by Cathy Glass
‘So the doctors might be wrong now,’ Paula put in, feeling she should contribute something but not fully understanding the discussion. Adrian nodded.
‘They might be wrong, but it’s not very likely. Michael’s father is very ill,’ I said. While I would have liked nothing more than to believe a misdiagnosis was an option, it would have been wrong of me to give them false hope.
We all quietly returned to our food but without our previous enthusiasm, and at that moment I knew I should have just said no to Jill and waited for the next child who needed a foster home. ‘Anyway,’ I said after a while, ‘I think I will tell Jill that we feel very sorry for Michael but we can’t look after him.’
‘Why?’ Adrian asked.
‘Because it would be too sad for us. Too much to cope with after … everything else.’
‘You mean Dad going?’
‘Well, yes, and having to be part of Michael’s sadness. I don’t want to be sad: I like to be happy.’
‘I’m sure Michael does too,’ Adrian said bluntly. I met his gaze and in that look I saw not an eight-year-old boy but the wisdom of a man. ‘I think Michael should come here,’ he said. ‘We can help him. Paula and I know what it’s like to lose your dad. I know divorce is different – we can still see our dad sometimes – but when Dad packed all his things and left, and stopped living with us, in some ways it felt like he’d died. I think because Paula and I have been through that it will help us understand how Michael is feeling when he’s very sad.’
It was at times like this I felt so proud of my children and also truly humbled. I felt my eyes fill.
‘And you think the same?’ I asked, turning to Paula.
She nodded. ‘We can help Michael when he cries about his daddy.’
‘Did you cry a lot after your daddy left?’ I asked.
Paula nodded. ‘At night in bed, so you couldn’t see.’
It was a moment before I could find my voice to speak. ‘You should have told me,’ I said, putting my arm around Paula and giving her a hug. ‘Thank you both for explaining how you feel. Now I’ve got to do some careful thinking and decide if I have what it takes to help Michael.’
‘You have, Mum,’ Adrian said quietly. ‘Thanks, son, that’s kind of you, but I’m not so sure.’
Chapter Three
Are You Going to Die Soon?
The following morning, after I’d taken Adrian to school and Paula to 018;And ursery where she went for three hours each morning, I phoned Jill. She was expecting my call, and said a quiet, ‘Hello, Cathy.’
‘Has a relative been found for Michael yet?’ I asked hopefully, although I knew it was highly unlikely from what Jill had told me.
‘No,’ Jill said.
I hesitated, my brain working overtime to find the right words for what I had to say although, goodness knows, I’d spent long enough practising it – during the night and as soon as I’d woken.
‘Jill, I’ve obviously given a lot of thought to Patrick and Michael and I also asked Adrian and Paula what they thought.’ I paused again as Jill waited patiently on the other end of the phone. ‘The children think we have what it takes to look after Michael but I have huge doubts, so I’ve got a suggestion.’
‘Yes?’ Jill said.
‘You know Patrick has asked to meet the carer so that he can discuss Michael’s needs, routine, etc.?’
‘Yes.’
‘Presumably that meeting will also give him a chance to see if he feels the carer is right for his son?’
‘I suppose so, although to be honest Patrick can’t afford to be too choosy. We don’t have many foster carers free, and he hasn’t that much time, which he appreciates.’
‘Well, what I’m suggesting is that I meet Patrick and then we decide if Michael coming to me is right for both of us after that meeting. What do you think?’
‘I think you’re delaying a difficult decision and I’m not sure it’s fair on Patrick. But I’ll speak to his social worker and see what she thinks. I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve spoken to her.’
Chastened, I said a subdued, ‘Thank you.’
Remaining on the sofa in the sitting room, I returned the phone to its cradle and stared into space. As if sensing my dilemma, Toscha, our cat, jumped on to my lap and began purring gently. Jill was partly right: I was delaying the decision, possibly hoping a distant relative of Michael’s might be found or that Patrick would take an instant dislike to me at the meeting. Foster carers don’t normally have the luxury of a meeting with the child’s parents prior to the child being placed so that all parties can decide if the proposed move is appropriate; usually the child just arrives, often at very short notice. But Michael’s case wasn’t usual, as Jill knew, which was presumably why she’d indulged me and was now asking his social worker what she thought about my suggestion. I hoped I wasn’t being unfair to Patrick. I certainly didn’t want to make his life more difficult than it must have been already.
Some time later, feeling pretty despondent, I ejected Toscha from my lap and, heaving myself off the sofa, left the sitting room. I went into the kitchen, where I began clearing away the breakfast dishes, my thoughts returning again and again to Patrick and Michael. Was I being selfish in asking to meet Patrick first before making a decision? Jill had implied I was. The poor man had enough to cope with without a foster carer dithering about looking after his son because it would be toupsetting.
It was an hour before the phone rang again and it was Jill. ‘Right, Cathy,’ she said, her voice businesslike but having lost its sting of criticism. ‘I’ve spoken to Stella, the social worker involved in Michael’s case, and she’s phoned Patrick. Stella put your suggestion – of meeting before you both decide if your family is right for Michael – to Patrick, and Patrick thinks it’s a good idea. In fact, Stella said he sounded quite relieved. Apparently he has some concerns, one being that you are not practising Catholics as they are. So that’s one issue we will need to discuss.’
I too was relieved and I felt vindicated. ‘I’ll look forward to meeting him, then,’ I said.
‘Yes, and we need to get this moving, so Stella has set up the meeting for ten a.m. tomorrow, here at the council offices. The time suits Patrick, Stella and me, and I thought it should be all right with you as Paula will be at nursery.’
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘I’m not sure which room we’ll be in, so I’ll meet you in reception.’
‘OK. Thanks, Jill.’
‘And can you bring a few photos of your house, etc., to show Patrick?’
‘Will do.’
When I met the children later in the day – Paula from nursery at 12 noon, and Adrian from school at 3.15 p.m. – the first question they asked me was: ‘Is Michael coming to live with us?’ I said I didn’t know yet – that I was going to a meeting the following morning where Patrick and the social workers would be present and we’d decide after that, which they accepted. The subject of Michael wasn’t mentioned again during the evening, although it didn’t leave my thoughts for long. Somewhere in our community, possibly not very far from where I lived, there was a young lad, Adrian’s age, who was about to lose his father; while a relatively young father was having to come to terms with saying goodbye to his son for good. It had forced me to confront my own mortality, and later I realized it had unsettled Adrian and Paula too.
At bedtime Paula gave me an extra big hug; then, as she tucked her teddy bear in beside her, she said, ‘My teddy is very ill, Mummy, but the doctors are going to make him better. So he won’t die.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘That’s what usually happens.’
Then when I went into Adrian’s bedroom to say goodnight he asked me outright: ‘Mum, you’re not going to die soon, are you?’
I bloody hope not! I thought.
I sat on the edge of his bed and looked at his pensive expression. ‘No. Not for a long, long time. I’m very healthy, so don’t you start worrying about me.’ Clearly I
didn’t know when I was going to die, but Adrian needed to be reassured, not enter into a philosophical debate.
He gave a small smile, and then asked thoughtfully, ‘Do you think there’s a God?’
‘I really don’t know, love, but i would be nice to believe there is.’
‘But if there is a God, why would he let horrible things happen? Like Michael’s father dying, and earthquakes, and murders?’
I shook my head sadly. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes people who have a faith believe they are being tested – to see if their faith is strong enough.’
Adrian looked at me carefully. ‘Does God test those who don’t have a faith?’
‘I really don’t know,’ I said again. I could see where this was leading.
‘I hope not,’ Adrian said, his face clouding again. ‘I don’t want to be tested by having something bad happen. I think if God is good and kind, then he should stop all the bad things happening in the world. It’s not fair if bad things happen to some people.’
‘Life isn’t always fair,’ I said gently, ‘faith or no faith. And we never know what’s around the corner, which is why we should make the most of every day, which I think we do.’
Adrian nodded and laid his head back on his pillow. ‘Maybe I should do other things instead of watching television.’
I smiled and stroked his forehead. ‘It’s fine to watch your favourite programmes; you don’t watch that much television. And Adrian, please don’t start worrying about any of us dying; what’s happened in Michael’s family is very unusual. How many children do you know who lost one parent when they were little and are about to lose their other parent? Think of all the children in your school. Have you heard of anyone there?’ I wanted to put Michael’s situation into perspective: otherwise I knew Adrian could start worrying that he too could be left orphaned.
‘I don’t know anyone like that at school,’ he said.
‘That’s right. Adults usually live for a long, long time and slowly grow old. Look at Nana and Grandpa. They are fit and healthy and they’re nearly seventy.’
‘Yes, they’re very old,’ Adrian agreed. And while I wasn’t sure my parents would have appreciated being called ‘very old’, at least I had made my point and reassured Adrian. His face relaxed and lost its look of anguish. I continued to stroke his forehead and his eyes slowly closed. ‘I hope Michael can come and stay with us,’ he mumbled quietly as he drifted off to sleep.
‘We’ll see. But if it’s not us then I know whoever it is will take very good care of him.’
Chapter Four
So Brave Yet So Ill
I usually meet the parent(s) of the child I am looking after once the child is with me. I might also meet them regularly at contact, when the child sees his or her parents; or at meetings arranged by the social services as part of the childcare proceedings. Sometimes the parents are cooperative and we work easily together with the aim of rehabilitating the child home. Other parents can be angry with the foster carer, whom they see as being part of ‘the system’ responsible for taking their child into care. In these cases I do all I can to form a relationship with the parent(s) so that we can work together for the benefit of their child. I’ve therefore had a lot of experience of meeting parents in the time I’ve been fostering, but I couldn’t remember ever feeling so anxious and out of my depth as I did that morning when I entered the reception area at the council offices and looked around for Jill.
Thankfully I spotted her straightaway, sitting on an end seat in the waiting area on the far side. She saw me, stood and came over. ‘All right?’ she asked kindly, lightly touching my arm. I nodded and took a deep breath. ‘Try not to worry. You’ll be fine. We’re in Interview Room 2. It’s a small room but there’s just the four of us. Stella, the social worker, is up there already with Patrick. I’ve said a quick hello.’
I nodded again. Jill turned and led the way back across the reception area and to the double doors that led to the staircase. There was a lift in the building but it was tiny and was usually reserved for those with prams or mobility requirements. I knew from my previous visits to the council offices that the interview rooms were grouped on the first floor, which was up two short flights of stairs. But as our shoes clipped up the stone steps I could hear my heart beating louder with every step. I was worried sick: worried that I’d say the wrong thing to Patrick and upset him, or that I might not be able to say anything at all, or even that I would take one look at him and burst into tears.
At the top of the second flight of stairs Jill pushed open a set of swing doors and I followed her into a corridor with rooms leading off, left and right. Interview Room 2 was the second door on the right. I took another deep breath as Jill gave a brief knock on the door and then opened it. My gaze went immediately to the four chairs arranged in a small circle in the centre of the room, where a man and a woman sat facing the door.
‘Hi, this is Cathy,’ Jill said brightly.
Stella smiled as Patrick stood to shake my hand. ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ he said. He was softly spoken with a mellow Irish accent.
‘And you,’ I said, relieved that at least I’d managed this far without embarrassing myself.
Patrick was tall, over six feet, and was smartly dressed in dark blue trousers, light blue shirt and navy blazer, but he had clearly lost weight. His clothes were too big for him and the collar on his shirt was very loose. His cheeks were sunken and his cheekbones protruded, but what I noticed most as we shook hands were his eyes. Deep blue, kind and smiling, they held none of the pain and suffering he must have gone through and indeed was probably still going through.
We sat down in the small circle. I took the chair next to Jill so that I was facing Patrick and had Jill on my right and Stella on my left.
‘Shall we start by introducing ourselves?’ Stella said. This is usual practice in meetings at the social services, even though we might all know each other or, as in this case, it was obvious who we were. ‘I’m Stella, Patrick and Michael’s social worker,’ Stella began.
‘I’m Jill, Cathy’s support social worker from Homefinders fostering agency,’ Jill said, looking at Patrick as she spoke.
‘I’m Cathy,’ I said, smiling at Patrick, ‘foster carer.’
‘Patrick, Michael’s father,’ Patrick said evenly. ‘Thank you,’ Stella said, looking around the group. ‘Now, we all know why we’re here: to talk about the possibility of Cathy fostering Michael. I’ll take a few notes of this meeting so that we have them for future reference, but I wasn’t going to produce minutes. Is that all right with everyone?’
Patrick and I nodded as Jill said, ‘Yes.’ Jill, as at most meetings she attended with me, had a notepad open on her lap so that she could make notes of anything that might be of help to me later and which I might forget. Now I was in the room and had met Patrick, I was starting to feel a bit calmer. My heart had stopped racing, although I still felt pretty tense. Everyone else appeared quite relaxed, even Patrick, who had his hands folded loosely in his lap.
‘Cathy,’ Stella said, looking at me, ‘I think it would be really useful if we could start with you telling us a bit about yourself and your family. Then Patrick,’ she said, looking at him, ‘would you like to go next and tell Cathy about you and Michael?’
Patrick nodded, while I straightened in my chair and tried to gather my thoughts. I don’t like being first to talk at meetings, although I’m a lot better now at speaking in meetings than I used to be when I first began fostering; then I used to be so nervous I became tongue-tied and unable to say what I wanted to. ‘I’ve been a foster carer for nine years,’ I began. ‘I have two children of my own, a boy and a girl, aged eight and four. I was married but unfortunately I’m now separated and have been for nearly two years. My children have grown up with fostering and enjoy having children staying with us. They are very good at helping the child settle in. It’s obviously very strange for the child when they first come to stay and they often talk to Adrian and Paula before
they feel comfortable talking to me.’ I hesitated, uncertain of what to say next.
‘Could you tell us what sort of things you do at weekends?’ Jill suggested.
‘Oh yes. Well, we go out quite a lot – to parks, museums and places of interest. Sometimes to the cinema. And we see my parents, my brother and my cousins quite regularly. They all live within an hour’s drive away.’
‘It’s nice to do things as a family,’ Patrick said.
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘We’re a close family and obviously the child we look after is always included as part of our family and in family activities. I make sure all the children have a good Christmas and birthday,’ I continued. ‘And in the summer we try and go on a short holiday, usually to the coast in England.’ Patrick nodded. ‘I encourage the children in their hobbies and interests and I always make sure they are at school on time. If they have any homework I like them to do it before they play or watch television.’ I stopped and racked my brains for what else I should tell him. It was difficult giving a comprehensive thumbnail sketch of our lives in a few minutes.
‘Did you bring some photographs?’ Jill prompted.
‘Oh yes. I nearly forgot.’ I delved into my bag and took out the envelope containng photos that I had hastily robbed from the albums that morning. I passed them to Patrick and we were all quiet for some moments as he looked through them. There were about a dozen, showing my family in various rooms in the house, the garden, and also our cat, Toscha. Had I had more notice I would have put a small album together and labelled the photos.
Patrick smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he said, returning the photos to the envelope and then handing them back to me. ‘You have a lovely family and home. I’m sure if Michael stayed with you he would feel very comfortable.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Can I have a look at the photos?’ Stella asked. I passed the envelope to her. ‘While I look at these,’ she said to Patrick, ‘perhaps you’d like to say a bit about you and Michael?’