I’ll put some in a plastic box and we can take it to contact tomorrow.’

  ‘Will it be cold?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, but she can warm it up at the Family Centre. There’s a kitchen there with a cooker and a microwave.’

  ‘I’ll take her some of that casserole too,’ Melody added.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s all gone. Next time I make it I’ll do extra so she can have some. But please don’t worry about your mum. I’m sure she’ll have something to eat.’

  Melody looked at me as if she was about to say something but changed her mind. Hopefully when she saw her mother she’d be reassured that she was managing without her.

  After dinner, which I thought had gone well, Adrian, Paula and Lucy helped me clear the table, then disappeared off to do their homework. I was assuming that once Melody started going to school regularly she too would have some homework, but there wasn’t even a school bag tonight. I suggested we play a game together and I opened the toy cupboard in the kitchen-diner, but she said she wanted to watch television like she did at home with her mother. In the living room I switched the television channel to one with an age-appropriate programme, told her I’d be in the kitchen if she needed me and, taking the remote with me (so she couldn’t change channels to something less appropriate), set about doing the washing up. If my children have homework then they are excused from washing the dinner things.

  First nights can be very difficult for a new child. Apart from suddenly finding themselves in a strange home and living with people they’ve only just met, the carer’s routine is likely to be very different from any the child has been used to. At 7.30, when the television programme Melody was watching had ended, I told her it was bedtime, which didn’t go down well. ‘What’s the time?’ she demanded, unable to read the time for herself.

  ‘Half past seven. Plenty late enough. You have school tomorrow.’ Indeed, it was only because she’d already had her bath and hair wash that she’d stayed up this late. Tomorrow she’d be going up around seven o’clock so that she was in bed and hopefully settled by eight o’clock. Children of her age need nine to eleven hours sleep a night.

  ‘At home I stay up with my mum. We go to sleep together. Sometimes she’s asleep before me.’

  ‘Is she?’ I asked lightly. ‘What do you do when she’s asleep?’ Clearly Melody wouldn’t be supervised if her mother was asleep.

  ‘Watch television. You can see the television from our mattress on the floor.’ She stopped, having realized she’d probably said too much. ‘Don’t tell the social worker I told you that.’

  ‘I think she already knows,’ I said. ‘Now, come on up to bed.’ I stood and began towards the living-room door. ‘You can say goodnight to Lucy, Adrian and Paula. They’re in their bedrooms.’

  This seemed to clinch it and without further protest Melody came upstairs with me. I took her to the bathroom first, where I supervised her brushing her teeth with the new toothbrush and paste I’d provided. Like all foster carers, I keep spares of essential items. We went along the landing where Melody knocked first on Lucy’s bedroom door. ‘I’m going to bed!’ she called.

  Lucy came out to say goodnight and gave Melody a big hug, which was nice. Then we went to Paula’s room. She too came out and said, ‘Goodnight. See you tomorrow.’ Then Adrian came to his door. ‘Goodnight. I hope you’ll be happy here,’ he said. Melody hadn’t seen much of him, only at dinner. He had exams in the spring, so it was important he studied. She’d see more of him at the weekend.

  She used the toilet, then we went into her bedroom. I’d found a new teddy bear that Adrian had won at a fair and didn’t want, so I’d propped it on her bed. I asked her if she wanted her curtains open or closed at night and she said a little open. It’s details like this that help a child settle in a strange room, so I drew the curtains, leaving a gap in the middle. As I turned I saw she was about to climb into bed with her clothes on.

  ‘Melody, there are some pyjamas for you, love.’ I picked them up from where I’d left them on her bed. ‘You can wear these until we have time to buy you some new ones. They’re clean.’ I’d taken them from my selection of spares and was pretty sure they were the right size, as she was average build for an eight-year-old.

  She paused and looked a bit confused. ‘I keep my clothes on at night at home because it’s so bleeding cold.’

  ‘Well, it’s not cold here, love, and remember we don’t swear.’

  ‘OK. It’s all so different here.’

  ‘I know, you’ll soon get used to it.’ But I was saddened to hear yet another example of the impoverished life Melody and her mother had led. No one should have to keep their clothes on to keep them warm at night.

  I always give the child I’m fostering privacy whenever possible. Melody was of an age when she could dress and undress herself, so I waited on the landing while she changed into her pyjamas, as I had done when she’d had a bath. Once she was ready I went into her bedroom, thinking how nice it would be for her to climb into a comfortable, warm bed rather than the old mattress on a cold floor she’d been used to, but she didn’t get in. ‘I can’t go to bed here,’ she said anxiously. ‘My mum needs me.’

  ‘You’ll see her tomorrow,’ I reassured her. ‘Please try not to worry. She’ll be fine. I expect she’ll be going to bed soon too.’ Clearly I didn’t know what Melody’s mother was doing, but it wouldn’t help Melody to keep fretting about her.

  ‘She’s no good by herself,’ Melody said, still not getting in. ‘She needs me to tell her what to do.’

  ‘Melody, love, I know you’re missing your mother and she will be missing you, but she’s an adult. She can take care of herself.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ Melody blurted, her anger and concern rising. ‘She forgets things. I have to be there to tell her what she needs and where things are.’

  I paused. ‘Is that when she’s been drinking or taking drugs?’ I asked gently. Aware that her mother had a history of drug and alcohol abuse, this seemed the most likely explanation. Of course she would be ‘forgetful’ if she was under the influence of a substance.

  ‘Sometimes, but not always,’ Melody replied and then stopped, again realizing she’d probably said too much. Many children I’ve fostered have been warned by their parents not to disclose their home life to their foster carer or social worker. It can be very confusing for the child. Before saying anything, they have to sift through all the information they carry and work out what they can or can’t say. ‘Mum can remember some things, but other times she needs my help,’ Melody said carefully, and then she teared up.

  ‘Oh, love, don’t upset yourself. Come here.’ I put my arms around her and she allowed me to hold her close. ‘I do understand how you feel, honestly I do. I’ve looked after children before who’ve felt just as you do. They worry about their parents, and that they won’t be able to cope without them. Then, when they start seeing them regularly at contact, they find they’re managing fine without them. Your mother will be missing you, but believe me she can look after herself.’

  How those words would come back to haunt me.

  Chapter Four

  School

  Melody finally went to sleep shortly before nine o’clock, cuddling the teddy bear I’d given to her and with me sitting on her bed, stroking her forehead. Bless her. I felt so sorry for her. I was sure she was a good kid who was badly missing her mother. Yes, she was feisty, streetwise, could become angry at times and would need firm boundaries, but I felt positive that once she’d settled I could help her to a better life, which is what fostering is all about. Because it was unlikely Melody could return to her mother, the social services w
ould try to find a suitable relative to look after her as the first option. They are called kinship carers and are considered the next best option if a child can’t be looked after by their own parents. If there wasn’t a suitable relative then she would be matched with a long-term foster carer, and if that happened it was possible I might be considered, but that was all in the future.

  Once I was sure Melody was in a deep sleep, I moved quietly away from her bed and, turning the light down low, came out of her bedroom. I left the door ajar so I could easily hear her if she was restless in the night. I checked that Paula, Lucy and Adrian were taking turns in the bathroom. Even at their ages they still needed the occasional reminder to make sure they were in bed at a reasonable time. Some evenings, as with this evening, they were mostly in their bedrooms, doing their homework or relaxing, but at other times, especially at the weekends, they would all be downstairs in the living room, talking, playing a board game or watching television. I felt it was easier for a new child to relax and settle in if my family carried on as normal. I’d see them later before they went to bed, but now I went downstairs to write up my log notes.

  All foster carers in the UK are required to keep a daily record of the child or children they are looking after. This includes appointments, the child’s health and wellbeing, education, significant events and any disclosures the child may make about their past. As well as charting the child’s progress, it can act as an aide-mémoire for the foster carer if asked about a specific day. When the child leaves, this record is placed on file at the social services. I wrote objectively and, where appropriate, verbatim about Melody’s arrival and her first day with us – about a page, which I secured in my fostering folder and returned to the lockable drawer in the front room.

  I checked on Melody – she was fast asleep – and then as Adrian, Lucy and Paula came downstairs I spent some time talking to them before they went to bed. By 10.30 p.m. everyone was asleep and I put Toscha in her bed for the night and went up myself, again checking on Melody before I got into bed.

  I never sleep well when there is a new child in the house. I’m half listening out in case they wake, frightened, not knowing where they are and in need of reassurance. But despite my restlessness and looking in on Melody three times, she slept very well, and I had to wake her at 7 a.m. to get ready for school.

  ‘Not going,’ she said as I opened her bedroom curtains to let in some light. ‘I need to go home and get my mum up.’

  ‘Melody, your mother will be able to get herself up, love. You’ll see her later at the Family Centre. Now get dressed, please. I want to go into school early today so I can buy you a new school uniform.’ She reluctantly clambered out of bed. ‘You can wear these for now,’ I said, handing her the fresh clothes I’d taken from my store.

  ‘Not more clean clothes!’ she sighed. ‘You must like washing.’

  I smiled. She could be so quaint and old-fashioned with her remarks – an old head on young shoulders – but then of course she’d had to grow up quickly and take care of herself, living with her mother.

  ‘The washing machine does it,’ I said.

  ‘My mum and me had to go to the launderette.’

  ‘Yes, many people do that.’ I left her to get dressed.

  Melody wasn’t used to a routine or having to leave the house on time to go to school, because she’d hardly ever gone to school, so I had to chivvy her along. She didn’t even know the name of her school, let alone where it was. I explained it was on the other side of town – about a thirty-minute drive in the traffic. Adrian, Lucy and Paula were of an age where they went to school by themselves, meeting friends along the way. Melody saw them briefly at breakfast and passed them on the landing and in the hall as we all got ready to leave. We left first, calling ‘goodbye’ and ‘see you later’ as we went.

  ‘What’s the time?’ Melody asked, bleary-eyed despite a wash, as we stepped outside into the cold morning air.

  ‘Eight o’clock. I can teach you the time if you like.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So you’re not late.’

  Having never had to be anywhere regularly, punctuality must have been a bit of an alien concept to her. She shrugged and climbed into the back of the car, and I showed her how to fasten her seatbelt, closed her car door and got into the driver’s seat.

  ‘My mum knows the time,’ Melody said as I pulled away.

  ‘Good. Adults usually do.’

  ‘She’s still late, though, and misses things. It takes ages for her to wake and get up.’ Which was doubtless a result of her substance misuse.

  ‘What time we got to be in school?’ Melody asked after a moment.

  ‘School starts at eight-fifty, but it’s good to be there at least five minutes early. Today I’m hoping to arrive by eight-thirty so we can sort out your uniform.’

  ‘My mum went to the school a few times,’ she said as I drove.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What time am I seeing her?’

  ‘Four o’clock until five-thirty,’ I said, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘That’s an hour and a half. School ends at three-twenty, so I’ll collect you and drive straight to the Family Centre.’ I’d checked the location of the school and knew where it was in relation to the Family Centre. ‘Morning playtime will be around eleven o’clock and you’ll have lunch between about twelve and one o’clock,’ I added, trying to give her a sense of the day. Time is a difficult concept for children, but by Melody’s age most children are able to read the time.

  ‘So am I having my dinner at school like I did when I was with my mum?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, you have school dinners,’ I confirmed.

  ‘I like school dinners, they’re free.’

  While Melody had been living with her mother she was on benefits and would have been entitled to free school meals. Now she was in care I would pay for her school dinners and any other expenses; for example, her school uniform, outings, clubs, hobbies and so on – that’s what the fostering allowance is for.

  I arrived at the school just before 8.30 a.m. and parked in a side road.

  ‘Why are we stopping here?’ Melody asked, peering through her side window.

  ‘That’s your school there,’ I said, pointing to the building on our left. It was a two-storey brick building surrounded by a tall wire-netting fence but it was clearly visible from the road.

  ‘Oh yeah, I remember now,’ she said.

  ‘Melody, when was the last time you were here?’ I asked, turning slightly in my seat to look at her.

  ‘I dunno.’ She shrugged.

  I got out, went round to the pavement and opened her door, which was child-locked. She clambered out and we made our way towards the main entrance. As we entered the playground we passed some children playing and others were slowly joining them.

  ‘I remember coming here before Christmas,’ Melody said. ‘They had a Christmas tree.’

  ‘Was that the last time you were here?’ It was the third week in January now.

  ‘Think so,’ she replied. ‘It’s all a bit of a haze.’

  We went through the main door into the reception area. Behind a low counter on my right was a small open-plan office where two ladies worked at desks. One came over and I introduced myself, explaining I was Melody’s foster carer.

  ‘News to me,’ she said. ‘Let me try to get hold of Mrs Farnham, our deputy head, she might know what’s going on.’ She turned her back and picked up a phone on the desk behind her. I threw Melody a reassuring smile. It wasn’t the best start to the school day. Usually when I take a child into school the staff know the child well and are genuinely pleased to see them. This school secretary appeared very distant and not to have recognized Melody, or been aware she was in foster care. That relied on the social worker notifying the school. Melody looked around at the walls displaying the children’s artwork as we waited.

  ‘Yes, they’re here now,’ I heard the secretary say on the phone. Then, ‘All right. I’ll t
ell her.’ She set down the phone and returned to the counter. ‘Mrs Farnham is coming down now to see you. Take a seat.’ She nodded to the row of four chairs against the far wall. Melody and I sat down as another parent came in to talk to the secretary.

  A couple of minutes later the door to our right, which led from the school, opened and a woman came through it and walked straight to us.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Melody,’ she said with a very welcoming smile. Then to me, ‘I’m Mrs Farnham, the Deputy Head.’

  ‘Cathy Glass, Melody’s foster carer,’ I said, standing.

  ‘Lovely to meet you. Melody’s social worker phoned me late yesterday afternoon, so I haven’t had a chance to update the staff. Shall we go somewhere more private to talk? The Head’s office is free – I’m covering for her this week.’

  I was relieved that someone knew what was going on. Melody and I followed Mrs Farnham through the door, up a short flight of stairs and into a large comfortable office overlooking the playground. The room was carpeted, with framed prints on the walls, a desk and filing cabinets at one end and a small sofa and two easy chairs at the other.

  ‘Do sit down,’ she said. Melody and I settled on the sofa as Mrs Farnham took one of the easy chairs. ‘How are you?’ she asked Melody, who was eyeing her cautiously. ‘We haven’t seen much of you in school.’ Which I thought was a tactful way of putting it. It is a legal requirement in the UK, as it is in most countries, for children to attend school and the parent(s) can be prosecuted if their child doesn’t attend.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Melody said quietly, a little overawed at being in the Head’s office.

  ‘Melody tells me she thinks the last time she was in school was before Christmas,’ I said.

  ‘She’s right. I looked it up. Seventeenth of December, so exactly a month ago.’

  ‘She’ll be coming in every day from now on,’ I said.

  Melody gave a small sigh and Mrs Farnham threw me a knowing look. ‘Melody joined our school in September, having moved into the area during the summer holidays, but she only ever attended a couple of days a week during the whole of the autumn term. Melody has a lot of catching up to do,’ Mrs Farnham added, as much for Melody’s benefit as mine. ‘She’ll have classroom support from a lovely teaching assistant, Miss May.’