by Cathy Glass
‘I’ll put your coffee on the table,’ I said to Jill.
‘Who’s a beautiful boy, then?’ Jill replied, massaging Harrison’s little foot through the sleepsuit. ‘Are you being a good boy for Cathy? Are you eating and sleeping well?’
‘Yes, he is,’ I answered, taking my coffee to the armchair. ‘He woke at two and six but went straight off to sleep again.’
‘What a good boy! Coochicoo. Who’s a sweetie-pie? Would you like a cuddle?’
‘I’m sure he would,’ I said.
Jill carefully lifted Harrison out of the bouncing cradle and then sat on the sofa with him cradled in her arms, grinning and talking to him. Clearly I was superfluous to needs and could have just easily got on with the housework. However, I appreciated the fascination a newborn baby held for Jill who, like most adults with the chance to see and hold one, found a tiny baby irresistible and was mesmerized by the incredible miracle of new life – so small but perfect in every way.
‘I’ll put your coffee within reach,’ I said after a while, standing and moving the coffee table closer to the sofa.
‘Thanks,’ Jill said, and then she cooed and cuddled Harrison again, pausing briefly to sip her coffee.
‘I didn’t see Harrison’s mother at the hospital yesterday,’ I said after a moment. ‘She’d left before I arrived.’
‘Yes, Cheryl told me,’ Jill said, glancing up. ‘Pity you didn’t get the chance to meet her. Apparently she’s a lovely lady. Sad, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. She sent a case of new clothes for Harrison and there was a letter for me in the case.’ I took the letter from the folder and passed it to Jill. With Harrison cradled in her left arm Jill held the letter out to the right and read it. Then she handed it back to me with a small sigh.
‘I’m doing as she asked,’ I said, returning the letter to the folder. ‘It’s the least I can do. The soft toys are in Harrison’s cot and he’s wearing one of the sleepsuits she bought.’
‘Good,’ Jill said, briefly glancing at me before returning her attention to Harrison.
‘I’m guessing Harrison isn’t in care because of concerns that Mum could abuse or neglect him?’ I persisted.
‘That’s right,’ Jill said, looking at Harrison.
‘And I’m guessing Harrison’s mother isn’t a teenager either?’
‘No.’ Jill paused, and finally gave me her full attention. ‘Cathy, Harrison is in care under a Section 20 – a Voluntary Care Order. It was his mother’s decision to place him in care and she’s been working with the social services. She has Harrison’s best interests at heart and has requested that he be adopted. Cathy, what I’m going to tell you is highly confidential and I know you will respect that. Cheryl knows the full story and may share some more information with you tomorrow, but for now I need to tell you that Harrison’s existence is a complete secret and has to remain so.’
I frowned, puzzled. ‘What do you mean a complete secret? Surely that’s impossible?’
‘His birth will be registered by his mother in the normal way; it has to be by law. He will be known as Harrison Smith until he is adopted, when he will have the surname of his adoptive parents. Apart from his mother no one knows his true identity. His mother checked in and out of the hospital using the surname Smith. Rihanna agreed to cooperate with the social services only under the strictest confidentiality. If his birth were to be known it could have dire consequences.’
Jill stopped and I looked at her while I tried to make sense of what she was saying. I understood Section 20 of the Children’s Act: it makes provision for parents voluntarily to place their child (or children) in foster care if there is a good reason. Harrison’s mother wanting her son to be adopted would be a good enough reason. There are no court proceedings with a Section 20 and the parent(s) retains legal responsibility for the child, although the child lives with a foster carer. I understood this much; it was the rest I didn’t understand.
‘Why?’ I asked at length. ‘Why all the secrecy?’
‘Harrison’s parents are not married and cannot marry. Their relationship should never have happened.’
‘But Jill!’ I exclaimed. ‘We live in the twenty-first century. I still don’t understand. Lots of couples have babies without being married; some single women do too. And even if Harrison was a result of an affair I still don’t see why all this secrecy and fuss.’ I stopped and looked at Jill.
‘Think about it. What reason can you think of for keeping it a secret?’
I continued to look at Jill, and the answer slowly dawned. ‘One or both of the parents is a well-known public figure?’
Jill nodded. ‘That was the conclusion my manager and I came to. And we guess it’s Harrison’s father who is famous – otherwise his mother would probably have booked into a private clinic to have her baby rather than an NHS hospital. If Cheryl does know the true identity of the father she won’t be sharing it with us, and we don’t need to know – it doesn’t affect your care of Harrison. Both parents are healthy, as is Harrison: that’s all we need to know.’
I nodded but my imagination was working overtime. A famous father – who could it be? A footballer? A film star or pop idol? A Member of Parliament? The Prime Minister? An archbishop? Royalty? There was no limit to my imagination and scenes from the historical novels I’d read flashed through my mind. I could be looking after a baby whose existence could alter the course of history!
‘So I’m fostering a little superstar?’ I said with a smile.
‘Pretend you don’t know that,’ Jill said. ‘If the press got wind of it they’d investigate until they found out.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ I said. ‘As far as everyone is concerned he’s just Harrison Smith, the baby I’m fostering.’ I paused thoughtfully, remembering Rihanna’s letter. I looked at Jill. I was worried. ‘I think Harrison’s mother could have been put under pressure to give up her baby,’ I said. ‘She clearly wanted to keep him. She says in her letter she cried continuously and prayed for a solution that would allow her to keep him.’
‘Yes,’ Jill said. ‘It sounds that way, but that’s for Cheryl and the social services to look into. Show Cheryl that letter when she visits tomorrow, although I’m sure she’s aware of how Mum feels.’
I nodded. ‘I wonder if there is any way Rihanna could keep Harrison, with support?’
‘No,’ Jill said emphatically. ‘Cheryl is very clear about that. It’s out of the question. She’s not allowed to.’
‘Not allowed to?’
‘They are Cheryl’s words, not mine. You know as much as I do now. As I say, it’s possible Cheryl may tell you more tomorrow, but I doubt it. If she does, tell me.’
I nodded. Harrison had fallen asleep in Jill’s arms and she seemed content to leave him there while we talked. One of his little fists was resting on his chin as it did sometimes, giving him the appearance of being deep in thought, and I thought if he knew the mystery surrounding his birth he’d have a lot to think about.
We both finished our coffee and the biscuits and Jill asked to see my log notes. I lifted Harrison out of her arms and laid him, still asleep, in his pram in the hall. Returning to the sitting room, I gave Jill my folder and she read and signed the daily log. She asked if I had everything I needed to look after Harrison and I said I did; then, once we’d finished, she stood to leave. We went down the hall, past the pram where Harrison was still sleeping peacefully, and we both looked in.
‘You know, Jill,’ I said, ‘despite all the precautions that are being taken to protect Harrison’s true identity, it could still slip out. These things do have a habit of becoming known.’
Jill turned from the pram and looked at me, her expression deathly serious. ‘It can’t,’ she said bluntly. ‘Cheryl said that if it ever became known that Rihanna had had this baby and who the father was, she’d have to go into hiding. Her life would be in danger. I know it sounds incredible but we don’t know all the details. Cheryl is adamant that Rihanna’s worries are real and
have to be acted on.’
Chapter Seven
Abandoned
After Jill’s visit and her parting comments that Rihanna’s life could be in danger if Harrison’s existence became known, I had the unsettling feeling that I was becoming involved in something I would rather not have been. It seemed incredible to me that a mother could be in danger from simply having a baby. If it was all true, and Rihanna hadn’t fabricated the story surrounding Harrison’s paternity (for whatever reason), then I felt the sooner Harrison was adopted and settled into his new life the better for all concerned. I knew, however, that it was likely to take the best part of a year for the social services to find and vet a suitable adoptive family and for the legal process to be completed.
Fortunately I was busy for most of that day, so I didn’t have too much time for speculation or worrying. Just after Jill left the health visitor telephoned and, introducing herself as Grace, asked if it would be possible for her to visit us that afternoon, so we arranged for her to come at 1.30. Harrison had a bottle at twelve noon and I had some lunch; then while he slept I went upstairs and unpacked the clothes his mother had sent. As I folded the items neatly into the wardrobe and drawers in his room my thoughts went again to Rihanna who, according to her letter, would find some comfort in knowing her baby was wearing these clothes. It touched me again, and I hoped Cheryl would make sure Rihanna knew I was carrying out her wishes when I told her the following day.
Once I’d finished unpacking the case I stowed it out of the way on top of the wardrobe and went downstairs, where Harrison was just waking.
‘Hi, little man,’ I said, gently lifting him out of the pram. ‘Aren’t you a good boy?’ He wrinkled his nose and I kissed his cheek. ‘What a little treasure you are!’ I told him as I carried him into the sitting room. He didn’t need feeding again, so I sat on the sofa and cuddled him.
When Grace, the health visitor, arrived at exactly 1.30 the house was tidy and Harrison was wide awake and sitting contently in the bouncing cradle in the sitting room. I hoped Grace was impressed.
‘He’s very alert for a newborn baby,’ Grace said, going over and making a fuss of him. She then joined me on the sofa and asked me about Harrison’s feeding and sleeping routine, before she took the red book from her bag and began talking me through it.
‘I’ve filled in as much as I can,’ she said, turning to the first page. ‘But I’ve got quite a few blanks and some of it – about the mother – won’t be relevant as he’s in care.’
As I looked at the first page I saw that Harrison’s name, date of birth, weight and length at birth had been filled in, together with the results of the standard tests that are performed on all newborn babies at the hospital just after they’re born. But the next page – about the mother’s contact details – was blank.
‘I assume I put your contact details in here?’ she asked me.
‘I should think so,’ I said. I gave Grace my full name, date of birth and GP’s name and address. ‘You’d better add “foster mother” at the top of the page,’ I suggested, which she did.
The red book is quite an important document and includes health and development checks and immunizations. It is usually kept updated until the child is five years of age, sometimes for longer. Harrison’s red book would go with him when he was adopted. There were now some questions about the mother’s health during pregnancy, which I couldn’t answer, and if the baby’s birth was normal, which Cheryl had told Jill it was.
‘As far as I know it was a normal birth,’ I said, ‘and I understand both parents were healthy and weren’t addicts.’ It was important that, as the health visitor, Grace knew this. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know any more.’
‘I’m concerned,’ Grace said, suddenly frowning and looking from the red book to me. ‘Health visitors are supposed to visit the mother when she is expecting to make sure she has the right health care, but I was never informed this mother was expecting. I’m going to look into it when I get back to the office. Clearly something has gone wrong here and I’m wondering how many other expectant mothers have been missed off the computer system. As soon as a mother goes to her GP or clinic,’ Grace explained, ‘and has a positive pregnancy test, her details are entered on the computer so that we can look after her and the baby. Also Harrison’s mother will need a postpartum check-up – between four to six weeks after the birth – and very likely emotional support. It’s not good enough. I’ll ask my manager to look into it.’
I doubted it was a computer error that had led to Harrison’s mother not appearing on the health-care system. But if I told Grace what I knew – that Smith probably wasn’t Rihanna’s real name, and her pregnancy and indeed Harrison’s existence were a closely guarded secret and had to remain so – it would have sparked Grace’s curiosity and led to more questions. I didn’t want to be the one to send Grace on a hunt that might find Rihanna, even though she had the best of intentions.
‘I suppose it’s just one of those computer errors,’ I said vaguely.
Grace shook her head, clearly worried. ‘I’ll look into it,’ she said.
Setting the red book to one side, Grace took a set of portable scales from her large nurse’s bag and assembled them. I remembered Adrian and Paula being weighed on similar scales and I gently lifted Harrison into the scales. Grace made a note of his weight on a form and also in the red book. ‘He’s the same as his birth weight,’ Grace said. ‘Which is good. That means he’s already made up the weight he lost after the birth.’ I also knew from having Adrian and Paula that babies often lose weight immediately after birth and can take a week or longer to regain it. Grace then measured Harrison from head to toe, and tested his reflexes and responses to light and sound. Reassuring me he was perfectly normal, she made a note of the results on her form and also in the red book.
‘We carry out further developmental checks at eight weeks, six months, and then eighteen months,’ Grace said. ‘But obviously if you have any concerns about Harrison’s development contact us or your GP straightaway.’
‘I will,’ I said.
‘I’ll send a copy of all my notes to the social services for their files,’ Grace said. ‘What’s the care plan for Harrison? Rehab home?’ Grace was referring to the care plan the social services would have drawn up for Harrison’s long-term future; ‘rehab home’ was the term used for preparing a child to return home.
‘I believe he’s going to be adopted,’ I said.
A look of pain and concern flickered across Grace’s face. ‘Oh dear. Is he really? And he’s such a lovely baby. Oh well, I suppose it’s for the best. At least he’s young enough to have a fresh start.’ I nodded. As a health visitor Grace would go into homes where babies and young children didn’t have a very good start in life and one of her roles would be to monitor those children and alert the social services about her concerns. ‘Why can’t his mother look after him?’ she asked after a moment.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, which was the truth.
Grace then asked if I would like her to visit Harrison and me at home again or if I could take him to the clinic or GP to be weighed in future. I said I would go to the clinic and she made a note of this in her file. She then handed me the red book, which I knew I had to keep safe and take with me each time I went to the clinic, when the nurse would enter Harrison’s weight, dates of vaccinations and also the results of the developmental checks.
‘Well, if you haven’t any questions I’ll be off now,’ Grace said, dismantling the scales and putting them in her nurse’s bag together with her record sheets.
‘I can’t think of anything,’ I said. ‘I’ll phone the clinic if I need advice.’
‘You’re doing a good job,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll see you next week at the clinic, when you bring Harrison to be weighed.’
‘Yes.’ I thanked Grace and, leaving Harrison in his bouncing cradle for a minute, I saw her out.
Returning to the sitting room I lifted Harrison out of the bouncing c
radle and carried him upstairs, where I changed his nappy. It was now 2.30 and time to be thinking about collecting Adrian and Paula from school.
Downstairs again I took a ready-made carton of milk and a sterilized bottle from the kitchen and at 2.45 began getting Harrison and the pram chassis into the car. I arrived in the playground with five minutes to spare and I joined a couple of friends. As we talked I gently rocked Harrison in the pram; I didn’t feel quite so conspicuous now I was more confident in fostering a baby. Adrian and Paula came out of school with their news, including what each of them had liked and disliked of their school dinner, and I drove home.
The evening ran more smoothly than the previous evening, as I began to establish a routine. Dinner was only a little late, and after dinner I gave Harrison his bath while Adrian and Paula played, so I had time to read Adrian and Paula a bedtime story once I’d settled Harrison in his cot. I gave Harrison a feed before I went to bed and he fell asleep immediately.
Later, as I lay in bed with Harrison asleep in his cot, I wondered again about Harrison’s parents and if Grace would succeed in finding his mother. I doubted she would, without Rihanna’s correct surname, date of birth or last known address. I’d no idea where Rihanna lived or what she looked like. The English in her letter was perfect and she’d made no cultural requests in respect of Harrison’s care, so I assumed her family were very Westernized and that she’d probably been born in England. I’d already surmised she was well educated and mature, not a teenage mother. I knew nothing of Harrison’s father other than that he was very likely a public figure, which didn’t narrow it down much. I wondered if, in years to come, when Harrison was older, he would want to trace his natural parents, as some adopted children do, and what success he’d have. Would it be possible for him to find his parents when they’d gone to so much trouble to hide their identities? I didn’t know.