What's Love Got to Do with It?

by Jenny Molloy

  Will starts to break down and cry as he comes to accept that so much of what he’s suffered and still is suffering is a result of the abuse he received as a child. Then, as the last bit of therapeutic input, Dr Maguire gives Will a really good, solid hug – something that had, up until then, been missing from his life. This leads Will to say: ‘Does this violate the doctor-patient relationship?’ and Dr Maguire replies: ‘Not unless you grab my ass.’

  HENRY

  The flat was in a fairly pleasant estate in north London. I like to think I’m a fearless social worker but a feeling of dread crept over me as I started to ascend the four floors to the flat occupied by Gary and Nikki, both in their late twenties, and their two little boys, Anthony and Thomas – Tony and Tommy – five and seven years old.

  I hadn’t been in the job long and had just moved into the Looked After Children Team when the police called. I was first to pick up the phone, so that meant the case was mine. They needed me down at ‘the scene’ as they called it, as soon as possible.

  The stink of urine, which I thought had been caused by some idiot peeing in the stairwell, got stronger and sharper, until I realised the smell was actually coming from the flat. Two small mongrel dogs had the run of the place and, it seemed, treated it like a toilet. The parents hadn’t thought to clean up after them – or take them for a walk. But Gary and Nikki weren’t the walking kind, which made me wonder why they had the dogs. Gary was even too lazy to walk upstairs to use the loo and he urinated in the kitchen sink, which was full of washing up. With the plug partially blocked, the fluids drained away slowly, soaking, then drying and sticking to everything, leaving an eye-watering, rank smell behind.

  I’d never experienced anything like it before and I think even the police officers, who had been called in by the building manager, had been caught by surprise. How could anyone live in this mess? The kitchen was unusable, the floor sticky and covered in food. The lounge was full of newspapers, fast-food containers of every description, many with decomposing food and congealing sauces still inside.

  A space had been cleared on the single worn sofa’s dark green and shiny cushions, where Gary and Nikki sat and watched the large TV hanging on the wall at the other end of the room. The TV was the cleanest thing in the house by some margin.

  The boys were perfect. Beautiful, fair-haired, and they looked well-fed and happy. They were scared of all these serious-faced strangers and clung to their parents. If you’d taken a snapshot of them together, you would have thought that this was a normal, loving family. And in many ways they were – save for the unbelievable mess.

  I didn’t want to touch anything but I slipped on a small car concealed under a discarded sock as I climbed the stairs and I had to grab the sticky banister to save myself from a backwards tumble.

  The boys shared a room and it was cleaner than the rest of the house, although I found another small, scraggly dog sleeping in the lower bunk bed. It wagged its tail and grabbed a pillow in its jaws when it saw me, ready to play a game of tug-of-war.

  There was a chest of drawers but, after I’d picked my way across the floor that was strewn with clothes and the occasional plastic toy, it almost came apart in my hands when I tried to pull open one of the drawers. It turned out to be empty.

  I wondered about school uniforms. I eventually found trousers and shirts crumpled in the bottom drawer. They smelled stale. Hadn’t the teachers noticed? Once in a while a child’s uniform may not be the cleanest, but I suspected that this was a problem of terrifying consistency.

  Both the boys were taken into foster care. They didn’t want to go, and Gary and Nikki were heartbroken. I’m quite tall and I felt like I was towering over them (there was nowhere to sit) as I explained why I was there and what decisions were being made. They were small and Nikki was tiny, as quiet as a bird. When she did speak, Gary, who was nearer, would automatically repeat what she said so that I could hear. She wept silently when we took the two little boys in the police car to the foster carers, who lived a short drive away and had been warned about – and were prepared for – the head lice.

  I worked with Gary and Nikki, trying to get them to improve their parenting skills, to deal with each other’s emotional issues, and to clean up and keep the house in order. They’d listened and responded to everything I’d said positively but I didn’t feel as though they really got it, or were committed to the process. I don’t know if they thought I would eventually get fed up with them and with looking after their children and would just give them back but I got the sense they were simply biding their time.

  Part of my job was to pay unannounced visits to see how they were getting on, and this is what scared me the most. I wanted Tony and Tommy to go home. I wanted them to have the parents that they loved so much back again. But I had to make sure my decision wasn’t clouded by emotion. One of the many difficult things about this job is that I feel strongly for the parents and want them to have their children back so much that I have to force myself to be objective, to do what’s right for the children. Sometimes doing the right thing means breaking the hearts of parents and children alike.

  Also, this case was unusual. There was no indication that Gary and Nikki were deliberately abusing the children. It was just that they were failing to look after them on a spectacular scale. They had produced shining references from their employers (they delivered leaflets door to door, by the thousand, for a charity). Gary had a lot of medical problems and was in quite a bit of pain. It was easy to feel sorry for them. They didn’t have much and worked hard for what they did have but, somehow, they couldn’t see they were failing their children.

  ‘All right, Gary. How are you doing?’

  ‘Good, good thanks.’

  And Nikki?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s here. Ill put the kettle on.’

  I was unlikely to drink it but said thanks anyway, hoping for the best.

  ‘We’ve redone the house, as you can see.’

  The house had indeed been redone, but by the council and by order.

  I followed Gary, looking down on his near-black, thinning hair, for the nits. Yes, they were still there. We entered the lounge. Nikki, with her scraggly, fair hair, was shorter even than Gary. She got up from the sofa and whispered a greeting.

  As they walked me through the maisonette, I saw they’d ripped out carpets and the walls and doors had been newly painted. But that sour urine smell was still most definitely there. Even though they’d gone along with the repairs (as long as they didn’t have to bother to do anything themselves, they were fine), they hadn’t changed their behaviour. Going along with things was a smokescreen to hide their inability to act. They weren’t able to realise that we would see straight through this. That, in itself, was a little worrying. It wasn’t a lack of intelligence, more a breakdown in thought processes, coupled with straightforward laziness and a remarkable ability to inhabit a pigsty. The strange thing was there was no trauma (that we were aware of) from either of their pasts that could have led to this. As far as we could tell, their childhoods hadn’t been perfect but they hadn’t been abused or neglected and had made it all the way through school. Both sets of their parents were very old and quite poorly and although they loved their grandchildren, they were in no position to take them in.

  I’d dreaded going in but now, smelling the urine and seeing the mess in the kitchen, the food cartons in the lounge, a big puddle of what I guessed to be dried milk in the hallway, I started to feel relief. I would be certain in my decision. All I had to do was imagine Tommy and Tony coming back in here to live. It would be cruel.

  Gary and Nikki weren’t able to be honest.

  ‘Still got the head lice?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, well, we tried that treatment but I don’t think it was strong enough.’

  Nikki whispered something.

  ‘Nikki says we’ll give it another go,’ Gary added, sighing with annoyance. ‘Wish they’d give us some stuff that actually worked.’

  Most
of the treatment for head lice involves wet combing with a fine-tooth comb and a lot of patience.

  ‘It’s not as if they do any harm, anyway. Not that serious, is it, lice?’ Gary continued.

  I wasn’t going to confront them at this moment. One’s approach is so important. Whatever happens, I’m going to have to deal with these people for several months. I need to be able to look them in the eye, to pay them a compliment when it’s due, to be honest (unless it’s in the child’s interests, to get them out of danger) and to show them respect. Even the lousiest parent is human; they recognise respect, or the lack of it, and that can be key. Respect is a tricky thing because there’s a fine balance between respect and pussyfooting, especially if a parent is abusing their children. There’s been a lot of talk about social workers protecting their backs. I can’t speak for others but I never thought about protecting my back. I talked honestly, and face to face. I’ve noticed that some social workers make themselves seem as though they’re important, which makes others feel inadequate and leads to animosity. I feel most at ease when things are harmonious. There’s a time for conflict, of course – after all, I’m here to do a job and work in the interest of the child, otherwise I’m not doing my job properly.

  Therapists had worked with the boys and with the school to try and see if there was any way Gary and Nikki could meet their kids’ long-term interests. While Gary and Nikki clearly loved their children, it was obvious that they were worlds away from being able to meet Tommy’s and Tony’s physical needs, let alone their practical and educational needs. And even though they loved their children, their emotional expressions were at best confusing for the boys.

  It was clear cut.

  The boys wanted to go home and the parents wanted them to go back.

  But I couldn’t see any reason for these children to go home. They would have a much better chance in care. Things had not improved enough, in my opinion. We always try to work towards significant improvement but if we feel the parents could fall back into neglectful behaviour at any moment, then it’s better for the children not to be put through the experience again – as well as another separation.

  Tommy, the oldest, was most affected by the lack of parental care. His self-esteem and self-worth was non-existent. I didn’t think there was any chance that the parents could have made up for what went before. If they had kept a clean house, provided their children with breakfast and walked them to school and back, then I would have thought there was a chance, but it was clear that these parents weren’t ever going to be able to provide even this. Tony would soon be suffering from the same disordered psychological symptoms as Tommy.

  It was possible that Gary and Nikki could have kept them alive, i.e. fed and watered the boys until they were able to leave home. Or they could be cared for by other people who would work on their emotional wellbeing as well as their general care. The therapeutic aspect of a child’s life is so important. Of course, we have to make sure we’ve done everything we can to assess and support families in a safe way but there’s only so much you can do.

  It’s an awful decision to have to make, especially when parent and child love each other, but they would have a much better chance in care. Tommy and Tony really wanted to be with their mum and dad. I don’t think they understood at all why they had to go. Walking out of that block with those little boys was so hard but at the same time, this was what it was all about. Saving kids before the damage was done, placing them in a caring, loving environment that would allow them to grow and become the wonderful grown-ups they deserved to be.

  Although I’d made it clear that I had grave concerns for the parent’s capacity to care, and even though the council sided with me at court, the judge decided that Tommy and Tony, rather than go into long-term fostering and then adoption, would go back to their parents, albeit with a care plan and community monitoring in place.

  I felt really strongly against this. I couldn’t understand the judge’s decision. This is risk management, deciding which side you’re prepared to err on. But the child shouldn’t ever have the risk, nor the trauma of coming in and out of their parents’ lives. Tony and Tommy had, by this time, been in foster care for six months, which, for them especially, was a huge amount of time.

  As far as I was concerned, the judge had put the parents’ needs before the children’s needs.

  Sometimes bad decisions get made when the parents find really good solicitors and barristers who make a really good case, especially when the local authorities find themselves caught on the back foot thanks to people leaving the job and the case being passed on to new, inexperienced workers who are unfamiliar with the family. They also don’t have as much time to spend on case preparation. Due to case workloads, transfers, illness, pregnancy and retirements, a family’s social worker might change several times, while the family’s solicitor stays the same all the way through.

  Judges may want to come down on the side of social services but if the evidence isn’t presented well enough, then they don’t have that option. Judges also tend to think that parents should be given another chance. It’s understandable that they don’t want to be the monster that makes the final decision that will break up the family.

  In the case of Tony and Tommy I wrote letters to the director of social services with my opinion: ‘I want this to be recorded, on my file and on the children’s file: I fundamentally and entirely disagree with the plan.’

  They arranged a phone conference. The director went through the case, point-by-point.

  ‘A lot of what you say, we agree with. It’s not what we asked the court for but the court decided something else, so this is the plan.’

  ‘I’m nervous about it.’

  ‘So are we. We will be subject to a serious case review, not the judge, if something happens to the children.’

  Perhaps the worst part for me was visiting the foster carers to give them the news. Robert and Anna were in their thirties and lived in a lovely little house on the corner of a quiet street almost next door to an enormous and idyllic park with two children’s play areas. They couldn’t have children of their own and, rather than opting for IVF, had decided to care for children in need.

  ‘We just didn’t like the idea of IVF,’ Robert, who ran his own small building company, told me. ‘When we first considered the idea, the doctor sent us to the hospital along with dozens of other couples for a lecture all about the process and something didn’t feel right. It’s not as straightforward as most people think. There are risks. Anna just came out with the idea when we were driving home and it felt right. So here we are.’

  This was their first long-term foster placement and, despite their lack of experience, they had done an amazing job. Their house was, as one would expect, clean, warm and cosy. They’d made a photo album of all the adventures they’d had with Tommy and Tony and it was clear to me that the boys had come to love their foster parents and their life in this new home.

  Robert and Anna were devastated when I told them Tommy and Tony would be going home to their parents and were just as surprised and hurt by the decision as I was.

  At the moment, foster carers don’t have the status where they are able to be part of the process at all. They’re not even consulted, because they don’t have any degree or qualification; they’re not seen as professionals. But they are professional and, most importantly, they’re part of the family. Foster carers have to jump when social services or the court dictates without pre-consultation. They have to do what they’re told – to be impossibly flexible and shock resistant – in that they can lose the kids they’ve been looking after for months within a very short space of time.

  ‘We love the boys so much,’ Robert said. ‘We’d do anything for them. Now they go back, and the undoing of everything we’ve tried to do will begin. After all the work we’ve done, this is the result?’

  I couldn’t argue with them. The love Robert and Anna had for Tommy and Tony, which had grown into a love as strong as any parent
, had led to massive positive change in the boys’ quality of life.

  Gary and Nikki’s feelings of love, poorly expressed to me but cleverly explained in the courtroom by a talented solicitor, had been enough to convince the judge, though. I’m convinced that if Robert and Anna had had a voice then the outcome would have been all the better for Tommy and Tony. It wasn’t long before I observed that Gary and Nikki had failed to fulfil basic hygiene needs once again, let alone provide their kids with stimulation – they just couldn’t be bothered. They loved their kids but had very little will to care for them. Gary and Nikki showed me that love on its own isn’t enough, that love alone doesn’t provide children with everything they need.

  ISABEL AND ANDY

  It had taken a month of treatment to wean Parti off the opiates. Then she spent eighteen months in foster care. And now we had her. Suddenly, we had a child.

  I’d hoped I’d love her from the first moment and I did.

  When I held Parti for the first time I took in her smell, her hair, the miniature nails on tiny pink toes, each one as perfect as its neighbour, her eyes full of wonder and the soft little sounds that came from her perfect mouth. I was smitten. For almost a year, I’d hoped and hoped this was how I would feel and now that I did, I was overjoyed.

  Thinking about it now, it was a bit like falling in love with a new partner – an infatuation that’s a bit different from the love between mother and child. Love comes with time. I was just too excited and happy to notice the difference right then.

  The fear came later. It started to creep in after a couple of weeks, when life didn’t return to ‘normal’, when the worry that some harm could come to Parti grew into outright fear – fear that I might harm her accidentally, through some negligent act that no other mother would be silly enough to make. Just as strong was the fear that something would happen that I would be unable to prevent, something that would be totally beyond my control.