by Rosie Lewis
Nicki’s eyes flicked towards the door as if considering her options but then she looked back at Jo and her shoulders sagged in defeat. The officer approached but Nicki jerked away and then flinched as if in pain. She took in a sharp breath and rubbed her side.
‘Not yet,’ she snapped, flattening her hand against the air. ‘You lot make me sick, going round taking everyone’s kid off ’em all the time. Baby snatchers, that’s what you are.’
‘We have to have good reason, Nicki,’ Jo said with feigned patience. ‘And we certainly don’t take everyone’s baby. It’s rare for us to remove children actually.’
‘No it ain’t,’ Nicki shouted, adamant. Her chin jutted out aggressively. ‘Everyone I know has ’ad a kid taken off ’em.’
At first her comment struck me as grossly exaggerated, but then I realised that not everyone shares the same version of reality. It was quite possible that, in Nicki’s world, there was a heavy involvement with social services and so, from her perspective, it might not have been such a stretch of the imagination.
Nicki whispered something into Angell’s ear and he pulled back, eyes widening in horror. Pointing in my direction, she nodded and spoke louder, her tone reassuring but insistent. Angell glanced at me and began to cry, clinging tightly to Nicki’s shoulders. She stroked his hair, a loving gesture from someone who seemed so volatile. After cupping his face in her hands and planting a gentle kiss on his nose, she gave Jo a bitter stare. For a moment, as the officer leaned forwards, I thought that Nicki looked dangerously close to lashing out.
My throat constricted and my ears pounded as I braced myself for an ugly struggle. It was a surprise, then, when Jo slipped her hands under Angell’s arms, to see Nicki gently easing him away.
On separation, Angell’s chest puffed out and he began to pant, his mouth falling open in terror. I waited for the resultant wail but, although his face contorted, no sound escaped him. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he pummelled the air with his fists. Clearly desperate to get back to his mother, it was strangely disconcerting to see that his protest remained silent. Distraught, Nicki spoke rapidly, her voice trembling but supplicating. It’s rare for a foster carer to be present at the moment a child is removed. Most placements are carefully planned so we usually only witness the aftermath, but in emergency situations gentle introductions are rarely possible. Seeing Angell’s mouth distorted in panic and his eyes full of fear had a profound impact on me. The violence of the act really hit me then, more than ever before.
Looking back on our short time with Angell, it was his wordless protest that unsettled me most of all. Despite all the revelations that were to emerge in the coming days, my abiding memory is his silent, horrified reaction. Even now, when I picture it, the hair on the back of my neck tingles.
I reached out sideways as Jo thrust Angell towards me, trying to protect my stomach from his wild kicks. He struggled as I fastened him to my side, his arms flailing wildly. Spinning around, I caught a glimpse of Nicki. With her hand clamped over her mouth and tears running over her fingers, she suddenly looked vulnerable and lost. It seemed like any words I had to say would sound empty but I wanted to give her one last look of reassurance before I left. ‘I’ll keep him safe, I promise,’ I said as Jo propelled me towards the door, hoping Nicki would take solace in that.
She rose to her feet. ‘Hey, you? Wait, there’s something you should know.’
‘Sit down!’ Jo commanded, waving her back. ‘Go!’ she barked at me.
The thick-set custody officer appeared in front of me. ‘This way, love,’ he said, cupping my elbow and leading me briskly towards the outer door.
‘What’s that face for?’ he bellowed at Angell as he opened the first security door. Trying his best to jolly Angell out of his despair, the sergeant kept up a steady chatter all the way up the stairs and along the corridor. I knew he was trying to be kind but I found myself speeding up to try and get rid of him sooner. He didn’t seem to notice that every time he spoke, Angell’s hysteria ratcheted up a level.
Back in reception I thanked the officer and told him I could manage without him. He gave me a doubtful look, wished me a Merry Christmas and then, thankfully, left us alone. ‘It’s alright, sweetie,’ I crooned to Angell, trying to sound as convincing as possible. Clasping him to my middle I slumped down on the wooden bench and wrestled with the duffel bag, trying to get his new coat out. Taking advantage of my compromised position, Angell wriggled away, managing to get his feet to the floor. The extra leverage helped and he slipped free, scrambling for the door. Dropping the bag, I dived after him and clamped a hand around his wrist.
‘Nooooo!’ he wailed, squirming away. His face was swollen and puce. My arms went weak with the effort of holding him and I worried that I was squeezing so hard I might leave a mark behind. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, honey. You’re safe, you’re quite safe.’
Feeling like a kidnapper, I decided to give up on the coat and get him to the car as quickly as possible. Heaving the bag over my shoulder, I ignored his kicks and clamped him tightly to me, my arms trembling with the effort. When we reached the door, a marked car pulled around the corner and crossed our path, its blue lights reflecting silently on the icy tarmac.
The sight of the car and the shock of the cold had an arresting effect on Angell. With his breath fogging in front of him, he stopped struggling for a moment. I snatched the opportunity, repositioning him on my hip and then taking the stone steps carefully, one at a time. ‘It’s alright, honey,’ I said breathlessly, knowing he was unlikely to trust a word I said.
Somewhere in the distant yard, an off-duty police dog barked mournfully. The haunting sound roused Angell and his writhing grew more frantic, his soundless screams escalating into breathless hysteria. My heart hammered as his protests continued, his fingernails digging into the skin of my neck. I picked up my pace so that I was almost running.
Less than a minute away from the car he began to lose momentum, his terror giving way to sorrowful tears. The wind suddenly picked up but I was grateful for it; Angell no longer fought but clung to me like a baby koala to its mother, his head nestling into the soft woollen loops of my scarf.
Despite his exhaustion, Angell remained awake throughout the journey home. As if the widening distance between himself and his mother had weakened his courage to protest, he sat passively in the back of the car, a steady stream of tears running down his cheeks. In the rear-view mirror I could see his frail shoulders trembling with each sob and my heart went out to him. Longing to pick him up and give him a hug, I drove a fraction over the speed limit, grateful that, being Christmas Eve, the roads were unusually empty. We arrived home just as afternoon was turning to evening.
Indoors, Angell gave another silent howl when I removed his trainers then rejected my attempts to comfort him, curling himself up on the floor between the sofa and a bookshelf. Every time I went anywhere near him he whimpered, cowering away from me with such fear that I felt like the child catcher. The sad thing was, when I left the room to get him a drink, he shuffled after me, knowing he had no choice but to attach himself to the nearest adult. It wasn’t really surprising that he was fearful of me; within minutes of meeting him I had pinned him to my side and refused to return him to his mother – not the most gentle of introductions.
My mum, knowing it would be best to filter the outside world for a short while, slipped home without introducing herself. My whole family were due to come to me for Christmas dinner, so Angell would meet her the next day. I knew how overwhelmed he was likely to be with all the commotion and if it were any other occasion I would have rescheduled, but how could I cancel Christmas?
Emily and Jamie waved their grandma off at the door and then walked quietly into the living room, Emily crouching and whispering a soft hello. Angell stared at them with wide eyes full of misery. ‘Aw, it’s alright,’ Emily said tenderly. ‘You’re safe here.’
Angell retreated, burying his head into a cushion. His shoulders began tremb
ling with fresh sobs. I knew Emily was probably itching to give him a hug but when she glanced at me I said quietly: ‘Maybe we should give Angell a bit of space.’ She nodded knowingly and sat next to her brother at the other end of the sofa. They tried to behave naturally but their eyes kept flicking over to him, their expressions filled with concern. ‘He knows we’re here if he needs us,’ I added, more for Angell’s ears than theirs. And then, hoping to distract everyone and lighten the tension, I asked if they’d managed to wrap the presents I had bought for him earlier that day.
‘Yep,’ Jamie answered, ‘all done. And we’ve been to the shops to get some mince pies for Father Christmas.’ He glanced towards Angell again and I realised he was making a renewed effort to get him involved, bless him.
At 16 and 12, Emily and Jamie were well past believing that Christmas presents arrived on a sleigh but with little ones in residence they would regress, throwing themselves into all the festive delights.
‘Have we got any carrots for Rudolph?’ Emily asked theatrically. ‘Reindeers love them.’
‘Hmmm, yes, I think so.’
Angell raised his head a fraction at that, watching us surreptitiously from beneath his dark fringe. Our talk seemed to bring him back to himself, his locked, numb expression fading. Jamie spotted his interest and turned to speak to him but I shook my head minutely. Children are often hardened against the world when they first arrive in the foster home, their small bodies rigid with stress. I’ve found that it usually works best to leave them alone for a short time. Once they’ve acclimatised they tend to reach out of their own accord.
Sure enough, within half an hour, Angell was sitting on the floor beside the Christmas tree, watching as Emily and Jamie sorted the presents into piles. With a rising, ‘And-d-d-d-d,’ Jamie shifted a large pile of unevenly wrapped parcels across the floor to Angell. ‘Guess who these are for?’ Angell stared up at him with watery brown eyes, his only response a heavy, hiccoughy sigh.
Emily crouched in front of him. ‘Shall we shake the presents and see if we can guess what’s in them?’ she asked enticingly.
Angell cocked his head to one side, considering, but then gave a tiny shake of his head.
Not one to be beaten, Jamie disappeared from the room and came back a few minutes later with his old garage and a box of cars.
Emily immediately pounced, her hands finding her hips. ‘And why did you have to bring those down, Jamie?’ she demanded. ‘Just because he’s a boy doesn’t mean he’ll like cars, you know.’
‘Oh no, she’s off again, Mum,’ Jamie groaned. Ever since Emily had started analysing feminist texts at school we were subjected to regular lectures about the inherent sexism in society. She would rage about it, and, while I appreciated her passion, it sometimes wore a bit thin.
‘I’m just saying, Jamie, that if you reinforce gender roles when children are little you’re casting the die and there’s no going back.’
Jamie started humming loudly, his fingers in his ears. I tensed, hoping Angell wouldn’t pick up on the conflict. Fortunately he glanced between them impassively, probably too lost in his own trauma to be affected by anything else.
‘If people would stop stereotyping children, maybe boys would grow up to be a bit more responsible and stop causing carnage around the world.’
Making a point of ignoring his sister’s increasingly screechy tone, Jamie lifted a Matchbox car high above his head. ‘Look what I’ve got, Angell.’
‘Jamie, you’re so –’
‘Emily …’ I said, warningly, with a tilt of my head towards Angell. She opened her mouth to go on another rant but thankfully thought better of it.
Jamie swooped the car through the air. ‘Wow, look, Angell. See how cool this is? Vrrmm …’
It was a spirited attempt but the little boy wasn’t impressed. He lowered his chin and stared mournfully at the floor.
‘See, I told you.’ Emily stalked out to the cupboard under the stairs and returned with a box of dolls and some little clothes. She knelt beside Angell and pulled a few dolls out, one with a leg missing. ‘Look, we can play hospitals with these, Angell. Shall we make the dolly better?’
Amazingly, Angell’s eyebrows tilted upwards and his lips opened a fraction – nowhere near a smile, but he was definitely interested. Emily, triumphant, couldn’t resist crowing. ‘Ha! See, Jamie.’
Jamie made a clicking noise at the back of his throat as if Angell had let the team down. He slumped down on the sofa and switched the television on in disgust.
I felt a flare of gratitude towards Emily – it was such a relief to see Angell livening up. Peering into the toy box, his fingers twitched with temptation. When he finally summoned the courage to delve in, I noticed how well he handled the toys. Children often come into care with no idea how to play and, until they learn, they can be a bit destructive. Clearly, someone had spent time playing with Angell.
As I watched him, the mystery of his abandonment deepened. I combed over the last few hours, trying to grasp some clues as to what could have led a seemingly loving mother to behave so irresponsibly. I got the strangest sensation that I was missing something, but I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Seeing Angell so distressed yet unable to make a sound had been disconcerting, and then there were Nicki’s parting words. What was it she had said? ‘There’s something you should know.’ My mind kept snagging on them, certain that she had been readying herself to warn me about something.
As Angell tucked the one-legged doll into a box and covered her gently with a small blanket, I pictured Nicki’s face as she released her little boy. Clearly bereft, she had relinquished him peacefully to spare him the trauma of being fought over; a loving, selfless act. It was another little detail to add to a puzzle where none of the pieces seemed to fit.
Having relaxed a little, by 6 p.m. Angell was able to drink some juice but at the mention of dinner he grew tearful again. Remembering what Nicki had said about hot food, I led him by the hand and let him rifle through the fun-size boxes of cereal in one of my cupboards. Sitting on the floor, he tore at the cardboard top of a pack of cornflakes and stuck his hand in, cramming the flakes into his mouth.
I reached for the box. ‘I think we’ll pour them into a bowl now, shall we Angell?’
His lip wobbled, silent tears spilling onto his cheeks.
‘It’s alright, sweetie. Look, you can help me if you like.’ I set a bowl on the floor between his legs and returned the cereal box to him. ‘There we are, you tip them in. And then we’ll get some milk.’
Angell stared up at me and shook his head, his eyes swollen with fat tears. Knowing when to pick my battles, I made a placating noise and let him stick his hand back inside. Within a minute the box was empty. He reached for another one, ripping at the lid and tearing at the cellophane inside with his teeth. As long as he drank a glass of milk, I reasoned, there wasn’t too much wrong with the basic meal.
After their little play, Angell seemed much more comfortable with Emily than with me. When I held my hand out and suggested that it was time for a bath, Angell thrust himself at Emily and wrapped his arms tightly around her neck. She beamed. ‘I could come as well, if that helps?’ she suggested.
‘Yes, good idea.’
Upstairs in the bathroom, Angell sat on the floor next to Emily and wrapped his arms around himself, lips quivering at the suggestion of getting undressed. ‘You need to have a bath, Angell,’ Emily said. ‘You smell like wet dog.’
He chuckled at that, a real belly laugh. When he caught me looking at him and smiling, his mouth clamped shut.
Taking advantage of the moment I knelt behind him and gently tugged him to his feet. Emily pulled funny faces at him and as I lifted his tracksuit top over his head she said, ‘Boo!’ He giggled again and, grateful for the distraction, I slipped his bottoms and pants down to his ankles.
On automatic pilot, my eyes travelled over his back to check for any marks or bruises, something foster carers are advised to do whenever a new child ar
rives. I was so absorbed in the examination that I barely noticed Emily’s gasp.
It only registered when she said: ‘Er, Mum?’
Rising to a crouch, I peered over Angell’s left shoulder and saw that Emily was staring at Angell’s midriff, her lips twisted in bewilderment.
I felt a spasm of anxiety, hoping she hadn’t spotted a cigarette burn or something even nastier. ‘What is it?’
Angell eyes darted between us, wide in alarm.
‘Well, look for yourself,’ Emily said, putting her hands on his shoulders and gently turning him around to face me. ‘I think you’ll find there’s something missing.’
I ran my eyes over Angell’s torso then clamped a hand to my forehead in surprise. I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. Emily was correct – there certainly was something missing, if Angell was really a boy. ‘Well, well, well,’ I said in a sing-song voice, trying to project an air of calm. Having picked up on our shock, Angell’s bottom lip was wobbling with fear. ‘It’s alright, Angell, there’s nothing to worry about. We adults seem to have got our wires crossed, that’s all. Let’s get you into the bath now, sweetheart.’
It took a while to coax Angell into bed. She kept asking me to take her back to her mum, clasping her hands together at one point and pleading. My heart lurched. However much I explained that I was taking care of her for a short time while Mummy saw a doctor, she just couldn’t seem to take it in. It was almost 8 p.m. when she finally surrendered and sank down onto my lap.
I stroked her back and read her a story, thinking what a shame it was that she had nothing from home to comfort her. At least with planned placements, children have one or two familiar bits to cling on to but Angell had nothing, not even her own pyjamas. To make matters worse, everything I had bought for her earlier in the day was covered in dinosaurs or Power Rangers. Ignoring Emily’s protests, I had whipped the Fireman Sam duvet cover from the bed and replaced it with a Disney princess one but Angell was no happier with the change. She seemed so immensely sad, her tears starting again as soon as we reached the end of the book. ‘Right, let’s tuck you in,’ I said, holding out my hand to help her up. She flinched, backing away – I was the last person she wanted help from. Standing on tiptoes, she threw the top half of her body onto the mattress and, clasping a handful of duvet, heaved herself up.