by Angela Hart
The course fuelled my already strong desire to help disadvantaged kids. It was not their fault they had been born into a certain set of circumstances, and I wanted to help build them up again, until they were as tall and strong and emotionally stable as they could possibly be.
Back then, the damaging effect child abuse and neglect can have on the brain and mental health was not understood in the way it is today. We’d never heard of attachment disorders, for example, along with many other conditions that are commonly known about more than twenty-five years on. Perhaps if I’d known then that my job as a specialist carer would lead to me looking after kids with severe autism, ADHD and a wide range of mental health issues over the years I’d have run a mile – just as Lynne jokingly suggested she had wanted to when looking after Melissa. I have no regrets, of course. I’m glad I stuck with specialist fostering, even if my commitment to the job in those early days was partly down to naivety about what I was really getting into!
After we completed the training we took in the three teenage boys I mentioned earlier. They came in quick succession and none stayed longer than a few weeks. The last boy, who had left us on the day Wilf called about Melissa, was as quiet as a mouse. He had been bullied at school and had some anger issues, but when he was at home with us he just wanted to be left in peace and spent most of his time reading comic books in his room, or playing snooker with one of the boys in our neighbourhood. As I’ve said, despite coming to us as specialist cases, the boys proved to be less trouble than some of the children we’d had staying with us previously – bar a couple of incidents involving cigarettes and alcohol and in one case a fist fight at school.
‘I suspect we’re about to discover we’ve had it easy so far,’ Jonathan said as we finally approached the grounds of the children’s centre and secure unit.
‘I agree. This is where our specialist training is really going to kick in.’
I swallowed hard. Looking after a runaway girl was uncharted territory for us and I was filled with trepidation.
‘Are you ready to take on the challenge?’ Jonathan asked. He was trying to sound bold and upbeat but I could tell he was as nervous as I was.
‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’
3
‘I hope you’re going to get me out of here!’
A discreet black and white welcome sign saying Residential Children’s Centre told us we were heading in the right direction, though the building itself was hidden behind a screen of trees beyond the car park. Wilf had told us to park up, head towards the main building and then carry on past it, following signs to the secure section of the centre beyond it, where Melissa was being kept.
I took a deep breath when the car stopped and Jonathan took the key from the ignition. I felt nervous but at the same time I was looking forward to finally meeting Melissa. It had been a long drive and we’d talked about nothing but fostering and training. Now it was time for action.
A wide, tree-lined path led us from the car park to a gravel driveway in front of what looked like a big, old house, and from there a signpost directed us down a narrow side passageway to the secure unit at the rear.
Jonathan and I exchanged glances when we saw it. In contrast to the main centre, which looked like it could have been a splendid country manor house in years gone by, the small, flat-roofed secure unit was built of drab concrete and steel and appeared more like a prison than part of any kind of children’s centre. Detached from the main house, it was marooned in the centre of what looked like a piece of wasteland. In order to reach the entrance door we had to pass through a ring of security fencing topped with jagged razor wire. I started to feel quite daunted by what we were about to experience.
I pressed the door buzzer and took a deep breath. I was aware that my heart rate had increased and I wanted to calm myself. I stole a look at Jonathan. He was clenching his jaw, something he does when he’s feeling anxious.
A very tall and stocky man in what looked like a prison guard’s uniform appeared, bobbed his bald head in our direction by way of a greeting and took us silently into a small, stark reception room. We had our bags searched and had to show some ID, which Wilf had forewarned us about. Once the guard was happy that we were who we said we were, he instructed each of us to take a seat and wait while he fetched the duty manager. We did as we were told; it was not the sort of place where you felt inclined to do anything else.
The guard had a huge bunch of keys hanging from his belt. He unlocked a metal door leading out of the reception area, stepped through it purposefully on his heavy legs and locked it behind him, leaving Jonathan and me alone in what felt like a holding pen. I had an uneasy feeling, one that reminded me of how I sometimes feel when passing through customs or security at an airport. Uncomfortable and somewhat intimidated, I had a sense I might make a mistake and be reprimanded even though I knew I’d done nothing wrong.
It took five long minutes for the security guard to return with the duty manager, who was a slight man with a grey complexion, grey hair and wearing a grey suit.
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Mr Gray,’ he said very seriously. I noticed he had an even larger bunch of keys hanging from his belt, some of which were so big they looked fake, like something you’d see in a Disney film when a princess is locked in a tower. I can remember being amused by the fact the duty manager’s name matched his appearance and, unexpectedly, I found myself stifling a laugh. I think it was just nerves, because I’m not normally someone who gets the giggles. The atmosphere of the place had made me feel uncharacteristically edgy. I’d never been anywhere like this before. The closest I’d come to seeing the inside of any kind of secure institution was when I watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and saw how the psychiatric ward was run, and my one and only insight into the prison system was from seeing every episode of Porridge on TV when it first came out, which I’d loved.
Mr Gray led us through one, two and then three locked doors into an oval-shaped hall area with a polished wooden block floor. Two members of staff in white tunics and black trousers were stationed at a central desk and Mr Gray went to speak to them.
‘Melissa is in room four,’ Mr Gray told us gravely. ‘She knows you’re here. I understand that she may be going to live with you?’
‘That’s right,’ Jonathan said, giving a friendly smile that was not reciprocated.
‘I hope the meeting goes well. She’s a pleasant girl, so I’m told.’
Mr Gray then introduced us to another colleague called Malcolm, who appeared from a corridor at the side. He had a spring in his step and a smile on his face, which I was relieved to see. Malcolm welcomed us enthusiastically and said he’d take us across to Melissa’s room. Meanwhile, Mr Gray bade us goodbye and slipped off so quickly and quietly it felt as if he’d simply faded away.
About twenty secure single rooms surrounded the hall area and each had a large window in its door, giving a clear view into the room as you went by. We could see youths in jogging pants and sweatshirts stretched out on their beds as we walked past several rooms to reach number four. They all seemed to be around seventeen or eighteen. We sensed that some were watching us, no doubt more from boredom than curiosity, and we instinctively looked away, not wanting to invade their privacy.
‘The unit is designed like this so we can see every aspect of the room from the outside,’ Malcolm explained, no doubt realising this was an alien environment to us. ‘It’s a safety measure.’
‘Of course.’
As we approached door number four I could see Melissa sitting on the floor, her back to the wall on the left-hand side of the room and her knees hugged to her chest. She had thick auburn hair that was bunched on one side in a loose ponytail. It dangled over her right shoulder and almost reached the floor, and she was chewing a strand of it absent-mindedly. I immediately thought she looked younger than twelve and my heart went out to her.
Melissa sprang to her feet when she spotted us approaching and she smiled as Malcolm opened the door.
‘Hi! Nice to meet you,’ Melissa grinned. ‘I hope you’re going to get me out of here!’
She then shot a look at Malcolm. ‘No offence, but I can’t wait to get out of this place.’
‘None taken,’ Malcolm said.
Melissa was a slim, long-legged and very pretty girl with dark green eyes and milky skin. She was wearing a pair of baggy white tracksuit bottoms and a pale pink sweatshirt with prints of white stars on it. Her features were fine and dainty, giving her an impish look. Her lips made a neat bow and I noticed her hands were tiny too, with slender fingers and the smallest fingernails painted with pink nail polish. But it was her hair that really stood out. When she was on her feet the rich, red ponytail reached her waist. It was such a striking feature I couldn’t help complimenting her on it.
‘Everyone goes on about my hair,’ she said, rolling her eyes playfully, and quite proudly. ‘The lads have nicknamed me Rapunzel but I’ve told them that if I was really Rapunzel I wouldn’t still be here, would I? A prince would have come to my rescue!’
We all laughed. Melissa intrigued me. If first impressions were anything to go by she seemed like a perfectly pleasant, happy-go-lucky young girl. It was hard to imagine her being a ‘runner’, as Wilf had called her, or the type of child a patient foster carer like Lynne would not be able to deal with any longer.
Malcolm suggested that as it was nearly lunchtime we could go to the canteen together.
‘Sounds good to me,’ Melissa said, pulling on a pair of trainers and fastening the Velcro. ‘Do you know what’s on the menu today, Malcolm?’
‘I know there’s chips on. I smelt them cooking. Not sure what else.’
She clapped her hands together. ‘Good. That’s all we need to know!’
‘See him in the red shirt, he’s a rapist,’ Melissa said, moments after we’d sat at a Formica-topped table in the austere canteen. She nodded discreetly to the far end of the room. The boy looked no older than sixteen. He was rocking back in his chair, like he didn’t have a care in the world. ‘And that one – see him, there, with the skinhead? – he’s due in court for assault and battery. Or was it grievous bodily harm? I’m not sure of the difference. Either way, he’s a really bad lad. Really bad. Some are in here for drugs and stabbings. You’d never know it to look at them, would ya?’
She tucked into chips, sausage and beans while Jonathan and I had jacket potatoes topped with tuna and cheese. Malcolm had brought his own packed lunch and he sat at the end of the bench, quietly doing a crossword while he ate, leaving us to chat and get to know each other.
Melissa told us that the wire fencing around the unit was specially designed to deter ram raiders, and that they had no wardrobes or closed cupboards in their rooms so that the staff could see into every nook and cranny from the window in the door, and nothing could be concealed. The only window was the one in the door and Melissa said that, in her opinion, the rooms might as well be called cells, as it was just like being in prison. ‘Not that I’ve been in prison,’ she added. ‘I just don’t get why anyone would be that stupid they’d end up in prison. I’m never going to prison, me. I’m never going to break the law. No chance. I can’t imagine anything worse than being locked up somewhere even worse than this.’
A few lads came over and joined us at our table, nodding and saying ‘all right’ as they sat down with their trays of food.
‘I’m just saying what people are in here for,’ Melissa said confidently. ‘What was it you did, Baz? It was a robbery, wasn’t it?’
‘Aye. Not just any robbery though, our kid. Armed robbery. We’d have fuckin’ got away with it if it weren’t for an off-duty copper. I’m a fuckin’ bank robber, me! I don’t do things by half!’ He banged the table with his fist and the lad next to him slapped his back and whooped.
Melissa didn’t seem intimidated or alarmed at all. She shrugged and looked at us slightly apologetically, as if embarrassed by the boy’s language and misplaced pride in his criminal behaviour. How incongruous she looked. A rose among thorns, I thought. It was as if she read my mind.
‘You see, I don’t really think I fit in here,’ she said, leading in to us conspiratorially so the boys couldn’t hear. ‘I don’t think I should be here. Apart from anything else, I’m the only girl. I mean, I’ve got on all right with the lads, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t need to be locked up. I’m not a criminal.’
I caught Jonathan’s eye and knew he was supportive of what I was about to say. Having seen this set-up and the types of boys she was living alongside, there was no way we were not going to offer her a home.
‘We know you ran off from your last foster carer’s and the police brought you here. It was a last resort and we know you aren’t a criminal, we understand that. If you’re happy to, you can come and stay with us, until Social Services finds you somewhere more permanent.’
She smiled and her eyes lit up. ‘Yeah, thanks, I’d like to. You seem really nice people. I can’t stay here. They’re real bad lads, I mean proper bad boys. Fancy the police picking me up for hanging round with my mates and then putting me in here with this lot? They said my mates were bad, but they’re not like these. You couldn’t make it up really. “Oh here you go, we’ll take care of you, Melissa, by locking you up with a load of violent lads. Aren’t we doing a good service for the community, keeping you away from all those boys who are a bad influence on you!”’
She didn’t really seem angry or bitter. If anything she was poking fun at her situation. We didn’t join in with this. We didn’t know enough about her story to be able to make any comment, and we didn’t want to encourage her to criticise the police or any of the authorities.
We spent another hour or so with Melissa after lunch, sitting in a lounge area just off the main hall. We’d taken along a scrapbook we’d made, to show her our home and some of our family photographs. She took her time looking through it, making polite remarks and asking questions. We told her we’d just said goodbye to a teenage boy we’d had staying with us for a short time and that the house was empty at the moment, which was unusual. She asked about my mother, who featured in several of the photographs, and I said her name was Thelma and she’d been passed by Social Services as a babysitter, and that she loved meeting all of the children who stayed with us.
There was a recent picture I’d taken of the shop and I explained how it had been a family business, on my side of the family, for many years. After my father died in the mid-eighties my mother ran it on her own for a while before passing it down to us, and now we lived in the attached town house, I told her.
Melissa asked why we didn’t have children of our own and I told her it just hadn’t happened for us yet, but we hoped one day we might be lucky. We were still in our thirties, and though it never actually did happen, at that point we still thought we might become parents. ‘You’ll be experts before you even have your own,’ she laughed.
‘We love fostering and we’ve looked after some smashing children,’ Jonathan told her. ‘You might meet one or two of them as we do try to keep in touch. Vicky was with us for about three years. She’s seventeen now and has her own flat, but she comes round for her tea quite often.’
‘Cool. I wish I was old enough to live in my own flat. That would solve a lot of problems for everyone!’
She chuckled to herself. ‘I think you’re very kind people,’ she said. ‘Thanks for taking me in and getting me out of this place.’ She smiled very sweetly and seemed genuinely appreciative.
Melissa moved in with us two days later. Jonathan and I still had our concerns about how the placement would work out, but she fundamentally seemed like a decent, pleasant girl who had strayed off the rails – maybe through no fault of her own – and needed all the help we could give her to set her on the right track again. Though her stay in the secure unit should never have happened, Jonathan and I both hoped that some good might have come of it. M
aybe it had shown her how things can spiral downwards if you’re not careful, and hopefully it would encourage her to stop running away. It had certainly put her off going to prison.
When she arrived at our door, having been picked up and driven to our home by a support worker, Melissa was wearing the same pair of tracksuit bottoms and sweatshirt we’d seen her in, and she was carrying a large duffel bag stuffed with belongings. I showed her up to her room on the top floor straight away.
‘A window to look out of!’ she exclaimed excitedly, admiring the view over the playing fields at the back of our house. ‘That was one thing I really hated in the unit. Those spy windows. Gave me the creeps. I didn’t sleep much in there.’
Melissa tested out the bed and declared it was ‘bliss’ compared to the metal-framed bunk she’d spent the last few nights in.
‘Thanks for having me,’ she said. ‘It’s very kind of you.’
‘We’re very pleased to have you here. Now then, is there anything you don’t like to eat?’
‘No, I like everything. What are we having for tea?’
‘I’ve got some fish fillets.’
‘Can we have them with chips?’
I smiled. Chips were obviously her favourite. I was planning to bake the fish and do mashed potato but I could just as easily fry the fish in batter, which I thought she’d prefer, and make some homemade chips.
‘Why not? And do you like mushy peas?’
‘I love them!’
We enjoyed eating with Melissa. The conversation flowed easily. She chatted about how she was hoping she could move in with one of her aunties – Auntie Cathy – when she left foster care for good and said she was looking forward to going back to school. It’s always slightly awkward when a child has only just arrived and you don’t have much background information on them. I wanted to ask Melissa what had happened to her mum and dad, and why she didn’t live with them, but as always I had to stick to what I’d been trained to do and wait for Melissa to volunteer information. Even when she mentioned her auntie and school I had to watch how I replied, as I didn’t want to pry or ask any leading questions, in case I opened a can of worms that she wasn’t ready to deal with.
