Can I Let You Go?

by Cathy Glass

‘I am, love,’ she said happily. It was lovely to see them out together and enjoying themselves.

  I’d parked as close as I could to the flats, but even then it was a difficult walk for Wilma. Stan seemed to manage better with his stick, although it was obvious his left side was still weak from the stroke. I unlocked the car doors and it was decided that Wilma would sit in the front. Using her frame for support, she slowly eased herself down into the passenger seat and then lifted in her legs. I took the walking frame and the carrier bag and stowed them in the boot. The frame just fitted in. Wilma said that as well as the flowers the bag contained a gardening trowel, cloth and a pair of scissors to tend the grave.

  I helped Stan into a back seat and he kept his stick with him. Faye sat beside him, her flowers on her lap. She’d left Snuggles on her bed at home. Stan then gave me instructions on the most direct route to the cemetery – a different cemetery to the one where my father lay. In between giving me instructions he made light conversation.

  ‘It’s a while since we’ve been this far,’ he said to Wilma.

  ‘Yes, must be two years. Quite an expedition for us.’ She chuckled.

  ‘I wonder what state we’ll find her memorial stone in. It’ll need a clean.’

  ‘It will. Although the council will have mown the grass.’

  Faye listened and then joined in, very comfortable with their familiar and easy everyday conversation.

  As I drove in through the main gates of the cemetery I saw the flower seller Faye had mentioned, and Stan gave me instructions on where to park – the parking bays closest to Mary’s grave. As it was a weekday there were plenty of spaces. I took the walking frame from the boot and then opened the passenger door and stood it ready for Wilma. It was even more of a struggle for her (and Stan) to get out of the car than it had been to get in, as they had to heave themselves into a standing position. I helped Wilma as Faye helped her grandpa, and they accomplished it in stages: swivelling their legs round and out, and then straightening up using their walking aids. Once standing, it took Wilma a few moments to get her balance, then I passed her handbag and carrier bag to her, which she hooked over the handlebars of the walking frame, and we all began along the path in the direction Stan pointed. The day was bright but the wind cold, and Wilma paused to do up her coat. ‘Don’t want to be catching a chill,’ she said. Stan agreed, and then helped her fasten the buttons that her arthritic fingers couldn’t manage. It was touching to see, and the type of thoughtful act my father would have done for my mother.

  It was only about fifty metres to Mary’s grave, but it took us some time and I recognized this was probably as far as Wilma could walk; any further and she would have needed a wheelchair. Mary had been cremated, so there was no grave as such but a marble memorial stone over the spot where her ashes were buried. As Wilma had predicted the main grass had been cut, but the memorial stone needed wiping clean and the edges of the grass trimming; this and the empty vase at one corner of the stone made the grave look slightly unkempt.

  ‘We used to bring fresh flowers every week,’ Wilma said a little sadly, and Stan and Faye agreed.

  It was obvious that neither Stan nor Wilma could kneel or bend to tend the grave, so I said that if they told me what they’d like to do, I’d see to it.

  ‘Thank you,’ Wilma said. ‘Could you rinse the vase out and fill it with fresh water? The tap is over there.’ She pointed. ‘And if you wet this cloth, we can use it to wipe the stone.’ She took the cloth from her carrier bag.

  Faye came with me to the tap and together we washed and filled the vase and then wrung out the cloth. Returning to the grave, I wiped the marble clean as Stan held the vase and Wilma and Faye arranged their flowers in it. Now the stone was clear, the inscription became visible:

  No pain, no grief, no anxious fear

  can reach our loved one sleeping here.

  Mary, darling daughter of Stan and Wilma

  and beloved mother of Faye.

  Beneath the inscription were the dates of her birth and death. I was deeply moved. Mary had only been twenty-five when she’d died, a year older than Faye was now. I felt the words – no pain, grief or fear – probably referred to her illness and the years of suffering when she’d battled with alcoholism. How very sad. What a dreadful waste of a life and what a huge strain it must have put on Stan and Wilma. Who knew what Mary might have achieved without the ravages of alcohol addiction, the legacy of which – foetal alcohol syndrome – would remain with Faye forever.

  I used the scissors Wilma passed to me to trim the edges of the grass and then, following her instructions, I used the trowel to dig back the edges of the turf so that a little soil frame was created around the stone, which Wilma said would slow the grass growing over. This was how she’d tended the grave when they’d come to the cemetery regularly. It looked so much better already. Then, under Wilma’s guidance, Faye carefully set the vase full of flowers into its holder. They looked lovely.

  ‘Job well done,’ Stan said, stepping back to admire the finished effect.

  We all stood for a moment, looking down at the stone in respectful silence. Then Wilma said, a little embarrassed, ‘Cathy, I hope you don’t mind but I usually say a short prayer before we leave.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. I lowered my gaze.

  Wilma, Stan and Faye closed their eyes and stood with heads bowed and hands folded loosely before them, as Wilma said: ‘Mary, until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand and keep you safe. God bless you, love. You are in our hearts forever.’

  Simple words yet touching, and I felt drawn into their loss and sorrow.

  ‘Amen,’ I joined in with them at the end. We stood for a moment in quiet contemplation and then raised our heads.

  ‘God bless,’ Stan said before turning. We began slowly back to the car.

  Once in the car Stan gave me instructions to the café, which I thought I’d spotted on the way in: out of the cemetery, turn right and about 200 yards on the left. Fortunately there was room in the small car park or I would have had to drop them off and park elsewhere. I took the walking frame from the boot and once again Faye and I helped them out of the car. I had never been in this café before, although I’d passed it a number of times. It was a typical English tea room, selling light lunches and afternoon teas that included a selection of sandwiches, homemade cakes and scones.

  Once settled at a table, Stan gave the menu only a cursory glance, then looked at his watch and declared, ‘Lunchtime. I’m having the all-day breakfast.’

  ‘Me too,’ Wilma said. So I guessed this was what they used to have when they visited the cemetery regularly.

  Faye spent some time studying the menu and then asked her gran if they still did the jacket potato with beans and cheese. Wilma said they did and pointed it out on the menu. I ordered a toasted cheese sandwich, despite Stan protesting that I should have something ‘more filling’. As we waited for the food to arrive we made light conversation and Stan and Wilma asked me about my family and how my mother was. They said Faye often mentioned her. They were also keen to know about fostering, as many people are. Although I’d seen Wilma and Stan regularly when I’d taken Faye to their flat and collected her, we’d never really had a proper chat. Some parents of the children and young people I fostered I got to know well, others not so, and a few I never met for my own security and protection. Yet despite our conversation, which continued as we ate, the one subject that didn’t come up was Faye’s pregnancy, although it was now very obvious. She had to sit a little back from the table to accommodate her bump and often rested her hands on it or rubbed it if the baby moved or she felt uncomfortable. I saw Wilma glance at it, but she didn’t comment. I knew that their way of coping was to ignore the pregnancy as they had been doing. And of course at present, as far as they were concerned, the care plan was still for Faye to return home to them once she had given birth and for the baby to be adopted. They needed to be told of the new developments soon.

&nb
sp; The food was delicious and the portions very generous. Once we’d finished, Stan asked if anyone wanted a pudding or cake, but none of us could manage one. When the bill arrived I offered to pay my share, but Stan wouldn’t hear of it. I thanked them both and said how much I’d enjoyed it, and that I appreciated being treated, for as a single parent it usually fell to me to organize and treat my family, so this made a very pleasant change. Stan smiled and seemed to grow with my thanks. I could see how much my gratitude meant to him; he was such a dear, kind man.

  We returned to the car and I drove to their block of flats. Stan and Wilma said that I needn’t go up in the lift with them but to drop them off in the car park, which was where the community transport collected and dropped them when they had a hospital appointment. As it was two o’clock, they said Faye should come back with me rather than go in just for an hour, and they’d see her again the day after tomorrow. Faye and I helped them out of the car and then watched as they made their way along the path to the entrance of the flats. Before they went in they turned and waved. Faye and I waved back.

  ‘We’ve all had a nice day,’ Faye said as we returned to the car. ‘I like it when my gran and grandpa are happy.’

  ‘Yes, it all worked out very well,’ I said.

  Faye was silent for a moment and then, as I started the car’s engine, she said, ‘When will Becky tell them I’ve changed my mind about the baby?’ So I guessed she’d been thinking about that too.

  ‘As soon as she knows for sure that you will be going to the mother-and-baby unit,’ I said. ‘It shouldn’t be long.’

  Indeed, it wasn’t long, for half an hour after we returned home Becky telephoned.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Unethical

  Becky said straight away that it had been decided that Faye and her baby could go to the specialist mother-and-baby home, and I could tell her. She said she would telephone Wilma and Stan, and then arrange a short meeting – a review – probably at their flat, as the care plan had changed. She’d advise me of the date. Becky finished by asking how Faye was and I told her briefly of our day out. We said goodbye and I replaced the handset, my thoughts buzzing, partly from joy that Faye was being given the chance to keep her baby, but also at the prospect of how much Faye had to learn in a relatively short time. A list immediately formed in my head, like revision topics for an examination: feeding baby – bottles/breast; keeping baby clean – bathing/changing nappies; how to hold a baby – supporting its head; answering its cries; interacting with and stimulating the baby, and so on and so forth, all of which were crucial for parenting and would be observed and assessed at the mother-and-baby unit.

  Faye was in the living room – we were the only ones home – and I went in. She was sitting comfortably on the sofa, stroking Sammy who was curled on her lap and enjoying the attention. Sammy had really taken to Faye and now spent more time on her lap or rubbing against her legs than anyone else’s. They both looked very content, and perversely it crossed my mind that when Faye had her baby and it began to cry, would she put the cat aside and answer her baby’s cries or would she continue stroking the cat? I honestly didn’t know.

  ‘Faye, that was Becky on the telephone,’ I said as I sat beside her on the sofa. ‘She said to tell you that you can go to the mother-and-baby home if that is what you’d like.’

  ‘And I can keep my baby?’ she asked, without looking up from Sammy.

  ‘Yes. While you are at the home.’ I couldn’t promise her any more than that.

  ‘That’s good,’ she said with a small smile and continued to stroke the cat. ‘But I don’t want to go there now.’

  ‘No. You go after you’ve had your baby. In about seven weeks.’ I often had to repeat and clarify points. It was part of Faye’s learning difficulties that she couldn’t process and retain information as other adults could. I watched her stroking Sammy, relaxed and without a care in the world.

  ‘Faye, we’ve got a lot to learn about how to look after a baby. I’m going to teach you as much as possible so that you stand the best chance of being able to keep your baby long term, all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sammy opened one eye and gazed at her before closing it again.

  ‘We could start now,’ I said. ‘Before I make dinner.’

  ‘Yes. After dinner I watch television.’

  Not once you’ve had the baby, I thought, but didn’t say. ‘So, let’s start by you telling me what you know. What do you think are the most important things about looking after a baby?’ I wasn’t trying to catch her out; I just wanted to see how much she knew.

  ‘Giving it food,’ she said, glancing at me.

  ‘Good. What sort of food. Do you know?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Babies have milk, don’t they?’

  ‘Oh yes. Do they have it on cornflakes?’ She was serious. Faye liked cornflakes and had lots of milk and sugar on them for breakfast, so I could see why she’d made this connection.

  ‘No. To begin with all babies have is milk. They don’t have teeth to chew with, and their stomachs can’t digest anything other than milk for at least four months. So all they have is milk, but it’s not the same milk that we have. Do you know where their milk comes from?’

  ‘A bottle,’ Faye said. ‘I’ve seen babies with bottles.’

  ‘Yes, babies can have milk from a bottle, that’s right. The milk in it is called formula and you buy it from a chemist or supermarket. But babies can be breastfed too.’ Her eyes rounded in astonishment. I didn’t lose heart. This was new to her. She’d grasped a fair bit of what I’d told her about her baby’s development and birth, but I hadn’t gone beyond that because she hadn’t been going to keep her baby.

  I reached for the laptop and googled breastfeeding. Up came pages of information and a short video clip. I pressed play to start the video clip, which showed a mother breastfeeding her baby with a background commentary about the benefits of breastfeeding. Faye couldn’t have understood much of the commentary, as it was spoken too quickly and the terms used were too complex, but she could see the baby suckling at the mother’s breast.

  ‘Oh, I remember,’ she said. ‘I saw a woman doing that on television and she got told off.’ Then she explained that a character in one of the soaps she watched regularly had been told off for breastfeeding in a bar.

  ‘You don’t have to worry about breastfeeding in a bar,’ I said. ‘You won’t be doing that. But a mother’s milk is very good for her baby, and the midwife at the hospital will teach you how to breastfeed.’ For as any mother knows, establishing breastfeeding is not as simple as it first appears, and a patient midwife is invaluable at the start. ‘Some mothers find they can’t breastfeed,’ I said. ‘So they use bottles. Some do both, breast and bottle. We will need to buy a set of bottles for your baby, formula and a sterilizer,’ I said, thinking aloud. ‘You’ll also need nappies, creams, lotions, a thermometer, first-size baby clothes, vests, a shawl, a warm suit for outdoors. You won’t need a crib as the mother-and-baby home will have one, but you may need a stroller. I’ll have to ask Becky what you need.’

  I reached for the notepad and pen I kept by the phone and jotted down these items while I thought of them, and also a note to remind me to ask Becky what we needed to buy. Faye had stopped stroking Sammy and was now looking at me a little concerned. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ve got plenty of time to buy what we need. It’ll be fun going shopping again.’ She smiled. But I knew I mustn’t overload her with too much information and also that I needed to make learning fun, for her ability to grasp the basics of parenting was as important, if not more so, than choosing the right clothes for her baby. It was then I thought of using a doll and the toy feeding bottle I kept in the games cupboard. I had stored games and toys for all ages of children, and the bottle I had in mind was a favourite.

  Five minutes later, instead of having Sammy on her lap, Faye had the baby doll cradled in her arm. It had a soft, floppy body so was quite realistic. She was feeding it
with the toy bottle containing pretend milk – also realistic. As the bottle was tilted it appeared to empty, as though the doll was drinking the milk, and then it refilled once upright. I didn’t need to explain to Faye that a real bottle of milk wouldn’t automatically refill – she appreciated that this was a (realistic) toy – but I did have to show her how to hold the ‘baby’. Faye’s movements were sometimes uncoordinated and clumsy, which wasn’t conducive to holding a baby. I placed the doll carefully in her arms and explained how gentle we had to be when handling a baby, although of course she couldn’t control her lack of coordination; it was part of her condition. She did well, though, and was incredibly gentle when holding and feeding the ‘baby’. Sammy, who was now sitting beside her on the sofa, looked on, interested. At one point Faye paused from feeding the baby and pushed its head under Sammy’s nose so he could sniff it.

  ‘You wouldn’t do that with a real baby,’ I said, and Faye laughed.

  The front door opened as Paula returned home from college.

  ‘We’re in here,’ I called from the living room.

  ‘Hi,’ she returned.

  She came to the living-room door and smiled when she saw Faye with the bottle and the baby doll. ‘I used to love playing with that bottle,’ she said.

  ‘I’m feeding my baby,’ Faye said proudly.

  ‘She’s practising,’ I said.

  I then went out of the room to explain to Paula that the decision had been made that after the birth Faye would be going to a mother-and-baby unit and would be given the chance to keep her baby, so I was teaching her all I could. Paula then told me about a decision she’d had to make at college regarding a choice of subjects for an extended essay. We chatted for a few minutes and when I returned to the living room Faye was still holding and feeding the doll. I said that baby had probably had enough food now and needed winding. I carefully sat the doll upright on my lap and showed Faye how to support its head while gently massaging its back to release trapped wind. I didn’t expect Faye to remember all of what I was showing or telling her. I knew I’d have to repeat it often, but it was a start.