by Angela Hart
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Quite a character. I’ll fill you in, come on. The kettle’s still warm.’
Barry phoned and I told him how the weekend had gone. I’d still not heard from Lena’s mum but I filled in the social worker on what had happened. I explained that Grace maintained it was an accident and that I’d logged everything for Social Services. Barry listened and took note of this without asking me what I thought, but that’s not uncommon. Foster carers are rarely asked for their opinion; by and large we simply pass on whatever facts we have and let the social workers make the decisions.
‘Overall, we think Grace’s trial visit has gone well,’ I said. ‘There are a few issues to flag up – hiding food, trouble focusing, complaints about her stepbrother Lee, who apparently steals her clothes – but the “aggravating behaviour” we were warned about hasn’t been an issue. I’ve jotted everything down that may be useful. We’ve enjoyed having her and we’d be happy to have her back, if that’s what Grace wants.’
Barry said his other line was ringing, quickly thanked me and said he’d be back in touch. Our support social worker, Jess, also called. I relayed the same message to her, and also told her about Colette, and what she’d said about the children’s home.
‘Charming,’ Jess sighed. ‘Thanks for passing this on. I’ll keep you posted.’
We heard nothing for days on end. Every morning I woke up thinking about Grace and wondering how she was getting on at home. We’d put her things safely away. Would Barry, or someone else, simply turn up to collect the rest of her belongings? Perhaps we’d never see Grace again? It seemed unlikely, all things considered, but we’d have to wait and see. I left her bed made up; there was no point in stripping it, in case she came back.
When I went in Grace’s room to dust and vacuum, the day after she left, I spotted several empty cartons of orange juice pushed under the end of the bed. I hadn’t missed them from the utility room cupboard where I usually stored them. I’d bought a large box in bulk from the local cash and carry, seeing as they were very handy for packed lunches and picnics, and we went through a lot of them, especially in the summer. Back then I assumed that drinks containing fruit juice and marketed for children were healthy and nutritious. Like a lot of people, I thought it was only fizzy drinks you had to be careful about. Incidentally, I also avoid buying individual cartons now, as I’m far more conscious of reducing waste. I encourage children to use refillable bottles, but in those days this was what we typically bought.
Before I threw the discarded cartons away, something told me to have a look at the packaging. The night before I’d finally got round to reading the magazine article with the headline that read, ‘E numbers turn my angel into a little devil!’ It had opened my eyes about ‘hidden’ additives in food and drinks, telling the story of how a child’s behaviour spiralled out of control after he ate certain colourful sweets, fizzy drinks and processed food. To be honest I wasn’t that surprised, and I didn’t really think it affected us too much. It had always seemed common sense to me not to feed kids sugar-laden or heavily processed foods, and we already limited fizzy drinks, sweets and crisps. I enjoy cooking and pride myself on making meals from scratch and using fresh ingredients whenever possible. Nevertheless, after reading that article, I vowed to be more vigilant about ‘hidden’ additives, and that’s why I read the side of the empty juice cartons that day.
I’d been buying this particular brand for ages, so imagine how my heart sank when I studied the ingredients. To my dismay, each carton contained only a very small percentage of fresh orange and the rest of the drink was made up of sugar, water, thickeners, flavourings and colourings that had names and numbers I’d never heard of, including some of these E numbers that apparently had a negative impact on kids’ behaviour. Inevitably, I wondered if the additives had affected Grace. After all, she always had ‘ants in her pants’ and could never sit still. Was that just how she was built, or did her diet play a part?
‘I’m throwing all those cartons away,’ I told Jonathan.
‘What? Don’t do that, there’s a huge box, dozens of them! I’ll drink them. A few mouthfuls of juice aren’t going to turn me into an energy bomb!’
Jonathan wasn’t joking. We both hate waste of any kind and have always lived by the motto ‘waste not, want not’; I guess that comes from being born in the fifties to parents who lived through the war. I agreed to put the cartons in the storeroom at the back of the shop, so that we could drink them ourselves, which we did over the course of that summer. It became a standing joke, as I remember, as often one of us would find the other taking a breather in the back, a carton of juice in hand.
‘Oh look at you with your feet up! There’s no ants in your pants, are there? Ha ha!’
We still laugh about that now.
On the Friday morning – four days after Grace had left us – we finally got the news we were waiting for. Social Services were very keen to place her with us and Grace had agreed to move in. Our support social worker Jess explained that, though the placement would initially be for six months, all being well it would run for longer.
The plan was that Colette would take Grace back to her current foster carers later that day. We weren’t told why Grace had only stayed for five days with her family when originally we thought it was going to be for a week, but that was what was happening. She would spend the weekend with her foster carers before coming back to us on the Monday.
Even when a placement breaks down it’s important to say goodbye and try to leave on good terms and with happy memories at the forefront of the child’s mind. ‘Good goodbyes’ was one of the training courses we’d had to attend. Positive messages are so important and ending a placement on a happy note is what foster carers should always strive for.
Unfortunately, because of the timings, Grace was going to have quite a long goodbye. Barry didn’t work weekends unless he was in the office as duty social worker, and as he was the one who would drive Grace from the other foster carer’s to our home, she was going to be there for three nights. Barry would drive her to our house when he was back at work on the Monday and then we’d have a placement meeting with him and Jess. Colette had been invited to attend this meeting too, but she had informed Social Services she was going to Torremolinos early on that Monday morning so couldn’t make it.
Jess told me that Barry had tried to fix it so that the handover could happen on another day, so that Colette could attend the meeting, but she had refused this offer. I thought this was a shame, and I also didn’t think it was ideal that Grace was spending three nights with her soon-to-be former foster carers. They had wanted her to leave as soon as possible, and all Grace needed to do was say goodbye and collect anything she’d left behind. One day would have been preferable, I thought. I said nothing to Social Services, as it wasn’t my place to and my opinion would not have made any difference, but I complained about the arrangements to Jonathan.
‘I don’t know why Colette didn’t organise it better, so Grace wasn’t being messed around so much. Three nights with us, four nights with her family, three nights with the other foster carers. I feel sorry for Grace, I really do.’
Jonathan agreed with me but didn’t join in with my grumbling as he didn’t want to fuel my irritation. ‘Look.’ He sighed. ‘The important thing is, Grace is coming to live with us. Let’s focus on that. It’s great news, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, smiling at my husband. This was one of those moments when I felt a surge of appreciation for the fact I have his support and we work as a team. I’m a better foster carer for working in partnership with him, and he says the same to me.
‘It really is good news,’ I said. ‘I just hope she’s not going to be even more unsettled after all this to-ing and fro-ing. Monday can’t come soon enough.’
9
‘You’ll be a foster care kid forever’
Grace seemed very agitated when she arrived back at our door with Barry. It was hardly surprising, I guessed. As wel
l as all the upheaval she’d gone through over the past week, returning home as well as to her former carers’, I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like seeing her sister and two stepbrothers preparing for their holiday to Torremolinos. No doubt they were packing their holiday bags while she was repacking her suitcase for the next leg of her foster care journey. In addition to that, Social Services would have been talking to her about her wishes, asking if she was happy to come and live with us. It must have been quite an ordeal for her, I thought.
Jonathan and I welcomed Grace back with open arms, of course, and told her how pleased we were that she was moving in with us, but she didn’t look very happy at all. In fact, she scowled and could barely look at us when we first opened the front door, and as soon as she came into the house she tore her trainers off, threw them at the skirting board in the hall and charged upstairs angrily.
Barry shrugged as he watched her run off. ‘Have hardly been able to get two words out of her,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s a shame, as she was much chattier last week. She’s like a different girl. I thought she might have perked up when she saw you. Sorry, it’s not the best start, is it?’
‘Don’t worry, Barry. She’s had a lot to contend with, and believe me we’ve had worse.’
Jonathan nodded as I spoke. We’ve met children who’ve stood on our doorstep and told us they didn’t want to stay in our ‘crappy house’ with our ‘rubbish rules’, or screamed ‘You’re not my parents!’ ‘You only look after me because you get paid!’ is another one we’ve heard many times, as is ‘Why don’t you give the money you get to my mum and then she’ll be able to look after me herself!’ It was tempting to tell them that the money we were paid from fostering rarely covered our costs and that we did it for love not money, and supported ourselves through the florists, but of course we never went down that road. Neither did we ever take anything personally. There were always lots of reasons – some we could have no idea of – for every child’s behaviour, and Grace was no exception.
The placement meeting was held in our lounge, with Barry and Jess both in attendance, as planned. Despite arriving less than ten minutes after Barry and Grace, Jess apologised profusely for being late, explaining that she’d been held up at the magistrates’ court, dealing with another child in her caseload.
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘It gave me a chance to make a pot of tea. Everyone take milk? Sugar, anyone?’
The two social workers accepted the tea gratefully; they both looked glad of the chance to catch their breath and recharge their batteries. Jess was only in her mid-twenties but was one of the best support social workers we’d had, always striking just the right balance between being professional and friendly, and with a wonderfully perceptive and empathetic way about her that belied her years.
Jess talked briefly to Barry about an interesting case that had been in the news in his region, before asking us about how the florists was doing, as she’d noticed that the new petrol station on the bypass was now selling flowers and hoped it wasn’t affecting our business. All of this she did swiftly and seamlessly, and when we went on to talk about Grace there was a warm atmosphere in the room, almost a team spirit. That was Jess’s gift. She was in the perfect job, in my opinion, and she was a total natural at making everyone around her – kids included – feel they were valued and that their opinion mattered.
We had left Grace upstairs in her bedroom for the time being, and I hoped she’d calm down as she started to unpack her bags and finally find a home for all her familiar belongings.
The social workers talked to Jonathan and me about Grace’s schooling. I was very pleased to hear that Jess was already on the ball with the education authority and was optimistic Grace would get a place at one of our best local primaries, where she’d enter in Year 6. I was not so pleased to hear that Grace had attended a total of nine schools since she was four years old – more than one for each year she had been in education. She’d also missed a lot of school because of her multiple moves. I found myself silently praying nothing would go wrong this time and that, whatever happened, she could complete Year 6 uninterrupted.
Grace eventually sat through some of the placement meeting. It’s always best if the child can take part, or at least be present, in some of the discussions. This way they have an opportunity to share their views, which helps in decision-making and makes the child feel empowered, and hopefully less anxious, about what is happening in their life.
When I fetched her from her bedroom, Grace still looked irritated and distracted, and she was uncommunicative. She didn’t even attempt to run down the stairs as she usually did; she walked reluctantly. In the living room she sat quietly and appeared uninterested when we chatted to her about school. She seemed equally indifferent when Barry talked to her about maintaining contact with her family.
‘Just like you always have before, you can phone your family whenever you want to, and they will be able to ring you here.’
‘Mmm.’ She twizzled a section of her hair and I saw her eyes dart around the room.
Barry also told her that she would spend a weekend in the family home approximately every six weeks, as had always been the case. This could be fixed up directly with Colette. Jonathan and I would be able to help Grace organise the visits and we could phone the family home as and when we needed to.
‘Are you happy with all that?’ Barry asked Grace. ‘Sound good to you?’
He was doing his best to sound upbeat and to drum up some enthusiasm.
‘I suppose.’ Defiantly, she added, ‘I won’t take my stuff.’
‘Oh no,’ Barry said, eyes widening. ‘You don’t need to take all your things! No, no. Just a small weekend bag will be absolutely fine!’
Grace gave him a quizzical look and then looked at me, and I realised there had been a bit of a misunderstanding. Understandably, Barry was focused on the fact he’d only just delivered the rest of Grace’s belongings to our house. She’d returned with far more than she’d left us with, despite the fact we’d also kept hold of lots of her things while she was away for the week. As well as her large, overstuffed grey suitcase, Grace brought with her a box filled with toys and knick-knacks, a pair of roller skates and a plastic mic stand and toy microphone. Barry looked tired from the effort of lugging everything in from the car, and he clearly didn’t want to carry stacks of luggage to and from her mother’s house every time she went for a weekend contact visit.
‘You won’t take your stuff?’ I said with a question in my voice. I put the emphasis on the word stuff, hoping she would expand on what she meant.
‘No,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘You know why.’
I glanced at Barry, who had caught up by now, realising she was probably referring to the fact her stepbrother, allegedly, stole her clothes. Barry tried to backtrack and get Grace to talk about this, but she’d shut down. This was hardly surprising; kids find it hard enough to talk candidly to one adult, even when they know that person well. Having four grown-ups you hardly know as your audience does not make for flowing dialogue when sensitive topics are on the table.
As soon as it was appropriate, I checked it was OK with Barry to let Grace go back to her room.
‘Yes, I must dash, in any case,’ he said, adding with a chuckle, ‘Sorry to mention cases again!’
Though Grace didn’t seem to get the pun, Jonathan and I appreciated Barry’s attempt at ending the conversation with her on a light note.
When Grace was out of the room I asked Barry about her father, and whether she was in touch with him at all.
‘He’s dead,’ he said, as if surprised I didn’t know. ‘He was a drug dealer as well as an alcoholic. Died of an overdose, years ago. He was only a young fella.’ I knew about his alcoholism, but this was news to me. I remembered Grace’s comment about ‘when he was my daddy’ and thought how sad it was for her to have lost her father in this way. I didn’t know how much she knew about the circumstances of her dad’s death, but whatever sh
e had been told it must have been a terrible shock to lose him when he was still a young man and she was such a little girl.
I went on to ask about the visit to Grace’s previous foster carers. Barry said she hadn’t wanted to talk about it, but the carers had reassured him the weekend had run as smoothly as it possibly could have done, and they had managed to end the placement well, enjoying a farewell meal together. I was pleased to hear that.
We talked about the routine appointments we would arrange for Grace, as we are required do for every child who comes to live with us. We would take her to the doctors, opticians and the dentist. I mentioned the fact we were wondering if Grace’s hyperactivity and lack of ability to concentrate might mean she had some sort of disorder or condition that should be checked out, and that I would like to discuss this with the doctor. Jess and Barry agreed, although they both suggested it might be wise to let her settle in first and keep monitoring the situation, as the upheaval she’d been through would have had a considerable impact on her. This seemed sensible advice.
Everything was up in Grace’s room now. I went to see her after the meeting ended, but instead of unpacking as I hoped she was doing, Grace was turfing her belongings all over the carpet, raking through the contents of her suitcase, bags and boxes and becoming increasingly agitated.
‘Did I leave my Spice Girls top? Did I, Angela? Did you wash it? Did I leave it? The baggy one with the short sleeves? You know, the glittery one? Ginger Spice in the, like, flag dress? Did I? Did I leave it, Angela? Angela?’
‘I don’t remember seeing it, sweetheart. Let me go and check in my ironing pile, just in case it got mixed up in there.’
The top hadn’t found its way into my ironing pile, and when I thought about it I was certain she hadn’t left it at our house the week before. When a child is only staying for a short time, I’m always careful to keep tabs on their washing, and I separate it out to avoid dramas exactly like this one.
