by Trisha Merry
Had we taken on too much? It had all happened so quickly – just a few weeks from being a retired couple moving house, to taking on this new little family, perhaps the most challenging we have ever had. My thoughts went back to the events leading up to the children’s arrival on our doorstep . . .
2
Change of Plans
‘Trisha Merry, who found room in her heart to foster hundreds of children, has been named “Mum in a Million” . . . At one time, when she had twenty children staying with her, she took them all on holiday to Bournemouth.
Nowadays though, she has a quieter life . . .’
Evening News, 1994
‘This place is like a 1960s timewarp!’ I said to Mike when we first viewed the house in Church Road. ‘I’m going to do it all up and only have the grandchildren at weekends. I know just how I want it.’
‘We’d better buy it then!’ He grinned.
In the first few weeks of 1997 we moved in and started decorating. This was going to be my dream home, with Laura Ashley wallpaper throughout.
‘Why not paint?’ asked Mike.
‘We’ve had washable walls in every house we’ve lived in, since we took in our first children all those years ago,’ I sighed. ‘Nearly seven hundred children later, this house is going to be just for us, to enjoy our retirement.’
By the end of February, we had decorated all the upstairs, and we’d just started on the hall and study when I heard a knock on the door.
I was surprised to see John there on our doorstep. He used to be a social worker, so I knew him from my fostering days.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course.’ I showed him into the sitting room. ‘Is this a social visit?’
‘I’ve been thinking about you and Mike. You see, there’s a new way of fostering now,’ he explained. ‘It’s through an agency, so it’s more care-focused.’
‘About time somebody focused on care, instead of the money side of it!’
‘I’ve just opened up a fostering agency in this area. It’s called the ODFA, which stands for the Open Door Fostering Agency. Local authorities ask us to place their difficult cases. We have our own list of the best foster carers . . . and that’s why I’ve come to you. We do training sessions, and get all our foster parents together to share their experiences and tips.’
‘That would have appealed to us twenty years ago,’ I said. ‘We would have liked that idea, but we’ve moved on since then. We’ve retired.’
‘Yes, I remember. You used to have emergency cases, mums with babies, large sibling groups or difficult children, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right.’ By now, I was feeling even more curious. What is he doing here?
‘Don’t you miss having a houseful?’
‘Well, no, not really. I think we’ve earned a rest! I’m fifty-five you know, and Mike’s sixty-two.’
‘But you don’t seem it, and you were such great foster parents, you and Mike. Wouldn’t you like to foster again?’
‘No. No, we wouldn’t. No-no-no-no-no. No. Definitely not!’
‘Well, maybe you might reconsider?’
‘I don’t think so!’
We talked a bit about some of the children we remembered. Then he stood up to leave.
‘So you’ll think about it . . .’
He looked so hopeful that I didn’t like to say no outright.
‘Well, maybe.’ I paused. ‘I’ll mention it to Mike and see what he thinks.’
I didn’t expect to give fostering another thought that day, but I was wrong. As I painted the skirting boards, I found myself harking back to the antics we’d had with so many foster children, some just staying for one night; others for weeks, months, or even years.
Of course, I knew what Mike would think, but I asked him anyway.
‘Do you remember John, who used to be a social worker? Well, he came round this morning, while you were taking the car to the garage.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He was telling me all about his fostering agency, and the way they offer training and invite their carers to meetings together.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, absent-mindedly.
‘So what do you think?’
‘About what?’
‘He wants us to consider going onto his list of the best foster carers. I felt mean to keep saying no, so I said I’d ask you about it.’
He was silent for only a moment or two. ‘No, we’re too old.’ He picked up his newspaper to read, so we just left it at that.
The next day I was about to call John to give him our verdict, when he rang me.
‘I’ve been telling my partner Suzy all about you,’ he began. ‘We run the agency together and she would like to come and meet you. Could we come round this afternoon, at about fourish?’
‘Well, yes . . . but . . .’
‘Great. See you then.’ And he put the phone down, before I could tell him we weren’t interested.
So, I made some scones, put the kettle on and they arrived at a few minutes past four.
After the introductions, as I was pouring out the tea, John’s partner began to tell me about her role in the agency.
‘Oh, it’s so exciting now,’ she said. ‘We can offer loads of support to our foster carers and pay them well too. We invite them to regular meetings where we can sit round and chat about all their problems. People find that so helpful.’
‘Yes, I’m sure they do . . .’
‘And that’s not all,’ she cut in, brimming over with enthusiasm. ‘We have some brilliant trainers to help you consider different approaches to some of your problems . . .’
‘Wait a minute.’ It was my turn to interrupt. ‘We’re not foster carers any more. We’re enjoying our retirement.’
‘I know. But if you’re good at something, why waste it?’
I sat silently for a moment and thought about that. There’s not a lot I’ve excelled at. I’m good at cooking. I’m good at coming in under budget when I’m doing up houses . . .
‘Don’t you agree?’
‘Well, yes,’ I hesitated. ‘I did a fair job on fostering. We both did.’
‘John told me you won the “Mum in a Million” title a few years ago. Isn’t that marvellous?’
‘Well, it was only the Midland region,’ I explained. ‘I was just runner-up in the national awards. But Mike once won a Tommy Steele lookalike competition . . . and a bar of soap for his knobbly knees.’
They looked confused. They probably had no idea who Tommy Steele was, and knobbly knees contests had passed them by.
‘We’d really love to add you to our list of top foster parents,’ said John. ‘Did you talk to Mike about it?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry he couldn’t be here this afternoon. I did ask him what he thought, and he said, “We’re too old for all that.”’
‘I bet you don’t feel old?’ suggested Suzy. ‘You don’t seem it at all.’
‘And you have so much to offer,’ said John. ‘Both of you. We have a lot of urgent cases these days, which means they’re with you before you know it, and you get very involved in it all.’
‘And with emergency placements they don’t usually stay long,’ added Suzy. ‘So you could have plenty of rest days in between.’
‘Please don’t say no,’ continued John, ‘without considering how different and how much better it would be this time around. We’d love you to join us.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Good.’ He stood up. ‘It’s time we left. Thanks very much for the tea.’
‘And the delicious scones.’ Suzy smiled.
‘And promise me you and Mike will reconsider?’ pleaded John. ‘I’ll call you at the end of the week and you can tell me then.’
‘I’m keeping everything crossed!’ Suzy called back as they walked down our path to their car.
The next day, I was putting up some pretty, blue-diamond-patterned wallpaper in the bathroom and thinking: No, I don’t think I want a
ny more foster children, thank you! We’d just bought a beautiful cream suite. I’d waited all my married life for a cream suite and finally, after thirty-six years, I’d got one. And it was quite a large house, so I had in my mind that I was going to do bed and breakfast for Americans. I would be able to do nice, grown-up cooking, and the house would be clean and tidy. All my decorating was nearly done and I thought: Yes, this is going to be really lovely.
But, much as I wanted this new, carefree life for our retirement, there was still a niggle in my mind. We’d helped so many damaged children over the years, and the more I thought about it, the less I remembered the horrible bits. I just thought about all the fun, you know? And I thought . . . Yeah. We could enjoy some more of that.
‘What do you think, love?’ I said to Mike that evening, trying to sound undecided.
He gave me a look. I think he knew I’d already made up my mind.
‘Well . . .’ He broke into a wide smile. ‘We’ve got a five-bedroom house and there’s only the two of us . . .’
So that was it.
‘I suppose we ought to tell the children?’
‘Yes, but I can just imagine what they’ll say!’ he laughed.
‘You’re mad!’ exclaimed Sally, the eldest of our three adopted children. ‘Why do you want to work that hard again, Mum?’
Daniel was away in Russia at the time, so I couldn’t tell him till much later. But when I rang the youngest, Jane, it was like déjà vu.
‘Mum, you must be crazy! Absolutely bonkers.’
Finally I spoke to Anna, our teenage foster child who was only with us at weekends now.
‘Yes, I can understand why you want to go back to it,’ she said, without a glimmer of surprise.
Social Services knew us well and had a lot of information about us already, but they needed to do a new assessment, to make sure we were still suitable. We should be too old really, but we knew they had very few people willing to take sibling groups and the most difficult children. We went to meet a panel of professionals who consider: Are you experienced enough? Yes – tick. Have you enough space? Yes – tick. And are you young enough? No – a big cross! Would that be a barrier? Apparently not.
‘Yes, you can have sibling groups up to four children,’ they said.
It had all happened very quickly, but I assumed it would be some time before a family group would come up.
First thing the next morning, the phone rang. ‘Hello, Mrs Merry, it’s the ODFA, the fostering agency,’ said a young voice at the other end. ‘We’ve got this sibling group of four children arriving today, on an emergency protection order. Will you take them?’
‘Yes, all right,’ I gulped, stunned that it was all happening so quickly. We hadn’t even thought about getting the house ready for fostering.
‘They should be with you this afternoon.’
Well, I prepared as best I could, not knowing anything about these children, their ages or their needs. I just remember thinking, we don’t have cereal and we don’t have nappies or babies’ milk. How old are they? Will they come with any clothes? So many questions . . . and not one answer. We’d soon find out.
I did some food shopping, put it all away, then wondered again about clothes. I had some of my grandchildren Brett and Laura’s things, which they kept here for weekends, and I found a bag of young children’s clothing – bits and pieces left over from our fostering days.
I made the beds and put some cuddly toys out in their rooms.
Our house and our lives were about to be taken over but, not knowing anything about these children, it was impossible to have a foolproof plan. We just had to be ready for anything. That’s how Mike and I had always approached it, with an open mind and a warm heart . . . and more than a little apprehension.
As four o’clock approached and I sat down for a break, my thoughts went right back to the days before all this began. I’d been a nanny when I left school, which I loved, looking after a baby boy called George. But his parents went bankrupt, so that ended sooner than expected. Next I went to work in a shop, but that definitely wasn’t for me!
Neither was my next job in Kay’s catalogue office. It was very regimented there. The supervisor walked up and down between the desks and you couldn’t look up, you couldn’t stop writing. Definitely the wrong job for me. After six weeks I moved to the office of a factory making metal boxes. Why I thought I could cope with that any better I don’t know.
‘I don’t like this job,’ I moaned when I got home from work that first evening.
‘Well, first day. You know . . .’ said Mike. ‘You’ve got to give it a go.’
‘No, I’m giving in my notice,’ I said.
He sighed and went to do the washing up.
The next day, when I walked into town, I saw a big poster, advertising for childminders. My eyes lit up as I stopped to read it. I asked around and it seemed the Council were desperate to have more day-care provision.
Well, I thought, let’s weigh this up. Childminding or sitting in an office? No contest!
‘Would you mind if I worked from home?’ I asked Mike that evening. Poor man. We had only been married for a year and he was still adjusting to my wacky ideas.
‘Doing office work?’
‘No, childminding.’
He paused, with a quizzical look on his face, which turned into a long-suffering smile. ‘If that’s what you want to do,’ he replied. ‘Why not? Give it a go if you think you’re up for it. We’ve got the space.’
That was true, with the two of us rattling around in a four-bedroom house, so that was it. We changed the living room into a playroom and jiggled everything about. Then I put out some adverts and within days I had all these children in.
In my last proper job I had earned £3 and 10 shillings a week, for work I hated. Now people were paying me £2 a week for each child and I had ten children – £20 a week for staying at home and playing, which I loved. I could barely believe it! I started at seven and finished at seven, washing nappies, making breakfast, dinner and tea, having fun and finally I put them into their pyjamas to be collected. I was never without children and I loved it.
One day a social worker came and looked around. Then she sat down for a cup of tea with me, in the middle of the playroom.
‘We need to place two children with you to look after daily,’ she said. ‘But these siblings may have to come into overnight care as well for a short while. Do you think you could manage that?’
‘Right,’ I gulped. ‘OK.’
‘Their mother is expecting another baby,’ she added. ‘And she has toxaemia.’
‘Oh dear. Yes, we can do that.’
‘But the thing is, you’ll have to become foster parents.’
‘That’s fine,’ I replied. ‘I love looking after little ones.’
These two became our first foster children. Next came a newborn baby girl, then more babies, followed by several sibling groups. I’ve loved every day of it . . . well, nearly every day. I’ve played and played. All my life I’ve played. And the best bit is when you have young children who understand what you are telling them – about all the things that are on offer for them, all the opportunities ahead of them. I used to think: I want a bit of that. I loved being able to open their doors to life.
Now, here we were, hundreds of foster children later, recently retired, only to start all over again, waiting for our next big challenge. A family of four on an emergency order.
Over all those years, I had learned the hard way. Don’t leave any jewellery about. Don’t leave the car keys and definitely don’t leave any drink out. I found out by trial and error what worked for foster children and what didn’t, but I could never be sure if I was right. I never had the chance to go and see what other carers did, or talk about different ways of dealing with things. That’s why John’s idea of foster carers’ meetings sounded so appealing.
As the afternoon wore on, I was beginning to get a bit edgy, for the children’s sake. What had resulted in
their emergency removal? I could only imagine the terrible impact their circumstances might have had on them, especially if they were very young and nobody explained anything to them, as often happens.
At about four o’clock, the phone rang.
‘It’s the ODFA here, Mrs Merry. I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit later than we thought.’
‘Right. Any idea why?’
‘All we know is that one of the children was in hospital, and it’s a full care order.’
I went and told Mike. ‘They’ve been delayed. They’ll be here this evening, and it’s a full care order.’
‘So that means there are problems!’
‘Yes, it’s usually major problems with the parents, isn’t it?’
And of course the children finally arrived, late that night, looking like workhouse paupers. As I lay in bed, with their occasional wails and moans echoing in the darkness, I felt so helpless. Yes, major problems seemed an accurate judgement. I wondered what tomorrow would bring.
3
Bedlam
‘A mad, mad day.’
My diary entry, Saturday, 8 March 1997
It was about half-past seven when the children woke each other up, and right from the start it was bedlam. Absolute bedlam. There was nothing, and I do mean nothing, stopping them – no boundaries at all. Hamish looked shell-shocked. The clues from last night suggested he was used to being in charge of his younger siblings’ welfare, but in our house he felt lost. He didn’t know whether he was in control, or not, yet he couldn’t let go. He didn’t quite know what to do.
Their bed was soaking wet and soiled. Nobody had warned me that neither Hamish nor Anita were dry at night. There was going to be a lot of washing in this house!
I took them all into the downstairs bathroom, almost dragging Caroline in behind the others.
‘No, I not want to.’ She stamped her little foot. ‘I not.’
‘Everyone has to wash their hands before breakfast,’ I said. ‘Here’s the soap and there’s the towel.’ Blank faces, so I washed my hands to show them. ‘It won’t take you long, and when you’ve finished you can come and have some breakfast.’
