by Casey Watson
She was right, of course. She generally was in such matters. It was just my natural urge to do something extra to make them welcome. And it was an urge that had backfired with the last kids we’d fostered. It had seemed such a great idea to decorate one room pink and one room blue (all fostering eventualities catered for – ta-da!) till John Fulshaw gave us two unrelated nine-year-old boys, who could no more have shared a room when they arrived than fly.
Which was also why the pink room was now, in fact, the beige room, because it just so happened that the second boy, Georgie, was autistic, and as soon as he saw the pink room he freaked out (to use the professional term) because pink really, really upset him. So the moral of the story is don’t assume anything. Don’t prejudge what a child might or might not like.
But I never learn, and Riley knew that, and she duly went off to find a cheap and cheerful duvet set, as instructed, if only in the cause of calming me down.
Today, though, I was all of a flap again, as usual going through my lists – I’m at the age when I can’t function without my lists – for the umpteenth time. Riley had come over again, having dropped Levi at school and Jackson at nursery, just to help me finish off and to say hello. As a young mum herself, I knew Riley’s presence would be a positive one for Emma; one that wouldn’t smack so much of being faced with a posse of know-all middle-aged women, but more of introducing a like-minded friend.
‘Right,’ she said, as the time for them to arrive grew ever nearer. ‘Put that list away, and that’s an order, Mum. You’ve gone through it countless times already and you have everything you need.’
‘But what if she hasn’t got any baby milk or something?’
Riley shook her head. ‘Mum, you don’t live in Antarctica, you know. If she needs milk, then you can pop out and get some. Anyway, you don’t know what type she uses so it would have been pointless to stock up anyway. And, trust me; she will have enough milk. That also applies to the steriliser, the baby bath, the cot mobile, the muslins and all the other silly things on your list.’
‘It’s a very sensible list,’ I huffed as I walked to the window to look out for them. ‘Oh shit!’ I added, seeing a car pull up. ‘They’re here!’
I had a room spray in my hand, so I chucked it now at Riley. ‘Have a quick spray around with that, will you, while I let them in?’
She didn’t grace my order with a reply. Instead she just calmly put the aerosol in the dining-room cupboard. ‘Mum, you know something?’ she said finally. ‘You are just a teensy bit cuckoo. Go on, let them in. I’ll go and pop the kettle on.’
I took a deep breath, as I always did, before opening the front door, ready to see what sort of child might be on the other side. My first impression – my gut instinct – was something I had learned to trust over the years. You could tell so much about a child from that first sweep of information gathering; from the basics of what their clothes and accent said about the sort of world they’d come from, to the less obvious pointers, such as how they responded to you, and what that said about their personality and confidence. Were they frightened? Full of attitude? Traumatised? It wasn’t quite Sherlock Holmes territory, but it was an inner voice that had rarely been wrong.
‘Well, hello!’ I said, beaming at the little congregation on the doorstep.
I didn’t immediately take stock of Emma, however, because my eye was drawn to the car seat that was hanging from Maggie’s elbow, and the well-wrapped and fast-asleep bundle it contained. I dragged my gaze away, however, to greet the person I knew must be my main focus – his mother.
‘You must be Emma,’ I said, taking in how slight she was, how young-looking, how not at all her fourteen years. She was tiny, with blonde hair tied back into a side ponytail and enormous blue eyes. Ironic, but she looked the picture of chaste innocence. ‘Oh,’ I gushed, ‘and your baby is just gorgeous. Come on. Come on in. Follow me.’
Now, I’ve met some reluctant-looking kids in my time, obviously, but it had been a long time since I’d seen an expression quite as defiant and disdainful as the one etched on this particular teenager’s face. As I ushered the three of them in, I made my smile all the wider to compensate. Hmm, I thought. Whatever happened to the ‘oh, she’s so excited’ line from Maggie?
Still, this was probably par for the course, I decided, as I showed them into the dining area. It was the kind of attitude that was commonly seen in lots of teenagers, that whole scowly, cocky attitude thing she had going on. Standard teenager-ese, as portrayed in many a TV programme, and which reminded me that being a mother doesn’t stop a girl being a typical fourteen-year-old; it might eventually, and probably would, by sheer force of circumstance, but right now this was a teenager who just happened to have had a baby. Which didn’t stop her looking and acting like a teenager.
Riley, who was finishing off preparing refreshments, stood in the kitchen archway and beamed too. ‘Hi everyone!’ she said. ‘Drinks orders, please!’
I was pleased to note a slight but perceptible softening of Emma’s features on seeing my daughter. She’d obviously been told about Riley and now I could see her wondering how this young, cool and clearly more on-her-wavelength kind of person might fit into her life while she was with us.
‘That’s my daughter,’ I said to her as we all sat down at the table. ‘She doesn’t live here but she visits all the time. She has boys too – two of them. Levi and Jackson. I expect Maggie’s told you about them, hasn’t she? You’ll get to meet them in the next few days.’
This seemed to spark a return to the previous scowl. ‘If I’m here in a few days,’ she was quick to point out. ‘I told her,’ she said, glancing across at Maggie pointedly, ‘that I’m going to have to see how it goes first.’
Okaaayyy, I thought. I’m getting the real picture now, which is fine. I was just about to answer – with something agreeing that that was a perfectly reasonable point – when Maggie, looking apologetic, spoke first. ‘Sorry, Casey,’ she said, looking equally pointedly at her young charge. ‘But Emma’s having something of a stroppy day today, aren’t you? Didn’t much like getting up at six to get here, did you?’
Had I paid more attention to that I might have had more of a clue about the shape of things to come, but of course I didn’t. I just brushed over it and tried to jolly things along. ‘Six in the morning?’ I exclaimed. ‘That would be enough to give anyone a bad case of the grumps. But at least you’re here now, and I’m sure you’ll get a chance to catch up on a bit of sleep later.’
And I did feel for her. A new baby was exhausting. And though I’d forgotten quite how exhausted I’d been with my own two newborns, I’d certainly been reminded when Riley had had hers. That old ‘sleep when the baby sleeps’ mantra was all very well in theory. But in practice there always seemed to be a million things that needed doing in those precious few pockets of time.
Riley brought the drinks in then and said her goodbyes for the moment, and as she left it occurred to me that Roman, in his car seat, was still on the floor at Maggie’s side, rather than with Emma. I also realised, as Maggie started chatting about the placement, that Emma didn’t as much as glance in his direction. Which perhaps should have rung alarm bells as well but didn’t, not really – she was so young and so shell shocked, after all.
And that state of affairs continued all through Maggie’s initial briefing; while she explained that Hannah – Roman’s social worker – would be joining us shortly, just giving us time to get the handover documents sorted. This was usual. There were all sorts of different forms that needed going through, including risk assessments, medical consent forms and so on.
‘Tell you what,’ Maggie said to Emma as she began sorting bits of paper. ‘While we get on with the boring stuff why don’t you get Roman’s hat and coat and things off? He’ll be due a feed by the time Hannah gets here, won’t he?’
As if to prompt Emma, she pushed the car seat over to where Emma was sitting and I watched as Emma pulled it close enough to start unbuckling the s
eat straps. She turned to look at me. ‘Hannah’s just a nosy cow,’ she said to me, entirely without prompting. ‘She just wants to catch me out doing something wrong.’ I was slightly shocked; it seemed quite a forward thing for her to say. And she wasn’t finished. ‘Make sure you take notes, by the way. Because that’s what you’re supposed to be doing as well.’
I didn’t rise to it. Instead I put my pen down and smiled at her. ‘I’m sure Hannah’s just doing her job, Emma,’ I said levelly. ‘But I can assure you – cross my heart – that I’m not here to try and catch you out. I’m sure you’re going to do just great, I really am. And I’m here to help. Help when you ask me to, okay?’
Emma snorted then. ‘Yeah, right!’ she said, her voice full of venom. ‘That’s exactly what Hannah said to me when she first came. Trust me, lady,’ she went on, ‘she’s just looking for the first excuse she finds to take my kid!’
I was saddened, rather than shocked, by the tone of Emma’s voice. Just a few weeks into motherhood, which was destabilising enough already, and she was living in such an uncertain world. And a scary one, too. For all that it was not the desired outcome, there was a kernel of truth there – if she ‘failed’, social services would indeed take her kid. And she was just a little girl herself. A frightened little girl with no one to turn to. And fear can make anyone lash out.
By now Emma had unbuckled the seat and pulled the baby onto her lap, and right away I felt my own fears subside a little. In contrast to her demeanour earlier, now she actually had her baby in her arms she had eyes for no one but him. She also seemed confident, if understandably careful, supporting his head the way she needed to and gently rocking him back and forth. It was only when Hannah herself arrived that her expression was once again stony. ‘Oh, look, Roman,’ she said, as I showed his social worker into the dining area, ‘it’s the kiddie collector, come to check I haven’t poisoned your bottle.’
Now I was slightly shocked, because she’d said this to Hannah’s face. But Hannah just smiled. Like Emma, she was blonde, with her hair corralled into a neat ponytail, and perhaps in her late twenties, I guessed. She had the no-nonsense air of a capable big sister, and I was sad that so far she and Emma obviously hadn’t bonded. Not that they didn’t have a bit of repartee going on. Or a semblance of it, at least – though maybe it wasn’t that. Perhaps it was all one-way traffic on Hannah’s part to try and jolly Emma on. I hoped their lack of closeness wouldn’t affect how things played out.
‘Ah, I see you’re on form today, Emma,’ she said mildly. ‘That’s good. I think I’d start to worry if you actually let up a bit!’ She began unbuttoning her coat, a fur-trimmed khaki parka. ‘I would properly introduce myself,’ she said to me, ‘but I see my reputation precedes me!’
It was an interesting dynamic and I was anxious to take it in. So while Hannah began outlining her role and how she and Maggie would work together, I kept an eye on Emma too, and what she was doing. And what she was doing was calmly getting on with the business of feeding Roman, holding him snugly in her left arm while reaching into her bag to retrieve his bottle.
‘Do you have a microwave?’ she asked me politely, when there was a lull in the conversation.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, pointing out where to find it in the kitchen. I then watched as she stood up and, with Roman still in her arms, went and used it, returning and sitting down again with baby and bottle and giving him his feed.
‘Right,’ she said amiably, as the tiny child began sucking lustily on the warmed milk. ‘Where were we? Oh, yes, the kiddie collector was about to tell you how best to spy on me, was that it?’ She met Hannah’s eye then. ‘Carry on.’
All very curious. And should alarm bells have been ringing? I had absolutely no idea.
Chapter 4
Emma’s possessions – which had been lugged in by her and Roman’s long-suffering social workers – came in four bulging and already torn black bin liners. This was nothing new to me; in my time I’d seen it all. Some kids came with almost nothing and some with loads of possessions, and it was often the ones who’d been the longest in care who had the most stuff to lug about. Similarly, some children had a variety of robust cases, while others – as in this case – just had good old bin bags. But in those cases you expected to find them filled with rags and rubbish – and invariably you weren’t disappointed.
It was always a bit of a guessing game when new children came to stay as to what their possessions might be. Some had plenty of clothes, shoes and trainers, favourite toys, games and books, right down to nightwear and their own toiletries and toothbrush. Others had barely more than the clothes they stood up in. No toys, no nice things, not even a single family photo, and when that happened it really broke my heart. I just wanted to scoop them up and promise them the world, though, ironically, that was usually the last thing I could do. These tended to be the kids that had been profoundly damaged by the adults around them, and the sad fact was that the children who needed the most loving always seemed to be the ones who needed you to keep your distance – in the early days, at least, until they’d begun the lengthy process of learning to trust again.
Emma and Roman, thankfully, didn’t seem to be in this category. Although, judging from my first impressions, Emma had plenty of emotional issues to overcome, she wasn’t in need when it came to material possessions. ‘Good grief!’ I said, once we’d seen off Maggie and Hannah. ‘What on earth have you got in all these?’
She laughed as we hefted a pair each up the stairs, which was good to hear. Now we were alone – and unscrutinised – she seemed in better spirits. ‘Oh, just my clothes and make-up, and my CD player, and Roman’s stuff and everything. Tell you what,’ she said conversationally, ‘social services may be arseholes, but they’ve spent loads on me. Literally. Like, loads.’
That was true enough. We’d already taken delivery of a pristine new cot, which Mike had toiled to assemble the night before Emma came. But I was struck by her choice of language for them – and not in a good way. I was about to answer, not least to pull her up on her choice of words, when she turned, having reached the top of the stairs. ‘And they’re going to buy me a laptop – can you believe it? Long as I go back to school, that is. Can you believe that?’
I could believe that, of course, because, these days, a computer was fast becoming more than an optional extra; kids were expected to produce their school assignments at a keyboard more and more, not to mention use the internet for research. Which meant disadvantaged kids – and Emma was very much in that category – were at more of a disadvantage than they’d been in many, many years, compared with kids from affluent middle-class homes.
Emma pouted then. ‘But that’s not going to be for ages, is it? I wish they’d let me have one now. I hate being so much out of touch with everyone.’
I understood that too. So much teenage communication was via computers that I could see how isolated not having one must make her feel. Not that I wasn’t all for policing the use of them, particularly for the kids we looked after, because you could access so much stuff that no kid should ever see.
‘I know,’ I said, gesturing that she should go into the beige bedroom, which was all set now, with its cheerful new coordinating duvet set. ‘But it’ll be sooner than you think – and you really should go back to school. And, in the meantime, I have a laptop that I’m happy to let you borrow – you just have to ask me. Just one thing …’
I paused then and, noticing the sudden silence, Emma turned. ‘The language,’ I said mildly. ‘Now you’re with us you’re going to have to mind your tongue a bit. I don’t know what experiences you’ve had with Hannah and Maggie, obviously, but, well, social services are lots of things, but not what you called them.’
Emma looked at me, assessing me, and with a look of slight confusion. I grinned at her. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m not shocked. I’m used to teenagers – I’ve brought up two of my own, don’t forget. And we’ll treat you just as if you were one of our
own, as well, which means that even if you swear when you’re out and about we don’t want to hear it at home, okay?’
Emma was the one looking shocked now. ‘But I didn’t swear, did I?’
I nodded. ‘Sweetheart,’ I said mildly, ‘you called social services “arseholes”, which in my book is swearing. And, colourful as it may be, it’s not something I like to hear from a young lady. I’m not a prude but I just don’t think it sounds very nice – particularly coming from a young mum.’
I was surprised and pleased to see that she had the grace to look ashamed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t even realise. I’m just that used to it. I’ll try not to do it again, promise.’
I was touched. After all her aggressive bluster earlier, this was quite a contrast, and once again I was struck by her child-like vulnerability. And not even child-like – she was a child, one that had been thrust into the world of adults. And yet without any adult family to take care of her. I often wondered how it was that the kids we took in so often seemed to have absolutely no one to love them. And equally often I reminded myself that it was precisely the reason why they came to us. Because there was no one else willing to take them in. No indulgent auntie, no older sibling, no grandparents, no nothing. Emma was an only daughter, born to an only daughter – one who’d fallen out with her mother before Emma had even been born. It was all so very sad. And now there was Roman, equally lacking a wider family … I mentally shook myself. Mustn’t go there, Casey.
I pulled open the wardrobe doors while Emma began busying herself taking CDs from one of the bags. These kids and their CDs – music was pretty much all digital now, as far as I was aware, but these kids seemed to pride themselves on being ‘old school’, in the same way as we’d hung on to our ‘authentic’ LPs, distrusting the dawning of the digital disc.
