by Cathy Glass
The children slept well and I woke to hear Molly on her phone, pretending to talk to Kit. Kit’s phone was downstairs. Sunday was a bright, cold day and I took the children to a park a short drive away that had different play equipment. Lucy came with us, but Paula stayed at home to complete some college work, having been out shopping with us for most of the previous day. Later we all had dinner together, and then prepared ourselves for Monday and the start of another working week.
‘Are we seeing Mummy on Monday?’ Molly asked as I took her to bed.
‘No, love, not tomorrow.’
‘Can I see Daddy?’
‘Not at present.’
‘When can I see Mummy and Daddy?’ she asked plaintively. I felt so sorry for her.
‘I’m not sure, love. Tess is coming to talk to us next week. We will ask her then.’
‘I miss Mummy and Daddy,’ she said, her little face puckering and close to tears.
‘I know, love. It’s difficult. But it’s important we keep you and Kit safe and healthy – just as you are now.’
An older child might have asked more and delved deeper, but at Molly’s age she didn’t have the reasoning or vocabulary to do that, although she would intuit what she couldn’t verbalize and needed lots of reassurance and hugs, just as Kit did. Despite what their mother (and possibly their father too) had done to them, they loved their parents.
On Monday Tess telephoned, asked us what sort of weekend we’d had and then said she’d visit us on Wednesday afternoon at two o’clock. She didn’t have anything new to tell me at present. When I finished the call, Molly asked me who was on the phone.
‘Your social worker, Tess,’ I said. ‘She’s coming to see us on Wednesday. That’s not today or tomorrow but the next day.’
‘Will I see Mummy and Daddy then?’
‘No, love, but we can ask her about that.’
‘You ask,’ she said.
‘Yes, I will.’ I gave her and Kit another big hug.
I took the children to our local park on Monday afternoon, and then on Tuesday a fostering friend of mine visited. She was looking after a four-year-old boy who attended nursery five mornings a week. He played nicely with Molly and went out of his way to include Kit in the games, even adapting them for a younger child. He was only three months older then Molly, but his social skills were far more advanced. He was able to organize little games and knew how to take turns and share. I thought again that Molly would benefit from nursery and playing with similar-aged children. She played with Kit sometimes, of course, and my family, and I spent hours playing with both children, but she needed to interact with her peer group. I made a note to raise the matter with Tess. Previously Aneta had objected to the children attending nursery or playgroup on the grounds they were susceptible to germs and it would make them ill. That concern had now been negated. It wasn’t germs that had been making Molly and Kit ill, but Aneta. I didn’t see any reason why Molly shouldn’t start attending nursery for a few mornings a week, even if their mother still objected.
On Wednesday, five minutes before Tess was due to arrive, I changed the boxes of toys in the living room for fresh ones in the hope that Molly and Kit would be kept amused while Tess and I talked. Unfortunately, Tess was half an hour late, by which time the children had tired of the toys, so I changed them again. I find that rotating toys allows children to come to them afresh. I’d put their mobile phones out of sight as the noise they made, especially when on together, would make it difficult for Tess and me to concentrate or even hear each other properly.
Tess apologized for being late, asked for a glass of water and went into the living room. ‘My! You two look well,’ she exclaimed as soon as she saw Molly and Kit.
‘Can you see a difference?’ I asked, pleased.
‘Yes, even since the last time I saw them. They look so much brighter.’
‘My family and I thought so too, but it’s good to hear it from you.’
‘So how are you both?’ she asked Molly and Kit as she sipped her water. ‘You look fine to me.’
Kit carried on playing, while Molly looked to me to ask the question that was on her mind.
‘Molly would like to know when she can see her parents,’ I said. ‘She’s asked me a few times.’
‘That reminds me,’ Tess said. ‘I’ve got a photograph for you.’ She delved into her bag and took out a six-by-four-inch photograph of Molly and Kit with their parents. It had been taken at contact, presumably by the contact supervisor on Filip’s or Aneta’s phone.
‘That’s great. I’ll buy a frame for it and we can put in on the shelf in your bedroom,’ I told the children enthusiastically. Most children in care have at least one family photograph, some have many. It helps to keep the memory of their parents alive while they are separated from them.
Molly looked at the picture and then at me again. I knew why: Tess hadn’t answered my question.
‘So is there no contact at present?’ I asked Tess.
‘No, but Mummy and Daddy both send their love,’ she told the children. ‘You and Kit are being well looked after and are happy here with Cathy, so there is nothing for you to worry about. Christmas is coming. You’ll have lots of fun. What do you want Father Christmas to bring?’ While Molly thought about this, Tess said quietly to me, ‘Aneta is in –’ and she named the psychiatric unit in the city hospital. I nodded. ‘Their solicitor has been in touch. Filip is asking for contact, just for him. We’re considering it, but I want to hear from the police first.’
I nodded again.
‘Can I see Mummy and Daddy?’ Molly asked.
‘Not for now,’ Tess said. ‘Cathy will tell you if that changes.’ Clearly Tess had decided not to tell Molly their mother was receiving psychiatric care and I thought that was the right decision. Mental illness can be difficult for adults to understand; it would be virtually impossible to explain it to a three-year-old, and Molly didn’t need to know. ‘OK?’ Tess asked Molly, and she gave a small nod. I thought it was time to change the subject.
‘I was thinking it would be nice if Molly went to nursery a few mornings each week,’ I said. ‘I could take Kit to a toddler group so they both get used to playing with other children.’
‘Excellent idea,’ Tess said positively, and smiled at Molly. She took a notepad and pen from her bag and made a note. ‘Do you have a nursery in mind?’ she asked me.
‘There is a good one attached to our local infant school, but I know they have a waiting list.’
‘Looked-after children can usually be found a place,’ she said. ‘Give me the details and I’ll speak to them.’
I told her the name and address of the nursery, then as she wrote I quickly googled their contact number on my phone and read that out. ‘They also run a toddler group one afternoon a week where the parent or carer stays. There isn’t a waiting list, I checked. I was thinking of taking Kit to that. Obviously, Molly would come too.’
‘Fine with me,’ Tess said, and made another note. ‘Anything else?’ she asked. Both children were playing again.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve received this letter from the allergy clinic at the hospital.’ I passed her the letter. ‘You remember a referral was made that time I had to take Kit to the hospital and he was kept in overnight?’ She nodded as she read the letter.
‘He doesn’t need to go to this, does he?’ she asked me, looking up.
‘No, I don’t think so. He’s not allergic to anything.’
‘Other than vomiting linctus,’ Tess said cuttingly.
‘Exactly. If you are OK with it, I thought I’d phone and cancel the appointment.’
‘Yes. The children have been through enough unnecessary medical tests, they don’t need any more.’
She handed back the letter and I put it to one side to deal with later.
‘Can we have our mobile phones?’ Molly now
asked me.
Tess looked at me, horrified.
‘Toy ones,’ I clarified.
She laughed. ‘For one moment I thought –’
‘I know. But surely no one gives a child aged three a real one?’
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘Can we have our phones?’ Molly asked again.
‘Yes, OK, but we’ll put the volume on low,’ I said.
I retrieved the toy phones from the cupboard and turned down the volume on both before handing them to the children. They began pressing buttons and the recorded messages, sounds and music played as Tess and I talked. She asked me about the children’s routine, their development, general health and well-being, which was a standard part of most social worker visits, and took notes. Finally, she said, ‘All that’s left is for me to have a look around.’ It’s usual for the social worker to check the foster carer’s house when they visit, just as the supervising social worker does. ‘Are you going to show me your bedroom?’ she asked the children.
‘Yes,’ Molly said, and took it as a sign to turn up the volume on her phone and on Kit’s. It didn’t matter. Tess and I had finished talking.
Tess took Kit’s free hand and I took Molly’s and the four of us walked around the house, in and out of the rooms, to the nursery rhymes coming loudly from Kit’s phone and the voice counting to twenty from Molly’s.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Love the Children
After Tess had gone, I quickly zipped the children into their winter coats and took them to the High Street to choose a frame for the family photograph Tess had brought with her. On our return, Molly watched as I put the photo into the frame and then set in on a shelf in her bedroom. Kit could come in and see it whenever he wanted to, although he wasn’t showing the same interest Molly was. She spent some time repositioning it and then asked again when she would see her mummy and daddy. I told her Tess had said she’d let us know, and reassured her that her mummy and daddy were fine and she mustn’t worry about them.
‘I miss Mummy and Daddy,’ she said as we returned downstairs.
‘I know you do, love.’
But I also knew from fostering other children that the pain of separation usually eased the longer the child went without seeing their parents, until eventually they were ready to bond with a new forever family. Sad though it is, some children can’t ever return home and are either fostered long term, adopted or looked after by another family member. The main reason for Kit and Molly coming into care had been the suspicion of non-accidental injury, and the care plan had been a full care order with the likelihood they wouldn’t return home. I assumed this was still true. Although care plans can and do change, nothing had come to light to say they would be safe at home – far from it.
On Thursday afternoon, Tess telephoned, having spoken to the head of the local nursery. ‘They can offer Molly a place for two mornings a week.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
‘The Head is Alison Dene. I’ve given her some background information and she’s expecting you to phone her. She’d like you to take Molly in for a preliminary visit before she starts.’
‘Thank you so much. I’ll phone her now. This will be great for Molly.’
‘Let me know how it goes,’ Tess said.
‘I will.’ I thanked her again and we said goodbye.
I’d taken the call in the living room where Molly and Kit were playing and I stayed there while I telephoned the nursery. There was nothing they shouldn’t overhear.
‘Could I speak to Alison Dene, please?’ I said as a woman answered.
‘Speaking.’
‘Hello, I’m Cathy Glass, I believe Tess –’
I didn’t get any further. ‘Yes. Hello. The children’s social worker called earlier. I’d be happy to offer Molly a place for two mornings a week, starting next week. It would have to be Tuesday and Thursday, as we’re completely full on all the other days. Is that all right with you?’
‘Yes. That’s perfect.’
‘We always like an introductory visit before the child starts, so I suggest you bring Molly here tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock if you can manage it. I know how busy you foster carers are.’
‘Yes, we can make that.’
‘Excellent. I’ll show you around, give you the information pack, and you can fill in the registration form. We like parents and carers to stay with the child for the first week while they settle in.’
‘I’ll have Molly’s younger brother with me. Is that OK?’
‘That’s fine. See you tomorrow then at eleven.’
‘Yes.’
She sounded a lovely lady and very enthusiastic. I was excited for Molly. I replaced the handset and immediately told her.
‘Will Mummy and Daddy be there?’ she asked.
‘No, love, it’s for children. You’ll have a great time. You’ll do lots of fun things and will be able to play with other children your age. We’re going for a visit tomorrow.’
‘Is Kit coming?’
‘Yes, for tomorrow and next week, then we’ll take and collect you. Nursery is for big children like you.’
‘Will you stay?’
‘To begin with, yes.’
‘Will I have to sleep there?’ she asked, worried.
‘No, love.’ I gave her a hug. Going to nursery is a big step for most children, but I knew once she’d been a few times and was settled she’d love it. ‘It’s just for two mornings a week,’ I said. ‘I have a book somewhere that explains about going to nursery.’
I hunted through the bookshelf and found what I was looking for: Ned Goes to Nursery. It was for children about to start nursery and told the story of Ned, a teddy bear, and his first days at nursery. It was beautifully illustrated and addressed many of the worries young children might have at the prospect of going to nursery. Kit wanted to see the book too, so I sat on the sofa with a child either side of me and read the story as they looked at the pictures. I watched Molly’s face and could see she was identifying with Ned and being reassured as his concerns were allayed. She wanted me to read it again, and by the time I’d read it a third time she was looking less anxious about nursery.
When Paula, Lucy and Adrian returned home that evening I made a big thing about telling them that Molly was going to start nursery, and they joined in my praise and enthusiasm. When Lucy told Molly that she worked in a nursery just like the one she would be going to, Molly wouldn’t leave her side. By the time Molly went to bed, she was looking forward to visiting nursery the following day and telling Lucy all about it.
That evening I looked online again at the details of the playgroup for toddlers I wanted to take Kit to. It was held at the school, but in a separate room to the nursery, every Wednesday 2–4 p.m. The website said a little about the aim of the group, the activities they organized and that they charged £1 per child towards the cost of a drink and a snack. There wasn’t a waiting list, but the organizer asked parents and carers to get in touch first, as numbers were limited because of health and safety requirements. I emailed info@ saying I would like to start bringing the child I was fostering, aged twenty months, and I’d need to bring his older sister with me too. Five minutes later an email came back.
Hi Cathy, it’s Kate Evans. Remember me? Yes, I did, although I hadn’t seen her in a long while. She lived a few roads along from me and had a boy a similar age to Adrian. They’d been in the same class and good friends during primary school, but as far as I knew didn’t see each other now. Kate had been a childminder back then, so she was very experienced in childcare. It was lovely to hear from her. She asked how we all were, said she’d heard I was still fostering and confirmed I could take the children on Wednesday, and looked forward to catching up. I emailed back, thanking her, saying we were all well, that I hoped she and her family were well too and I’d see
her on Wednesday.
I was pleased both children would soon have the benefit of attending a pre-school group where they could mix with their peers. While Kit was of an age where he could have gone to nursery, I thought it would be too much for him at this point, as he’d had so little experience of being with other children, and had had to cope with the disruption of leaving his parents and coming into care.
The following morning, Molly was awake very early. I heard her cry out at 5.30. Not fully awake, I grabbed my dressing gown and went round the landing to her bedroom. She was sitting up in bed, leaning forward and clutching her stomach. ‘I feel sick,’ she moaned.
In a flash all my old fears returned. I thought I must have given her something to eat that she was allergic to, or Aneta had poisoned her. Then I realized it was because she was worried about going to nursery – the Monday-morning tummy ache many school children complain of.
‘Molly, love,’ I said, sitting on her bed, ‘you’re fine. You won’t be sick.’
‘I will. I’ll be sick like with Mummy.’
I hesitated and looked at her. She had a good colour and apart from frowning and looking anxious she didn’t appear ill. ‘I am sure you’re not going to be sick. You haven’t been sick in a long while. It’s all stopped now. I think if you have a tummy ache, it’s because you are a bit worried about going to see your nursery today.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘Because it’s all new to you. Lots of children and adults have funny tummies if they have to do something new that they are not sure about. It’s sometimes called having butterflies and will pass.’ She looked at me doubtfully. ‘You’ll be fine once you’ve seen your nursery and have spent some time there,’ I continued. ‘It’s a bit early to get up yet, so I’d like you to lie down and try to go back to sleep. If you can’t, then look at some books quietly while I get ready, and please don’t worry about nursery. You’ll enjoy it.’ I placed some books on her bed.
