Angels in Our Hearts

by Rosie Lewis

  ‘Good luck, Sarah,’ they call out before leaving for school. Tonight I plan to take them for a pizza as a reward for being part of a fostering family. It will be good to be out; the house seems to echo with an unwelcome silence for days after a placement has ended, especially a much-loved one. Anyway, Emily and Jamie deserve the important part they play in children’s lives to be acknowledged.

  Forcing a bright smile as I wave the children off, I lay Sarah in her crib, watching as she slowly turns her head from side to side. Her eyes drift to the twinkling lights twisted around a miniature Christmas tree on the hearth. Transfixed, her tiny lips form the shape of an ‘O’. Minutes later her tiny fingers uncurl and she drops off into a relaxed sleep, reminding me how far she’s come in a short period of time. Six weeks ago she was tucked up tightly in a ball of drug-induced pain.

  While she’s resting I pack her memory box, filling it with items that her adoptive parents will hopefully keep safe for her. I label everything carefully, including a blanket that her birth mother was thoughtful enough to buy before she went into labour and a little pink rabbit with a rattle inside, a present from her grandmother. Little details that may mean so much to her when she’s older. I’ve also written her a life-story book filled with photos of our family, so that she has a record of where she spent her first few weeks of life. Sitting on the floor, I allow myself a few tears as I close the lid, unable to hold back any longer.

  When I open the door to Desmond half an hour later I’m sure he notices my swollen eyes, but he knows better than to mention it. It’s a sight he’s seen on a fair number of occasions and I’m grateful for his sensitivity. I know he will hang around when the adoptive couple have left with their new daughter, to hold my hand and congratulate me on a job well done.

  ‘You’s looking particularly dreadful this morning, Rosie,’ he jokes, aware that any hint at sympathy would set me off. I hoot with laughter, the chuckle catching as a little sob at the back of my throat.

  Some foster carers are able to cope with separation more easily than others. I was hoping that with time I would get better at letting go, but I’m still a work in progress as far as that’s concerned. With babies I find it particularly difficult to keep my distance and not become attached, even though I know my job requires me to maintain a cool professionalism.

  For the next half an hour, while we wait for the new couple to arrive, I busy myself folding Sarah’s freshly washed little clothes and packing them into her new Peter Rabbit suitcase. Desmond chatters away in the background but I hardly notice what he’s saying, I’m so distracted. I try not to look at him, knowing that if I meet his eye my guard will come crashing down.

  With fifteen minutes to pass I sit on the sofa, Sarah in my arms. I take a few deep breaths, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable knotting sensation in my stomach. Wanting some warning before they descend, so that I can gather myself, I fix my eyes on the window, watching the part of the road I can see beyond the front garden.

  Paul and Kate arrive a few minutes earlier than planned, no doubt itching to begin this next exciting phase of their lives. It seems like such a long time since I first met them, even though it was only a week earlier. With older children the handover periods tend to be much longer, but with a baby as young as Sarah it’s over with quickly, with only one or two pre-planned meetings before the big day.

  The atmosphere is a little forced as I fuss around offering them tea and biscuits, my breakfast churning vengefully in my stomach. Kate perches on the edge of the sofa, her mouth working at the edges. Her husband hovers in the doorway, his eyes barely leaving Sarah’s peaceful face as she snoozes in her crib. They’re probably desperate to get away but the formalities have to be attended to, medical information imparted, etc. I try to keep the atmosphere light; this is, after all, one of the happiest days of their lives. I have heard that adopters find the final handover day almost as traumatic as the foster carer, as if they’re stealing someone’s own child.

  With details exchanged and forms signed there is not much else to be said. Unexpectedly, Kate walks over and squeezes my arm. ‘I want you to know we’ve waited a long time for this day. Thank you for taking such good care of her.’

  The well of tears I was fighting to hold down threatens to overflow. Reassured that Sarah is going to someone sensitive and kind, I gulp, nodding in acknowledgement. I don’t really trust myself to speak as I lift the sleepy baby from her crib, tucking her blanket gently around her.

  ‘Well, tha’ seems to be everything covered,’ Desmond says as he walks over to me, tactfully touching my shoulder to remind me that we have a job to do.

  Surrendering someone so vulnerable to an unknown future feels unnatural, wrong even. Every instinct shouts at me to hold on to Sarah but I summon all my mental energy and brush a brief kiss on her warm forehead. ‘Be happy,’ I whisper, ignoring the ache in my chest and planting her firmly in the social worker’s arms.

  As Desmond turns to cross the room I hold onto the thought that whatever life holds in store for Sarah, at least during her first six weeks she was cocooned, suspended for a short while in a net of love and safety. I hope that I’ll see her again one day, even though I know it’s unlikely. Adoptive couples often prefer to draw a line under the past, a sentiment I can sympathise with, however difficult it can be for foster carers to accept.

  ‘Do you think she’ll be alright?’ I ask Desmond as we watch her for-ever parents settle Sarah’s seat into their car then exchange a tender kiss over the open passenger door. I give up trying to hold back the tears.

  ‘She is a much-wanted child.’ Desmond, a rock at times like this, wraps a steady arm around my trembling shoulders and draws me back into the house. ‘They’ll cherish her,’ he assures me, leading me into the kitchen. ‘You’s no’ to worry. Now, put tha’ kettle on. I need to give you the heads up on an urgent case we’ve just had in.’

  And so the wheel turns, I think, as I never cease to wonder how lucky I am to have found such a special job.

  A Small Boy’s Cry

  With the familiar pips of the BBC News at Ten’s closing music pulsing away in the background, I secure the dead bolt on the back door and walk back through the kitchen. My eyes stray to the smiley face etched onto one of the cupboard doors – a legacy of three-year-old Alfie – then I go through to our ‘lived-in’ lounge, where a carefully placed coffee table fails to conceal a lingering pink glow on the carpet: fuchsia nail varnish, courtesy of Amy.

  Amy was fifteen years old when she arrived as an emergency placement the previous year, staying with us for four weeks. By the time she left we were more or less buddies (what’s a few cracked vases and a broken television between friends?), although her arrival and the ensuing days while she acclimatised to the sobering reality of living in a cannabis-free house were, to use social services’ mild description, ‘challenging’.

  But I don’t mind that much if our home is less than perfect. Not really. Dimming the lights on our weathered but cosy rooms, I climb the stairs knowing that I wouldn’t have it any other way. Smudges on the window panes or scribbles on walls can be erased with some elbow grease or a splash of paint, the effort more than compensated for by the hope that the children we have fostered aren’t the only ones to leave their mark behind.

  It’s nice to think that the time they’ve spent in our family leaves its own impression. Muddy walks in windswept woodlands, splashing through puddles on a rainy afternoon, drinking hot cocoa while playing board games in front of the log fire; the simple, gentle monotony of everyday life spent with people who care leaves an imprint, perhaps even replacing some earlier, less tranquil memories. Sometimes, all it takes to make a positive difference to a young life is just one adult who cares enough to show an interest. Carving a place in a troubled heart nurtures resilience, buffering whatever turbulence may lie ahead when the haven of foster care has ended.

  Up in my bedroom I climb into bed, leaving my clothes and mobile phone within reach. Tonight I’m on c
all and covering the eleven-to-eighteen age range, as well as my usual under-tens. Switching my electric blanket on, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be needed and who it might be. When covering such a wide age range, I have to be prepared for anything. Jenny, a fostering friend of mine, recently accepted an unaccompanied minor while on call. When the Somalian arrived at her house, she couldn’t help but notice his emerging facial hair and rippling six pack; it turns out that Nafiso was, in fact, twenty-one.

  However much my imagination strayed, I must have dropped off fairly quickly because when my phone dances impatiently around the top of my bedside cabinet and I reach out to switch the lamp back on, the bulb is still hot. Still half asleep, I reluctantly grope for the ANSWER button.

  ‘Hello,’ I answer croakily, switching to loudspeaker mode and blinking rapidly in the soft light. My pulse quickens at the sound of Des’s Scottish burr.

  ‘I’m just giving you the heads-up, Rosie,’ my supervising social worker tells me in an urgent tone, converting my adrenaline into action.

  I force myself to my feet and dress hurriedly, pulling on an old jumper, leggings and a pair of fluffy socks. At 1 a.m. in mid-November, the temperature is already dipping close to zero.

  ‘Boy, aged three. Suspected neglect. He’s receiving emergency treatment at the moment. Not sure how long he’ll be at the hospital but you’s best get yourself ready.’

  Aw, three, I think, aware of a familiar clawing in my stomach; it’s the desire to make him all better before he’s even arrived. Des promises to ping the details through to me and reminds me I can call him for support any time, day or night. After making a quick coffee I switch on the computer and open the email sitting in my inbox from Des.

  EMERGENCY PLACEMENT REQUIRED

  Charlie SMITH, age three

  Charlie has been on the vulnerable children’s register since birth, as his mother, Tracy, has struggled for years with depression and addiction issues. With support, Tracy has demonstrated that she’s able to meet Charlie’s basic needs, but he’s rarely present at nursery, and neighbours have complained of continued bouts of crying coming from their flat. Tracy has no extended family or network of friends to offer support.

  Late this evening Charlie was found wandering the concrete walkway below the family home. Though his vocabulary seems limited, the boy indicated to a passer-by that he had fallen from the first-floor window. Police were unable to rouse his mother when they entered the flat. She appeared to be heavily intoxicated. Charlie’s currently in A&E where he’s receiving treatment for a gash to the head. An urgent foster placement is required while investigations are carried out.

  I click ‘X’ to close the window, and sit staring at the blank screen for a moment. It sounds to me like both Charlie and his mother have been living an isolated existence, with no one but professionals around to offer support. My stomach begins to churn, as it does whenever someone new is about to arrive.

  Stop fretting, I tell myself. If Des were here he would say, ‘You’s haven’t done too badly so far, m’darling.’ All of the children I’ve cared for in my years as a foster carer have left happier than when they came, so I suppose he’d be right. Knowing the trauma Charlie has been through, I feel the familiar tug to offer comfort intensifying. The chance comes sooner than expected. Just as I’m finishing the dregs of my coffee, the doorbell rings.

  Charlie stands on the doorstep, the top of his mousy-coloured hair bathed in pale moonlight. The delicate skin above his right eye is covered with white gauze and tape, held in place by a bandage circling his head like a bandana. I can’t see his face as he’s staring down at his black plimsolls, but I notice how tiny he looks next to the stocky police officer beside him. It’s freezing, but all he’s wearing is a pair of dirty pyjamas. A middle-aged woman, presumably the duty social worker, hovers behind.

  ‘I’m Evelyn,’ she says, leaning around the officer who’s massaging Charlie’s shoulder with meaty fingers.

  ‘Hello, Evelyn. And you must be Charlie,’ I say softly, crouching down to his level.

  His eyes are barely visible under a heavy crop of wispy hair, but I can sense bewilderment there. His features are small and appealing but unusually angular for a child so young – he’s much too thin. His head hangs awkwardly to one side, as if it’s too heavy or uncomfortable to hold up. I feel a rush of pity.

  ‘You look freezing. Come in, all of you.’

  ‘He wouldn’t let me carry him or wrap him in my coat,’ Evelyn says, as she follows me through the hall, her fingers on Charlie’s back, propelling him in. His eyes are swollen with tiredness. ‘And we couldn’t find anything warm for him at the flat.’

  She hands me a small, grubby Fireman Sam rucksack. ‘Here are a few of his bits, but not much, I’m afraid.’

  When we reach the living room she leans towards me. ‘Most of his clothes were damp, covered in all sorts. Mum was so out of it we couldn’t make head or tail of what she was saying.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I have spares.’

  Turning to Charlie, I kneel beside him. He stares at me with an anxious frown.

  ‘Don’t worry, Charlie, everything will be fine. We’ll find you some things to wear in the morning. I’m Rosie, by the way. You’ll be staying with me for a bit. You’re safe here, sweetie.’

  The police officer, a man in his forties with closely cropped dark hair, smiles warmly at me, then grimaces and shakes his head, his expression saying: doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?

  Evelyn and the officer sit on the sofa, and Charlie sinks down on the rug in the middle of the floor, exhausted.

  ‘I know the mum.’ The social worker speaks out of the corner of her mouth like a ventriloquist, as if Charlie would be unable to hear that way. ‘I was hoping she’d get a grip on things, but …’ She gives a weary sigh, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Well, you know …’

  I nod. How many times had I seen it now? An over-dependence on alcohol or drugs – or both – and a child’s chances of having a good day or a harrowing one spin on a penny, all determined by the chemicals pulsing through their mother’s veins. It’s not always beatings and bruises that signal the end of a birth family and the beginning of life in foster care, I muse. Sometimes it’s a simple case of daily deterioration, the slow unravelling of a mother’s ability to cope. I flick my mind back to the early days, after my daughter Emily was born.

  Catapulted into a life without the reassuring structure of work, I felt isolated and lonely. Each day was seemingly endless, and the monotonous cycle of changing, feeding and rocking really got me down. If someone had told me back then that I would soon choose to spend my life caring for other people’s children, I would have pronounced them deluded. Remembering how lost I felt, it doesn’t take a huge stretch of the imagination to think that I too might have been unable to cope, perhaps drifting towards a crutch to numb the feelings of uselessness. I shudder at the thought, feeling a stab of pity for both mother and child.

  Charlie’s chin is quivering. I’m not sure whether it’s with cold, fear or perhaps because his head’s aching.

  ‘When did he last have pain relief?’ I ask Evelyn, while I reach behind the sofa for a small, pale-blue blanket. I drape it around his shoulders then sit quietly beside him, letting him get used to having me near. He looks sideways at me with solemn eyes and I smile, noticing that his face is dotted with fine white crusts, presumably salty deposits from anxious tears at separating from Mum.

  ‘Just before we left the hospital, about …’ Evelyn inclines her head towards the police officer.

  He checks his watch, pursing his lips. ‘About half an hour or so ago, I’d say.’

  I nod grimly, knowing that the poor little mite is in for a rough few days. With his legs splayed and shoulders hunched over, Charlie looks like he’s reached the same conclusion, as if he’s lost all hope at the tender age of three. Watching as he nibbles his fingernails, tearing into the ragged skin, I’m flooded with a longing to pick him up and soothe him.


  It’s actually this first, unscripted half an hour or so that I find the most difficult, when I’m weighing up what the child needs, trying to read their signals. I’m getting better at it. In the early days I was overly attentive, moving awkwardly around children who probably would have preferred a little distance while they adapted to their new environment. I would fuss around, straightening toy boxes that were doing perfectly well where they were, and offering endless litres of juice and other refreshments. Experience has taught me to hold back a little.

  Evelyn hands me a short report from the hospital to read. I’m pleased she’s decided not to discuss everything in front of Charlie, especially once I read the contents. It seems that his short life has been peppered with regular trips to the emergency department – scalding-hot tea spilt on him when he was just three months old, stitches at the age of nine months after a falling shelf happened to catch him on the head. The depressing list goes on and suddenly Charlie’s mother becomes a more shadowy figure. My sympathy wanes.

  It’s a familiar tale. Another early childhood eroded by circumstances, leaving the vulnerable – well, Charlie at least – lost, scared and sitting alone in a heap on my rug. It will take a while for the fragments of his short life to be pieced together. With an investigation underway, nursery teachers, GPs, health visitors, everyone who has come into contact with Charlie will be interviewed and the jigsaw will eventually be pieced together. Of course, there will be gaps, ones that perhaps only his mother will ever be able to fill. The emerging picture will hopefully reveal neglect and not wilful abuse; I still struggle to come to terms with the possibility that a mother could deliberately harm her own child. However many times I hear about it, my brain just can’t assimilate something that disturbing.