by Angela Hart
Jonathan was slightly nervous when I mentioned the questions about our own childhoods, as he finds it upsetting to talk about how he was treated by his father, growing up on the farm. Similarly, I was not relishing the prospect of having to tell strangers my father had been an alcoholic, but after talking through these concerns at length we both agreed that we had nothing to hide, we were strong enough to cope and we were ultimately prepared to give it a go.
‘How long does this whole process take?’ Jonathan asked next.
‘About six months, maybe a bit longer. It depends how busy the social workers are at the time.’
‘Six months? That’s some vetting process!’
‘I know, but that’s a good thing, isn’t it? Social Services have to be incredibly careful, and we’re not in a rush, are we?’
‘No, and at least that will give us time to change our minds, if that’s what we want to do. I think I might need that length of time to get my head around all of this, to be quite honest.’
I gave Jonathan a big hug and thanked him again for being so open-minded and big-hearted. Even then, knowing precious little about fostering, I was aware it was a huge ask for anybody, and I was very grateful to him for supporting me so generously, despite his own misgivings.
Inevitably, we did find the process gruelling. Even providing basic facts was harder than we anticipated. For a start, it turned out that between us we’d lived in seven different rented flats in the city, and some of them were very short term and we had trouble remembering the addresses. However, far more difficult was dealing with an obstacle we hadn’t anticipated. On his stag night, Jonathan’s friends had thought it would be a laugh to do a runner from the Chinese restaurant they took him to. He was quite drunk and, in his inebriated state, Jonathan went along with the ill-advised plan. Unfortunately, the restaurant owner swiftly called the police, and Jonathan and his five friends were caught running down the high street, arrested and eventually fined £30 each for their misdemeanour. The upshot of it was that Jonathan had a criminal record, which had to be declared on our form F.
‘I hope I haven’t messed this up for us,’ he said. ‘I feel absolutely terrible about this.’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘It’s a one-off mistake on your stag night, over a decade ago, and you didn’t even instigate it. I really don’t think that will go against us.’
‘Well we don’t know, do we? We’ll have to cross our fingers and hope for the best.’
‘I’m sure it will be fine. I’m really sorry this has been dragged up though, Jonathan. I didn’t for one minute think it would be.’
‘It’s not your fault. Actually, it’s made me realise I don’t want to fail. I’ll be upset now, if things fall through before we’ve had the chance to try.’
Unfortunately, as if to test our nerve even more, the interviews were much more intense and intrusive than we’d imagined they might be. Jonathan was in tears describing to the Social Services official who came to our home how his father beat him, and how he suffered from low self-esteem for many years as a result. Similarly, I became surprisingly upset when I relived how I had to stay with Aunt Hattie when my mother went to visit my father at the drying out clinic. I cried too, when I remembered how I’d overheard the row between my parents about my father’s drinking, the one when my mother threatened to throw him out if he didn’t stop.
‘It’s me and Angela or the bottle,’ my mother had shrieked. ‘It’s a straight choice. You decide, Trevor!’
I was five years old, lying in bed and pushing my little palms as tightly together as possible, silently praying.
‘Please choose us, Daddy,’ I said in my head. ‘Pleeeease, Daddy. Choose us! Choose us!’
It was very upsetting indeed to bring this memory to the forefront of my mind, as it was one I had buried deep and not revisited for many, many years.
‘Would you describe your childhood as unhappy?’ I was asked after telling my story.
‘No,’ I said truthfully. ‘This was one of very few occasions when I was aware my father had a problem. My mother did a phenomenal job of protecting me from his drinking, and of helping him give up alcohol.’
‘Would you say you had a happy childhood then?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Without question. I was well cared for and never wanted for anything. I didn’t know how bad my father’s drinking had been until I was grown up and about to marry. My mother was extremely hard working and capable, and I have spoken to her about our fostering application and she is very supportive to this day, and would give us any help she could in our role as carers.’
Jonathan and I also had to describe exactly how we met and what our lives were like when we first got together, after we moved to the city and when we eventually married. Next we were interviewed together and separately about our friends and associates, our mental and physical health, our plans to have children, our financial situation and the strength of our commitment to each other.
I have heard other foster carers describe how their previous partners have been grilled too as part of the process, but as neither of us had been in a serious relationship before we got together this was irrelevant. Incidentally, over the years I have also heard tales of potential foster carers being put off because of negative comments and feedback from their previous partners. Social workers are careful to take into account the fact break-ups may have been acrimonious, but it still strikes me as harsh that the input from a disgruntled ex could scupper a person’s ambitions to foster.
Anyhow, the process was incredibly gruelling and exhausting for Jonathan and I, and when it came to the question of his criminal record my optimism about how it would be handled unfortunately turned out to be misplaced. To my dismay, Jonathan’s arrest and fine were taken incredibly seriously, with Jonathan being grilled at length. He was left feeling embarrassed, remorseful and extremely concerned about whether the incident had jeopardised our application. We were on tenterhooks when a social worker representing us finally had to go in front of a panel of Social Services officials to find out if we’d been passed or not. It had actually taken twelve months to get that far, rather than the suggested six, as the social worker dealing with our form F was overloaded with work. Just like for this review meeting today, Jonathan and I were kept waiting in a small, stuffy room in a hot, airless council building, trussed up in our smart clothes, and feeling incredibly nervous about what the outcome would be. I can clearly remember the moment when the social worker came out of the meeting and walked along the corridor towards us, to deliver the verdict. My pulse quickened and I could see Jonathan’s jaw tense as she approached.
‘Congratulations! You have been passed for two children!’ is about the only phrase I can remember hearing, though I’m sure she also filled us in on how the meeting had gone.
‘Really? That is just fantastic!’ I exclaimed. ‘I honestly can’t believe it’
I was euphoric and incredibly relieved.
Jonathan was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. ‘I feel like I’ve won the Pools!’ he said. ‘I’m absolutely delighted.’
Back then, of course, we were focused on all the positives we had in store: what a pleasure it would be to look after lots of different children and give them a comfortable, happy home, if only for a little while. We knew the kids might have issues and problems, but we innocently believed that there was nothing that couldn’t be put right with love, and the provision of a safe, comfortable home.
Sitting here today, waiting anxiously for a review with a teenager like Vicky, whom we’d grown very attached to but might lose at any moment, was not something we had anticipated. Her future was hanging in the balance and we cared very deeply about her indeed. If the social workers decided she was moving out we’d be very sorry to see her go, but we would simply have to accept the ruling and hope it was for the best.
I looked at Vicky and felt my stomach turn. What it must have been like for her I could only guess; I felt nauseous with nerves. I was not only dreading th
e meeting, but I was fretting about what would happen next week, next month and next year in this young girl’s life.
The black plastic minute hand of the clock above the door clicked around to quarter past the hour, making the same slightly louder tick it had done on the hour. Jonathan stood up and paced around the ten metre square room I was now beginning to feel encased in, and Vicky put her head in her hands.
‘This is horrible,’ she muttered. ‘Why is it taking so long?’
‘Mr Williams must be running late,’ I said. ‘We will just have to be patient.’
‘What about her?’
‘I’m sorry, Vicky. I know as much as you, sweetheart. I don’t know what’s going on with your mother.’
I’d heard several cars in the car park while we’d been sitting and waiting but I didn’t look out the window, and nor did Vicky. The room fell silent again, apart from the ticking of the clock, and it felt to me as if the temperature was rising with every second that passed. My clothes were sticking to me and my hands felt clammy. I desperately wanted to say or do something – anything – that would make the waiting easier or the situation better, but I felt helpless. In my head I was imagining myself saying to Vicky, ‘So what does your mother look like?’ because I really wanted to know, but of course I didn’t want to ask that question. I could see that Vicky was struggling more and more as the waiting went on, and I certainly didn’t want to make matters worse. She was pale and looked scared to death, poor girl.
‘Are none of the magazines any good?’ Jonathan asked, nodding towards the table Vicky was seated beside.
Vicky completely ignored him, her eyes now focused on the grey carpet squares at her feet. She was sitting incredibly still and was now staring down at the floor in an almost trance-like state.
‘You might like Auto Trader,’ I said to Jonathan.
‘Let’s see,’ he said, picking up one of the dog-eared copies, which had a circular coffee stain on the front. ‘Well I never, there’s an article in this one about towing. That could be interesting.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked.
‘Well I was thinking next time we changed the car we should get one with a tow bar, because then we could get a touring caravan.’
‘A touring caravan! I didn’t know we were going down that route, Jonathan.’
‘I’m not sure really, but we’ve loved all of our caravan holidays, haven’t we? Maybe getting one of our own is the next step. What do you think of that idea, Vicky?’
We both looked at Vicky but she seemed oblivious to the conversation we’d just had. I imagined her blurting, What do I care, Jonathan! I don’t even know if I’ll be living with you, do I?, which would have been a fairly reasonable response given the circumstances.
I felt like shouting something similar myself, if the truth be told. It was unacceptable to be kept waiting like this. This meeting was about Vicky’s future, and it seemed cruel to add to her distress in this way. She continued to gaze anxiously at the floor and her hands were now wedged beneath her thighs, which was a tactic I’d seen her employ before when she was trying not to bite her nails. Her shoulders were sunken and her chin was on her chest, and Vicky looked incredibly frail and vulnerable. The sudden shriek of tyres skidding onto the tarmac of the car park cut through the silence, drowning out the sound of the ticking clock and our collective breathing. Vicky sprang to her feet and then immediately froze, as if she’d been shot with a stun gun.
‘It’s all right, love,’ I said, getting up and glancing out of the window behind our row of chairs.
‘Don’t panic. It’s all going to be all right. It’s only Mr Williams arriving.’
Vicky didn’t appear to register the fact I’d just spoken to her.
‘Are you all right, sweetheart? Can you hear me? Vicky, love, why don’t you sit down again?’
She said nothing, but she did allow me to guide her gently back into her seat, and then she sat rigid on the edge of it. Moments later Mr Williams blustered into the room, attempting to tame his combed-over hair, which had been dislodged from his bald patch and was now sticking to his sweaty brow.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said. ‘Dreadful traffic. Right then, please follow me.’
Jonathan and I stood up and I rubbed the top of Vicky’s arm.
‘Come on, love.’
Her eyes were bulging in her head and she appeared to be staring straight through me. I felt her shudder, and then she blinked several times.
‘Is she . . . ?’
‘Mr Williams!’ I called. ‘Can I just ask you . . . ?’
He had already turned and left the room, so I darted to the door and stuck my head out.
‘Mr Williams!’
He was several paces away from me, charging along the corridor, so I dashed after him, leaving Vicky and Jonathan in the meeting room.
‘Can you hang on a moment?’ I called, at which point Mr Williams stopped and turned, allowing me to catch him up. ‘Vicky is very anxious about seeing her mother. Is she here?’
‘No, she’s not here yet. She must have got caught in the traffic too.’
‘I see. Right, I’ll go and fetch Vicky.’
Once I’d explained that her mother was not in the building some of Vicky’s tension seemed to leave her body, and she got to her feet and followed me, Jonathan and Mr Williams quietly to the meeting room along the corridor. Hayley gave a relieved smile when we all entered, and she indicated that we could sit wherever we liked around the large oval table. Vicky placed herself between myself and Jonathan and Mr Williams sat facing us, next to Hayley, who handed each of us a sheet of paper headed with the date and time of the review. Also on the paper was an explanation that the meeting was primarily to discuss the possibility of Vicky going back to live with Lorraine.
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to get started without your mother,’ Hayley said to Vicky once we were all seated. ‘The meeting is already running half an hour late and we can’t wait any longer.’
Vicky nodded. ‘I’m glad about that. I never want to see her again.’
Mr Williams didn’t seem to acknowledge the gravity of this remark; he was reading some paperwork which may or may not have been related to Vicky’s case. Hayley then explained to Mr Williams that Vicky would like to return to live with her sister but was happy to stay with us until Lorraine was ready and willing to have her back. Then she asked Vicky, myself and Jonathan some brief questions about whether or not we had any issues we wanted to discuss, and how comfortable we all were with the placement.
‘I’m happy to stay with Angela and Jonathan while Lorraine sorts herself out,’ Vicky reiterated. ‘Nothing has changed since last time I spoke to you. I just don’t want to live with my mum.’
Jonathan and I confirmed that we were very happy to continue the placement, and we also answered some standard questions about how Vicky was getting on, such as any behaviour issues we’d faced and how we’d dealt with them. We gave the dates of appointments we had made for the opticians and dentist, and we confirmed we’d taken Vicky to the doctors and explained that she had been given an inhaler and told to stop smoking by the GP.
‘And have you stopped smoking?’ Mr Williams asked.
‘Not completely, but I’m smoking a lot less. It’s hard.’
‘Well done,’ Hayley interjected. ‘I think it would be a good idea if you drew up a contract with Angela and Jonathan. In it you should agree to continue the good work towards stopping smoking completely; agree to work hard on controlling your cheekiness, particularly in front of customers in the shop, and to keep your room tidier and stick to the house rule of no food upstairs.’
Vicky’s face lit up.
‘That’s a deal. Does that mean I’m staying with Jonathan and Angela, and I don’t have to go to my mum’s?’
‘For the time being, yes. I’ve spoken to Lorraine and she is not ready to have you back with her. She needs more time to settle in with the baby. As your mother is not here we can’t discuss
a return to her care, so you will be staying with Angela and Jonathan.’
‘OK,’ Vicky said, breathing out deeply. ‘I’m happy with that. Does it mean I never have to go back to my mum’s?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say that, Vicky. I need to hear what your mother has to say. I will have to find out why she isn’t here, and I will need to arrange another meeting.’
Mr Williams lifted up his paperwork, tapped it into a neat pile on the table and asked Hayley, ‘Will that be all?’ which of course prompted Jonathan and I to share a knowing look.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘We will carry on with this placement and I will arrange further meetings with Vicky’s mother and sister in due course. Are you happy if we conclude there for today?’
Jonathan and I swapped another quick glance, giving each other a discreet smile. ‘We’re happy,’ I said to Hayley. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Williams.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘I’ll just sign the paperwork and we can all go,’ he added, reaching across and placing a squiggle on the form Hayley had filled in during the meeting.
Once he’d left the room Hayley got to her feet and declared, ‘There! It wasn’t that bad, was it?’ to which Vicky replied, ‘It was a waste of time really, wasn’t it?’
‘Vicky!’ I scolded. ‘You can’t say that.’
‘Well it’s true. Nothing changed. I’m not complaining, I’m just saying.’
Hayley smiled. ‘Remember your contract!’ she teased gently. ‘Less cheek, please, young lady!’
Vicky smiled. ‘OK!’ she said, saluting Hayley. ‘Message received and understood!’
As we left the building Vicky turned to me excitedly. I expected her to say something about the meeting and its outcome, but instead she asked if she could go out with her friends that evening.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘As long as you’re back by 10 p.m. that is fine.’
‘Thanks, Angela!’ she said brightly. ‘I’ll be home on time, I promise.’
It was the first time Vicky had referred to our house as her home. She didn’t appear to register this, but it certainly didn’t escape my attention and I was very pleased that she saw it that way. We still had no idea how long she would be staying with us, but right now that didn’t matter. Vicky was happy and her fear had subsided, for today at least.
