by Angela Hart
‘I’m sure she’s got her daughter’s best interests at heart,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine for one minute that she would stand in the way of Michelle being taken on holiday to Disney World!’
‘Angela, not everyone sees the world like you,’ Tricia had said, rather patronisingly, I thought. ‘The fact is, when parents see a foster carer providing something they can’t, it doesn’t always go down well. It highlights the fact you are succeeding where they have failed. I’ll ask Michelle’s mother, but please don’t count your chickens, and certainly don’t book anything just yet.’
Unfortunately, Tricia’s gloomy advice did hold water, as Michelle’s mother did not readily agree to the holiday. First she said she’d have to think about it, leaving us all waiting for an answer for nearly two months when we really wanted to make the booking. Then, once she’d reluctantly given her permission, she took another six weeks to sign Michelle’s passport application. This meant we’d only been able to book the holiday very recently – just before Vicky arrived, in fact.
‘How’s the holiday diet going, Angela?’ Michelle asked when we sat down with our fish and chips that evening, and she saw me reluctantly picking the batter off my cod.
‘Oh, you know, so-so!’ I said. ‘I think I’ll join the slimming club when the holiday is nearer, that always helps me.’
‘That’s a good idea. By the way, my mum was asking about the accommodation. Can you tell her where we’re staying and what the sleeping arrangements are?’
‘Yes of course, love. That’s all in hand.’
‘You’re so lucky!’ Vicky marvelled, when I filled her in and explained what we had planned. ‘I wish I could go to Disney World!’
‘Can’t Vicky come with us?’ Michelle asked.
‘Well, it’s still only July and we’re not going for another nine months, are we? Vicky’s not expecting to be with us for that long.’
‘No, I’m not,’ Vicky confirmed.
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ Michelle said. ‘I was hoping you’d be here for a while.’
Vicky looked pleased at the unexpected compliment from Michelle. The girls were like chalk and cheese in terms of their personalities, but they did seem to get along very well together, and I’d noticed they’d been spending time in each other’s bedrooms in the evenings, listening to Whitney Houston and even doing their homework together sometimes. Vicky typically went out for an hour to visit a friend when she’d finished her school work and I’d heard her asking Michelle if she wanted to tag along, though she never did.
‘I hate staying in!’ Vicky had said. ‘How can you stand it?’
Michelle shrugged. ‘I just do. I’m used to it.’
‘Well I’m not,’ Vicky had replied.
After we’d finished eating our fish and chips the girls both helped me clear the table, and then Vicky asked if she could go out to see her friend Izzy. Michelle looked disappointed; I knew she’d been hoping we’d all sit down and play Cluedo together after dinner, as this was something of a Saturday night ritual. Cluedo was Michelle’s favourite game and Vicky had recently asked her to teach her how to play.
‘Well, I don’t see why not, Vicky,’ I said. ‘Are you invited to Izzy’s house?’
‘No. It’s the “Saturday club” up by her house tonight,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I can catch the bus and I’ll be home by 9.30 p.m. like last night’
I didn’t feel I could refuse, as it was simply another youth club and Vicky had been extremely punctual the previous evening.
‘That’s fine, love. Please just write down the name and address of the youth club for me, because I don’t know exactly where it is.’
‘It’s just in the community centre behind the Co-op,’ she said. ‘I don’t like it as much as the Friday night youth club, but Izzy does. She’s nagged me to go!’
‘Sounds like you’re being a good friend then,’ I said. ‘Good for you!’
‘She was always there for me.’
Vicky looked very thoughtful when she said that last sentence, and she went very quiet and looked at the floor.
‘Are you all right, sweetheart?’
‘Course!’ she said, snapping a smile back on her face.
‘Izzy is a good friend to you, by the sound of it?’
‘Yes.’
With that Vicky did one of her US soldier salutes and drawled in an exaggerated American accent, ‘Permission to leave the kitchen, Angela.’
‘Permission granted!’ I laughed. ‘See you at 9.30 p.m.’
Jonathan and I played Cluedo with Michelle and, once again, at 9.30 p.m. on the dot, Vicky returned. She began babbling ten to the dozen about her friends and all the fun they’d had playing dodge ball in the grounds of the community centre, and making strawberry milkshakes in the kitchen with the youth workers. Vicky smelled strongly of smoke again, but I didn’t want to mention it in front of Michelle, who was curled up on the settee in her dressing gown and Winnie the Pooh slippers. However, Vicky went up to bed a few minutes before Michelle, who then arched her eyebrows and whispered disapprovingly, ‘I wonder what Vicky spent her pocket money on?’
I didn’t rise to it, simply saying, ‘Come on now, Michelle, it’s time you went up to bed too.’
‘It’s funny how different the two girls are,’ I said to Jonathan when we were alone. ‘It’s amazing they get along so well.’
‘Well I suppose they understand each other’s situation like nobody else can,’ he said. ‘It must be comforting to both of them to know they have someone there who’s in the same boat as them.’
Jonathan has always been wise like that, having the ability to take a step back, weigh up a situation with clarity and see things from another person’s point of view.
‘I think you’re right,’ I said. ‘I worry about them both though, in different ways. I wish Michelle was a bit more outgoing, and I wish Vicky didn’t go out so much.’
‘They can’t win, can they, these teenagers?’ Jonathan teased.
‘No I suppose they can’t! I guess we should just be grateful that Vicky has settled in so well.’
‘Exactly,’ Jonathan agreed. ‘She’s a pleasure to have around. I’ll miss her when she’s gone.’
4
‘My mum frightened me’
As her stay entered its third week Vicky continued to be a pleasure to have around, despite the fact the placement had clearly extended into a longer one than she first hoped for. Her routine followed the pattern she’d established from the beginning. She walked to school every day, did her homework without being reminded, and helped in the house whenever I asked, albeit rather reluctantly. When she went to one of the youth clubs or the Saturday disco she always returned promptly, and she also started to invite friends over to our house. I was pleased about this as some foster children don’t like their friends to know about their situation, but Vicky wasn’t in the slightest bit concerned about it. In fact, she always made a point of introducing me to her friends, and I had the feeling she was enjoying being part of our family.
‘Can I meet your mum, Angela?’ she asked one afternoon.
‘Of course!’ I replied. ‘She’s been looking forward to meeting you. We’re all invited to lunch on Sunday, as it happens.’
‘Really? Is she cooking for us all?’
‘Yes, and she does a lovely roast dinner It’s always a treat.’
‘Wow! I’m looking forward to that! Are you sure it’s OK? I mean, isn’t she quite old?’
‘Don’t let her hear you saying anything like that! No, she’s only in her sixties, and she’s full of beans. Her name’s Thelma, by the way.’
Mum had always been supportive of my fostering, telling me she admired my patience, just as she had complimented my friend Belinda’s mum when I was a child. Mum loved meeting the children we had staying. She had been away on a cruise with an old friend when Vicky first arrived, and I was now very much looking forward to introducing them.
When Sunday came Mum spoilt us all r
otten, roasting a delicious leg of lamb, asking Vicky and Michelle to help her pick some fresh strawberries from her garden and then settling down to play games with them in her sunny conservatory while Jonathan and I did the washing up.
Vicky thoroughly enjoyed herself.
‘Angela, you should play next time!’ she smiled afterwards. ‘All the games are really good. Have you ever played them?’
‘Yes, love, quite a few times!’ I laughed, as all of Mum’s games were old favourites like Kerplunk, Operation, Mousetrap and Buckaroo, which I’d played hundreds of times over the years.
The following day a holdall containing more clothes and a few other belongings, including a hairbrush and a pair of sandals, arrived for Vicky, via Tricia. Thankfully Vicky actually wore some of the clothes this time; they were all a bit worn out but at least they seemed to fit better. Her pitiful wardrobe didn’t seem to bother Vicky at all, but I resolved to get her into another clothes shop at the next opportunity.
‘There’s still no news, I’m afraid,’ Tricia had told me when she called in to the shop with the holdall. ‘Vicky’s mother is still refusing to answer the door or reply to our letters or phone calls. We’ll keep trying, of course, as we want to get her to a review meeting as quickly as possible.’
Nowadays a review meeting must take place within twenty-eight working days of the start of a placement, but in the past this deadline was often missed. All parties, including the child, parents or legal guardians, foster carers, the child’s social worker and his or her manager, are invited to the meeting to discuss how the placement is progressing, and to decide on future plans. Unfortunately, as in Vicky’s case, getting the parent to attend is not always straightforward and can cause delays.
‘I know you might not be able to discuss it, but do you have any idea what the problem is with Vicky’s mother?’ I ventured diplomatically, although what I really felt like saying was, This is so frustrating! Give me the address and I’ll go round there myself A child’s future is at stake and we really need her mother to answer the door! Of course I knew better than to directly ask Tricia for any information that might be sensitive, such as a person’s address. I’d learned from experience that it wasn’t the done thing to ask questions at all; foster carers are in the hands of their allotted support social worker, and you have to accept the status quo, respect their authority and wait to be given information. Thankfully, on this occasion, Tricia did expand a little.
‘The neighbours have told us that Vicky’s mother never leaves the house,’ she said flatly.
There was a pause I didn’t fill, and Tricia added, ‘It’s only hearsay at this stage, but alcohol would appear to be the problem.’
As Tricia had decided to share this information I pushed my luck a little.
‘I see. I don’t suppose you know how long ago Vicky left her mother’s house, to move in with Lorraine?’
‘No. Lorraine’s husband, Carl, dropped the holdall off so I haven’t actually spoken to her again. He told me that Lorraine has completely washed her hands of Vicky and doesn’t want anything to do with her, so I’m afraid I’m not hopeful of getting any more information from Lorraine any time soon. However, from the little I know, I don’t think Lorraine would have put up with Vicky for very long.’
I was quite perplexed by this.
‘I just can’t imagine Vicky being that difficult,’ I said. ‘In my experience she is a lovely, polite and friendly girl. She always comes home on time and she does her homework, and she helps out around the house when you ask her to.’
Tricia snorted. ‘I’m glad to hear it, but I’m afraid you may be experiencing a bit of a honeymoon period, Angela. It’s not uncommon with kids in care, as I’m sure you know. Didn’t you experience anything like this with Michelle?’
‘No, not at all. Michelle was as good as gold when she arrived, and she’s as good as gold now.’
‘Well from what Lorraine has said, you may not be so lucky with Vicky. According to her sister she was impossible to live with. A “nightmare’; is how she described her, in fact.’
I was very surprised indeed to hear this.
‘In what way was she a nightmare?’
‘Extremely untidy, leaving mess everywhere and going out all the time. That’s what Lorraine said when she brought Vicky to us. Right then, as soon as I hear anything concrete I’ll let you know.’
When Tricia left I thought back over what she said. Clearly Lorraine had not wanted to take Vicky back to their mother’s when she found she couldn’t cope with her herself, and now it seemed we had found out why.
I felt very uneasy, wondering what life must have been like for Vicky, living with a mother with a drink problem. I knew by now that Lorraine was ten years older than Vicky, so it was possible she’d left home a good number of years earlier, and that Vicky had lived on her own with her mother for quite some time. I remembered what Vicky had said about her friend Izzy – ‘She was always there for me’ – and my mind went into overdrive.
‘What sort of a life has Vicky had?’ I said to Jonathan later ‘It must have been terrible for her, growing up with an alcoholic mother.’
As usual, Jonathan was the voice of reason and made me focus on the facts, not the maybes.
‘We don’t know for sure that Vicky was alone with her mother, or what actually went on,’ he said. ‘And we don’t know how long her mother has had a drink issue, or how serious it is. Tricia said the problem was alcohol, but she didn’t describe Vicky’s mother as an “alcoholic” as such, did she? We don’t know enough to start jumping to any conclusions.’
‘I suppose you’re right but . . .’
‘Look, Angela, don’t get yourself all worked up. Vicky seems perfectly well adjusted, and she’s even talked to you openly about the smoking, which is about the only thing she seems to do wrong. Also, there are no Social Services records for Vicky, are there? If she’d been at risk over the years there’d be a file on her, but Tricia said there is no past history at all, not a single note.’
‘I guess you’re right. I just hope that if the drinking has gone on for years and years, Lorraine didn’t leave Vicky with their mother when she was small . . .’
Jonathan gave me a hug. He is a very intuitive man and he had immediately sensed that I had turned my thoughts to my own childhood; it would be impossible not to, in the light of the conversation we’d just had.
My father had been an alcoholic in his younger days. Apparently he made my mother’s life hell at the start of their marriage, but I didn’t know much about this until many years later, when I was grown up and about to get married myself. Then, my mother told me all about how she had given my father an ultimatum when I was five years old, telling him that if he didn’t stop drinking she would throw him out. I recollected the argument, and the fact that after the row, my father checked himself into what Mum called a ‘drying out clinic’, and he never touched a drop of alcohol from the day he left there.
Thanks to my mother, besides the argument, practically the only memory I have relating to my father’s drink problem is of when he was ‘away in the countryside! which was how my mum described his stay at the clinic to me. He was gone for six weeks in total, and I can remember that when my mother visited him she had to stay overnight as it was so far away. I spent the night at Aunt Hattie’s when Mum was visiting Dad, which of course I hated, as I missed my mum so much and had never spent a night away from her before. This experience no doubt laid the foundations for how I reacted when I was sent to Aunt Hattie’s again for a much longer time, when Mum was in hospital the following year.
‘I was lucky,’ I said to Jonathan. ‘I had my mother there to mend the problem. She was very capable and did a terrific job, but poor Vicky probably had nobody at all to make things better.’
I took Vicky to the doctor’s for her Social Service medical appointment later that week, which is something required by law within the first few weeks of a child’s placement. Dental and optical check-ups also
have to be kept up to date, so I would book those if Vicky was still with us when her appointments were due. Our GP preferred it if I accompanied the children into the surgery, where they would be weighed and measured, asked to answer some basic health questions and given a few routine checks, such as having their chest listened to.
‘Are you happy for me to come in with you?’ I asked Vicky.
‘Yes, no problem,’ she said. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
The doctor seemed pleased with Vicky’s general health but she was wheezing that day, and he picked up on the fact Vicky was a smoker.
‘How many cigarettes do you smoke?’ the doctor asked.
‘Er, as many as I can get hold of,’ Vicky said, looking a bit embarrassed. ‘Sometimes four or five, sometimes twenty.’
‘I see. And how long have you been smoking?’
The GP was matter-of-fact and didn’t appear to judge Vicky, and this approach seemed to pay dividends, as she was very frank with him.
‘Three or four years. I used to nick my mum’s cigarettes when she was asleep on the settee.’
‘I see. Well, Vicky, I think you’ll be able to breathe better if you have an inhaler I’ll give you a prescription. You have mild asthma and if you don’t stop smoking it could get considerably worse. I want you to try to stop as soon as you can.’
