by Cathy Glass
Copyright
Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.
HarperElement
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First published by HarperElement 2019
FIRST EDITION
Text © Cathy Glass 2019
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photograph © Voisin/Phanie/Getty Images (stock photo posed by models)
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008341985
Ebook Edition © September 2019 ISBN: 9780008341992
Version: 2019-06-03
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Chapter One: Traumatized
Chapter Two: Chaos
Chapter Three: Disturbed Night
Chapter Four: Good Mother
Chapter Five: Distressing
Chapter Six: I Want Mummy
Chapter Seven: Sick
Chapter Eight: Need to Know?
Chapter Nine: Sick Again
Chapter Ten: Bonding
Chapter Eleven: Exasperated and Worried
Chapter Twelve: Play Nicely
Chapter Thirteen: Not Responsible
Chapter Fourteen: Hospital
Chapter Fifteen: A Breakthrough?
Chapter Sixteen: My Fault
Chapter Seventeen: Accused
Chapter Eighteen: Leaving
Chapter Nineteen: Shocking
Chapter Twenty: Beyond Belief
Chapter Twenty-One: No Contact
Chapter Twenty-Two: Love the Children
Chapter Twenty-Three: Disclosure
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Wonder of Christmas
Chapter Twenty-Five: Aneta
Chapter Twenty-Six: Permanent?
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Judge’s Decision
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Saying Goodbye
Afterword
Suggested topics for reading-group discussion
Cathy Glass
If you loved this book …
Moving Memoirs eNewsletter
Praise for Cathy Glass
About the Publisher
Acknowledgements
A big thank you to my family; my editors, Carolyn and Holly; my literary agent, Andrew; my UK publishers HarperCollins, and my overseas publishers who are now too numerous to list by name. Last, but definitely not least, a big thank you to my readers for your unfailing support and kind words. They are much appreciated.
Chapter One
Traumatized
Thank goodness I didn’t have to witness their anguish and upset, I thought. I was sure I wouldn’t have coped. It was bad enough knowing it was happening – two young children about to be taken from their parents and brought into care. During the twenty-five years I’d been fostering I’d seen a lot of changes, but the raw grief of a family torn apart didn’t get any easier. I could imagine the children screaming and crying and clinging to their distraught parents as they tried to say goodbye. My heart ached for them. I also had sympathy for the social worker who was doing a very difficult job. No one wants to take children from their parents, but sometimes there is no alternative if they are to be safe.
It was now nearly two o’clock in the afternoon and I was standing in what would shortly be the children’s bedroom. I could have put the cot in my room, but I was sure Kit, only eighteen months old, would be happier sleeping with his sister Molly, who was three and a half. Doubtless she too would find comfort in having her younger brother close. Fostering guidelines on bedroom sharing vary slightly from one local authority to another, but generally siblings of the opposite sex can share a bedroom up to the age of five.
Molly and Kit were coming to me as an emergency placement. Stevie, fifteen (whose story I told in Finding Stevie), had left at the end of August and now, a few days later, at the start of September, I was preparing myself and the house for the arrival of these two little ones, who were certainly going to be distraught. Sometimes taking children into care can be done with the cooperation of their parents, voluntarily, which is known as ‘accommodated’ or a Section 20. It’s usually considered the better option, as the parents retain legal responsibility for their children and the process is less distressing for all involved. But that couldn’t happen here, so the social services had gone to court that morning to ask the judge for a care order to remove the children from home and bring them to me.
Edith, my supervising social worker, had telephoned at 11 a.m. to tell me to expect the children if the care order was granted. The reason for the social services’ application was that one of the children (she didn’t know which one) had suffered what was thought to be a non-accidental injury. That meant that someone – presumably one or both of the parents – had harmed the child. Apart from this and their ages, Edith didn’t have any more details. I would learn more when their social worker brought the children to me later today.
As soon as I’d finished speaking to Edith I’d gone into the loft and brought down all the early-years equipment I’d stored away there, including a cot, pushchair, car seats and boxes full of toys, all of which I’d wrapped in polythene to keep them clean after the last time I’d used them many years before. I’d struggled to get them down and to assemble the cot on my own, but my family were all out and I didn’t dare leave it until they returned in the evening. Adrian, aged twenty-four, and Lucy, twenty-two, were at work, and Paula, twenty, was at college. I was a single parent, my husband having run off with a younger work colleague when the children were little. Very upsetting at the time but history now.
Having made up the bed and cot with fresh linen, I set a toy box at the far end of the room and came out. Hopefully Molly and Kit’s parents would feel up to packing some of their children’s clothes and toys, as it would help them settle with me to have familiar things around them when everything else in their lives had changed.
Downstairs, I quickly made a sandwich lunch, which I ate at the table with my mobile phone beside me. I was expecting Edith or the children’s social worker to phone at any moment – as soon as the care order had been granted and they’d left court. Of course, there was a chance the order wouldn’t be granted. If so, then preparing the room would have all been for nothing. It had happened to me in the past – I’d been put on standby to receive a child or children, and plans had changed at the last minute, which is why foster carers have to be flexible. It’s unusual for a care order not to be granted, but what happens more often is that a relative steps in at the last minute to look after the children so they don’t have to go to a foster carer they don’t know.
I’d just finished eating my sandwich when my mobile rang.
‘Cathy Glass?’ a
female voice asked.
‘Yes, speaking.’ I could hear traffic noise in the background.
‘It’s Tess Baldwin, social worker for Molly and Kit. I believe Edith spoke to you this morning and you’re expecting Kit and Molly.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Their room is ready.’
‘Good. We’re on our way to collect them. We should be with you by five o’clock. The children have never been away from home before so are likely to be very upset.’
‘Poor dears.’ My heart clenched. ‘I don’t have any information about them other than their ages.’
‘I’ll explain more when I see you. The family only came to the notice of the social services on Monday. The decision to remove the children was made by us yesterday afternoon.’ It was only Thursday now, which showed just how urgent they considered it to be to bring the children to a place of safety.
I had a couple of hours before Molly and Kit arrived. I texted Adrian, Lucy and Paula to let them know the children were coming so it wouldn’t be a complete surprise. I then went quickly into the High Street where I bought a trainer cup, nappies and baby wipes for Kit (I assumed he was still in nappies), and some snack food that might tempt them both if they were too upset to eat – for example, corn and carrot sticks, little packets of dried fruit and fromage frais in brightly decorated pots. If the children didn’t come with their own clothes, I’d be back here tomorrow to buy them what they needed. We’d get by tonight with the spares I kept in the ottoman in my bedroom. I had most sizes, from newborn to teens, all washed and pressed and ready for emergency use.
An hour later I was home again and, having unpacked the shopping, I began to make a cottage pie for dinner later. There wouldn’t be much time once the social worker arrived with Kit and Molly, and most children enjoy cottage pie. I didn’t know yet if Kit and Molly had any special dietary requirements, allergies or special needs, and it would be something I’d ask Tess when they arrived. If this had been a planned move, I would normally have received background information like this in advance of the children arriving, but this was an emergency, so everything was happening quickly.
Shortly after four o’clock my phone rang and it was Tess, the children’s social worker. ‘We’re in the car with the children,’ she said. ‘We should be with you in about twenty minutes. Molly will need a change of clothes, she’s just wet herself.’
‘I’ll have some ready,’ I said. ‘Tell her not to worry.’ I knew how children fretted if they had an accident. It wasn’t surprising she’d wet herself, given the trauma of being taken from home.
‘See you shortly,’ Tess said, and ended the call.
I went straight upstairs to my bedroom where I searched through the ottoman until I found a new packet of pants marked ‘Age 3–4 Years’, and a pair of jogging bottoms and matching top that should fit Molly. I took them into the children’s bedroom and returned downstairs, my heart thumping loudly from nervous anticipation.
Waiting for a new child or children to arrive is always nerve-racking for the foster carer, regardless of how many times they’ve done it before. We worry if the children will like and trust us enough to help them, if we can meet their needs and work with their family – very important. Now I had the added challenge of fostering not one child but two, who were both very young. I hadn’t fostered little ones in a long while. As a specialist foster carer with lots of experience, I was usually asked to look after older children with challenging behaviour, who, to be honest, I felt more confident in dealing with. Would I remember what to do with two little ones?
My crisis of confidence continued until the doorbell rang, when common sense and instinct kicked in. I answered it with a bright smile. ‘Hello, I’m Cathy. Come in.’
Two female social workers stood before me, each carrying a child.
‘I’m Tess, and this is Molly,’ Tess said, introducing the child she was holding. ‘And this is my colleague Preeta, with Kit.’
‘Hello,’ Preeta said as they came in.
I smiled at both children. They looked petrified – large eyes stared out from pale faces and they clung desperately to their social workers. Kit had a plaster cast on his left arm, his cheeks were bruised and there was a red bump on his forehead. ‘Hello, love,’ I said to him, and swallowed hard.
He drew back from me further into Preeta’s shoulder.
‘I’ve put some toys in the living room,’ I said, and led the way down the hall, although I guessed it would be a long time before either child felt like playing. Their little sombre faces suggested they were very close to tears.
In the living room, Preeta sat on the sofa with Kit on her lap, still clinging desperately to her. Tess put Molly down. The child grabbed her hand for comfort. ‘It might be a good idea if you changed her now,’ Tess said to me. ‘She’s sopping wet, and can I use your bathroom to wash my hands?’
‘Yes, of course. This way.’ I could smell stale urine.
Leaving Preeta with Kit, we went upstairs to the bathroom, with Molly still clutching her social worker’s hand.
‘Help yourself to whatever you need,’ I said to Tess, referring to the soap, towel and antibacterial hand wash. ‘I’ll change Molly in her bedroom.’
‘Thanks. I don’t suppose you have a change of clothes for me too?’ Tess joked, sniffing the sleeve of her blouse.
‘I’m sure I could find you a top,’ I offered.
‘No, it’s fine,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ve had worse than a bit of pee on me.’
I bent down to talk to Molly. ‘I’ve got some nice dry clothes for you ready in your bedroom,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and get you changed.’ She stared back at me, bewildered. I gently took her hand and, leaving Tess washing her hands and forearms, I led Molly, silent and expressionless, around the landing and into her and Kit’s bedroom.
I spoke brightly and positively as I pointed out the toy box, her bed and Kit’s cot close by, trying to put her at ease. I held up the clothes I’d put out ready. ‘You can wear these for now,’ I said. She stared at the clothes. ‘Can you change yourself or shall I help you?’ Most children of Molly’s age can make a good attempt at dressing and undressing themselves, although they still need help with fiddly things like buttons and zips. Molly just stood there, looking lost and staring at the clothes.
‘I’ll help you,’ I said.
I began taking off her damp clothes. She was like a doll and only moved to raise her arms as I took off her dress and vest over her head. I then helped her out of her pants and socks. They were all wet and smelt of urine and I put them to one side to go in the washing machine. I wiped her skin with baby wipes. Her body was very pale like her face, as though she hadn’t seen much sun, but thankfully I couldn’t see any bruises or other marks on her as there were on Kit. ‘That will do for now,’ I said, throwing the wipes in the bin. ‘You can have a bath tonight.’ I dressed her in the clean clothes.
Tess appeared. ‘Anything I should be aware of?’ she asked, meaning injuries.
‘No, I can’t see anything. I’ll give them both a bath this evening, though.’
‘I’ll arrange medicals for both children,’ Tess said. This was usual when children came into care.
Molly still hadn’t said a word, but while she looked very sad, she wasn’t crying; indeed, I hadn’t heard a sound from her since she’d arrived. ‘Does she have communication difficulties?’ I asked Tess. I knew so little about the children it was possible she had a hearing and speech impairment.
‘No. She was talking to her parents at home,’ Tess said. Then to Molly, ‘You can hear me, can’t you?’
She gave a small nod. It therefore seemed it must be the trauma of coming into care that was responsible, and possibly what had been going on at home. I’d seen it before in abused children – sometimes it was days before they were able to speak.
‘Let’s go downstairs and I’ll tell you what I
know,’ Tess said to me. ‘I haven’t got the Essential Information Form, it’s being completed now. I’ll email it to you, and the placement agreement form.’ In a planned move, this paperwork arrived with the social worker when the child was placed and gave their background information and the reasons they were in care.
We returned downstairs to the living room where Kit was as we’d left him, sitting on Preeta’s lap. She had taken a toy fire engine with flashing lights and a siren from the toy box and was trying to interest him in it, but he wasn’t even touching it – another indication of how traumatized the children were. Molly sat on the sofa beside Preeta and Kit and put her hand on his arm. Tess sat next to her. I asked both social workers if they would like a drink, and they wanted coffee. I also asked Molly and Kit if they’d like a drink, but they just looked at me. ‘I’ll get you some water and you can have it if you want,’ I told the children with a reassuring smile.
In the kitchen I made two coffees and filled the trainer cup with water for Kit and a child’s plastic beaker for Molly. I put some biscuits on a plate and then carried everything on a tray into the living room where I set it on the occasional table. As Tess and Preeta took their coffees – keeping the hot liquid away from the children – I offered Molly and Kit their drinks, but they didn’t want them. ‘OK, maybe later,’ I said. ‘Would you like a biscuit?’ I showed them the plate but got the same response.
At that moment I heard a key go in the front door and the door open. Molly started. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘That will be my youngest daughter, Paula, returning from college.’
‘Who else lives here?’ Tess asked. Setting down her coffee, she took a pen and notepad from her bag. I guessed in all the rush she had as little information about me as I did about the children.
‘As well as Paula, there is Adrian, my son, and Lucy, my other daughter. And Sammy the cat,’ I added, smiling at Molly. ‘He must be in the garden. You’ll meet him later.’
‘And your children’s ages?’ Tess asked. I told her.
