Angels in Our Hearts

by Rosie Lewis

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Charlie sticks his finger into the fruit and it breaks in half. He picks it up and turns it over several times in his hands, looking at it with the same interest that he showed in the toothbrush. Emily, realising the significance, cocks her head on her shoulder, her eyes brimming with tears.

  ‘Ah, bless him, Mum,’ she says quietly, looking towards me. ‘I don’t think he’s ever seen a banana before.’

  Since Charlie had been removed from home suddenly, contact with his mother is arranged at the earliest opportunity. Tracy Smith was offered a session at 9 a.m. but she declined, pronouncing early mornings ‘difficult’. And so at a few minutes before 11 a.m. on Monday morning I walk into the contact centre with Charlie pottering along behind, so close that the soles of my feet brush his little legs with every stride. Knowing how much reassurance Charlie craves, I desperately hope that the meeting will go well.

  The receptionist smiles a welcome and tells me that Tracy is waiting for us in the Oak suite, one of the contact rooms. I tense as we pass through a large waiting area; liaising with birth parents can be tricky. Emotions, understandably, run high and sometimes foster carers bear the brunt of it.

  We pass a thin woman in her early thirties sitting on a dark-blue sofa. My attention is drawn to her because she’s wearing flip-flops, even though it’s November. She stares blankly at the wall ahead and I can’t help but notice that her eyes are glazed over with the vacant look of a toddler watching television on a loop.

  Scanning the wall opposite, I can’t work out what she’s so transfixed by. It’s bare, barring a few scratches in the paintwork and other, more dubious-looking splotches. It looks like someone has been preparing to redecorate. Apart from traces of old Blu-tack, there’s no sign of the posters that usually feature in contact centres – ‘Are You Claiming All You’re Entitled to?’ or ‘Domestic Violence Is a Crime, Report It.’

  As we near the Oak suite, Charlie runs two or three feet ahead, enticed by the sight of unfamiliar toys. I find myself absent-mindedly imagining the posters that might feature in less impoverished areas, perhaps ‘Trouble Finding Suitable Stables? Have You Considered Pony Sharing?’ or ‘Inheritance Tax a Burden? Call Us for Independent Financial Advice’. It’s only when I catch up with Charlie and see that no one else is in the playroom that I stop mid-step, some inbuilt facial-recognition program finally kicking into gear. Charlie’s already mounting a rather sickly looking rocking horse and so I leave him where he is, walking backwards from the room so that I can still keep my eye on him but check out the woman on the sofa. There’s definitely a family resemblance.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I call out, hovering midway between the playroom and the waiting area. ‘Are you Charlie’s mother?’

  There’s a prolonged pause before she turns around, as if she’s a news reporter communicating via a temperamental satellite link. Eventually she nods and stands, unsmiling, staring as she walks towards me with the same unswerving attention that she gave the blank wall. She carefully negotiates every step and as she approaches I realise why she looks like she’s being operated by remote control; she smells strongly of alcohol and cigarettes. Her pale blonde hair is greasy and so is her face, like she’s coated in some sort of filmy substance. She’s wearing a short denim skirt and her thin legs, not surprisingly considering the weather, are mottled by the cold.

  My hand flickers at my side as she nears, as I wonder whether to offer a handshake. Tracy resolves my indecision by walking past me, straight into the playroom.

  ‘There you are, Charlie. Wha’d’ya go walking right past me for?’

  Charlie swings around to the door, slipping off the horse and landing awkwardly on his bottom. He whimpers and cradles his head but it’s me he looks to for reassurance, even though his mother is standing closer to him. Already we share an unspoken understanding. After such a short time I am his ‘safe base’, his source of protection and comfort; yet another serious cause for concern. I smile with a sympathetic glance but don’t do anything more; experience has taught me that nothing winds mothers up more ferociously than taking over and playing mum in their presence.

  It’s only then that Tracy acknowledges me, giving a curt nod.

  ‘I’m Rosie,’ I say, smiling, willing her to scoop Charlie up.

  She doesn’t. Bending over, she knocks his shoulder with the back of her hand. Accidentally? With affection? It’s difficult to tell, but what’s obvious is that Charlie’s now hyper-alert; if he were a kitten his back would be arched, his fur up on end. His bottom lip quivers. The sympathy I feel for him swells to fill up my chest and I feel irritated with myself for ever feeling any for her.

  Rotating on his bottom, Charlie follows her around the room with his eyes. Instead of sitting beside him on the floor as I had hoped, she sits on one of the straight-backed chairs at the rear of the room and reaches into her handbag for her phone.

  Charlie continues to study her, his brow furrowed. Is he looking for clues as to her mood? I wonder. There are a hundred questions in that little stare, one of which is perhaps, ‘Why?’ Tracy’s bland expression must signal safety on this occasion because he potters over to her, resting a small but slightly hesitant hand on her knee.

  ‘I’ve ’at to get two buses to get here, and they haven’t given me no fare money yet,’ she moans, lips tight with bitterness.

  I hesitate, not sure how to respond. Does she expect me to commiserate?

  ‘How tiring,’ I manage to say, couching my words in an overly polite tone.

  Take a look at your son, I want to say. He looks so alone. I find myself eager for contact to come to an end so I can draw him into a cuddle. It won’t be the same, it won’t mean as much, but it might go some way towards soothing that furrowed brow. Does she not know that it’s her job to show him how lovable he is?

  Before I became a foster carer I’d never considered that the ability to accept love was a skill that needed to be learned. I’d imagined that every child exits the womb with an innate capacity to be cherished. Tracy, surly and hostile, yet curiously frail, looks like she’s never had an affectionate cuddle in her life. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that she can’t pass a gift on to her son that she herself was never given in the first place. Remembering how ferociously Charlie clung to me as I put him to bed last night I can’t help but feel terribly sad, knowing that he had to come to a stranger to get some affection.

  Out of nowhere Charlie lunges at Tracy, scratching her face. She gasps and clamps her hand to her cheek, the other bunching into a fist.

  ‘You f*cking bully!’ she screams, looking ready to shake him. Her eyes dart from him to me, weighing up whether she can get away with giving him a quick slap. ‘See what he did to me?’

  It was glaringly obvious that Charlie lashed out in desperation for some sort of attention. Negative or not, anything was better than indifference.

  ‘He’s a little animal. Like yer f*cking dad, you are.’

  He learned at your feet, I feel tempted to say. Instead I stay silent, making a conscious effort to loosen my tightened jaw. Since fostering I’ve battled to master my renegade expressions, but by the look of suspicion on Tracy’s face my success is questionable.

  The awkward moment passes when her mobile goes off.

  ‘Hello,’ she says, brushing Charlie aside and resting her crusted feet on a large yellow tipper truck. For the next half an hour she receives a number of different calls while I play with her son, each conversation peppered with swear words. I like to think I’m not a prude – actually, remembering some of the conversations I’ve had with the likes of Amy and other teens, I know I’m not – but I can’t help bristling at the vulgarity of this woman. The most attention Charlie gets from her is when she hangs up on someone called Dwayne and holds up her phone to take a picture of him.

  ‘Photos aren’t allowed during contact, I’m afraid,’ I tell her.

  Tracy’s face reddens as she rises and, sensing an ill wind, I steer Char
lie towards a wooden garage and a box of cars, hoping he’ll become absorbed. Her feet slap slap towards me and she stops barely a foot away.

  ‘You telling me I can’t take photos of my own kid? Why don’t you go f*ck yourself?’

  This close up I notice that her eyes are the same blue-grey as Charlie’s, except the whites of hers are threaded with the tracks of broken capillaries. For a split second I glimpse symmetry with her son; in the angle of her lips and the curve of her cheeks. With their faces momentarily merged into one, Tracy seems suddenly familiar and the connection warms me to her. For the first time I’m able to see past the hostility, registering the sense of hopelessness reflected in her dull, tired eyes. I can’t help but wish there was something I could do to help.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules.’

  She furrows her brow, wrong-footed by my conciliatory tone. For a brief moment she looks like she can’t decide whether to hit me or fall into my arms for a hug.

  ‘What’s all that over ’is hands?’ she asks, regaining her composure and striding across the room to Charlie.

  She yanks his arm towards her and he looks up, startled. This is familiar territory – a mother desperate to minimise her own guilt by finding something to criticise in another woman’s care, as if mucky hands are negligence on a par with falling from a first-floor window.

  ‘It’s felt-tip pen,’ I say soothingly, trying to calm her so she’ll release her hold on his arm. He looks terrified.

  ‘He had a lovely time drawing you a picture. I have it here, actually,’ I say, trying to deflect her attention and digging deep to draw on some humility. However difficult, it’s in everyone’s interests for foster carers to build positive relationships with birth parents.

  ‘Would you like to show Mummy what you made for her, Charlie?’

  Charlie scampers after me as I rustle around in my bag. When she sees the picture her face softens, breaking into what I imagine to be a rare smile. With an inward wince I realise why Charlie was so surprised to see a toothbrush; spear-like teeth jut from Tracy’s swollen gums at such awkward angles that I imagine it must be uncomfortable for her even to talk, let alone eat. I feel an unconscious rush of genuine compassion.

  ‘Aw, thanks. I like that, mate,’ she says.

  His thin chest expands and, beaming up at her, he throws his short arms around one of her legs. She briefly pats him on the back then begins pacing the room in tight circles, her fingers working over the keys of her mobile phone with such diligence it’s as though she’s being paid to produce a certain number of words per minute.

  Charlie looks as if someone has taken a pin and stuck it in his chest. Deflated, he turns his attention back to me, sombrely offering me toys to pass comment on. I exclaim animatedly as I take each one, trying to rouse a smile. It works, although every now and again he glances around, staring at his mother with a yearning that breaks my heart. An hour and a half after we first arrived, when I tell her that contact is coming to an end, Tracy buries her face in her sleeve and sniffs loudly. Charlie’s face clouds with confusion, then he joins her, tears rolling down his cheeks. I feel the familiar prickle of my own empathetic tears threatening to spill over. She’s a mother, after all, and one who can probably taste the fear of losing a part of her forever. I can’t imagine that any woman would ever truly want that.

  Later that afternoon Emily, Jamie and Phoebe decide to watch a DVD. Unable to agree on one, Emily and Jamie begin to tussle, each grabbing their own disc and trying to reach the DVD player before the other. It’s a playful exchange and I can tell that Phoebe wants to join in, but horseplay with foster children is forbidden.

  ‘Come on, you two,’ I say, not wanting the others to feel left out. ‘That’s enough.’

  Ready to launch herself into the scrum, Phoebe looks disappointed. What I hadn’t noticed in all of this was Charlie’s reaction. He’s crouching in the corner of the room, shuddering with fright. As I approach him he throws his head back, screaming in terror. His arms are locked at the elbows, his legs stiff with fear. As I crouch and take him into my arms his body is rigid, trembling and sweaty. Rocking, I murmur reassurance and eventually he relaxes, nuzzling close.

  Phoebe approaches and kneels silently in front of us. Her brow furrows, perhaps remembering how frightened she was when she first came to us. Reaching out, she touches his face with the edge of one finger and softly strokes his cheek. She’s come a long way from the detached, troubled girl who arrived so many months ago. I’m so touched by her gentleness that I have to look away to gather myself. Charlie gives us both a watery smile.

  Over the next few days I keep replaying the build-up to Charlie’s panic attack, trying to pinpoint the trigger. The only conclusion I come to is that a simple play-fight ignited the memory of a much more traumatic event. I find not knowing exactly what he may have gone through disturbing but wonder whether, at his tender age, he even possesses the words to tell anyone.

  As is sometimes the way, synchronicity helps things along a little, a chance meeting barely two days later shedding some light on his past. It’s Charlie’s second weekend with us and on Sunday morning, bundled up in coats, scarves and hats, we set off for a walk to our local park. Nestled between Emily and Phoebe, Charlie holds their hands and bounds along, chanting their names. Every so often he’s rewarded with a swing high in the air. Whooping with glee, he shouts, ‘More! ’Gain!’ Apart from bedtimes when he still asks, ‘Where’s Mummy?’ he seems to have settled amazingly well into our family, revelling in the attention that comes with being the youngest member.

  After feeding the ducks we walk along the river, trying to decide which of the little cafés to pop into for a hot-chocolate treat.

  And that’s when it happens.

  With the café identified, Emily, Jamie and Phoebe quicken their step but Charlie stops abruptly as if he’s walked into a lamppost, standing stock still in front of me. I rest my gloved hands on his shoulders and lean over the top of his head.

  ‘Come on, Char—’ I begin to say, but the words freeze on my lips when I catch sight of his expression. His eyes are wide and staring at a point to the right, so fixated that even when I kneel in front of him, grasp his upper arms and gently sway him to and fro, I can’t get him to look at me.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I try to follow his line of sight. In front of us a young mother, her hair fixed in a ponytail, is leaning over a pram, tucking a fluffy blanket around an unseen infant. Slightly ahead of her is the heavy form of a scruffy man dressed in a tracksuit top and jeans. As I turn slowly back to face Charlie a cold prickle creeps across my scalp so that the roots of my hair tingle.

  ‘Do you know that man, Charlie?’ I ask.

  Charlie’s holding his breath but he manages a stiff nod.

  ‘Who is he, sweetie?’ I ask gently, half tempted to follow the footsteps rapidly receding along the towpath.

  Charlie begins to wail, the noise so primal that Emily, Phoebe and Jamie are back at my side within seconds, shock evident on their faces. The four of us surround Charlie and, cushioned, he begins to calm down.

  For the rest of the day Charlie is withdrawn and unusually tired. I prepare his bath straight after dinner and when he’s all wrapped up in his towel I hold him on my lap for a bit longer than usual. Kissing his sweet-smelling hair, I find myself wishing I could see the thoughts that swirl around his mind. After a bedtime story I leave him in his room to flick through a picture book while I fetch him a drink.

  Back upstairs minutes later, armed with a glass of warm milk and a biscuit, I walk into Charlie’s room to find his bed stripped and no sign of him anywhere.

  ‘Where are you, cheeky?’ I call out, drawn to the bathroom by a ruffling noise.

  I pull up short in the doorway, surprised to see him tucked up in the tub, covered with his duvet and resting his head on a pillow.

  ‘You cheeky monkey!’ I shriek, but the look of seriousness on his face instantly tells me that this is not a case of toddler
antics. Crouching beside him I notice that the pillow is already sodden from the residue of bubbles after his bath, the newly applied bandage curled and damp at the back of his head.

  ‘What are you doing in there, sweetie?’

  ‘I tometimes sleeped in the bath,’ he says, his lower lip quivering with cold.

  ‘In the bath? Why?’

  ‘Betoz I can’t heared the man fighting Mummy when I sleeped in the bath.’

  I gulp, a wave of pity washing over me.

  ‘The man we saw today?’

  He nods, his eyes wide and searching.

  ‘Don’t you ever sleeped in the bath, Wosie?’

  I shake my head, blinking rapidly.

  ‘No, sweetie,’ I smile, and stroke his hair. ‘I would find it a bit too hard.’

  It takes a while to persuade Charlie back into his own room and several promises that ‘nasty men are not allowed in Rosie’s house’.

  When I go to bed I can’t shake the image of Charlie’s thin body shivering as he chases sleep in a makeshift porcelain bed. Before fostering I was shielded from the harshness that goes on behind closed doors. As far as I was concerned, my family, with its loving patience and understanding, was a microcosm of the world. I knew bad things happened but somehow I was cocooned, impervious to them. As a foster carer I’ve seen the worst side of human nature: children used to satiate sick perversions; toddlers strapped in their buggies for days at a time, leaving their parents free to shoot up with abandon; babies left whimpering in damp and dirty cots instead of being cradled close.

  Having seen awful things happening to the most vulnerable, my childish hope that a compassionate master stands at the helm of a harsh universe has been all but crushed. Fostering shines a light on lives far removed from my own and I sometimes think it’s an insight I’d prefer not to have. But then I remind myself of all the many small kindnesses I’ve seen towards the children I look after, not only from my own friends, family and fellow foster carers, but also from neighbours, health professionals, even people I bump into at the supermarket – and I’m reassured that those who want to do harm are outnumbered tenfold. Besides, when I’m between placements I feel hollow; fostering fills that void with the needs of others. It’s a job that defines me and so I’m drawn willingly back to the vacancy register.