by Cathy Glass
‘Would you like to hold Reece’s hand while I phone the duty social worker?’ I asked. ‘I don’t want Reece to run around the car park.’
‘Yeah, good on ya. That’s sensible.’ I breathed a sigh of relief and transferred Reece’s hand to hers. ‘I reported them other bleeding carers to the police for not looking after me Sharky,’ Tracey said. Then she looked at me carefully, her eyes narrowing (just as Reece’s did sometimes). ‘And I’ll do the same to you if I ‘ave to. Nothing personal, you understand, but me kids are important, and I want the best for ‘em.’
‘I hope you won’t have any reason to complain,’ I said, pressing the duty social worker’s number on my mobile.
I’ll take Sharky up,’ she said. ‘I know where they are. Me other kids are already there. They was early.’
Oh dear, I thought. It was supervised contact, and I couldn’t let her take Reece without a social worker present; nor did I want a confrontation in this deserted and dimly lit car park. Reece had started hopping up and down again, chanting, ‘Susie, Susie, want to see Susie!’
‘Quiet, Sharky!’ Tracey boomed, clipping his ear. He fell silent.
‘Tracey,’ I said, throwing her a smile. ‘If you don’t mind, could we wait here for the social worker? I’ve been told to phone him and wait here, and I’ll get into trouble if I don’t.’ I had the phone pressed to my ear and could hear it ringing.
‘Yeah, go on then. I know what they’re like. Don’t want you getting into trouble.’
Another couple of rings and the phone was answered. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘It’s Cathy Glass, Recce’s carer. I’ve brought Reece for contact. I’m in the car park with Reece’s mum, Tracey.’
‘Right,’ he said, understanding the urgency. ‘I’ll be straight down.’
‘He’s coming.’ I smiled at Tracey and dropped my mobile into my pocket.
‘You coming as well?’ Reece asked me, or rather shouted, for being here with his mother and hearing her shout had undone all I had achieved in the past week and returned the volume of his voice to what it had been.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back to collect you at the end of contact.’
‘May as well ‘ave a fag, while I’m waiting,’ Tracey said. Dropping Reece’s hand, she opened the packet and, lighting one, offered the packet to me.
‘No thank you,’ I said.
‘Good. I don’t want Sharky breaving in smoke. It ain’t good for his asthma.’
‘Has he got asthma?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Summink else they ‘aven’t told you. Fucking useless, them social workers. Wait till I get ‘em in court.’ She dragged heavily on the cigarette while I took hold of Reece’s hand.
‘Reece’s chest has been quite clear since he has been with me,’ I reassured her, ‘but I will keep an eye on it.’
‘He was bad at ‘ome,’ she said. ‘Social worker said it was cos his dad and me smoked in the flat. Cheeky buggers!’
I didn’t say anything, for very likely the social worker had been right, and clearly Tracey has absorbed some of his message, given her comment to me about not wanting Reece breathing in smoke. She drew heavily again on the cigarette while Reece hopped up and down again yelling, ‘Susie! Susie! Reece seeing Susie.’ Clearly he had missed Susie, his half-sister, although he hadn’t said so to me.
‘Hush, you little bugger,’ Tracey said, grabbing his hand from me. Taking another drag on the cigarette, she looked at me suspiciously. I prayed the social worker would get a move on, for I had the feeling the conversation could deteriorate from here on.
‘You wiping Sharky’s bum?’ Tracey asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘He can do it himself now.’ I glanced at Reece and smiled proudly.
‘Can he?’ she asked surprised. ‘What about his dick? He can’t do that. You cleaning his dick for him?’ Foster carers get used to being questioned by the parents about how they are looking after their children, but never in over twenty years of fostering had I had a question of this nature put to me at the first meeting, and put so crudely. I was shocked, although I didn’t show it.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I run Reece’s bath and he washes himself. I do wash his back and hair, but he washes his private parts.’
‘Private parts!’ she boomed and laughed loudly, her chest rattling. ‘That’s a joke. Nuffing private about Sharky’s dick, I can tell you. He used to ‘ave it out all over the place. Even showed it to a social worker once. You should ‘ave seen ‘er face.’ Dear me! I thought, and Reece was listening to this! ‘You gotta clean his dick for ‘im. He can’t do it ‘imself!’ Tracey insisted. ‘I always did it.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ I said, ‘but I will make sure Reece cleans himself properly. As Reece’s carer I have to be careful about these things. It’s different for you: you are his mother. I’m sure you understand.’
Perhaps it was the conciliatory tone in my voice, or the fact that I was acknowledging I was only the carer and she, as his mother, had a higher status, but Tracey’s tone softened.
‘Yeah, OK, I can see that,’ she said. Then, looking down at Reece: ‘You make sure you clean your dick, boy. You don’t want an infection like last time.’
I was saved from any more of this by the arrival of the duty social worker, a tall slender man in his late twenties who hurried anxiously out of the main entrance and across the car park.
‘Sorry,’ he said as he approached us, looking at me. ‘Is everything all right?’
I nodded. Reece was now dragging his mother towards the main entrance, happy to be going to see Susie at last. ‘I’ll collect Reece at seven thirty, then?’ I confirmed with the social worker.
‘Yes. You didn’t have a problem just now?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Sorry, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. We didn’t realize she was outside.’ He hurried quickly after Reece and Tracey, who were now entering the building, while I unlocked my car and got in, reeling from my first encounter with Tracey.
Chapter Seven:
Chaos
Driving home, I thought about Tracey and what she had said in the car park. Although I was shocked by her language and what she had said, I had to admit she was a character, to put it mildly! I mused on how much Reece looked like her: he was identical, and I could now see where a lot of his (defiant) mannerisms had come from. When I arrived home it was 6.30. I called up to the girls to say I was home; then I ate my dinner and made a cup of tea, with my ears still ringing from the sound of Tracey’s loud and demanding voice.
I tried not to sit in moral judgement on Tracey, although I did feel she should show Reece more respect. All that cuffing around the head, talking about his private parts to me in front of him and calling him Sharky hardly helped his behaviour or self-esteem. I also thought that she clearly viewed the social services and the carers as enemies, which was going to make working with her very difficult unless she could be won over. It was likely Reece would be with me for a year or more while all the assessments and reports were written and then filed in court for the final court hearing, when the judge would make his (or her) decision on where Reece would live.
I had no doubt I would be bumping into Tracey again before (and perhaps after) contact, and there might be meetings that she and I, together with the social worker and other professionals, would attend. She said she had reported Reece’s previous carers to the police, but for what? I couldn’t begin to imagine. It seemed unlikely that one, let alone all of them, had been negligent or abusive in their care of Reece, so I wondered if Tracey had made it up to intimidate me. In which case she had partly succeeded, for without doubt while I had been alone with her in the car park and waiting for the social worker, I had felt more than a little intimidated. She was a very large woman, and her manner, even before she had spoken, was threatening and aggressive.
With some trepidation, at seven o’clock I got back in my car and drove to the council offices to collect Reece. I had been tol
d to wait in the car park for Reece to be brought to me at the end of contact, so I parked again under the one lamp and cut the engine. The building was now in darkness, save for the main entrance and two rooms on the second floor, which I assumed were being used for the contact. I switched on the radio and sat back to wait.
A few minutes passed and another car pulled into the car park and parked on the far side. The driver, a woman, didn’t get out but sat waiting; I wondered if she was another carer who had come to collect one of Reece’s half-siblings. Five minutes later a large Range Rover bumped into the car park and parked a few spaces away from me; the male driver stayed inside.
At 7.35, over and above the music now playing on my radio, and despite my car windows being closed, I heard Tracey’s voice coming from inside the building. It grew louder and louder as it came closer, together with other voices, male and female, and excited children’s voices, all shouting to be heard.
I switched off the radio and looked towards the main entrance. I still couldn’t see them, but the voices were becoming more distinct as they approached, presumably coming down the stairs that led into reception. I could now make out Reece’s and Tracey’s voices above the others. The driver’s door of the Range Rover opened and the driver got out and stood by his vehicle. I got out, and the woman in the other car did likewise. The man glanced in my direction and nodded; I smiled back. The woman standing by her car on the far side looked over, but she was too far away in the dark to see us properly. Clearly we were all waiting to collect the siblings. The approaching voices grew louder; then the group began to appear through the glass revolving doors of the main entrance, and I saw the lights go off on the second floor.
Tracey came out first, shoulders back and strutting defiantly down the steps to the edge of the car park. She was shouting something over her shoulder at the throng following her. She seemed angry, despite having just spent an hour and a half with her children. It was impossible to make out what she was saying over the noise the others were making.
Two large strapping lads, whom I took to be Brad and Sean (aged sixteen and fourteen), were immediately behind her and came out ‘play-fighting’, cuffing each other over the head with their open hands, then ducking and cuffing again. Behind them was a uniformed security guard and behind him came a large woman who had a similar profile to Tracey, but whom I couldn’t identify. Directly behind her were two smartly dressed women, whom I took to be the supervising social workers. One of them was holding a little girl’s hand; I assumed she was Reece’s half-sister Susie (aged ten). Beside Susie came Reece, leaping and bobbing and yelping, completely hyperactive and out of control. There were nine altogether, led by Tracey, who, while still shouting at them, was now surveying the car park as though deciding which of the carers to approach first. The noise level rose further as the play-fighting of the two lads, Brad and Sean, developed into a free-for-all, which quickly saw the pair of them rolling on the tarmac in a mock wrestling session while making deep ouching and groaning noises and swearing at each other.
‘Get off ‘im!’ Tracey bellowed at Brad, who was the elder and larger, and was now straddled on top of Sean.
‘I can’t fucking breathe,’ Sean yelled from underneath.
‘I told ya to bleeding get off,’ Tracey yelled again. Then she went over and cuffed Brad over the head.
Reece was leaping up and down, shouting at the top of his voice, ‘Fight! Fight!’
‘No, it ain’t,’ Tracey yelled. ‘Not if he bleeding well knows what’s good for ‘im.’ She cuffed Brad again, and then tried to pull him off his younger brother.
I saw the man standing beside his Range Rover to my right make a move towards them, so I thought he was probably the boys’ carer, but he took a step and stopped, clearly unsure whether he should intervene or not. One of the two female social workers said something to the boys but understandably didn’t physically intervene. Then the other one who was holding Susie’s hand spoke to the security guard, who quickly went over and lifted Brad off his brother.
Tracey immediately turned on the security guard. ‘Get your fucking ‘ands off’im!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll sue you for assault!’
I stayed where I was by the side of my car, as did the other two carers, while the scene before us quickly developed into mayhem. Sean, now released from under his brother, retaliated by walloping Brad in the middle of his back. Brad yelled and, turning, hit his brother in the chest and the play-fighting escalated. Tracey was still shouting at the security guard and the social workers that she was going to ‘fucking do ‘em all for assault’. I wanted to get Reece into the car as quickly as possible, for I could see he was beside himself, jumping up and down, shouting at the top of his voice and imitating his mother, ‘Do ‘em, do ‘em for fucking assault,’ he yelled. I wondered how long it was going to be before he joined in the fighting with his older brothers. It was not for me to intervene — not with two social workers and the security guard present.
The chaotic throng slowly moved forward into the centre of the car park. Tracey looked at us again, still undecided about whom she was going to approach first. I cowed and hoped it wouldn’t be me. The social workers followed her while the security guard tried to break up the boys again. The noise reached a new level, with all Tracey’s family now bellowing at each other. Even little Susie had begun imitating her mother: ‘Sue ‘em, fucking sue ‘em!’
As they drew closer, under the light, I could see more clearly the faces of Reece’s siblings. What struck me was that they all looked the same. Brad and Sean, who were now making a haphazard approach to their carer’s Range Rover, were, given their age difference, identical — older versions of Reece. And I now saw that the other woman whom I hadn’t been able to place when she’d first come out of the building was in fact a younger version of Tracey. I guessed it was Sharon, her eighteen-year-old daughter.
Sharon’s red bloated face and heavy hips and thighs maligned her youth, giving her the appearance of a middle-aged woman. She wore nylon jogging pants and a Liverpool T-shirt, and her hair was pulled straight back in a severe ponytail exactly like her mother’s. It wasn’t just her appearance that was the same as Tracey’s: when Sharon shouted to Reece to ‘shut up’, it was Tracey’s voice that came out. I looked at little Susie, who had dropped the social worker’s hand and was now dancing up and down beside Reece and imitating his whooping noises. She had the same features — the pale skin, brown hair and eyes and unusual prominent and serrated front top teeth. It was weird and quite unsettling to see such a starting likeness in all the children, particularly as they all had different fathers. Clearly Tracey’s must have been the dominant gene and it crossed my mind it was a pity that fate hadn’t been kinder to them, for without doubt they appeared a strange bunch.
It had now become obvious to the social workers that the most pressing need was to get the two older boys, Brad and Sean, into their carer’s car first. The social workers were trying to herd them in that direction, while the boys, fists up, circled each other as if in a boxing match. Their carer took a step forward into the approaching throng and said forcefully, ‘Brad, Sean, in the car now, please.’
The boys glanced at him and continued the play-fighting, smacking each other around the head with their open palms. ‘Brad, Sean,’ the carer said again. ‘Say goodbye to your mum and get in the car. It’s time to go now.’
One of the social workers repeated this, with no greater success. The boys continued slapping each other while at the same time gradually inching towards the Range Rover. The carer opened the rear door and waited patiently as they made their halting approach. He was as impotent to do or say much as the other carer and I. When foster children are with their parents, the carers have to stand back and allow the parents a chance to perform the role of parenting, and clearly Tracey wouldn’t have appreciated intervention.
I looked at Reece and tried to make eye contact with him, hoping he might come to the car and get in of his own accord. I even opened the r
ear door ready, but it had no effect. Reece was having a great time leaping up and down and hollering, possibly aware I had little authority now. Susie then took off, and began circling the car park.
‘No, come here, Susie. Good girl,’ one of the social workers called.
“Ere, now!’ Tracey bellowed, and Susie did return.
‘Please get in the car, boys,’ the male carer said. Sean and Brad were close now, near the bonnet, but still slapping and throwing punches at each other. I wondered if they behaved like that at home with their carers; probably not.
‘Why ain’t Brad been in school?’ Tracey yelled, going right up to the boys’ carer and jabbing a finger in his face. ‘He says he ain’t been in school for a week.’
‘He has been excluded,’ the carer said evenly, taking a step back. ‘The social services have been informed and we are looking for another school.’
‘Social services ain’t gonna do nuffink,’ she hollered. ‘I want me boy in school. I’m seeing the judge next week and if he ain’t in school by then, you’ll all be in for it!’
‘We’re doing our best,’ the carer said calmly, while still holding open the car door for the boys. It would be doing nothing for the boys’ respect for their carer to hear him being spoken to like this, and I thought his job was probably difficult enough without his having his authority undermined.
‘Well, make sure you do,’ Tracey finished, prodding her finger at his shoulder. ‘I want me kids educated. No good ‘aving kids in care if they ain’t educated.’
Five minutes later, with a mixture of repetition and the promise that dinner was ready and waiting at home, the boys were in the Range Rover being driven out of the car park. With the boys gone, Tracey turned her attention to me. So too did Sharon, in a mirror image of her mother.
‘Why ain’t Sharky in school?’ Tracey glared at me.
‘Why ain’t Sharky in school?’ Sharon repeated.