by Mia Marconi
I had an extremely supportive family willing to do anything for me without expecting anything in return, and that fact did not escape me. Dad wanted nothing for the hours and hours of work he put in. The only thing he would accept was a glass of chilled white Italian wine at the end of the day and fish and chips on a Friday night.
They were fun times and special times. We would laugh, and shout at each other if we messed up. I loved it when it was just me, Dad, the bump and the paint roller.
Nine months flew by and my waters broke one Saturday while I was up a ladder, painting the hallway. Dad and Martin were both there, Dad painting the other side of the hall, with Martin working on the top floor.
Dad shouted up to him: ‘Mia’s labour’s started!’
Martin panicked, slipped downstairs and landed in a heap at the bottom. While he lay there groaning, Dad was running round like a headless chicken and I was crippled with contractions. It was like a sketch from a sitcom, only no one was laughing.
Somehow we composed ourselves and Dad promised to look after Francesca and Ruby while Martin drove me to the hospital.
The car journey was horrendous – Martin was useless, and we rowed all the way. He was driving about twenty miles an hour and it didn’t help that Saturday shoppers were out in force, and when he stopped at a red light I finally lost it.
‘For heaven’s sake, go through it and drive faster!’ I shouted.
‘I don’t want to get a ticket!’ Martin replied.
‘Are you off your head? I’m having a baby!’
We finally arrived and I was so far into my labour I had lost the ability to walk.
‘Run and get a wheelchair,’ I managed to puff between contractions.
When Martin got back I was screaming, but somehow he managed to get me into the chair. Finally, he shot off like a Formula 1 racing driver, speeding through three sets of double doors, all of them closed, so by the time we reached the labour ward not only was I crippled with contractions, but my shins were black and blue, too.
‘Now you decide to put your foot down!’ I said, and he ignored me.
Isabella was born fifteen minutes later.
Martin was so fed up that he didn’t have a son, he reached into my overnight bag and chucked the pink Babygro and blanket I’d put in there out of the window, and a nurse had to run down and rescue them.
I had a bit of sympathy for him because being surrounded by us girls, with no interest in football or car mechanics, must have been hard for him at times. I knew how I would long for a girl if I only had sons, so when I saw the blanket go flying, I smiled to myself.
The lovely thing about Martin is that he never stays mad for long. It’s true for both of us, really; we’ll have a row, shout and scream, and then it’s all out in the open and forgotten about a few minutes later.
‘I’m getting a cuppa,’ he said, still looking sulky, and ten minutes later he returned with the biggest bunch of flowers I have ever seen and a packet of Jaffa Cakes, my favourite biscuit.
I was cuddling Isabella.
‘Can I hold her?’ he asked.
‘Idiot,’ I said. ‘Course you can.’
He scooped her up gently, and although he tried to hide it, I could see tears welling up in his eyes. As he stood cooing at her, holding her tiny hand, I promised I would buy Isabella a Chelsea football club Babygro, got off the bed and limped over to give him a hug.
‘You still in pain?’ the nurse asked.
‘Only my shins,’ I said, and she looked confused.
I left hospital after a few hours and by the time I got home the family were there waiting, so I could forget any thoughts of having a rest. The chatter and laughter was so loud I’m sure the whole neighbourhood heard, and the house looked like a florist’s shop.
Chapter Two
A few days later the doorbell went and I was surprised to see Peter, my social worker, on the doorstep with another huge bunch of flowers.
‘Congratulations,’ he smiled.
The last time he had seen our family we were on the floor with grief, so it was good for him to see us looking happy. Hope’s death had an impact on him, too, and I know he felt guilty about what our family had gone through. After all, it was he who suggested Hope came to live with us.
We chatted for a while, but not about fostering, although I’m sure he wanted to. I still had no thoughts of fostering again, and there was no hint then that anything was about to change.
Soon after moving into the new house, I had met another foster carer who lived locally, a lovely lady called Martine. Martine had begun caring because she was unable to have children of her own, and although she and her husband had gone through the adoption process, they had been unable to adopt a child. They wanted a baby – something all childless couples prefer – but the reality is that babies rarely come up for adoption. In fact, it’s rare to be able to adopt a child under two. Then they had split up, so Martine decided fostering was the next best thing.
I assumed she and her husband had divorced because they couldn’t have kids, but one day Martine told me the shocking true story.
‘You might find this out from other people, so I might as well tell you myself,’ Martine said. ‘After the adoption failed, my husband started seeing another woman and then got her pregnant. That’s why we divorced.’
‘Martine, I am so, so sorry,’ I said, thinking how I could never imagine Martin doing anything like that, even if we had not been able to have children.
Martine was fostering a little girl called India, who was an accommodated child, which basically means that her mother had voluntarily put her into care. She was her first foster daughter and Martine confided in me that she had been overjoyed at the prospect of helping India recover from a terrible start in life.
‘I wanted to make it right for her. I thought we would have fun days out at the park, lots of love and cuddles on the sofa, sipping hot chocolate and watching Dumbo,’ she said. ‘But Mia, I don’t know if it’s me or if it’s India, but she seems scared of me.’
‘Why? You are the kindest person on the planet. I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t either and I don’t know what to do.’
I had noticed a distance between India and Martine but thought that was just because she was settling in.
Martine began to tell me India’s story and little by little I began to understand. India was almost three years old and her mother, Amy, had put her through hell. Amy was a chaotic alcoholic who lived in squalor and was incapable of looking after herself, let alone parenting her daughter. Mother and daughter were known to social services, who had done their best to help Amy sort out her life. They had started by sending a specialist company to cleanse Amy’s disgusting flat. I saw photos of it later and there were piles of dirty clothes covering every surface, half-eaten plates of food and rubbish bags spilling their contents across the carpet. The mess was appalling and almost obscured the empty vodka bottles that littered the place. It was a shock to see them everywhere, and an even bigger shock that they weren’t the first things you noticed.
One thing not in the photos was the drunks who spent their days there, drinking with Amy until they were unconscious. Amy’s place wasn’t so much a crack den, but an alcoholics’ den, and because she was a mum she had her own place, whereas most of the others were sleeping rough. It was no wonder they all loved hanging out at Amy’s, and she was grateful for the company.
If Amy went out to the park it was not to the swings; she joined other drinkers on park benches, and they sat nursing cans of strong lager or cider while India watched, strapped into her pushchair. ‘A dog couldn’t live in those conditions,’ I thought to myself, ‘never mind a child.’
Amy had chosen vodka and a can of Special Brew over her own child. What mother would do that? But alcohol had a strong hold over her and no one could compete.
Despite more than enough support and lessons in domestic management, Amy never mastered keeping the place clean. Social servi
ces couldn’t perpetually send in cleaners, and they were receiving a lot of concerned phone calls about India, from one family member in particular.
If Amy couldn’t clean up her act, sooner or later social services would have to act to protect India. In fact, even while Amy was attempting to be a domestic goddess, they suspected she would fail and were actively seeking an interim care order.
To pre-empt the humiliation of having India taken away, which would mean the police turning up at her door with a social worker and a court order and forcing Amy to hand her over, in a sober moment Amy decided India would be better off in care. It was the right thing to do and must have been hard, so to give Amy her due, she did put India first for once.
India showed no signs of physical abuse, but she must have been hurting inside. There was no Cinderella law to protect her from emotional neglect and free her from the daily routine of caring for her mother; she just had to get on with it or she would get shouted at.
India’s days with Amy would have gone something like this:
‘India, Mummy’s tired, get me a blanket.’
‘India, Mummy’s got a headache, don’t make any noise.’
‘India, Mummy’s hungry, get me something to eat.’
‘India, I don’t want to watch this film, find something that Mummy likes.’
It would have started as soon as India was able to toddle and understand simple commands. Amy was merely copying the way she had been raised and knew no different.
Consequently, Amy was needy, and India learned from a very early age that simple things like food, toys, bath times or even bed times were not considered important. Her needs were never met, she realised, so she simply stopped asking and tried to disappear into the background.
So it was no surprise that she arrived at Martine’s with more emotional baggage than a camel could carry.
To look at India, the only thing that gave away that she wasn’t like other little girls was her solemn face. Other than that she had bright blue eyes, long dark hair and a vulnerable air that made you want to protect her. Martine was no different and gave her a big cuddle the minute they were introduced, but instead of returning it, India froze and went as stiff as a board. It was awkward. Martine was not prepared to be rejected and felt humiliated and embarrassed.
‘She obviously doesn’t like me, Mia, and I don’t know what to do.’
I didn’t know what to say. ‘Just give it time, Martine. She probably just needs time to settle in.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Martine said, but she didn’t look convinced.
If Martine was finding dealing with India hard, she found dealing with Amy impossible. Martine was from a hard-working family who just happily got on with their lives, not bothering anyone else. Amy was volatile, difficult and destructive, and Martine had no clue how to manage her. As India was placed in care voluntarily and Amy was at liberty to see her daughter whenever she liked, Martine had to deal with her all the time, and Amy had clearly decided she was not going to make it easy.
There were rules, but Amy always thought they didn’t apply to her, and even if she hadn’t thought that, she would have broken them anyway. She was supposed to arrange with Martine and social services when she could see India, but she never did, instead turning up drunk at Martine’s house whenever she felt like it. An undignified tussle always followed, with Amy screaming at Martine and Martine trying her best to calm her down. Poor India looked on bewildered, and as much as Martine tried to protect her, she knew exactly what was going on. You can imagine how India’s loyalties were torn in two; her instinct would have told her to support her mum, however awful she was. She would have felt like she was betraying her mum if she formed a close relationship with someone Amy obviously didn’t like. Even aged three, India knew that blood is thicker than water.
Things got out of hand one day when Amy accused Martine of trying to take her child away. It obviously wasn’t true and Martine tried hard to explain that she was simply taking care of India until Amy felt better, but Amy wasn’t listening.
I’d seen it all before, but Martine had never been exposed to such behaviour before. Whenever I saw her at the toddler group we both went to, she looked exhausted and fragile, and I noticed the awkwardness between her and India. They were very formal together, more like pupil and teacher than carer and child.
‘Would you like a juice, India?’ Martine would say.
‘No,’ India would reply, avoiding Martine’s eyes.
If she was struggling on the climbing frame and Martine went to help her, India would simply get down and run away. Martine was right: clearly India had not taken to Martine, and Martine, try as she might, could not connect with India.
Being placed with a single mum with no other children – the mirror image of the situation she had left – did not help this neglected little girl feel comfortable. Her mother was unpredictable and she had no concept that not all single women were like Mummy.
Fostering was a world away from what Martine expected. She was looking for emotional fulfilment and she wasn’t getting that – quite the opposite, in fact – so all in all she felt a failure, and after five months she was ready to give in.
One day she again confided in me.
‘I don’t think I can do this any more, Mia. I am getting absolutely nowhere. I am going to have to tell social services I can’t go on.’
I agreed with her. ‘Honestly, I think you have done everything you can.’
‘Do you really?’ she said, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I just don’t think fostering is for me.’
‘It’s not for everyone,’ I said, giving her a hug. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself.’
The high-octane, unpredictable life of foster caring was not right for Martine, so she told social services she would care for India until they found her a new home. India was to be Martine’s first and last placement.
Martine’s fallout with Amy and her subsequent decision to give up fostering coincided with an earth-shattering international event. It was 1990, and Romania was in the news because of a child scandal that shocked the world. The Ceauşescu regime had outlawed birth control, with the result that families were giving birth to children they could not afford to keep. Parents already struggling financially felt they had no choice but to abandon their unwanted sons and daughters and in desperation took them to be cared for in state orphanages. The only problem was that the State had no money to care for them either, so that often as many as 700 children could be crammed into a filthy hovel masquerading as a children’s home. It was inhumane, and horrific news footage broadcast distressing scenes of unimaginable neglect. One film showed four babies, looking haunted and unloved, sharing a rusty metal cot. The only stimulation they had was to bang their heads on the bars. Another showed toddlers tied to their beds, rocking back and forth, with no one there to help them. They had little food, were rarely changed and no one to talk to them or love them. I was so upset I cried my eyes out for weeks.
We were all outraged and shocked, and Martine was no different. She felt she had to act and made up her mind to go to Romania to adopt two children. I supported her in whatever way I could, and part of that support was taking over the care of India.
I already knew India, and because I had passed the relevant checks from the Criminal Records Bureau I was already Martine’s support worker, allowed to look after India when Martine needed a stand-in. Gradually, it began to make sense that I should take over India’s care.
Before I did, though, I spoke to Martin and the girls about whether we should foster again and whether we were ready to open our arms to help those who needed us. They thought we were, because although what had happened with Hope was terrible, there had been about twenty other children between Yasmin, my first foster child, and her, and those placements had all been fine. And I kept thinking that if Hope were here, she would want me to carry on.
I spoke to Peter. I loved Peter, because he was very supportive, understanding a
nd gentle – the perfect social worker, really. He had a good relationship with the girls and got on well with Martin, and we spoke at great length about our strengths as a family.
We concluded that although we weren’t perfect, we were stable, loving and we communicated well. Martin and I would row, but all the kids – ours and the foster children – knew that we were just clearing the air; we were not going to separate and arguing didn’t have to equal violence. If things got to boiling point in the house – which is inevitable in any family, big or small – I would shout, ‘Family time!’ and we would all sit round the kitchen table, taking turns to air our grievances. The rules in our house were very clear. It was fine not to agree with everyone and to have different likes, dislikes and opinions; what was not fine was any kind of destructive or violent behaviour. No one was allowed to kick, punch, spit or smash up their room, and anyone crossing those lines faced consequences.
‘Listen, I know it’s something that means a lot to you, and, if I’m honest, I quite like having a houseful of kids, even if they’re not mine,’ Martin said, supporting me like he always does.
My mum was against it and worried about me continually, but that’s mums. Deep down she knew I had a strong calling and was not going to stand in my way, so in the end she said, ‘You know I will help out where I can. I’m proud of you for wanting to help these poor kids. God knows, they need someone.’
I had thought about giving up foster caring, but there was nothing else I wanted to do. There is something so rewarding, fulfilling and uplifting about it, and I was not ready to stop. There didn’t seem any point in giving it up either, especially now I knew that India needed a new home.
India already knew me, and she loved the girls and the dogs, so it was natural that she would end up living with us. Also Isabella, who was seven months old by now, was such a good baby she was hardly any work at all, and when Ruby and Francesca were home I never got a look-in anyway.
