by Cathy Glass
‘Yes, of course, love. Once you’ve had your bath and are in your pyjamas. I’m pleased you like reading, it’s a nice way to end the day.’
It was 7.30 p.m. when we arrived home and the air was still warm, so the children ate the cheese on toast and cherry tomatoes I made for them sitting on the patio, while I took Max’s bag upstairs to unpack. All children in care feel more at home once they have some of their belongings around them, and I always make it a priority to unpack. It would also mean that Max would have fresh clothes for tomorrow without me running the washer-dryer tonight. I set the bag on the floor and unzipped it. I found Buzz and sat him on the bed where Max liked him and returned Adrian’s Buzz to his room. I began unpacking Max’s clothes, folding and hanging them in the drawers and wardrobe. As I did I noticed that all the labels showed they were for age 12 or older, as the pyjamas he’d worn the night before had, and of course they’d all been shortened in the arms and legs. However, while his school uniform had been neatly turned up and hemmed, as had the one he’d arrived in, his casual clothes were either rolled up or fastened with a safety pin. His pyjamas had been cut to length and were now fraying badly at the raw edges. I wondered why Caz hadn’t bothered to take up all his clothes properly, as it looked so much better and stopped the hem from fraying. There wasn’t much in the holdall, and I was aware that some parents of children in care purposely didn’t send many of their child’s belongings to the foster carer, in the hope that the child would soon be home. Having unpacked Max’s bag, I stowed it on top of his wardrobe. I went downstairs to start bringing the children up to bed and for a moment I thought Max had eaten the cherry tomatoes I’d put on his plate, but then Adrian said, ‘Max didn’t want his tomatoes, so I had them.’
‘OK, love, but that won’t do Max any good, will it?’ I said lightly.
‘I hate tomatoes,’ Max said.
‘They may not like you either,’ Adrian quipped, and both boys laughed.
I took Paula up to bed first, then Max and Adrian, and by a quarter to nine all three children were in bed. Paula was fast asleep and the boys were reading. Downstairs I took the opportunity to check a few details in the essential information forms, the first being the names of Max’s sisters. If I was going to meet them every evening, it would help to know their names and give me a better chance of establishing a relationship with them. I flicked through the sheets and found the page I wanted. They were called Kelly, Paris and Summer, aged seventeen, fifteen and thirteen respectively. Then I turned the page to the section that covered the reason Max was in care: he’d been left alone in the house while his mother was in hospital having her toes amputated. She had type 2 diabetes, and the primary cause of this condition was obesity. I struggled to understand why, having suffered so much, Caz appeared to be inflicting the same fate on her children, for clearly if something didn’t change Kelly, Paris, Summer and Max were all going to suffer as their mother was.
Chapter Seven
Joining In
Max was already snoring loudly when I went up to bed, so I shut all the children’s bedroom doors, including his. Usually – unless a child specifically asks to have their door completely closed – I leave it ajar so I can hear them in the night if they are out of bed or upset, but I didn’t want Adrian being woken up again, and Max had slept well the night before. Knowing him a little better now, I felt sure he would call out if he needed me. I left my door open though, and Max’s snoring rumbled on in the distance all night, like a storm advancing and retreating. I would mention the snoring to the paediatrician when I took him for his medical.
The following morning we fell into our school routine and all three children were pleased it was Friday. Over breakfast (when I limited Max to one spoonful of sugar on his cereal) they talked about making a camp in the garden at the weekend. I thought this was a good idea, as it was a game Max could easily join in with. The weather was settled so I suggested we put up the tent on Saturday morning. It was a small one that the children sometimes used for playing.
‘Why not tonight?’ Adrian asked excitedly. Then remembering, ‘Oh yes, there won’t be time. We have to go to the hospital.’
‘I don’t mind if we don’t go,’ Max said, also delighted at the prospect of playing in a tent.
‘Your mother will mind,’ I said. ‘We can put up the tent first thing on Saturday morning, even before breakfast. And you’ll have all weekend to play in it.’
Max nodded, then looked thoughtful. ‘I think I’d rather have my breakfast first,’ he said.
‘OK, love,’ I smiled.
Sometimes I saw my parents at the weekend, but I’d purposely kept this weekend free to allow Max time to settle in. And, of course, we’d still be visiting the hospital on Saturday and Sunday from five-thirty till seven o’clock, but it wouldn’t be such a rush without school.
I’d arranged for Paula to be collected from nursery by a friend of mine who had a similar-aged child at the same nursery so that I could meet Mrs Marshall; we’d helped each other out in the past. Paula was looking forward to going to her friend’s house to play and I anticipated collecting her around one o’clock. I told Max I would be going to his school to meet his teacher and to hear how well he was doing in case he saw me in the building and worried about why I was there.
At 11.30 a.m., having prepared the dinner for that evening, I changed out of my jeans and T-shirt and into a pair of smarter cotton summer trousers and a short-sleeved blouse, then drove to Max’s school, arriving at 12.10 p.m. The receptionist remembered why I was there and asked me to sign the visitor’s book and then wait in reception for Mrs Marshall. At exactly 12.15 a lady approached with a friendly, ‘Hello, Cathy Glass?’
‘Yes.’ I stood.
‘Daisy Marshall. Lovely to meet you.’
‘And you.’ We shook hands. Dressed practically in a pleated blue summer dress, and with short, neatly layered grey hair, I guessed her to be in her late fifties.
‘Let’s go to my classroom to talk,’ she said. ‘There’s no one in there.’
‘Thank you for making the time to see me,’ I said as we went. ‘I know how busy you must be.’
‘Not at all. I’m pleased you’ve come into school. I like to meet the foster carer as soon as possible if a child moves home. We don’t have many children in care – last year one of our older children lived with a foster carer, but an aunt has him now.’ With 70,000 children in care in the UK, most schools have experience of pupils living with a foster carer. ‘How is Max settling in?’ she asked.
‘Very well indeed.’
‘He’s a lovely boy, I’ve got a lot of time for him.’ Mrs Marshall opened the door to her classroom and we went in.
‘You’ve been busy,’ I said admiringly. The classroom was festooned with the children’s work. Every wall was covered with paintings, drawings, pie charts, essays, poems and so on. Handmade bunting hung from the ceiling showing the different flags from around the world, and a magnificent model of a Roman village stood in one corner. There was also a nature table, the like of which I hadn’t seen since my own school days.
‘Yes, the children keep me on my toes, but I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ she said with a smile. ‘Take a seat.’ She drew out two of the children’s chairs from beneath a table and we sat either side.
I’d taken an immediate liking to Mrs Marshall; she came across as a kind and caring person as well as a dedicated teacher. She was straightforward in her manner and I sensed she could be firm with her class when necessary.
‘Max is a lovely child and a pleasure to teach,’ she began. ‘He’s interested in learning and will join in and ask pertinent questions in class discussion. He’s well above average in his learning, especially literacy. He loves reading. It’s a form of escapism for him, as indeed it is for many people. Although now, sadly, watching television has largely replaced reading in many homes.’ I nodded. ‘However, I do feel sad when I see him sitting all by himself in the playground with a book instead of join
ing in with the other children. Of course, Max can’t run and play like others his age because of the thing we’re not allowed to talk about.’
I held her gaze. ‘His weight?’ I asked quietly.
‘Exactly. It’s a taboo subject with his mother, and apparently it’s not politically correct to raise it with his social worker, although obviously she must be aware of the problem. Max struggles. If he had a learning disability, he’d receive all the help he needs, but obesity isn’t being properly acknowledged and dealt with.’
‘I know it limits what he can do,’ I agreed. ‘How does he manage in PE lessons?’
‘He changes into his kit and joins in as best he can. He would rather sit and read a book, but it’s important he has some exercise, just as it is for all the children. I know he feels self-conscious and I never suggest he tries something of which he is not capable. We have another obese child in the class, although she’s not as overweight as Max, and she’s on a diet and losing weight. Her mother wants her to exercise more, but I’m always sensitive to her and Max’s limitations. By the way, Max’s PE kit could do with a wash. I’ll remind him to take it home with him tonight.’
‘Yes, please do. I usually take the children’s PE kits home every week to wash them. He hasn’t come with a spare.’
‘They can be bought here from reception.’
‘I’ll get an extra set on the way out.’
‘I’ll leave you to shorten it this time, save me a job,’ Mrs Marshall said with a smile. I looked at her questioningly. ‘You’ve probably noticed how the clothes that fit Max are for much older children. His mother rolls up the sleeves and trouser legs to make them fit, or fastens them with a safety pin. It’s not nice for Max. The trousers unroll and he trips over them. Other kids notice. So I’ve been turning up his school uniform.’
‘That’s very kind of you, and also explains something,’ I said. ‘When I unpacked his bag last night I wondered why his school uniform was neatly turned and hemmed but his other clothes weren’t.’
‘It helps his mother, although I’m not sure she’s noticed. The poor woman has so many health issues of her own to deal with. Have you met her?’
‘Yes, briefly last night when I took Max to the hospital to see her.’
‘She was supposed to be out of hospital by now, but I understand her foot is taking longer to heal than anticipated.’
‘Yes. The care plan is that Max will stay with me until she is home and sufficiently recovered to look after him.’ She nodded. ‘Max has an inhaler, but doesn’t seem to need it much,’ I said. ‘Does he have asthma?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Mrs Marshall said. ‘Max gets out of breath after exertion, but I think that’s because of his weight. His mother has been committed to him having an inhaler for a long time and it seems the doctor has finally agreed. Many children in the school have inhalers now. Personally I think they’re over-prescribed. One of my children had asthma – he still does – so I know the signs and symptoms. Max has used his inhaler once since he got it and that was after his sister, Summer, made him rush in, as she was going to be late for her school. He was out of breath but more panting rather than wheezing, which is what you hear when a child has asthma. But obviously I’m no doctor and we have to let him use it if necessary.’
‘He’s used it once with me, when he first arrived,’ I said. ‘He’ll be having a medical before too long, so I’ll raise it with the paediatrician.’
‘I’d be interested to know what they say. And also what is said about his weight and going on a diet. Caz says it’s their genes, and it’s true they are all chronically overweight apart from the father. But when you hear what they eat, coupled with an inactive lifestyle, it’s hardly surprising. As part of our “staying healthy” project in school all the children kept a food diary for a week and it was quite an eye-opener.’
‘I’m limiting the amount of sweet foods Max has,’ I said.
‘Good. But we can’t do that here in school unless we have the parent’s permission and the child is following a special diet. We have a child with a nut allergy, another who has gluten intolerance, and the girl I mentioned earlier in the class who is trying to lose weight has a diet plan. The kitchen staff are aware of what these children can and can’t have, but they can’t stop a child having a second helping of pudding unless they’re told to do so. And the puddings here are delicious.’ She licked her lips.
‘So I understand,’ I said with a smile. ‘Max said it was sticky toffee pudding yesterday.’
‘It was tasty.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘I wish I could do more for Max. He’s bright and has huge potential but isn’t given the support he could be at home. There are no books in his house and reading isn’t encouraged, so he borrows books from the school library and reads them in his bedroom. He has a lot to contend with. He’d love a proper relationship with his father, but he has little time for him and refers to him as “Mistake”. There’s a gap of seven years between Summer and Max, and according to Caz, Max was a mistake. But it’s not fair to make the child aware of it, and in some ways he is very different to them.’ Mrs Marshall paused and a smile crossed her face. ‘He reminds me of Matilda in the Roald Dahl children’s story. Do you know it?’ I nodded. ‘Matilda is bright and loves reading and learning just like Max, but her parents don’t and are so wound up in their own lives that they don’t recognize her worth. Eventually she is saved by her teacher, Miss Honey. Perhaps you will be Max’s Miss Honey?’
I returned her smile. ‘I will certainly do my best while he is with me.’
‘I know you will. And if Max ever mentions being bullied let me know straight away, please. We have a strict anti-bullying policy in this school and we keep a close eye on our most vulnerable children, but we can’t monitor them every second, especially in the school playground. I have a quiet chat with Max every so often, but I’m not sure he would tell me if someone was being unkind to him.’
‘I’ll keep a lookout for it,’ I said. ‘Thank you for all you are doing for Max.’
‘It’s a pleasure. Pop in any time if you have any concerns. Academically, Max is doing very well.’
We said goodbye and I left the classroom and went to reception, where I bought a spare PE T-shirt and shorts for Max – size age 12. I returned to my car and collected Paula from my friend’s house. She’d given Paula lunch, so, thanking her, I then took the opportunity while I had the time to pop into town to buy Max the Toy Story posters I’d promised him for his bedroom wall. I also bought a poster each for Adrian and Paula so they wouldn’t feel left out, although they already had plenty on their bedroom walls, built up over the years. From town I drove straight to Adrian’s school, collected him, then we returned home briefly for a drink before leaving again to collect Max.
Max came out of school carrying his PE kit for washing and a school bag weighed down with books. ‘That looks heavy,’ I said, taking the bag from him to carry.
‘Mrs Marshall always gives me extra books to read over the weekend so I don’t run out,’ he said.
‘Great. Although you are going to spend some time playing as well. We’re going to put up the tent,’ I reminded him. Having heard what Mrs Marshall had said about Max’s social isolation and using books as a means of escape, both at home and in the playground, I thought it was even more important that he spent some time playing and interacting with Adrian and Paula. Reading is a lovely pastime, but children need to play with other children to develop their social skills, and hopefully have fun.
Once home I showed Max the posters I’d bought and he was delighted with them. Adrian and Paula liked theirs too. I said I’d put them up later after we returned from the hospital, as there wasn’t time before. I served the meal I’d previously prepared and as soon as we’d finished we set off for the hospital and arrived just before 5.30 p.m. As with the evening before, I left Adrian and Paula to wait just inside the ward while I saw Max to his mother. Had Caz and her daughters been more friendly I would have in
troduced Adrian and Paula to them. Parents of children in care often like to meet the carer’s family, but Caz and her daughters didn’t want anything to do with me, so I doubted they’d be interested in meeting my family. Caz was propped on the pillows as she had been the night before and her daughters were draped around her bed, popping sweets from the various bags open on the bed. They all looked bored stiff.
‘Hello,’ I said brightly as Max joined the throng.
‘Kiss,’ Caz said, pointing to her cheek. He went up and kissed her cheek, then, helping himself to a sweet, joined his sisters in lolling against the bed. I wondered what he would find to do for an hour and a half apart from eat sweets, and it crossed my mind that perhaps he should bring in a book to read. It was a long time for a young child to spend on a hospital ward, even if it was with his family.
No one had responded to my hello so I said a general, ‘Have a nice time, see you later.’
‘Bye, Cathy,’ Max said. I smiled and left.
Following the same routine as the evening before, Adrian, Paula and I went up to the café and children’s play area, where Adrian completed some of his homework – the rest could be done over the weekend – and I read to Paula, and then they both spent some time playing. There was another boy Adrian’s age there and they had a few games of draughts. At seven o’clock we packed away and returned to the ward. Again, Caz’s youngest daughter, Summer, was the only one still there, sitting in the chair, staring into space and twiddling her hair. For whatever reason, clearly the older two girls could go but Summer had to stay.
I smiled politely at them both, remembered not to ask Max if he’d had a nice time and said, ‘OK? Ready to go then?’
