by Angela Hart
She said this in a babyish voice and looked up at me, squinting shyly through a bundle of curls. She was still such a little girl, I thought. I wasn’t sure what she meant by the phrase ‘when he was my daddy’, but I assumed she meant when she lived with her father, or perhaps she was referring to a time when she simply had more contact with him than she did now? I left a pause, hoping Grace would tell me some more about him, but she didn’t. There was no rush, and I certainly didn’t want to push her. She’d had such a terrible start in life and her situation was still very precarious. The damage that had been done by her long journey through the care system was incalculable, but I told myself it wasn’t too late to make positive changes. I was willing to do anything in my power to help turn her life around. Jonathan felt the same.
The barbecue was already in full swing when we arrived and, although she was very quiet to begin with, Grace quickly settled in and started enjoying herself. There were kids of all ages to play with and Grace also chatted to several of the adults. Gail, our neighbour who was hosting the barbecue, remarked what a lovely, friendly girl she was, and when Grace offered to help with the food Gail was impressed.
‘Thanks Grace, that’s very kind of you. How about bringing some more hotdog rolls out? They’re on the breakfast bar.’
Grace started running towards the kitchen. ‘OK. Hotdog rolls. Where are they?’
‘They’re on the breakfast bar,’ Gail called after her. ‘Oh, and while you’re in there, can you fetch a new packet of paper cups, please. They’re next to the fridge.’
Moments later, Grace ran back out with the bread rolls.
‘Thanks. Sorry, love. Can you pop back for the cups?’ Gail asked, taking the packet of rolls off Grace.
‘Cups? Where are they?’
‘Next to the fridge.’
‘OK!’
Grace ran off again, only to return empty-handed.
‘What cups? Do you mean, like, mugs?’
‘No, love. Sorry, I wanted a new packet of paper cups. They’re by the fridge. Thanks ever so much!’
This time Grace returned with the cups. Gail thanked her again and asked her if she’d like to tell the other children there was a fresh jug of juice and some lemonade and they could come and get a drink if they wanted one. Grace nodded and raced around the garden, delivering the message to all the children. Whenever she was being praised, and particularly when she felt useful, she seemed to be in her element. She was also very pleased when I said she could have some lemonade, and I thanked her for asking me so politely.
When the other two girls who were living with us arrived at the barbecue during the course of the afternoon, Grace made a big effort to be friendly towards them. Neither seemed to be in a very good mood, although it’s perfectly normal for kids to be a bit out of sorts when they’re returned to us after staying with their families. Shifting between two diverse worlds is unsettling for any child. Not only do they have to switch between homes with completely different rules and boundaries – or, in some cases, no rules or boundaries at all – but afterwards they typically pine for family members more than ever and experience fresh waves of resentment about being in our care. With these two girls, it usually felt like we took several steps back each time they visited their relatives.
Grace didn’t seem fazed by the girls’ lukewarm response to her and she did her utmost to be kind and friendly. In fact, of all the children at the barbecue, Grace was the one who was making the most effort to please everybody else. She sat down next to Jonathan and me and ate a good meal, and afterwards she went over to Gail’s niece Lena, who was dressed in a Disney princess outfit and playing on a rug with a collection of Barbie dolls.
‘You look pretty,’ Grace said. ‘I like your dress.’
‘Thanks, I got it for my birthday.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Eight.’
‘I’m ten. Can I play with you?’
‘Er, OK. What d’you want to do?’
Grace scanned the large garden.
‘Let’s take the Barbies on the trampoline!’
Lena smiled and gathered up the dolls, and both girls charged to the end of the garden, where there was a mini trampoline in place. It was designed for younger kids and had a handrail on one side. I kept an eye on them as they knelt beside it, took hold of two dolls each and made them spring into the air and do somersaults. The girls were laughing their heads off, and then they must have had a bright idea. They piled all the dolls in the middle of the trampoline and then took it in turns to bounce as high as possible and see how many dolls fell off. They were roaring with laughter as the dolls were catapulted in different directions. Together, they retrieved the Barbies from the grass and repeated the process again and again, shouting, ‘Boing, boing, boing!’ and pulling silly faces and poses as they jumped. The grass was dry and the dolls were unscathed; it all looked like good, innocent fun.
I nipped inside to use the toilet. ‘Keep an eye on them all, will you?’ I said to Jonathan. He nodded. He was sitting on the raised patio and had a good view of Grace and Lena and our other two girls.
The downstairs toilet was occupied and Gail had told me to help myself to the main bathroom upstairs if I needed to, which I did. It was at the back of the house and the window overlooking the garden was open. I was just washing my hands when I heard a child’s piercing scream.
Adrenalin flooded my body. It doesn’t matter whose child it is; whenever I hear or see a little one in pain I have this instinctive reaction and immediately go into fight mode. I charged back downstairs as quickly as I could, my heart pounding and my nerves feeling like live electric wires. Ominously, it felt like all eyes turned to me as I burst out of the patio doors.
‘What’s happened?’ I shouted. Nobody answered. There was already a melee around the mini trampoline and everyone else was heading there. Hysterical wailing and panic-stricken cries filled the air.
‘It’s one of the girls . . .’
I couldn’t see Grace or Lena through the circle of people but I felt sick to the pit of my stomach.
‘Somebody call an ambulance!’ a woman screamed. ‘Call an ambulance. Oh my God, Quickly, please! My baby! Call an ambulance!’
I realised it was Lena’s mum. I could see her now. She was on her knees, cradling her dumbstruck daughter. Lena’s face was white and frozen in fear and her princess dress was soaked with blood.
7
‘Why does this always happen to me?’
There was a large gash in Lena’s forearm, and so much blood had been spilt I felt nauseous. Jonathan had been the first on the scene – he was a lightning fast runner – and it seemed he’d taken charge. Calmly, he was explaining to Lena’s mum, Shannon, that they should use her cardigan as a tourniquet, as it would help to stem the flow of blood. ‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ he was telling Lena, who had now started to sob quietly, soaking her mum’s already blood-spattered summer dress with tears. Shannon was still frantic and panic-stricken, and her hands were trembling uncontrollably.
‘What happened, Lena? What happened, baby? Please tell Mummy what happened!’
Lena didn’t answer; her sobs grew louder.
Shannon let Jonathan secure the makeshift bandage. He worked as gently as he possibly could, but Lena was emitting pitiful moans, in between which she desperately gasped for air.
‘Do we need an ambulance?’ It was Gail, who was breathless and holding a cordless phone.
Shannon seemed in no fit state to make any decision. ‘Maybe it would be best to take her to A & E ourselves?’ Jonathan suggested. The bandage was doing its job now, and there was no more blood flowing. Thankfully, Lena was starting to calm down, ever so slightly, but her mum was still distraught.
‘How did it happen, baby?’ Shannon begged.
Someone said there was broken glass in the greenhouse, and a few people went to inspect.
‘Did you fall, Lena? Tell Mummy. We need to know what happened, baby.’
Lena nod
ded and then she suddenly looked frightened, as if she’d just had a flashback.
Fortunately, one of the other guests turned out to be a nurse, and she knew Shannon. She’d been pulling up outside when the accident happened, and as soon as she’d heard the commotion she’d let herself in through the back gate and dashed to help. The nurse approved of the cardigan bandage, checked Lena over and offered to take her to A & E herself. ‘No need to bother the ambulance service,’ she said positively. ‘My car’s already warmed up! Let’s get going now. OK, Shannon, love?’
Shannon nodded but didn’t seem to attempt to move; she must have been in shock and was staring at her daughter.
‘OK, Shannon? Shall we get going? Can you get to your feet and help me with Lena?’ The nurse had a firm but friendly way about her and was completely unflustered.
‘How about you, Lena? Can you stand up, darling?’
Lena struggled out of her mum’s arms. She looked a bit wobbly, but she got to her feet, and Shannon then pushed herself up off the grass.
‘So how did you do this to yourself, poppet?’ The nurse kept up a dialogue, chivvying mum and daughter along. She also thanked Jonathan and told Gail she’d ring from the hospital. ‘Save me a burger.’ she smiled. ‘I’ll be back!’
I don’t think there was a person at the barbecue who wasn’t in admiration of the nurse; she was brilliant.
‘That’s it, let’s go to my car. We’ll be at the hospital soon. They’ll fix you up, Lena, don’t worry. And I’m sure your dress will come up clean after a good wash. I love that Disney film . . .’
Shannon was still asking what had happened, and as they headed to the back gate I heard Lena blurt out, ‘Where is she?’
‘Who, baby?’
‘That girl!’
‘What girl?’
I knew exactly who Lena meant. It had to be Grace. They’d been playing together minutes earlier, yet Grace was now nowhere to be seen. While Lena was being tended to, I’d been scanning the garden, wondering where on earth she’d got to.
‘It . . . was . . . her! It . . . was . . . that . . . girl. Grace! She did it!’
After the nurse and Lena had left it took us several minutes – it felt like hours – to find Grace. She’d hidden herself in a very narrow gap between the back wall and the garden shed, which stood in the opposite corner of the garden to the greenhouse. She was crying when Gail’s husband spotted her and encouraged her to come out.
‘I didn’t mean to do it,’ she told him. ‘I didn’t mean to do it. It’s not my fault. It just, like, happened.’
Grace looked forlorn and dishevelled. Her clothes were covered in green-coloured dirty smudges; there must have been moss growing in the cranny at the back of the shed. I led her to a quiet spot, where I could talk to her in private, while Gail did her best to get her barbecue back on track.
‘Do you want to tell me what happened, sweetheart?’
Grace shook her head and refused to look at me. She hung her head so low all I could see was an unruly mop of curls, sprinkled with bits of old twig and dead leaves.
‘It was an accident. I didn’t mean it. Why does this always happen to me? I’m not a wind-up merchant, honest I’m not. I’m not a wind-up merchant.’
Grace was red in the face and looked angry as well as upset. ‘Stupid old greenhouse! I was only trying to play nicely! I hate it here! Nobody likes me! Why do I always get the blame? I didn’t know her stupid arm would go through. How could I know? It’s not fair!’
Jonathan and I decided to take Grace home; she was creating another scene now and I didn’t want to spoil the barbecue any further. Our other two girls weren’t bothered about staying and so the five of us left together, having apologised profusely to Gail and offering to pay for any damage to the greenhouse that Grace may have been responsible for. I say ‘may have been’ because we didn’t have the full story yet, and I didn’t want Grace to be blamed unfairly. I asked Gail to give my number to Shannon, with a message explaining I was Grace’s foster carer and asking her to call me when convenient.
Before we left the garden, Jonathan and I had a good look at the greenhouse. It was old and apparently unused, standing in a corner at the very end of the garden, behind where the girls had been playing on the mini trampoline. Two of the panels were smashed. From the snippets we’d managed to pick up, it seemed likely that Lena’s arm had gone through one of those panels, but how, exactly?
Grace was very moody for the rest of the afternoon, and she had to be coaxed down from her room for some food later. However, once she was at the table she ate well, even having seconds of strawberry blancmange. She also tried hard to make conversation. The other girls were polite enough but didn’t make much of an effort with her. This saddened me, but it was understandable, I suppose. Both girls were tired, and Grace hadn’t exactly made a good first impression on them, what with all the drama of the accident and our hasty retreat from the barbecue. Grace had also forgotten both their names, which I could tell irritated them, though they didn’t say anything.
After dinner, Grace buzzed around helping Jonathan and me clear up and then she ran upstairs for a shower when I asked her to. The phone rang while Grace was in the bathroom. I half expected it to be Lena’s mother, and I braced myself.
‘Angela? Hi.’ It was a man’s voice and I didn’t immediately recognise it. ‘It’s Grace’s social worker.’
‘Barry? Hello. Is everything all right for tomorrow?’
‘Yes, just a quick call. Sorry to disturb. Change of plan for tomorrow morning. Grace’s mum is picking her up. Same time.’
‘Oh, I see. I’ll let Grace know.’
‘Thanks. Oh, and can Grace phone her mum tonight please?’
‘Yes, I’ll ask her, I’ve got the number, and I expect Grace knows it anyhow.’
‘Great. Thanks. I’ll be in touch again soon. I’ll leave you in peace. Enjoy the rest of your evening.’
Barry had hung up before I had a chance to say anything else. I wasn’t very impressed that he hadn’t asked how the weekend had gone; we’d had no contact since Grace had arrived. However, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He was working late on a Sunday and, as my mother never failed to remind me, ‘you never know what goes on in somebody else’s life’. My guess was he was doing his stint as a duty social worker, which meant he was probably run off his feet, and we’d talk about Grace’s trial visit when he had more time.
To my dismay, Grace came down from her shower with a face like thunder. She had put her clothes back on, and not her pyjamas as I’d asked her to.
‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s my stupid case. I can’t do it!’
As I’d suspected, Grace had been repacking her bags every time she used anything. I told her I’d help and that I was sure we’d manage to sort it out. I then explained that her mum and not her social worker was collecting her the next day. Grace immediately perked up.
‘Really? Are you joking with me, Angela? Are you, Angela?’
‘No, Grace,’ I smiled. ‘It’s your mum collecting you, not Barry. She’s asked if you can phone her tonight.’
‘Really? OK. OK, good. I’ll ring now. What’s the number?’
I wrote it down on a piece of paper so she could take it to the phone. ‘Use the phone in the lounge if you like. I’ll show you how it works.’
I started up the stairs – our lounge was on the middle floor of our town house – and Grace followed, right behind me. ‘Steady on! It’s not a race!’ Grace was rushing and was far too close to me, so I told her to slow down or overtake, otherwise she’d step on my heels or trip herself up. She overtook me, and then I had to remind her not to run on the stairs.
‘Sorry!’ she puffed. I could see she was over the moon at the prospect of calling her mum. Her eyes were shining and when I followed her into the lounge she was already hovering over the phone expectantly. ‘What do I do? How doe
s it work? Can you show me, Angela? Can you?’
‘Right, first you press this button here, to start the call. Then you dial the number.’
Grace looked worried about these simple instructions.
‘Shall I stay here until you get through?’
‘Yes,’ she said, adding ‘please’ as an afterthought. I’d had a gentle word with her about remembering to say please and thank you, and she was trying her best.
Grace pressed the wrong button to activate the phone and I had to remind her which one it was. As I did this she was looking at her mum’s phone number and not paying attention. This was a common problem with Grace. Though she’d only been with us for the weekend, it wasn’t difficult to spot that she had a habit of letting her mind, as well as her body, race ahead. I imagined that was why she had forgotten the other girls’ names; no doubt when she was told she was already thinking of something else.
Once again, Grace pressed the wrong button. ‘Can you do it, Angela? Can you? Can you, Angela?’
She was so excited about phoning her mum, and she was getting more impatient.
‘Look, it’s easy when you know how, Grace. Watch. It’s this button here, in the top left-hand corner. The one with the little picture of a phone handset on it. See?’
She sighed, finally pressed the correct button and then made a hash of dialling the phone number. In the end I had to show her again which button to press and then slowly read out the number, keeping a close eye on the keypad to make sure she didn’t make any mistakes. I always try to give children privacy when using the phone – unless I’m instructed by Social Services to monitor the call, as I sometimes am – but I asked Grace if she wanted me to stay in the lounge, in case we needed to write down anything about the arrangements for the next day. I thought it was wise, as I could see that a mistake could easily be made. Thankfully Grace said she’d like me to stay.
Her call was answered after several rings.
‘Mum! Mum! It’s Gracie.’
She was flushed in the face and was bouncing in her seat as she listened to whatever her mum had to say.
