by Rosie Lewis
The head teacher sounded equally understanding and also, I sensed, a little intrigued when I gave him an idea of Phoebe’s history. He agreed to a meeting the next day to discuss it further. I wasn’t sure how Phoebe would take the news that another change might be imminent. However much she disliked school, she had attended Englebrook since she was nursery age and it was familiar.
I was going to put off broaching the subject until the morning but when I picked her up from school she looked so lost and alone as she waited with the other children to be dismissed that I went for it there and then. Slipping my arm around her shoulder as we walked to the car, I said, ‘How would you like to come with me and have a look around a different school tomorrow?’
‘A different one?’ she eyed me suspiciously and I tensed, hoping I hadn’t triggered a tantrum outside the school gates. It would be difficult to get her to the car if that was the case.
‘Yes, one much nearer to our house – we wouldn’t have to drive in the mornings, we could walk.’
‘Cool,’ she said casually, adopting one of Jamie’s much-used replies. It was as simple as that. We went home and nothing more was mentioned about it for the rest of the day.
In the morning I had time to give Emily and Jamie lifts to school since our appointment with the head teacher of Glenhaven Primary School wasn’t until 9.30am. Before we even entered the playground I felt a level of confidence in the school that had been missing at Englebrook. Impressively, following my initial enquiry about a possible place for Phoebe, the head teacher, a Mr Sands, had called me back later that day. He wanted more details about Phoebe’s past but was thoughtful enough to know it would be demeaning if discussed in front of her, so he had cleared half an hour from his schedule to run through what he needed to know.
When I met Mr Sands in person I felt even more reassured. His handshake was firm – always a good start in my book – and Phoebe seemed to sense a natural warmth within him, smiling instead of her usual reaction to strangers of curling her lip in a sneer.
‘I think,’ Mr Sands said, leaning forward and forming a pyramid with his fingers, ‘what might be a good idea is for Phoebe to spend a morning with us, to see if we’re the right place for her and vice-versa. Would you like that, Phoebe?’
That morning I had already coached her on appropriate replies if the head teacher directed any questions her way. I warned her not to mention anything private, meaning anything to do with her parents, and she was strictly forbidden from repeating anything he said, but my lecture wouldn’t necessarily hold much weight, depending on what mood she was in. I found myself clenching my knees tightly together, praying she would cooperate.
She glanced at me and smiled before opening her mouth. ‘Yes, please.’
I let out a breath of relief before masking it with a slight cough. Phoebe smirked. She was enjoying herself, the little rascal.
‘Excellent. How about today then, since you’ve got the day off?’
My eyes widened and I turned to gauge her reaction. I hadn’t anticipated the offer and wasn’t too sure it was a good idea. I would have preferred to do some more coaching before letting her loose on the staff, but it seemed I was out of luck – Phoebe was nodding with enthusiasm and Mr Sands had already pushed back his chair, offering me his hand once again and telling me to return after lunch at 1pm to collect her.
I couldn’t settle at home and set about clearing up the house like a whirling dervish. The direst scenarios kept rushing through my mind – flying crockery and loud retching in the school canteen, teachers being mimicked or kicked, children mocked or sworn at. It was behaviour I hadn’t seen at home from Phoebe in quite a while but in the company of strangers she did tend to revert to her old, defensive ways. It can take a while for children to learn that boundaries move with them.
As I vacuumed, part of me regretted not being more honest with Mr Sands in our telephone conversation. I had told him that the level of abuse she had experienced was severe and that her mental health had suffered as a result but I hadn’t been specific, knowing that it was unlikely she’d be given the chance of a place at a mainstream school if I was entirely honest. Having cursed a stream of social workers in the past for withholding information, there I was, doing exactly the same thing.
It was an eye-opener, to be truthful, and suddenly I could understand why an over-worked social worker, perhaps with a child sat beside their desk at 5pm on a Friday evening, might stretch the truth in order to get that child a safe, warm bed for the night. I had a horrible feeling that my good intentions might bite back at me and as I left the house I convinced myself that shielding the whole truth might have been wholly irresponsible.
As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. When I returned to Glenhaven I was delighted to find Phoebe, flushed with excitement, refusing to leave and come home with me.
‘Please, Rosie, they’ve got Art this afternoon. Can I stay, please?’
Mr Sands smiled and held up his hands in surrender.
‘It’s up to you, Mrs Lewis. Phoebe’s had a wonderful morning so we’d be happy to accept her straight away, if you’d both like?’
Phoebe was nodding vigorously. I laughed. ‘I can’t argue with that, can I?’
After switching schools, Phoebe went from strength to strength. The staff really seemed to ‘get’ her. Often I was approached as I waited in the playground at the end of the school day by a teacher who wanted to tell me some funny anecdote about something Phoebe had said or done; even the children welcomed her. I think they found her a little eccentric, but mercifully she was all the more popular because of it. Her thirst for knowledge meant she got along well with the teaching staff and apparently the rest of the class fed on her enthusiasm.
At the end of the day she sometimes left me waiting at the school gates while she hung back, chatting with friends, and I couldn’t have been happier to be abandoned. Our walk home would be filled with chatter as she updated me on what she’d learnt and bits about the other children.
She seemed to be fascinated by one boy in particular – Joshua, who sat at the same group table as her. He always seemed to be in trouble for something, whether it was throwing missiles in class (an act Phoebe, ironically, seemed outraged by) or swearing at the teacher. One day she came out of school looking glum and told me that Joshua had pulled her plaits so hard during one of the lessons that it had made her eyes water. She said that he’d then kicked the girl who sat opposite under the desk, scribbled over her maths homework and told the teacher to ‘fuck off’. It was a shame this Joshua character was in her class, I thought, making up my mind to ask if Phoebe could be moved to another group. With all that she’d been through, it was best if she could be steered away from someone so volatile. ‘What about the other boys? Are they alright? Who is your favourite of all the boys?’
She rolled her eyes at me. ‘Joshua, of course,’ she said, as if the answer was entirely obvious. I laughed, but actually the implications weren’t at all funny: I had an inkling that when she was older, Phoebe would be in danger of being attracted to the Joshuas of this world, as women who had been abused as little girls often were.
Apart from regular updates on Joshua’s antics, everything else she mentioned about Glenhaven was positive and thankfully there was no sign of school phobia. Phoebe was usually the first up and ready in her school uniform while the rest of us sloped around in our dressing gowns.
There were still times when she sat motionless, a stricken look on her face, and I knew that sad memories were running through her mind. One day after school, instead of skipping from the playground to meet me she trudged wearily along and remained silent for the whole journey home.
For the next hour she hovered by my side but brushed off all of my attempts to get her talking. It was when I invited her to help peel the potatoes for dinner that she first spoke. I think the repetitive action gave her something to focus on, allowing the jumble of thoughts in her head to form themselves linearly enough for her to put a voice
to them.
‘Robin and Phillipa didn’t ever really love me, did they, Rosie? Not like you do.’
I stopped peeling and stood with the knife poised in mid-air, momentarily disorientated by the sudden use of her parents’ first names. Until then she had always referred to them as Mummy and Daddy. So, that’s how she’s going to cope with acknowledging such an ugly truth, I thought, by distancing herself from them.
It was difficult to know how to respond. Whatever the Steadmans had done, they were still her parents. I wasn’t sure what agreeing with her would do to her self-esteem. ‘Well,’ I answered slowly, ‘I actually think that all parents love their children, Phoebe. It’s just that love doesn’t always stop them behaving very badly.’
She hid her face from me so I couldn’t see her expression but she nodded, seemingly satisfied. Once Jamie and Emily joined us at the dinner table Phoebe had rallied and began to join in with their noisy banter. After that, she rarely mentioned her mother or her father.
By the October half-term our family had completely recovered its equilibrium and Phoebe was ‘one of us’. The days were still pleasantly warm and the week away from school passed quickly with all our day trips; it was so harmonious that we even dared an overnight stay in London. Phoebe fell quiet as our train neared the city and the anguished look on her face told me she was thinking of her father. I squeezed her hand and our eyes locked for several moments.
‘I used to come here with Daddy, Rosie.’
‘I know, sweetie. I know.’
Had it been possible at that moment, I would have reached in and extracted all the hurt from her mind, even if it meant absorbing it into my own. But then I realised that by seeking comfort when bad memories overwhelmed her, Phoebe was learning to overwrite the pain by herself. Sure enough, after drawing strength from a quick hug, she lifted her head and drifted across the aisle to Jamie. He nudged her playfully with his shoulder when she sat beside him and soon they were pointing out some of the famous London landmarks, consigning her parents to where they belonged, folded away in a distant corner of the past.
The mild weather faltered with the beginning of the new school term and one particularly crisp day, when Phoebe had been living with us for nearly eight months, Des phoned with some unwelcome news.
‘Phoebe’s to be moved, Rosie, I’m afraid.’
My heart plummeted. A knot tightened itself in my stomach and climbed quickly to my throat so that my voice, when I eventually found it, sounded strained.
‘Moving? Why?’
‘The local authority has a carer with an unexpected vacancy and she’s willing to accept long-termers.’
‘Willing to accept?’ I responded acidly. It was as if Phoebe were faulty goods and lucky to be given a home.
‘I know, Rosie. I know how you feel and I’m sure it wasn’t meant in that way. And I’m not just saying this but she does sound ideal for Phoebe. Apparently she heard about Phoebe’s startling progress and she’s fascinated, so it seems. She’s a social worker with experience of special needs.’
‘Ah, so now it comes out,’ I said, shocking myself with an irrepressible sneer. I was livid. ‘Not only saving money but looking after one of their own into the bargain.’ Even though as an agency carer I receive similar allowances to my local authority counterparts, agencies, running as private businesses, charge a fee on top of this. If social services manage to identify one of their own carers with a vacancy, it is cheaper for them to cover the cost of their own carer’s allowances than find the money for agency fees. I could understand that budgets were tightly stretched and that they had to look for savings where possible, but to me uprooting a happy child for the sake of saving money seemed fundamentally wrong.
‘Rosie …’ Des said chidingly, sending me the message that I was in danger of becoming unreasonable.
‘Sorry, Des, but she’s just got settled in her new school and she loves it.’ The timing couldn’t have been worse, as far as I was concerned. Sadly, it wasn’t unusual for children to be moved for financial reasons.
‘You know how it works, Rosie. And once you’ve calmed down you might see that Phoebe is more than ready for a move.’
‘What child is ever ready for a move?’ I retorted. ‘She’s happy, Des. Perhaps for the first time ever. Why can’t they just leave her be?’
Sudden endings are not unusual with fostering so I should have been primed and ready for this unexpected change of plans, but I found my thoughts were reeling as I tried to catch up with reality. Despite the shifting sands of her existence, Phoebe had managed to root herself in our family and was finally blossoming into the girl she should have been allowed to be years earlier. It seemed so unfair to uproot her just when she was beginning to triumph.
‘You’re right, she is happy. And that tells me that your work with her is done.’
But I didn’t reply. I couldn’t – there were tears rolling down my cheeks.
Des let out a breath. When he spoke it was with affectionate exasperation.
‘Rosie, my love, when are you going to learn? Fostering is not meant to last forever – there always comes a time when you have to let go.’
Chapter 34
The arrival of November brought a sharper edge to the weather. Early morning frosts were taking longer to recede and the evening chill began anchoring itself from mid-afternoon so that we’d arrive home after the school run with pinched faces and icy feet. Phoebe seemed to feel the cold more intensely than the rest of us and for her the garden lost its appeal. She no longer asked to go out and play with Jamie, who happily tore along the frozen path on his skateboard, oblivious to the icy wind despite wearing only a thin T-shirt and jeans.
Already the lawn was covered with a blanket of red and brown leaves and the forget-me-nots that had bloomed so gloriously just weeks earlier sagged close to the icy earth in sad, dying twists. And with the lowered winter sun came another change, one that Phoebe welcomed with as much enthusiasm as the blustery weather.
Despite having my hands full with Emily’s fifteenth birthday and Christmas looming, a particularly persuasive social worker from the local authority had signed me up as the out-of-hours foster carer for the area. Three-year-old Charlie was the result, arriving in the early hours on a freezing cold night in the middle of the month, accompanied by a police officer and a duty social worker. The traumatised boy had spent most of the evening in Casualty after falling from a balcony and breaking his arm. His mother, drunk to the point of semi-consciousness, lay totally unaware of his distress in their first-floor flat.
The morning after his arrival he awoke crying, bewildered to find himself in an unfamiliar bed. My own children were, as usual, delighted with the new addition but Phoebe kept her distance as I introduced everyone, not quite so pleased to find an interloper in her midst. As Emily and Jamie fussed around him, she eyed the toddler with suspicion and hung back as we gave him a tour of the house. Charlie barely left my side during his first day with us and Phoebe was unusually clingy too, shadowing me everywhere I went. I gave her lots of cuddles but it seemed wrong to reassure her that her position in our family was safe, when I knew that it was far from it.
Two weeks later when Charlie moved on to one of the local authority’s own carers, Phoebe was bereft. She had grown fond of having someone younger around and surprised me with the tenderness she had shown him. I think his sudden departure reminded her of the loss she had already experienced, as well as accentuating the insecurity of her own position.
Saying goodbye to Charlie was like having an echo from the past catch up with me. Watching the effect his departure had on Phoebe reminded me of the difficult times when it had been particularly painful for me to say goodbye. The ability to let go was crucial in a foster carer and I had managed it many times before, but it was a criterion in the ‘job spec’ that I still struggled with and the strain of working through the sadness took its toll. As well as the prospect of losing Phoebe I had to admit I was dreading the actual handover.
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To give the child time to adjust to the idea of moving families, social services plan a transition period of around six weeks, starting with a short meeting at the foster carer’s house on the first day, say, a two-hour visit to have a chat and a cup of tea. The new carers then gradually integrate themselves into the child’s life: collecting them from school, taking them out on trips and progressing to sleepovers. The ultimate goal is that the child spends more time at their new carer’s house until finally the handover is complete. During this period, the foster carer is supposed to withdraw emotionally, while being present physically, so that the child understands that approval is given for them to transfer their attachment.
Besides finding the severing of close ties a brutal process, being in the company of strangers for such a long, drawn-out period of time is in itself a draining experience and so as the handover period neared it felt as if a dark cloud was hovering above my head. In some ways, even though I didn’t want to lose Phoebe, part of me wanted the whole process over with quickly, but the permanency team had decided it would be best not to unsettle her with talk of moving until after Christmas.
The festive season was often a difficult time for children in care, particularly the first one away from their parents, and they didn’t want to add to Phoebe’s stress. As it was, she coped with all the celebrations brilliantly and seemed genuinely excited, particularly as she used the money she had raised from the sale of her bookmarks to buy each of us an individual surprise present. She had enlisted the help of one of her teachers to make the purchases, something she was incredibly proud of.
