Four Waifs on Our Doorstep Read online

  ‘I’d rather give you my email and postal addresses and we can do it that way?’

  ‘Very well, Mrs Merry. I will pass those on to him.’

  A couple of days later, we had a short, handwritten letter from Michael Warren:

  Dear Mrs Merry,

  My name is Warren. My wife and I are in the process of adopting Jill Mackay’s baby, Lee, who we have been looking after since his birth. But we are encountering some difficulties. The main problem is that we can’t get any information out of the Social Services.

  The only thing they could tell us was that you are fostering four of Lee’s half sisters and brothers. So we are hoping you can give us some background information. It all seems quite confusing. Can you tell us what’s what in this family?

  I would be very grateful if you could perhaps call me on the above number so that we can talk about all this. I think you may be the only ones who can help us.

  Regards,

  Michael Warren

  I talked it through with Mike and we both felt these people must be as much in the dark as we had been, and still were in some ways, so we wanted to try to help them. I rang him that evening.

  ‘I’ve got a great big wodge of paper about your children,’ he said, as soon as we got the introductions over with.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, since I wrote to you a couple of days ago, we’ve received this thick packet of what looks like detailed case notes about your children. More than a hundred pages I should think.’

  ‘Really?’ I was shocked. What was he doing with detailed notes about our children, sent officially by the Social Services, when all we’d had were a dozen or so pages of very sparse notes sent anonymously?

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Why would you want notes about our children?’

  ‘Because we’ve only just found out that Jill took an overdose.’

  That stunned me. ‘Why haven’t we been told that? After all, she is our children’s mother too.’

  ‘Sorry, I assumed you knew.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. Social Services have never wanted to tell us anything, so it sounds like you know a lot more than we do!’

  ‘And we’ve only just found out about all the problems the other children have had. And we were told Jill had no learning difficulties.’

  ‘That’s what they’ve always told us too, but I’ve watched her when she attends supervised visits – she’s only made it to two so far. There’s no way that woman doesn’t have learning difficulties. I would say that she has quite severe problems.’

  ‘Well, we’re already concerned about Lee. He cries all the time, no matter what we do for him. And he’s been very slow in reaching his milestones, so far. We are quite worried about what problems he may have inherited . . . Do any of your children have problems?’

  ‘Well . . .’ I wanted to tread carefully here. ‘What about the notes Social Services sent you? We haven’t had anything, you see. Well, not officially anyway. And they have always denied everything when I’ve asked. But they were at considerable risk in the home. Anita was—’

  ‘Oh, do you mean she was sexually abused?’

  ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘It says so, here in the paperwork they sent me.’

  ‘What do you mean? What does it say?’

  ‘I’ll send it to you. Do you have a fax machine?’

  I gave him our fax number and, only half an hour later, he faxed a few pages through to us.

  ‘Mike!’ I yelled down the stairs from our office. ‘You’ve got to come and see this.’

  He came straight up and joined me as we read the faxed notes, so different in their depth and extent of detail to what we had been sent.

  ‘Here it is, in black and white,’ I exploded with anger. I was furious. ‘What the hell has all this got to do with Michael Warren? He doesn’t even know the children. We are the ones they should have sent it to, straight away, when they first came. How dare they reveal confidential details like these about a small child to complete strangers? I’m absolutely livid!’ I was so angry that I could feel the blood rushing through my brain. ‘What happened to my girls, to all the children? Why didn’t they tell us?’

  Mike put his arm around me and continued to read the rest of the fax.

  ‘You’ve every right to be cross,’ he said. ‘It’s disgraceful that they sent this information to strangers, who have nothing to do with our four. And I can’t believe they kept refusing to send anything to us, no matter how many times you asked them.’

  ‘I’m getting straight on the phone to Social Services on Monday and I’ll show them how angry I am!’

  Monday morning came and as soon as I was back from the school run, I rang them. No faffing about; straight to the point.

  ‘Can you tell me why you have sent Michael Warren detailed, intimate information about our four children, when you have always refused to send anything to me? You even denied that any of it ever happened. How can you justify that, I’d like to know?’

  ‘But you are mistaken, Mrs Merry,’ said this infuriatingly calm, patronising voice at the other end. ‘We haven’t sent any information at all about the four Mackay children in your care to Michael Warren, or anyone else. I can assure you of that.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘Well, I know you did, and he phoned me about it, and I’m hopping mad.’

  ‘Well,’ she changed her tone, ‘if that is the case, what can you do about it?’

  What can I do about it? I thought, as I went to bed that night, still far too cross to sleep. I can’t do anything! It was all so unfair.

  A few days later, and the kids had been off the wall. I’m not joking. I can’t remember what it was, but something started them off, and they were all a nightmare. I was called to come up to the school or the nursery every day, twice a day, and their behaviour was more antisocial than ever before, kicking off in the classroom, kicking out at teaching assistants or nursery staff, smashing up toys or equipment, everything you can think of.

  As I drove them all home, fighting like crazy in the back, I remember thinking: These kids have got to have some therapy. I’ve got to get something organised for them, because it’s not working without.

  And when Mike showed me an article in the newspaper that night about a counsellor specialising in abused children, I wanted to get onto him straight away, but I knew we couldn’t afford him without help. That was my light-bulb moment. Yes, there is something we can do about it. I can sue Social Services to get the money for the therapy that they had always denied us for the children, every time I’d asked nicely for it.

  Of course I realised it wasn’t going to be as simple as that, and maybe it would have to be something we could look into, but the prospect cheered me up no end. And I think that might have rubbed off on the children too, as the rest of the week was much calmer.

  Perhaps because of Jill’s situation, she hadn’t been to visit the children for quite a while, and I was told via the agency that her parents, the children’s grandparents, were going to come instead. Well, I knew very little about them, other than the case notes I had been sent that mentioned briefly that the girls had been to stay with them for several days at around the time that Simon was born.

  As usual, I said nothing to the kids until the day came, just in case plans were changed and they might be disappointed. None of them had ever mentioned their grandparents, so I was shocked by their reaction when I finally told them on the morning of the visit.

  There was a stunned silence for several seconds.

  Finally Hamish spoke. ‘Do we have to go?’

  ‘Yes, they’ll be on their way shortly, so we’ll meet them at the family centre.’

  ‘Do we all have to go?’ he tried again.

  ‘No.’ Anita’s face paled. ‘I don’t want to. Can I stay behind?’

  ‘And me,’ added Caroline, her gaze darting from one sibling to another.

&nbs
p; Simon of course seemed quite unconcerned.

  Their responses took me by surprise, but I had to help them go through with it. ‘It will probably only be a short visit, as one of the social workers is driving them up.’

  ‘Will you be with us too?’ asked Anita, her eyes pleading.

  ‘Yes. I’ll make sure they let me.’

  ‘OK then.’ She sighed.

  We arrived just before they did and waited, listening to the sounds as they were brought into the building. The door opened and in walked this middle-aged couple. The woman was a little subdued but the man gave the children a big smile.

  Caroline went rigid. Anita had a look of fear. Could she really be afraid of her own grandparents? Then I realised – something must have happened, might perhaps have been going on over time, maybe abuse of some kind, but I wasn’t sure, yet . . .

  The social worker put the chairs in a circle and we all sat down, the girls either side of me.

  Grandmother looked pleased to see the children. ‘Look how you’ve grown,’ she smiled with pride.

  Grandfather said nothing until the social worker tried to engage him in conversation, with little success. He just looked from Caroline to Anita and back again, while they shuffled uncomfortably on their chairs.

  Hamish took the initiative, got up and tried to persuade his grandfather to come with him for a walk outside, but he was having none of it.

  ‘I want to stay here and look at my beautiful girls,’ he insisted. ‘Come,’ he turned to Caroline. ‘Come and sit on my knee and make your grandfather a happy man.’

  Caroline grabbed my arm with a grasp so tight it hurt.

  ‘Come along. I won’t hurt you.’ He paused. ‘Anita, my pretty one. You will come and sit with me, won’t you?’

  The social worker gave her a persuasive look and Anita bravely walked over to be lifted onto her grandfather’s knee, where she dangled uncomfortably, cringing while he stroked her ear with one hand and her thigh with the other, while shifting in his chair.

  By now I was sure I was right.

  The grandfather leaned his head down and whispered in Anita’s ear. She looked frightened.

  I wondered what he said to her . . . and what part he had played in their lives. It seemed increasingly clear to me that he had abused them both and hoped to do so again.

  Meanwhile, the grandmother coaxed Caroline to edge over to the grandfather as well. I noticed the alarmed look on Hamish’s face when the grandfather stood up.

  ‘I’m just going to take the girls out to look at the garden,’ he said, with them held tightly by the hands, dragging reluctantly behind him and glancing back at me in fear. I made a face at the social worker and went towards the door, where she joined me. Between us, to Hamish’s obvious relief, we managed to bar Grandfather’s exit with the girls.

  ‘I’m afraid the visit can only be conducted inside this room,’ said the social worker.

  He looked disappointed, signalled to his wife and they both left.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the social worker hurriedly to me as she rushed to follow the grandparents out. ‘I didn’t know it would be like this.’

  That night, the three older children had the worst nightmares since the night they arrived, crying out and wailing in their sleep. Anita sleepwalked, so I had to close the stair gates to prevent her falling. I could barely imagine the harm that man did to his own vulnerable and helpless grandchildren. I’m ninety-nine per cent certain he sexually abused Anita and Caroline on several occasions, and no doubt their mother too. That visit put back the kids’ recovery for weeks.

  13

  Telling Tales

  ‘Their expectations of Mum are so low, nothing seems to disturb them.’

  Extract from my diary

  Once she was dry by day, Caroline was a year late starting at St Mary’s First School, with all the settling-in problems we had come to expect from her – almost daily phone calls about one misdemeanour or another. Because of her learning difficulties and unusual behaviour, the head teacher arranged that there would always be a support assistant in Caroline’s classroom, to give her some support. The trouble was that Caroline wanted this woman all to herself, and the class teacher had other ideas.

  ‘Mrs Merry,’ said the school secretary’s voice on the phone, ‘Caroline smacked another child today. Now she’s run out to the field and is screaming.’

  ‘But it’s lesson time, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is her support assistant?’

  ‘She ran out after her and is with her now. But Caroline refuses to move, and we are not permitted to restrain children these days, so we can’t force her back into the classroom. Do you think you could come and persuade her to calm down and come back inside?’

  ‘All right. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  Why do they need me to do everything? I thought. Surely their teachers and assistants are trained to deal with this sort of thing?

  ‘What happened to spark Caroline off this time?’ I asked the assistant as I joined them on the school field.

  ‘That’s just it, Mrs Merry,’ she said, with a puzzled expression. ‘I was right there next to her and I don’t know why she reacted like this.’

  ‘Were you helping her with something?’ I knew that, like the others, Caroline didn’t like to be told what to do, and with her it was doubly difficult as she often found instructions impossible to understand.

  ‘Well, she was busy with the coloured pegs in the board, so I was just helping another child who had asked me for a spelling.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s probably it then. Maybe she didn’t want to share you. I expect she felt you were neglecting her by helping another child.’

  ‘Well, that’s rather unreasonable, in a busy classroom.’

  ‘Caroline doesn’t see it that way.’ I paused. ‘Maybe, if we can get her inside, you could take her to the book corner and read a picture book to her, just the two of you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She smiled with relief.

  I turned to Caroline. ‘Come on, let’s go in and choose a nice book for Maggie to read to you.’

  Caroline hesitated and looked from me to Maggie.

  ‘Come on,’ coaxed Maggie, crouching down to Caroline’s level and smiling warmly. ‘Shall we go and find a Mog book?’ It was like luring in a hard-to-catch fish. It has to be the right bait.

  I watched them go inside, hand in hand, and drove back home again, wondering what it would be about next time.

  A few days later, Social Services rang to say that new visits had been arranged for each of the children’s parents. This time it would be their father one day, and their mother the next.

  I had to take all four children out of school and we arrived at the required time, but just as I turned into the family centre’s car park another car sped out and away into the distance.

  ‘That was Dad,’ shrieked Hamish, then stuck his head out of the open window. ‘Dad, Dad!’

  ‘It’s no good, Hame,’ I said. ‘He’s too far away to hear you.’

  I could see Hamish’s crestfallen expression in my driving mirror and I felt a surge of sympathy for him, for all of them. The silence was almost painful as I drove round the car park and out again.

  ‘OK, kids, it’s not worth going back to school, so who’s for an iced doughnut from the bakery?’

  The mood lifted immediately. But as they sat in the cafe, chomping their doughnuts, their resentment resurfaced. Anita was particularly angry.

  ‘Dad always tells lies,’ she blurted out, spitting hundreds and thousands across the table.

  An elderly couple next to us sipped their teas noisily and exchanged disapproving glances.

  ‘He makes me fucking mad!’ she shouted, and now everyone in the place was turning round.

  ‘Yes, he always lets us down,’ added Hamish. ‘Like the time he said he was taking me to Scotland, and he went without me.’

  ‘Well, never mind. I expect he got
the time wrong,’ I said, trying to make excuses for him, in an effort to help the children accept what had happened.

  ‘No, he’s a wanker. He just didn’t want to see us,’ snarled Hamish. ‘And I didn’t want to see him either. I don’t care if I never see him again.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Caroline, in support of her brother.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ added Anita, having the last words.

  The next day I took them all back to the family centre to meet their mother for a supervised visit. She wasn’t there when we arrived, but she was usually late, so we went in and the children got all the toys out, so they were fine for a while. But the time was passing, and she still didn’t show up. After an hour, I decided to call it a day.

  ‘Come on, kids, let’s tidy up and go home,’ I chivvied them. ‘It doesn’t look as if Mum can make it today.’

  ‘She’s a cunt!’ exclaimed Anita. ‘She’s so lazy that she can’t even be fucking bothered to come and see us.’

  ‘She can never get anything right,’ added Hamish, almost as angry as Anita. ‘She never could do anything for us. She can’t look after herself, let alone anyone else.’

  ‘Well, let’s go home. It’s a lovely afternoon. Why don’t we all go to the park by our old house and you can play Poohsticks off the bridge.’

  ‘What’s Poohsticks?’ asked Caroline.

  ‘Like in Winnie-the-Pooh,’ I said. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

  As we walked across the grass that afternoon, with the younger three scampering in front of us, Hamish confided in me.

  ‘I used to worry when I was at school.’

  ‘What did you worry about?’

  ‘The little ones,’ he said, with his serious expression. ‘When Anita and me went to school, I knew we were leaving the little ones alone in the house with Mum and her boyfriends. Mum never got up till lunchtime, and I don’t think they did either, and there was nobody to look after Caroline and Simon. Nobody to make them breakfast, give them a drink, change their nappies or anything.’

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘I used to sit in the classroom and worry all day. Sometimes Mum still wasn’t up when I got home, and they had pulled their nappies off. They had wet and dirtied everywhere. I used to try and clean it up.’