by Trisha Merry
‘Do you still worry about the others when you are in your classroom?’ I asked.
‘No, they’re all at school now. And if they are at home ill, you will look after them, won’t you?’ His eyes pleaded.
‘Yes, of course I will.’
We walked on in silence for two or three minutes, but I could almost hear him thinking.
‘I like it here best, with you and Mike,’ he said. ‘Because the food is good.’
‘Oh,’ I smiled. ‘Not my brilliant personality then?’
‘Just the food,’ he said with a cheeky grin, and ran off to join the others on the playground. Then we all went across to the bridge and I showed them how to play Poohsticks, which caused great hilarity.
On the way back to the car, Anita clung to my arm as we walked, while Hamish kicked a stray tennis ball around for Caroline and Simon.
‘I’m glad Mum didn’t come today. I didn’t like it at Mum’s house,’ she said. ‘It made me unhappy. I don’t ever want to go back there.’ I could feel her arm trembling, tucked into mine. ‘I was always scared.’
‘Well you don’t have to be scared any more,’ I reassured her.
‘Promise you won’t send us back there?’ she pleaded.
‘It’s not up to me,’ I explained. ‘So I can’t promise, but I’m as sure as I can be that you won’t ever be sent back there again.’
The look she gave me was relief, mixed with uncertainty.
‘As far as Mike and I are concerned,’ I added, ‘you can live with us as long as possible.’
Aged seven, Caroline was now at Park School, with the older two. They were all there together for one year. Park School was close to home and the head teacher there was brilliant – the best head teacher any of them had. Mrs Harris really understood them all, as far as anyone could, and always tried to find creative ways to deal with their different problems.
The phone would ring. ‘Mrs Merry,’ she would say, with a smile in her voice no matter what the kids were up to. ‘I wonder if you could come in and have a chat about your three children?’
‘Yes, all right, Mrs Harris. I’m on my way.’
‘Who is it this time?’ I asked as I sat down in her office.
‘Where shall I start?’ she laughed, almost fondly. ‘I’m afraid it’s all three of them today. Hamish refuses to sit down in the classroom and spits at everybody. Anita is swearing outrageously at the top of her voice, and Caroline, well . . . she started by pinching Tracey, her support assistant. Then she plunged her hand right down inside her blouse, and later up her skirt.’ She paused. ‘I know it’s just attention-seeking, but you can imagine Tracey’s response!’
‘Yes.’ I tried to suppress my smile. ‘It must have been quite a shock for poor Tracey!’
‘She’s done the same things to some of the dinner ladies too. I could hear the screams from here!’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.
‘Don’t apologise, Mrs Merry. It’s not your fault, and I know it’s not really Caroline’s fault either.’ That lady would have laid down her life for Caroline. ‘You are doing a grand job with those children.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, unused to receiving any praise. ‘I’ll talk to them all when I get them home.’
‘Have you ever thought about counselling?’ asked Mrs Harris sympathetically.
‘For me or for them?’ We laughed.
‘Well, I suppose you could do with it too sometimes! But let’s start with the children.’
‘Have I just? I’ve thought of little else. They all need some sort of therapy to help them unravel the effects of all that neglect and abuse, to untangle their minds.’
‘And maybe help with their behaviour?’
‘Yes,’ I groaned. ‘You must all think they have 666 tattooed behind their ears! It’s the cost. We can’t afford it for all four of them, and neither Social Services nor the agency will pay. The answer is always no.’
‘What about if I write a letter to our educational psychologist, asking for them to go to sessions with a counsellor?’
‘That would be brilliant! Could you?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll do it today.’
14
A Dry Place on the Mattress
‘Not a good visit. Jill whispers to them and wants to take them to the toilet. Nightmares – Anita and Caroline the worst. Anita sleepwalks. Hamish mumbles and cries out.’
Extract from my diary
‘We’ve found a great psychiatrist to work with the children,’ said John at the agency. ‘I think that letter from the school helped, as the education department are going to pay half.’
‘Oh thank you.’ I smiled with relief. ‘I owe you a hug. That’s great news.’
‘I think you’ll like him, and he’s very good with children. He’s going to contact you direct to arrange a preliminary meeting.’
‘With me?’
‘Yes, for some background information. It will only be for a limited time, I’m afraid. But at least it should be a help.’
‘I have great hopes. Anything will be a help to these kids.’
A few days later, Dr Siyay arrived. The house was peaceful for once, as the children were all at school and, fingers crossed, nobody would need me for a while. I made him some coffee and we sat together in the living room.
‘Now, what can you tell me about the children’s parents?’ he began.
I told him what I knew of Jill’s background in particular, and the children’s first few years with her, with him writing notes as I spoke. He must have heard so many horrendous stories over the years, working with abused children, but he made all the right responses, sensitive and sympathetic, and I thought here is someone who will really listen to the kids, and hopefully help them.
Then I told him about some of the things that had happened since they came to us, some of the awful stories they had told us, and their behavioural problems at school.
As I told Dr Siyay all this, I began to wonder whether it was me. Perhaps I’m too old for this. Perhaps things have moved on so much that I’m not as good as I thought I was.
I asked him lots of questions and he answered me as far as he could.
‘But I need to start working with each of the children,’ he said. ‘They need the chance to speak, to be listened to and to have what they say acknowledged and valued, to help them understand themselves better and to unravel some of their most confused thoughts and feelings.’
‘Yes, that’s just what they need.’ I breathed a sigh of relief. Now, at last, I felt that we had help to deal with the past and move forward.
The children all warmed to Dr Siyay and liked going to see him when it was their turn. It did seem to help and they were generally calmer for a while. When, a few weeks after their last sessions, the report came out for each child, I felt relieved that he had understood them all so well. But it also made me realise it had only scratched the surface, and they needed a lot more input than the agency could afford.
‘How do you all feel about staying on longer with Mike and I?’ I asked them one evening, when they’d finished their tea. ‘The agency has told us this will be a long-term placement, if that’s what we all want. What do you think? Would you like to stay with us for a long time?’
‘Yes, I like it here,’ said Caroline.
‘I feel safer here,’ added Anita.
‘Me too,’ echoed Caroline. ‘I want to stay forever.’
‘What do you think, Simon?’ I asked, trying to make sure he had his say.
‘Yes, OK,’ he replied, in his usual detached way. ‘I don’t really remember before I was here.’
‘We all want to stay,’ said Hamish. ‘But it would be good if Mum visits less often. She’s always letting us down. Half the time she doesn’t turn up anyway.’
‘I can’t ask for her not to come,’ I said. ‘But maybe that will change over time. We’ll have to wait and see.’
Mike and I were well aware that our role as foster parents wasn’t o
nly to look after the children. That would have been challenging enough. But we had expectations to meet, and that was the additional pressure that sometimes threatened to break my back, not to mention my sanity.
Ofsted, Social Services, our own local authority and the agency, all had expectations that required us to show how much better the kids were doing in our care than in their parental home. To all these organisations, our true job was to help all of them prove that the children’s parents had failed to give them the care they needed.
We had to show that they were looking better, eating better, sleeping better . . . All of them could now see that the children could read, knew their numbers and their colours, though Caroline was still a bit wobbly on those. The local authorities were happy with the agency, who were happy with us, and the children were happy. The whole of the first year I’d had to keep a daily diary – a challenge in itself when you’re as dyslexic as I am! I also had to keep up with the washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning up after the kids, monitoring their behaviour, reading them stories, taking them to schools . . . and everything else. I was always in demand, and it didn’t get any easier as time went on.
‘Come on, kids,’ Mike would say on a Saturday morning, ‘we’re going for a walk.’ And he would walk them for miles. He’d walk the legs off them. That meant I had a couple of hours, phew! I could listen to the silence – what bliss.
Nobody was saying ‘I’m hungry’ or ‘I’ve just wet myself.
‘I like doing the fun bits,’ Mike always said. Every Saturday or Sunday he would take them somewhere, to the park, to the woods, on a drive, to different places every time.
‘Where are you going today?’ I asked him one Saturday.
‘Do you think they’ve ever been on a train?’ he asked.
‘Errrmm.’
‘Right, I’ll take them on the train to Ashbridge today.’
‘You should have seen their faces when the train pulled in to the platform,’ said Mike that evening. ‘Poor Simon had a hissy fit!’
‘I suppose he’d never seen a life-sized train before,’ I said, smiling. ‘It’s a bit different to rolling his toy train along the kitchen floor!’
‘Yes, and he really didn’t like the noise it made.’
‘What about the others?’
‘They really enjoyed it.’
He didn’t mind how far they went, even to London. One time he took them all the way to Blackpool to see the illuminations.
‘Right,’ he said on Father’s Day, ‘do you think they’ve ever been on a bus? I’m going to take them on the double-decker bus to Birmingham for the day.’ Most dads would want the day off, but Mike loved taking the children out – that was his treat and he always spoiled them rotten. They had a great time, and jostled through the front door when they arrived home, worn out and happy, all competing to tell me about their adventures and what fun they’d had. I dreaded to think what junk food they had eaten with Mike, but I tried not to worry about that.
Mike has always been a great dad and a very good husband.
If it was a frazzly day, I would only have to say: ‘Do you think you could take the children swimming while I get this done?’
‘Yep,’ he would say, even if he’d just walked in through the door. He always said ‘Yep,’ taking them to the fair, the cinema or whatever.
He never once turned round and reproached me with ‘Well it’s the life you chose’ or anything like that. He doesn’t pretend to understand the psychological side. That’s the bit I’m interested in. He just wants to see them happy. He’s been very, very good.
As usual, early one sunny, summer Saturday, Mike was planning where to take the kids for the day.
‘The countryside or a beach,’ he said. Mike was never really into funfairs or theme parks, so it was usually somewhere he was happy to go.
‘Why don’t I come with you today?’ I said.
‘Really? Are you sure?’
‘Yes. It’s time I came along and we had a big family day out together.’
‘Great!’ he said with a smile. ‘That will be a real treat.’
‘Let’s go for a picnic, somewhere with a beautiful view.’
Mike immediately got out his road atlas, picked a destination and worked out the route, while I started on making the sandwiches.
The children came rattling down the stairs and breakfast was the usual scrum.
‘Where are we going today?’ Hamish asked Mike through a mouthful of food.
‘We’re going on a picnic,’ I replied.
‘Are you coming too?’ asked Anita.
‘Yes. We’re all going on a picnic together.’
‘Hooray . . . we’re going on a picnic . . .’ The children cheered and hyped themselves up for the outing.
We loaded up the car with all the food, enough for an army, and we squeezed in a football, cricket bats and stumps, a kite, rackets, balls and God knows what else.
Mike chose a pretty drive that he knew I would like, through stone-built villages and country lanes, towards Ashbridge. As we drove along a ridge, he pulled into a stony lay-by, opening onto a lovely wide expanse of moorland. We found a flat spot and I handed all the tins and containers out of the car to Mike, who passed them along the line of children to Hamish at the end, where we had spread the rugs. He lovingly set out all the food and we sat down to eat.
‘What a lovely day!’ I said. ‘Lots of blue sky, sunshine, a slight breeze and just one wispy, white cloud on the horizon. What do you think it looks like?’
‘Cotton-wool?’ ventured Hamish.
‘A cat with its paws in the air,’ suggested Anita.
‘A rabbit!’ shouted Caroline, entering into the spirit of things.
‘What do you think, Simon?’
‘I think it looks like a cloud,’ he shrugged, and we all laughed.
We played games to start with; everything in quick succession, as they all had the concentration span of a dragonfly, flitting from one thing to the next. Then they tucked in to the food. No knives and forks today, so they really stuffed themselves with gusto.
When the food was all gone, we took some photos. Then the children ran around and played some more games with Mike, while I packed it all away.
Finally, when we’d been there God knows how long, I called out to them all.
‘Come on, it’s time to go home.’
Mike, Anita, Caroline and Simon packed all the games things back into the car, but Hamish wandered around with his chin on his chest, kicking the ground in a temper. I went over to him.
‘What’s the matter, Hame?’
He wouldn’t reply and refused to speak to anybody, only climbing into the back of the car at the last minute and sitting in a sulk all the way home.
That evening, I put the younger three to bed first, then came back to find Hamish in the bathroom, brushing his teeth.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked him as he rinsed his mouth out.
‘You promised.’
‘What?’
‘You promised we were going on a picnic,’ he said.
‘We have been on a picnic’
‘No, we haven’t.’
‘Yes, we have. We’ve been on a picnic today. You were there. You ate the food.’
‘But we didn’t go on anything.’
I suddenly understood his confusion.
‘Aah,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t going on a ride or anything. We just went on an outing. We went on a picnic. That’s what people call it when you eat sandwiches and things outdoors on rugs.’
Of course, Mike had previously taken them on all sorts of rides, on buses, on trains, on donkeys, on fairground rides . . . This was one of those times when I realised how their limited vocabularies and speech-patterns could still affect their understanding and enjoyment of things that everyone else takes for granted.
One night, when I was tucking Anita into bed, she gently smoothed her hand across the soft cotton of the duvet cover with a smile and a happy sigh.
‘Oh yes? What do you like about them?’ I asked, thinking she meant the colour.
‘We didn’t have a bed each. We had a mattress for all of us, and we never had sheets or a duvet, just a filthy blanket.’
‘A mattress on the floor?’
‘Yes, and I always used to try and find a dry bit.’
I couldn’t get that image out of my head for days. Even now, it still makes me shudder.
‘I like tidying up,’ said Caroline one day, as she helped Hamish and Anita to put all the toys away in their boxes and cupboards in the playroom, then wiped clean the blackboard we had put on the wall for them all to draw on.
‘Good. You can go up and tidy your bedrooms too, if you like.’ It was encouraging to see them all, even Simon, getting some pleasure from making their surroundings clean and tidy. The two older ones in particular were becoming quite fussy about putting their clothes away neatly in their wardrobes and drawers.
All four of them now washed their hands and faces and cleaned their teeth without needing to be reminded. And Caroline was at last getting over her fear of the bathroom. This was definite progress!
We hadn’t seen or heard of Jill for a while, but out of the blue we had a call to say she was coming to visit the children again.
‘She probably won’t come,’ said Hamish with a scowl.
‘I hope she doesn’t,’ added Anita.
As usual, we arrived in good time and settled down in the family room. I knew the children had mixed feelings about this, but I hoped she would actually turn up this time.
She arrived on time . . . with Kevin, and I could hear an argument in the reception area. As soon as the children heard Kevin’s voice, they drew closer to me and listened with anxious expressions – fearful even.
‘I’ve come to see the kids with Jill,’ insisted Kevin. His gravelly voice had a startling effect on all the children. Hamish in particular resumed his protective mantle.
