Where Has Mummy Gone?

by Cathy Glass

  Miss May laughed. ‘We have indeed. Hello, you must be Cathy.’

  ‘Yes, nice to meet you. Thank you for all you’re doing to help Melody.’

  ‘You’re welcome. She’s a delight to work with and works hard, although she has been worrying an awful lot about her mother.’

  ‘I know, her social worker is aware, and I’ve tried to reassure Melody that her mother can look after herself.’

  ‘Did you speak to my social worker?’ Melody now asked, her previous excitement replaced by concern.

  ‘I spoke to Jill and she’s going to talk to Neave, so don’t you worry.’

  ‘It’s such a shame,’ Miss May said. ‘It’s difficult for me to know what to tell her for the best.’

  ‘I think time will help. I’ve found before that once a child sees their parents doing all right, they let go of some of the responsibility they feel for them. Also, her social worker will talk to her mother about what she can do to reassure Melody at contact.’

  ‘That’s good.’ She smiled at Melody. ‘You see? There’s no need for you to keep worrying about Mummy.’

  Melody gave a small nod.

  I usually work closely with the teaching assistant (TA) of the child I’m fostering. Not only do TAs help the child to learn, but they often give a level of pastoral support, and help the child develop their self-confidence and self-esteem. If a child is struggling at school it can have a knock-on effect on other aspects of their life. I’d taken an immediate liking to Miss May. Short, a little chubby, with a round, open, smiling face, you felt you wanted to hug her. I guessed she was approaching retirement age, but I doubted she would retire. She clearly loved her job, just as the children clearly loved her. As we stood talking I lost count of the number of children who’d gone out of their way to call and wave to her – ‘Goodbye, Miss May!’ ‘See you tomorrow, Miss May!’ and so forth.

  As Melody and I went to the car she said, ‘Don’t tell anyone, but Miss May likes sweets. She keeps a packet in her handbag. She gave me one, and the boys she helps, but no one else in the class.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ I said. I was pleased Melody was starting to enjoy school – some children don’t.

  That evening passed as most school nights do, with dinner, homework, bath and bed. The following day was Friday and Melody had contact again. She woke up worrying about her mother. ‘I hope Mum’s not late again,’ she said anxiously. ‘I hope she remembers to come. She might not remember how to get there. I hope she has something to eat.’

  ‘I’ve got some dinner for her,’ I said. ‘I saved some of the cottage pie we had on Wednesday. I’ll defrost it and bring it with me.’ The look of gratitude on Melody’s face was heartbreaking. Then it was replaced with yet more anxiety. ‘It’s Saturday tomorrow, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mum and me go shopping on Saturday to buy food for the weekend. I won’t see her again until Monday, so she won’t have anything to eat all weekend.’

  ‘Melody, I am sure your mother will buy herself something to eat over the weekend. She’s an adult. Please don’t worry about her. Now come on, time to get dressed ready for school.’

  I was about to leave her room when she said, ‘Cathy, you said you give us pocket money on Saturday. Can I have mine early?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To buy food for my mum.’ She wasn’t the first child I’d fostered who’d wanted to use their pocket money to help out their parents.

  ‘Love, that money is for you, but as you’re so worried I’ve got a couple of ready meals in the freezer, which your mum can have. I’ll bring them with me at the end of school and she can have them at the weekend.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Melody said, and threw her arms around me, which made me tear up. Clearly I wouldn’t be providing Amanda with all her meals – this was a short-term measure to stop Melody from worrying and to get them both through their first weekend apart. Amanda had her benefit money, and if she really had stopped using drugs she should have enough to buy food.

  Later, before I left to collect Melody from school, I added some fruit, crisps and biscuits to the bag I was taking.

  Melody needn’t have worried about her mother being late for contact, for when we arrived she was already there, and had been for two hours! The receptionist said it wasn’t clear why Amanda had arrived so early, but she’d insisted on staying in the waiting room for the whole two hours so she didn’t miss Melody. She was now in Yellow Room with the contact supervisor for the start of contact. Melody was of course delighted that her mother was already there. She was sitting on the sofa, looking at a children’s book, and the contact supervisor was at a small table at one end, writing.

  ‘Hello, Mummy!’ Melody cried, running to her, the bag of food dangling at her side.

  Amanda looked up and for a second seemed startled, as if she hadn’t been expecting to see Melody or didn’t recognize her, but then she stood and hugged her. I said hello to Amanda and then left. I walked to a small local café where I did some paperwork over a cup of tea and a teacake. I returned to collect Melody at 5.30 p.m. and went through to Yellow Room. The door was open and the three of them were putting on their coats. I said hello. Amanda looked in my direction but didn’t say anything. Melody was naturally reluctant to leave her mother and kept hugging and kissing her until the contact supervisor said, ‘Time to go.’ With a final hug and kiss for her mother, Melody came to me and we left.

  Outside the centre Melody said, ‘Mum liked your cottage pie. She ate it all.’

  ‘Good. She warmed it up in the microwave?’

  ‘Yes, the contact supervisor helped her, as children aren’t allowed in the kitchen. She was starving and said it was the first thing she’d had to eat since your rice pudding.’

  ‘But that was Wednesday,’ I said, shocked. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. She ate the crisps and biscuits too. I keep telling you, Mum forgets to eat without me telling her to.’

  If Melody was right then it was very worrying and exceeded any adult–child dependency I’d seen before.

  ‘All right. I’ll make sure Neave knows.’ But shouldn’t her social worker have known already? I wondered. Melody and her mother had been known to the social services for some time. Unless of course Melody was exaggerating, perhaps thinking this was the way to get home.

  Chapter Seven

  Lost

  On Saturday, I took Melody shopping to buy her some more casual clothes, a swimming costume, posters and knick-knacks for her room to make it more personal. Also, a rag doll she spotted and immediately fell in love with, as it reminded her of a doll she’d once owned that had been lost in one of the moves. Lucy and Paula came too and we had some lunch out. Adrian was playing football and then studying in the afternoon. It was a successful day and I could see that Melody was delighted with all the purchases and to have the company, attention and advice of the two older girls, who helped her choose her clothes.

  ‘Are you being spoilt?’ Lucy asked her.

  Melody looked as though she might have done something wrong.

  ‘It’s OK, she’s joking,’ I said. ‘Lucy has everything she needs.’

  On Sunday we had a leisurely morning, including a full English breakfast – a first for Melody. In the afternoon I took her to the cinema, leaving the others at home to finish their homework and chill out. I’d learned that young people need their own space sometimes, especially in a family that fosters where there is often a lot going on, including regular visits from social workers, sometimes the child’s family, meetings and phone calls, all of which can be disruptive and intrusive to normal family life. Melody was mesmerized by the cartoon film and for the time it lasted she stopped worrying about her mother. However, as soon as it ended and we were on our way home she grew anxious again. ‘I hope Mummy has got up.’ ‘I hope she hasn’t got lost.’ ‘I bet Mummy hasn’t eaten.’ I reminded her we’d given her ready meals, which only had to be heated in the microwave. ‘I hope Mum remembe
rs how to work the microwave,’ Melody continued.

  ‘I’m sure she will. You only have to press a couple of buttons.’

  Melody looked doubtful.

  On Sunday evening I telephoned my parents for a chat as I usually did if we hadn’t seen them during the weekend. They were very supportive of my fostering and knew we’d get together once Melody had settled in. The children I’d fostered loved my parents, as of course did Adrian, Paula and Lucy. They were the typical doting grandparents and welcomed all the children we looked after into their hearts and homes.

  Too quickly it was Monday again and I was waking my family ready for school. Melody was happy as she was seeing her mother that evening and had a swimming lesson at school. She couldn’t wait to wear her new swimming costume and use the new towel she’d chosen when shopping. It had a large picture of Walt Disney’s Donald Duck. ‘You’re quackers!’ Adrian joked when she showed it to him, and we all groaned.

  Melody and I left the house first as usual and once I’d seen her into school I stopped by the supermarket to top up on some essential groceries. Once home, I telephoned Jill to update her. Foster carers like me who foster for an Independent Fostering Agency (IFA), rather than directly for their Local Authority, usually report to their supervising social worker at their agency first, who then updates the child’s social worker. Jill was in the office and began by asking me if we’d had a good weekend. I said we had and told her briefly what we’d done. She wasn’t just making conversation; as my supervising social worker she needed to know what I’d arranged for the child to do over the weekend. I then told her what Melody had been saying about her mother not eating or being able to do anything without her being there.

  ‘When Neave placed Melody she didn’t say anything about Amanda’s total dependency on her daughter,’ I said. ‘It seems strange she didn’t reassure Melody, and it’s obviously upsetting her.’

  ‘Perhaps Neave didn’t know,’ Jill said. ‘Parents can hide what they don’t want the social worker to see, and Melody could have been covering up for her too. I didn’t manage to speak to Neave on Friday – she wasn’t in her office – so I’ll call her now and see if she is aware. Also, the contact supervisor should have included it in her reports if it is going on at contact.’

  ‘Yes, OK, thank you, Jill.’

  It was the afternoon before Jill returned my call. She had a number of issues to cover. ‘I’ve just spoken to Neave. She hasn’t been able to see Amanda since Melody came into care so hasn’t been able to get any of Melody’s belongings. Neave thinks Amanda is avoiding her, and there’s a possibility she may be on the move again.’

  ‘I seem to remember that Amanda was being evicted.’

  ‘Yes, that was mentioned. I told Neave what Melody has been saying about her mother and she is going to observe contact on Friday. It will give her a chance to speak to Amanda and watch how she relates to Melody. Neave has received the contact supervisor’s report for Wednesday, but not for Friday yet. Apparently the contact supervisor noted that Amanda seemed confused and angry at times. Your name came up, as Amanda kept blaming you for some things, quite irrationally, including stealing her daughter’s clothes and putting poison on her hair. A few times she seemed disorientated. When she left the room, to go to the toilet or get a drink, Melody went with her so she could find her way back. At one point she appeared to have forgotten Melody’s name. But the contact supervisor also noted that Amanda was loving towards Melody and was able to show her affection appropriately. Neave feels it could be that Amanda’s confusion was a result of being in an unfamiliar setting and being flustered by arriving late for contact, or it could be that she’s still using. There was no smell of alcohol. She’s going to see how it goes at contact this week and then may ask for a drugs test if she feels it’s appropriate.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘She asked if you can tell Melody that she’ll be there on Friday observing contact, so it doesn’t come as a shock.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  ‘Neave also said she’d requested a medical for Melody, so you should receive a letter in the post with details of the appointment before too long. She’s given your contact details to the Guardian ad Litem, who will be in touch to arrange to see Melody.’ This is standard for a child when they first come into care.

  ‘All right, thanks, Jill.’

  That afternoon I prepared dinner for later – pasta, cheese and broccoli bake – and set aside a portion for Amanda. Melody had asked that morning if we could take her mother some dinner. Before I left I wrote a note for Adrian, Paula and Lucy saying what time to put the dish in the oven and the setting. I then drove to Melody’s school and waited in the playground for her to come out. She appeared with Miss May and the first thing she asked was, ‘Have you remembered Mummy’s dinner?’

  ‘Yes, don’t worry. It’s in the car.’

  Miss May said that Melody had had a good day, although she had been rather nervous in the swimming lesson. It seemed it was the first time she’d ever been swimming, so she’d stayed in the shallow end with armbands on. ‘She was worried about drowning,’ Miss May said. ‘She told me her mother never took her swimming because she thought she would drown.’ I could see from Miss May’s expression that she thought this was an odd thing to tell a child, as did I.

  ‘You won’t drown,’ I said to Melody. ‘But it is important you learn to swim.’

  ‘We make it fun and the children are never asked to do anything they are not comfortable with,’ Miss May added.

  ‘I know. I’ll reassure her,’ I said. ‘I guess it was all a bit new today.’

  ‘Yes, we let her spend the lesson walking widths and doing small jumps to get used to the feel of the water.’

  I thanked Miss May and we said goodbye. On the way to the car Melody said, ‘Lots of the children in my class can swim and go in the deep end without armbands.’

  ‘And you will too one day,’ I said brightly.

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘Yes. As well as the swimming lessons at school I could take you swimming at the weekend to help.’

  ‘No. Mummy won’t like that,’ she said adamantly. ‘It will worry her.’

  ‘We’ll see. I’ll talk to Neave about it,’ and I dropped the subject. While I didn’t want to worry Amanda or Melody, I would be pursuing the matter, for here was another opportunity Melody had missed out on. Now she was in care (under a court order) the social services had responsibility for her, and usually they felt the child should have access to opportunities like this that they’d previously missed, so I would ask Neave if I could take Melody swimming.

  When we arrived at the Family Centre Amanda was in reception signing the Visitors’ Book.

  ‘Mummy!’ Melody cried, rushing to her. Amanda turned and they hugged, but then Amanda suddenly drew back.

  ‘You’ve got fleas,’ she said.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ Melody said, hurt.

  ‘Yes, from their cat.’

  ‘No, I haven’t, Mum,’ and she looked to me for help.

  ‘She hasn’t got fleas, Amanda,’ I said, going over. ‘Our cat doesn’t have fleas. Melody had head lice, but they’re all gone now.’

  ‘Really?’ Amanda said, apparently truly astonished. ‘How did you make them go away? Magic?’

  I looked at her. ‘With head lice lotion,’ I replied. Did she really not remember after all the fuss she’d made last week about me putting ‘poison’ on her daughter’s hair?

  ‘I think I need some of your magic lotion,’ she said and began scratching her arm quite roughly, which can be a sign of drug withdrawal.

  ‘Come on, Mummy,’ Melody said, taking her hand. ‘Let’s go to the room.’ I followed them, carrying the box of pasta bake as Melody guided her mother down the corridor. It was my responsibility to see Melody into the room, then I would leave. Amanda didn’t appear unsteady on her feet and there was no smell of alcohol, but she was disorientated, and what she’d just said seemed quite bizarre. She kept
looking around and into the rooms she passed as if searching for something familiar. I doubted she would have found Yellow Room again without Melody showing her. The centre tries to give families the same room each time for continuity. I said a polite hello to the contact supervisor – the same one as before – and placed the box of pasta bake on the coffee table. ‘I hope you like it,’ I said to Amanda.

  ‘It’s pasta, Mum,’ Melody said. ‘Your favourite.’

  But Amanda just looked blank, so perhaps she’d forgotten I’d brought in food before. I said goodbye to her and Melody, and then left.

  I went to the café again where I did some paperwork and read a book over a cup of tea. I was starting to enjoy this quiet time alone – our house was always so busy. I returned to the Family Centre at 5.30 p.m. to collect Melody and went through to Yellow Room. She and her mother were sitting side by side on the sofa with a pencil each and a sheet of paper on a clipboard between them. ‘We’re playing noughts and crosses,’ Melody said.

  ‘Great. That sounds like fun.’

  I went over to look. For anyone not familiar with it, it’s a simple game for two players who take turns to place a nought or a cross in a three-by-three grid. The player who manages to make three of their marks in a horizontal, vertical or diagonal row wins the game. Another grid is then drawn for the next game. It’s a ‘fill in’ game you play in your spare time for about ten minutes. But their sheet of paper was covered in dozens and dozens of small completed grids. Beside them on the sofa was a stack of similarly covered sheets. ‘Have you been playing noughts and crosses all this time?’ I asked.

  Melody nodded as her pencil hovered over the grid and she tried to decide where to place her cross.

  ‘Come on, your turn.’ Amanda nudged her. ‘You can’t go until we’ve finished.’

  Melody made her cross in a place that would allow her mother to win. Amanda added a nought and yelped with joy. ‘Time for another game!’ she said, and quickly drew another grid.