Four Waifs on Our Doorstep Page 11

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She went to sleep,’ said Hamish. ‘She wouldn’t wake up and I thought she was going to die.’

  ‘I only remember lying on the sofa, like I was in a cloud, with lots of people talking to me. I was asleep and they told me to wake up. I tried to open my eyes.’

  ‘You were very floppy,’ added Hamish. ‘When the social worker came, she called an ambulance.’

  ‘When I woke up I was in hospital. That was good.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because a nurse gave me the best hug. And then I rode a trike round the ward.’

  It was one of those bright, warm spring afternoons, with the smell of blossom, when we arrived at John’s house. In all my previous thirty-five years of fostering, I had never before been invited to any get-together like this. John had asked all his carers to bring along their foster children one Sunday afternoon. He had a beautiful garden that led down to a shallow stream, with a climbing frame and swings in one corner and lots of balls and games out for the children to play with. Play they did, rather wildly as I remember, but that was nothing unusual – they were just having a good time.

  ‘Hi, Trisha,’ John called with a smile as he came across to me, standing with a group of other foster mums. ‘Did you know?’ He turned to them, offering a plate of jam tarts and mini-éclairs round the group. ‘This woman was voted Mum in a Million?’

  ‘No? . . . Really . . . Well done . . .’ They were all very gracious about it. Too nice really.

  ‘But the people who voted would have been shocked if they saw the state of my house after the kids have trashed it.’ I grinned. ‘Or heard me bellow when I have to shout above their noise! I’m not very motherly then!’

  ‘No, I’d never win something like that,’ said the young foster mum standing next to me. ‘But you have to be tough, don’t you? Even with one child. I can’t imagine how you cope with four!’ She looked pointedly at the havoc they were creating, pushing other children off the climbing frame and pinching their skipping ropes.

  ‘I don’t think I do,’ I shrugged, making a mental note to talk to the kids about being kinder to others. ‘I just try to keep my head above the troubled waters, one day at a time!’

  ‘That’s so right!’ said another woman. We all laughed, pooling our experiences. It was such a lovely afternoon and it was all down to John and his partner Suzy, who plied the children with cakes and buns. My four loved her for that.

  The children were beginning to get used to us and our ways, though it was always two steps forward and at least one back from day to day. Nothing was ever predictable.

  One morning, the hoity-toity woman from the education department phoned me.

  ‘I’m just ringing to check,’ she said. ‘Are your two older foster children attending school yet?’

  Here we go again, I thought. ‘No. As I told you before, I tried all the schools and as soon as I said the words “foster children” and “problems”, nobody would take them.’

  ‘Well, try some more schools outside the city.’

  ‘You try them,’ I said, losing patience with this jobsworth woman. ‘Look, four weeks ago I told you that if you couldn’t find Hamish and Anita places at the same school, I would have to keep them at home.’

  ‘But you can’t do that.’

  We’d been here before. ‘Yes, I can. I refuse to send them to school until you find them places,’ and I put the phone down. I probably shouldn’t have done that, but it worked!

  Everyone came out of the woodwork and within an hour the phone rang again.

  ‘Have you tried any of the smaller village schools outside the city, like St Mary’s?’ asked a warmer female voice, quite different from the first woman. ‘I wonder if Hamish and Anita might settle more easily into a small school. What do you think?’

  ‘Well, I assumed they would have to go to their local school, and I thought a bigger school could more easily handle them. But now you put it that way, a village school with smaller classes might be better, more personal, more like a family. Do you think St Mary’s would be willing to take them?’

  ‘I’ve just called to see if they have spaces and they do. It’s not too far to drive. You could give them a try. I said you might call.’

  So that’s what I did.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Merry. We do have places in both Year 2 and Year 1.’

  ‘Did the education department tell you they are foster children who have a lot of adjusting to do and may have problems settling in?’

  ‘Yes, they did. And we’ll discuss with you the best way to meet their needs.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you!’ I was so grateful to have found a small school with a good reputation to start them in at last. That woman was right. They might have felt lost in a big school, but small classes in a village school – that would be much better.

  I began to get them into school routines: getting up at the right times, doing some reading and writing practice with me in the mornings, and counting out the money in my purse.

  Simon and Caroline used to sit with us too during these morning sessions. Of course their needs were very different. Simon, at nearly three, was just beginning now to play with wooden bricks or his beloved farm animals, so he sat on the floor with them while Caroline, coming up to five, joined us at the table. I would set both Hamish and Anita a handwriting or adding task, while I tried to teach Caroline some numbers and colours, but with no success. She could repeat them after me, but she didn’t retain them.

  So Caroline didn’t know her colours, couldn’t count at all, had a speech problem, was still in nappies day and night and . . . who’s going to take her? Well, I’d worry about that later, once the older two had started school.

  One morning the health visitor arrived to do her weighing and measuring. All four children had been very small for their age, so this monthly ritual was an important factor in judging their progress since coming to us. Then she observed them playing, over a cup of coffee with me in the garden.

  ‘How do you think they’re doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Very well, I’d say. They’re all putting on weight and climbing the charts to get closer to average now,’ she explained. ‘How are they mentally and emotionally?’

  ‘That’s the bit that is huge for them. I feel I’ve barely scratched the surface of the damage there. They really need therapy, all of them. They need a good, perceptive counsellor in the long term, who can help them sort it all out in their heads, but nobody will pay for it.’

  ‘Who needs it most?’

  ‘They all need it badly, but maybe Hamish, because he’s suffered for longer, and he’s been more a parent than a sibling to the other three.’ I explained some of the things he had done. ‘And he can’t let go of all that responsibility. Even now, if Mike takes him out with him to get the paper or anything, my phone is sure to go and it’s always Mike’s mobile. “Hello, it’s Hamish. Don’t forget you have to feed Simon and change his nappy.” He can’t shrug off that mantle and let himself be a normal carefree boy. I wonder whether he ever will.’

  ‘It sounds like he has been quite a hero.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what Anita said.’

  We sat and watched the children running around and showing off.

  ‘Anita looks quite athletic,’ said the health visitor. ‘Perhaps she might like to join a club, like gymnastics or trampoline, or something like that.’

  Later I asked Anita. ‘The health visitor said you look athletic. That means you move your body well and you could be good at sports. What do you think?’

  ‘I like running and doing cartwheels,’ she said. ‘Are they sports?’

  ‘Yes, I think that’s what she noticed when she was watching you in the garden this morning. Do you think you’d like to join a sports club?’

  She put her head on one side and thought about it. ‘Is dancing a sport?’

  ‘Yes, in a way. Would you like to have dancing lessons?’

  ‘Yes. I’d like to be a dan
cer.’ Ever the exhibitionist, Anita did a twirl and bowed to her imaginary audience.

  ‘Do you remember Steve, your old social worker?’ I asked at breakfast the next morning.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ nodded Hamish. ‘He had glasses and brown hair.’

  ‘I remember him too,’ added Anita.

  ‘Well, he’s coming to see you all this afternoon.’

  ‘It’s a long way,’ said Hamish.

  ‘Yes, he said he couldn’t stay long, so I want you all to talk to him and show him your bedrooms, so after breakfast you can go and tidy them up.’

  ‘What do we have to talk to him about?’ frowned Hamish.

  ‘Oh, just anything you want to tell him.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, are you worried about anything?’

  ‘Yes. Is there any Weetabix left?’

  Steve was supposed to come every six weeks, but it had been more than two months now. Whenever I had phoned him to ask for any information, which he wasn’t allowed to give me, or to try to get him to agree a date for this visit, he had always blamed the delay on work. I had to badger him to come at all.

  ‘What day are you coming next week, Steve?’ I said. ‘I’ll put a lunch on for you.’ I knew he’d go anywhere for the opening of a sandwich, and sure enough he arrived, just in time to eat.

  ‘Hello, kids,’ he said to them cheerily as he came in. ‘Gosh, haven’t you grown!’

  ‘Have we?’ asked Hamish anxiously.

  ‘I’ll soon be as big as you,’ Anita taunted him.

  ‘No, you won’t. I’m growing faster than you.’

  ‘No, me,’ wailed Caroline, standing on tiptoes . . . and falling over.

  ‘Let’s not argue while Steve’s here,’ I said.

  Over lunch all the children in turn told him about their lives with us. Hamish about the swearing chart and the fish and chips, Anita about the Knickerbocker Glory, her girly clothes and growing her hair, Caroline about eating her favourite pasta and having lots of toys and Simon . . . well, he just pointed at his favourites, the farm and the bricks in the corner of the kitchen.

  After lunch, the children were still hungry, so I sent Hamish down to the playroom with a packet of cereal bars and the other three all rushed down the stairs after him. Steve and I followed.

  We watched the children getting out the toys to show Steve.

  ‘I’m sure Caroline has some sort of learning difficulties,’ I said to him. ‘And after watching Jill on her two visits, she appears to have learning difficulties too—’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ he interrupted.

  ‘I’m wondering whether Caroline has inherited her mother’s learning problems.’

  ‘She looks all right to me.’

  I could see I wouldn’t get anything out of him about that, so I changed the subject and told him about Caroline’s impacted bowel and what I had overheard in the hospital. I hoped it would prompt him to tell me more, but he kept his lips sealed.

  ‘It would have been really helpful if I had known that she had that condition before she came to us.’

  ‘I expect it would.’

  ‘Are there any other health problems that I should know about?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Can you look it up and let me know?’

  ‘I’ll text you,’ he said, shifting uncomfortably. I knew he never would.

  ‘Why did it all go on so long, Steve, all the neglect and abuse they had to suffer?’

  ‘I did everything I could,’ he answered defensively. ‘I put in a support worker every day.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t sound as if any of those support workers did much good,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he shrugged. ‘Jill hated them coming and refused to let them in, or shooed them away too soon. She even punched one of them in the face.’

  ‘Yes, Hamish told me about that. Was she all right?’

  ‘Yes, a bit bruised, but nothing broken. We took the Mackay children off her caseload.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have removed them sooner?’

  ‘We didn’t know how bad it was for a long time. Then I filled in all the paperwork three times to have them removed into care, but my boss threw it out every time. I was sorry I was away when they were finally removed.’

  ‘I think it’s time you told them why they are still here and that they are not going back. That should come from you. I shouldn’t have to tell them that, or they might blame me. But they all need to understand.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He looked a bit uncomfortable.

  I have to say, he did a reasonable job of it, with me breathing down his neck. He sat them all down together and explained.

  ‘The judge said that your mum could not look after you any longer.’

  ‘Did she cry?’ asked Anita.

  ‘Yes, she did. But it was too late to make any difference. The judge told her that she had neglected you for too long and she wasn’t able to look after you all properly. So he signed an order and made her sign it too, to say that you could live with Trisha and Mike instead.’

  ‘Forever?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that. But you are all going to stay here for a long time.’

  ‘Goody,’ said Caroline, clapping her hands together.

  ‘Trisha and Mike are obviously looking after you all very well, so I’m sure the judge is right. What do you think, Hamish?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied with a nod. ‘The judge is right. But who is looking after Mum? She can’t look after herself.’

  ‘No, you’re right. She has a partner living with her full-time now and he looks after her.’

  ‘Is that Kevin?’ asked Hamish warily.

  ‘I hope it’s not Wayne,’ whispered Anita.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t remember his name.’

  ‘What about the next baby?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘Yes, your mum is expecting a baby and we are keeping an eye on her, with regular visits to check that she is eating properly.’

  ‘But she’ll be the same with the new baby when it’s born,’ sighed Hamish.

  ‘No,’ Steve said gently. ‘We will take the baby straight into care so that it has a happy, safe and healthy childhood.’

  That was a lot for the children to take in and I wasn’t sure that anyone other than Hamish really understood it fully, but I knew it would sink in gradually and I could be there to sympathise and help them, which was my role. None of them reacted badly to this news at the time. In fact, they all seemed relieved to know they would be staying for a longer time.

  ‘Thank you for doing that,’ I said. ‘How do you think they look now?’

  ‘Loads better,’ he smiled. ‘They all have colour in their cheeks, healthy skin and their hair is growing well too. It’s great to see them in good clothes. They always wore rubbish jumble-sale tat before.’

  We finished our coffees and he stood up. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to go now.’

  ‘Not till you’ve been upstairs to see all the children’s rooms.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘They’ve tidied them up specially. Come on, kids, take Steve upstairs and give him a tour of the house.’

  It was nearly an hour later before we finally let him leave!

  ‘Don’t be so long before you come next time,’ I said. ‘Hamish and Anita will be starting school soon, so make sure you come and hear all about it.’

  A few days later there was another supervised visit from their mum. The children again insisted on my presence and this time the social worker stayed in with us. Jill must have come on the right train this time, with Kevin again I believe, but he had been told not to come anywhere near the family centre this time, so Jill seemed a bit less distracted.

  The plan this time was to split the visit. I took the two younger children there for the first hour. This went quite well as Hamish and Anita didn’t monopolise their mother’s attention and she didn’t overtly reject Caroline, although she still spe
nt much more time with Simon. The social worker and I tried our best to get her talking with both children, but with little success. It was hard going.

  Mike brought Hamish and Anita for the second hour and took Caroline and Simon home again. Without Simon to carry around, Jill seemed more aware of the older two, but still hardly paid them any attention. She seemed uninterested and I could see they were bored and restless; almost impatient with her. It was hard work trying to engage her in their play, and she remained detached. Yet again, this was a lost opportunity.

  I could see now just how limited Jill’s understanding was of what her role should be. I expect she did love the children in her own way, but she appeared only to be conscious of her own immediate needs. Hamish and Anita seemed relieved when her taxi came to take her back to the station and we could go home and get on with our own lives.

  In my diary that night I wrote: ‘. . . better for all the children, but not so good for me.’

  11

  Starting School

  ‘The children did not start school immediately. They spent the first few weeks with carers, focusing on their basic needs. This provided the stability they obviously craved.’

  Review notes

  It was a big outing the day we went to buy Hamish and Anita’s school uniforms for St Mary’s First School. Kay took out the two younger ones for the afternoon so that Hamish, Anita and I could concentrate on kitting them out with all the things they needed.

  The school colour was red, so they needed smart red sweatshirts with the school logo on them and we ordered those from the school. The rest we bought in town.

  ‘I love my new uniform,’ said Anita with pride. She couldn’t stop grinning. ‘Can I wear it when I get home?’

  ‘You can put it on to show the others,’ I said. ‘But we must keep it smart for your first day at school next week.’

  ‘I’m going to show them mine too,’ added Hamish with a smile. ‘I never had any uniform at my old school, and I hated being different from everyone else. This time I’ll be just like them. I can’t wait to start school again, and make some new friends.’

  ‘And this time you won’t have to dice with death, crossing any dual carriageways, Hame, because I’m driving you all the way to the school gate.’