by Angela Hart
As well as the suitcase, Barry had brought in a holdall and a couple of over-stuffed carrier bags.
‘Yes, let’s hope!’ he said. ‘Best of luck. I’ll be back on Monday. About ten o’clock OK for you?’
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
‘Great. You have my details if anything changes or you need to get hold of me.’
Grace ran in from the garden and asked if she could have another drink. She was red in the face and out of breath.
‘Goodness! What have you been up to?’ I asked, as I made her another orange squash.
‘Pogo-ing.’
Jonathan was right behind her. ‘You’ll have to show Angela how good you are,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen anyone stay on for as long as that. Very impressive!’
‘Fantastic! We’ll have to call you Little Miss Bounce,’ I said.
‘It’s not Little Miss Bounce,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s Mr Bounce.’
‘Oh, you’re right,’ I laughed. ‘There isn’t a Little Miss Bounce, is there? Silly me.’
Jonathan teasingly told me I needed to do my homework on the Mr Men and Little Miss books. The atmosphere was warm and friendly. I laughed, Barry gave me another little wink – that was clearly his signature move when he wanted to show approval – and even Grace giggled a little. Jonathan had obviously managed to engage with her, which was great to see.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Barry said approvingly. ‘Is that all right with you, Little Miss . . . what shall we call you then? Which character do you want to be?’
‘They call me Little Miss Trouble,’ Grace said, deadpan, before downing her squash at record speed and immediately asking if she could go back outside.
‘Right,’ Barry cut in, before Jonathan or I could respond. ‘I’ll be off then. I hope everything goes well. You’ve got all the numbers you need. Bye!’
Barry shot off. We heard the roar of his engine and he was gone in a flash.
‘Little Miss Trouble, eh?’ Jonathan said, raising his eyebrows and scratching his head in an exaggerated way. ‘I can’t believe you are any trouble at all!’
Grace gave a shy smile. ‘I try not to be,’ she said. ‘But it’s, like, sometimes I can’t help it. So, can I go back outside?’
3
‘I don’t like taking my clothes to my mum’s’
Once she’d come in from playing in the garden, Grace took off the thin cotton hoodie she was wearing over her Spice Girls T-shirt. I realised then that she wasn’t just petite but so slender she looked underweight for her height. Her arms were stick thin and her waist so narrow she looked doll-like. We’d waited for Grace to arrive before we ate, and Jonathan and I were hungry. When we finally sat down at the table I found myself desperately hoping Grace was ready for a good meal too, and that she wasn’t going to push the food around her plate.
To my relief, I need not have worried. Grace enthusiastically had a second helping of the pasta bake I’d prepared and she even ate some tomatoes and cucumber from the mixed salad, which I’m well used to kids turning their noses up at. She also devoured a generous bowl of ice cream and asked for extra wafers and chocolate sauce, although of course that was something I was not so surprised about!
Often, children are feeling too shy and anxious on their first night to eat very much at all. I never make a fuss, as I appreciate that eating with strangers under any circumstances can be stressful for a child. Dining with your possible new foster carers, in a home where everything is alien to you, must be quite a daunting prospect. I know I’d have struggled to deal with it when I was a child; I was a real home bird as a young girl and I sometimes felt homesick when I simply visited relatives or stayed with a friend for a day.
I always try to make an appetising but simple meal when a child first arrives, so as to encourage them to at least try a little something. Jonathan and I always make an effort to keep the conversation ticking along gently too, so the child feels included and welcome but not under the spotlight.
‘That was nice,’ Grace said, wiping her mouth with her hand before I could offer her a paper napkin. ‘What is there for breakfast?’
I told her we had cereal, toast, crumpets, fruit and eggs. ‘I could even do you a bacon butty if you like, seeing as it’s Saturday morning. Or egg dippie.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Jonathan joked. ‘She never offers me a bacon butty! Or egg dippie!’
‘That’s not true at all,’ I replied. Smiling at Grace I added, ‘But Jonathan would eat bacon and eggs every day if I let him, and that’s not good for him. So would I, to tell the truth. Anyhow, what do you normally eat?’
Grace bit her lip and looked thoughtful. ‘Erm, crunchy cornflakes if the people have it. What’s egg dippie? Have you got crunchy cornflakes?’
I couldn’t help feeling a pang of sorrow. If the people have it. I thought again how sad it was that Grace had moved foster homes so many times. She’d had no consistency in her life and referring to her succession of foster carers as ‘the people’ was so impersonal it made it sound like she’d stayed in random B & Bs instead of foster homes.
I explained that egg dippie is sometimes called French toast, and that you make it by beating an egg with a splash of milk, dipping a slice of bread in the mixture then frying it. She didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.
‘I might have some crunchy cornflakes,’ I told her, ‘and if not we can go and buy some tomorrow. I’ll check the cupboard in a moment and show you where things are. Then I’ll give you a tour of the rest of the house and show you your bedroom and bathroom, so you know your way around.’
She frowned. ‘How long am I on trial?’
Once again I winced at her turn of phrase. ‘You’re not on trial, sweetheart. These few days are for us all to get to know one another, so we can all see if you’d be happy staying with us longer term, and if we all think it would work. I hope it does work out. I think you’re a lovely girl.’ I added that ultimately it was her decision. This is always the case when a child is moving from one county to another, and I wanted to make sure she knew this.
She looked puzzled. ‘So how long am I here for?’
‘You are here for three nights. I think Barry explained it to you? So that’s today, Saturday and Sunday. The plan is that he will come and pick you up on Monday morning at about ten o’clock and he’s the one who will take you home.’
Grace furrowed her brow and stared absent-mindedly around the room. Meanwhile Jonathan gave me a subtle sideways glance, or should I say a wince. For a moment I wondered what I’d said, but then I realised it had been careless of me to call her mother’s house ‘home’, just in case she didn’t call it home any more. Thankfully, I didn’t think Grace had registered this; she now looked like she was lost in a daydream.
It wouldn’t have surprised me, in fact, if Grace did still consider her mother’s house as her home, even after seven years in care. Many children cling on to a rose-tinted view of their former family life and refuse to give up on the dream of moving back in full time, even when they have been shut out for years and it is clear to everyone else they are not welcome and a reunion is extremely unlikely. When I first started fostering, I was shocked to learn that even children who have suffered terrible abuse at the hands of their parents, and have been removed from them by the courts, sometimes still long to return to them, often throughout their childhood.
‘So do you know what’s happening now, Grace?’ Jonathan interjected. ‘Monday’s the day Barry will collect you from here in the morning, at around ten o’clock. He’s the one who will take you to your mum’s for a stay, and you will also see your other foster carers.’ We didn’t know the details of this so Jonathan didn’t elaborate. He also avoided specifying that she would be staying at her mother’s house for a week, as we’d been told, and he didn’t go into what would happen next, as we didn’t know if the trial visit with us would be successful or whether Grace would want to come and live with us. Also, we could not be certain her mother wo
uld keep her for a whole week, even if that’s what she’d agreed with Social Services. Plans change and it’s always best to assume nothing is written in stone.
I stood up and began clearing the plates from the kitchen table. We often eat in the kitchen rather than the dining room, and as it was Grace’s first night I thought it would be more relaxed and informal if we sat in there. She sprang to her feet as soon as I began clearing plates and, without being asked, helped me stack the dirty dishes next to the dishwasher. Jonathan told me he’d do the rest of the clearing up, while I gave Grace the ‘grand tour’.
‘But leave your luggage to me. I’ll carry it upstairs for you, before I do the kitchen.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, acknowledging I would have struggled to carry the heavy suitcase up the two flights of stairs that led to the bedroom Grace would occupy on the top floor of the house. It had fleetingly crossed my mind to ask her if it might be an idea to leave some of her belongings downstairs, as she clearly wouldn’t need everything during this initial visit, but I immediately thought better of it. I’m a naturally practical person, but over the years fostering has taught me that being practical is not necessarily the best way forward. What’s important is to focus on the child’s emotional wellbeing. I didn’t know what she’d brought with her, but Grace would no doubt be happier surrounded by all her familiar bits and pieces. Hopefully, having so many things of her own would help her feel more comfortable and settled, and perhaps increase the chances of this weekend visit being a success.
I began the tour by showing Grace what was what in the kitchen, as I’d promised. I didn’t have any crunchy cornflakes but she seemed pleased by the wide variety of cereals I did have; I always have a good selection, including plenty of those miniature variety packs, as we never know what the new children who come to stay will prefer. I pointed out where we kept the juice and the snacks and told Grace to let me know if she was hungry or thirsty, and said that I would always get something for her. I explained our basic house rules, which included always asking before taking anything from the kitchen, but I encouraged her to help herself to water if she needed it. It may sound as if I was stating the obvious, but when children first arrive they can feel very intimidated and don’t always speak up, even about their most basic needs. We had one child staying with us in the very early days of our fostering who didn’t realise we would routinely replace toiletries like toothpaste and shampoo, and she even worried about toilet roll. She asked her social worker what was going to happen when she ran out, since then we’ve always made a point of explaining all these things very clearly.
‘Shall we help Jonathan?’ Grace asked, already heading to the hallway.
‘Well, yes, why not? Let’s take a bag each, shall we?’
With that, Grace picked up a carrier bag and started running up the stairs. I heard her talking to Jonathan on the top floor before I even got to the first floor.
‘I’ll let Angela show you into your room,’ I heard him say. ‘She’s in charge of duvets and pillows and all that sort of thing, and you can choose what you want on your bed. I’m afraid I don’t have much of an eye for design and if I was in charge of bedding you might well end up with a purple spotted pillow and a green striped duvet!’
Grace giggled and I smiled to myself. I knew exactly what Jonathan was doing: he was stalling for time, because he prefers not to be alone in a room, and particularly a bedroom, with any of the children who stay with us, and especially the girls. We’ve been told countless times on our training courses that children can make false accusations against their carers. Generally speaking, male foster carers are considered more likely to become victims of malicious allegations, although of course no carer is immune. Jonathan’s caution is not just for his own benefit; the girls themselves – and boys – may not feel comfortable being alone with a man, for any number of reasons. That may sound sexist, but that is the reality. Exercising sensible caution is all part of the ‘safe caring’ policies all foster carers are taught.
We still didn’t know a great deal about Grace’s background, but we did know that she and her sister had been left home alone by their father, and that he was an alcoholic. When the little girls had phoned their grandfather they were frightened and hungry. Naturally, the last thing Jonathan wanted to do was alarm Grace in any way at all. For the time being he was her temporary carer, and she needed to feel as comfortable as possible in his presence, and in our home.
‘Here she is!’ Jonathan exclaimed when I reached the top floor landing. ‘What kept you?’
I was a little out of breath, to tell the truth. I was heavier than I wanted to be and was trying to lose weight, both by dieting and stepping up my exercise. I never passed up the chance to go cycling or swimming or walking in the countryside with the kids, and I was doing my best to do a fitness video once a week, though I think I’d missed a few weeks, what with one thing and another.
‘Cheeky!’ I said. ‘Let’s go in. Jonathan, would you mind taking the suitcase in? We can manage the rest, and there’s only the holdall left downstairs.’
I showed Grace into the bedroom. ‘This is your room. Shall I help you unpack?’
She walked straight to the window and looked outside. From this vantage point, at the top of the house, you could see right over the playing field beyond our garden. ‘Can I go and play out there?’
‘I think we might just have time for a play before bed. Shall we unpack first, get you settled in here?’
She didn’t reply and showed no interest at all in the bedroom. Most of the kids we’d fostered before had been very pleased with their room, and typically they said something positive about it. All three of the children’s bedrooms were a good size, smartly decorated and kitted out with everything a child would need, including a desk, dressing table, toy box or wardrobe and a well-stocked bookcase. We were well aware that some children came from houses where they shared rooms or lived in poor conditions. Making their bedroom as welcoming and comfortable as possible while they stay with us is something I pride myself on, and I always love it when I get an enthusiastic response.
‘Grace, do you know which bag your nightie’s in, or your pyjamas? And what about your toothbrush?’
When a child comes directly from their own home or arrives as an emergency placement I never assume they have nightwear or a toothbrush, but I was confident Grace’s foster carer would have made sure she brought these things with her.
‘What?’
‘Pyjamas? Nightie? Toothbrush? Any idea where they are?’
‘No.’ She shook her head and looked at her belongings. She seemed quite overwhelmed.
‘Shall I have a look? Or do you want to look, while I make your bed?’
‘Erm, what?’
‘Why don’t you have a look for your pyjamas?’
‘OK.’
‘And I will make your bed.’
‘Yes.’
I usually let a new child take their time selecting their duvet cover and pillows from the large bedding collection I’ve accumulated and added to over the years, but instinct told me to keep this simple. It was getting late, Grace was itching to explore the playing field before it got dark and I didn’t want to overwhelm her any more.
I presented her with a choice of two sets – one plain white with silver stars, the other with a rainbow on a sky-blue background. She pointed at the latter, and while I made the bed she carefully unzipped the suitcase. It was brimming with clothes and underwear and I could see there were shoes wedged around the sides and a few soft toys stuffed into the corners. Heavy winter jumpers were piled alongside summer shorts and T-shirts, and on the very top was a lime-green drawstring bag. She looked at it for a moment, and then her face lit up.
‘This is it,’ she said, taking the bag out of the suitcase and opening it up. She pulled out a pair of short pyjamas with Take That on the front. I smiled. It was the mid-nineties, when Take That were at the peak of their boy-band success, and it seemed that every girl who staye
d with us owned Take That clothes, bags, pencil cases, you name it. Grace’s toothbrush and toothpaste were neatly packed in a small clear toiletry bag, alongside a folded flannel, and I could see a little hairbrush and a few headbands were in there too.
Grace looked visibly relieved to have found what I’d asked her to look for, and I was silently thankful to the foster carer whose home she’d come from for making sure these essentials were to hand.
‘That’s great! I’ll show you the bathroom before we go back downstairs. Would you like me to help you put some of your summer clothes in the chest of drawers and the wardrobe?’
‘No, thanks, I’ll be OK.’ That was a shame. I knew she would feel more at home if she wasn’t living out of bags, but as she was only staying for a few days I wouldn’t force it.
‘But,’ Grace started, sounding nervous, ‘when I go home, can I leave some of my stuff here?’
This sounded promising. I was already feeling quietly confident that Grace’s trial stay with us would go well, but of course I didn’t want to jump the gun. ‘That’s an idea – I guess that’s something we can decide on later,’ I said, giving her an encouraging smile.
‘OK, good. I don’t like taking my clothes to my mum’s.’
She said this in a quiet, worried voice. Her words sounded a little ominous, I thought. I repeated back what she’d said to me, with a questioning tone in my voice. ‘So you don’t like taking your clothes to your mum’s?’
‘No.’ She looked at the rug, as if mesmerised by it.
I had another go at prompting her. Though I was feeling quite concerned by what Grace had said, I tried to speak in a soft, even tone, so as not to let my voice belie my concerns. This has become second nature whenever I sense a child may be about to disclose something. Kids who have suffered trauma in their lives, or perhaps haven’t been shown enough attention, can exaggerate facts or invent details to draw you in further. It’s best to show you are interested and that you care, but I’ve learned that you must never express shock or outrage. You can never be sure if the child is telling the truth or if they are genuinely confused about events.
