by Cathy Glass
‘Oh yes?’
‘You remember I told you I was trying to get Darrel dry at night and you said to give him his last drink earlier in the evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it worked. It only took two nights and he’s dry now.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ I said. ‘Well done.’
‘It’s a big saving on nappies; they’re so expensive. He’s pleased he’s dry too.’
‘Yes, he’s a big boy now,’ I said, glancing at Darrel, although he was concentrating on playing with the train set.
‘I have another piece of good news,’ Shelley said, now turning to me with a glint of excitement in her eyes. ‘And it’s because of you again.’
‘Really?’ I asked tentatively, wondering what I was being held responsible for.
‘You know we were talking about my experiences in foster care and I said the only foster carer I regretted not keeping in touch with was Carol? And you said she’d still be pleased to hear from me even after all this time?’ I nodded. ‘Well, I gave it some thought and I asked the social worker if she could find Carol’s telephone number for me. I explained I was thinking of trying to contact her. She said she’d look into it, but if they did have her number on file she’d have to check with Carol first before she gave it to me. She phoned back a few days later and had spoken to Carol. She’s still fostering and said she’d love to hear from me, so I called her yesterday.’ Shelley’s face lit up and my eyes rounded too.
‘Fantastic. Well done.’
‘She was over the moon to hear from me,’ Shelley continued. ‘It was great hearing her voice. It brought back some really good memories of my time with her. She couldn’t talk for long as she had to collect a child from contact, but she’s invited me over there next Sunday. Her own children will be there. They’re grown up, but they want to see me again, so it will be a family reunion. That’s what Carol said – “a family reunion” – like she still thinks of me as family. I couldn’t believe it.’
‘I’m sure she does think of you as family,’ I said. ‘You were with her for three years. That’s a long time.’
Shelley’s eyes glistened. ‘It feels so good. So a big thank-you. If it wasn’t for you I would never have thought of contacting her.’ She gave me a big hug.
‘I expect Carol will want to keep in touch in the future now you’ve made contact,’ I said.
‘I hope so. That would be wonderful. I’ve never had a family of my own.’
Shelley was a lovely person who, despite being badly let down by her parents and the social-care system, wasn’t at all angry or bitter, which said a lot about her.
We continued talking as the children played, then Shelley suddenly turned to me again in earnest, a serious expression on her face. ‘Cathy, there’s something I would like to ask your advice about if you don’t mind.’
‘No, of course not. Go ahead. I’ll help if I can.’
‘It’s about my singing. I saw a card on the noticeboard in the library about a local amateur choir. They meet once a week in the evening to practise and then give little concerts in the community hall. I saw them singing at Christmas – they were very good, and since then I’ve been thinking, well, that maybe I’d like to try and join them.’ She stopped and looked at me hesitantly.
‘Yes, that sounds good. What’s stopping you? A babysitter for Darrel?’ I was ready to offer to look after him so she could attend the choir.
‘No. My friend would do that. She’s offered before. It’s more …’ She hesitated again. ‘Two things really. I’m not sure if I’m good enough – they may not want me – and I don’t know anyone there.’
‘Shelley,’ I said, looking at her carefully, ‘I’m sure you are good enough, but you won’t know unless you try. And I fully understand how daunting it can be to walk into a room full of strangers, but if you want it enough you’ll do it. Go for it, I say. I think it’s a fantastic idea. You love singing and I’m sure they’ll be pleased to have you.’
She gave a little shrug. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said, not wholly convinced.
‘Is there a telephone number for you to call or do you just turn up for an audition?’
‘Either,’ she said.
‘If it was me, I’d telephone first and have a chat with the organizer. Then, if you decide to go for an audition, you’ll already know them, so it will be a bit easier.’
‘And you think I stand a chance of getting in?’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’
‘Hmm. I’ll think about it,’ she said again.
Self-effacing and a little short on confidence, Shelley didn’t fully appreciate what a lovely singing voice she had, but I didn’t say anything further; it was her decision, and I now had to put the finishing touches to lunch. I left Shelley in charge of the children while I went into the kitchen. Meatless sausages, chicken dippers, quiche and jacket potatoes were already cooking in the oven, and I now warmed some baked beans and set salad and coleslaw on the table. When everything was ready I called them to the table and we served ourselves, with Shelley helping Darrel and me helping Paula. Adrian served himself. There was rather a lot of giggling from the children, as they were excited, but they also ate, so it didn’t matter. Once we’d finished I suggested we went into the garden as the weather was good. Toscha, not wanting to be left out, came with us. I took the children’s garden toys from the shed and arranged them on the lawn. Paula began pushing the walker up and down while Adrian and Darrel kicked a football. Shelley and I stood watching them for a while and then sat on the bench by the tree where we could see them as we chatted. Toscha quickly settled between us. We talked intermittently as Shelley absently stroked Toscha, and it wasn’t long before she was telling me about Carol again, and the time just after she’d left her.
‘I don’t know why I didn’t keep in touch and answer her phone calls,’ Shelley said. ‘I should have done. I certainly needed her support. I was in a bad place when I first left care and had to go into lodgings, and then when Darrel was born it got even worse. We were living in the bed and breakfast and I had no one. I was isolated and got really low. The room was damp and smelly and I had to share a bathroom with other families, which didn’t help. Then I was up at night with Darrel and got tired and depressed. Everything was such an effort, even getting dressed. Sometimes I didn’t get dressed and stayed in for days on end. Thankfully my social worker knew what to do.’
‘Which was what?’ I asked, glancing at her.
‘Go to the doctor’s. He gave me some tablets. I didn’t want to take them at first, because I thought I might get addicted to them, but my social worker told me I should, as the doctor had prescribed them. I’m glad I did. I started to feel better almost straight away and I came off them after six months.’
‘What sort of tablets were they?’ I asked, interested.
‘Anti-depressants. It’s what they give you if you have postnatal depression.’
‘Is that what you had?’
Shelley nodded. ‘The doctor said I should have gone to see him earlier, but I was worried that it might affect my chances of keeping Darrel. The social services were monitoring me then to see if I could cope. I thought if I admitted I was depressed they would think I couldn’t and would take Darrel away.’
‘Clearly that didn’t happen,’ I said.
‘No. My social worker was great. She said one of her sisters had had postnatal depression, so she knew what to do.’
I nodded and obviously thought of Laura. ‘Did you have any other symptoms apart from feeling very low and finding everything an effort? If you don’t mind me asking …’
‘I cried the whole time. If something didn’t go right – even something small, like changing a nappy – I’d burst into tears. I cried for no reason too. I felt a complete failure, worthless, and no good to anyone. I thought others were getting at me and I even started to think that Darrel would be better off without me. It seems awful now, but then I felt overwhelmed and everything seem
ed pointless. It was like I was in a deep, dark pit with no way of getting out. The doctor also arranged some counselling for me, which helped too. I dread to think what would have happened if I hadn’t gone to see the doctor. It was just as well I had a good social worker.’
‘Yes, it was,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Although you may have gone to the doctors in the end anyway.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
I stood and went over to Paula, who’d taken a tumble and was looking as though she might cry. Adrian and Darrel got to her first and helped her up. I brushed her down and she was soon smiling again.
We stayed in the garden for another hour or so, talking and playing with the children, and then we returned indoors for the pudding, which we’d been too full to eat at lunchtime. Apple crumble with custard or ice cream (or both). We all had both, the combination of melting ice cream, warm custard, the sweet, crunchy topping and slightly tart apple was too good to resist, so we all had seconds too.
Shelley and Darrel stayed until nearly six o’clock and then, with a reluctant sigh, Shelley said they had better be going. I offered to take them home in the car, but she insisted they’d be fine on the bus. As she pointed out, it was still daylight, she had fully recovered from the operation and didn’t have any heavy luggage, so I was persuaded to let her go on the bus. We all went to the front door to see them off. I told Shelley to stay in touch and that I hoped to see them again before long.
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she said. ‘We both would.’
‘Have a good time at Carol’s,’ I added. ‘And don’t forget to phone that choir leader.’
Shelley smiled, but changed the subject. ‘I’ll think about you this evening when I’m singing to Darrel,’ she said.
‘We’ll think about you too,’ I said.
We hugged and kissed goodbye and then stood on the pavement and waved until they were out of sight.
‘I’m having a lovely time,’ Adrian said as we returned indoors. ‘First Darrel, and then on Wednesday that other boy is coming. I’m so lucky.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. But lucky wasn’t the term I would be using by the end of the week – stretched to the limit was more like it.
The next day, Sunday, the first day of June, we went to my parents. On Monday we were mainly at home and on Tuesday we went to a local adventure park. I find that during the school holidays a combination of days out and time spent playing at home works well for the children. The paperwork for Samson had arrived in Monday’s post and I’d read it that evening. Respite information for carers is less detailed than the placement information a carer usually receives when a child is staying for longer. It is a brief résumé of what they need to know. It contained Samson’s full name, date of birth, home address, his grandmother’s name and telephone number, then lines for additional information. Medication: none. Special dietary requirements: none. Religion: Catholic. Other significant adults: Samson lives with his gran, aunts and uncles, and has some contact with his father but not his mother. There was also space to include any special needs and challenging behaviour, and beside this was typed: Samson can show challenging behaviour at times – but with no details. I didn’t think much of this, as many of the children I’d fostered had shown some challenging behaviour, and given that Samson was being brought up by his grandmother, whom the social worker had said wasn’t in good health and was finding it difficult to cope, I assumed it would be a matter of putting a few boundaries in place and keeping Samson happily occupied.
Adrian was so excited on Wednesday morning, planning all the games he and Samson were going to play, that he could hardly eat his breakfast. I intended to take Adrian and Paula with me to collect Samson rather than ask a friend to babysit. The note from the social worker that had come with the information had said I should collect Samson at ten o’clock. I knew the estate where he lived; it was about a twenty-minute drive away, so we left in good time at 9.30 a.m. The estate was a mixture of private and social housing, and had a complicated and confusing series of criss-cross walkways designed to keep cars out of the central residential area. I found the designated car park for flats 15–27 (Samson lived in flat 17) and opened the back doors of the car, which were child-locked, to let the children out.
I held Paula’s hand and with Adrian on the other side of me we began down the path to the communal entrance to the flats. It was a three-storey block identical to others on the estate. It was a warm day and many of the residents had their windows wide open. The sounds of life filtered out, converging and echoing in the central courtyard: a television blaring, a baby crying, children shouting, music, a dog barking, as well as various cooking smells. Adrian gave a little skip of happiness and Paula tried to copy him. As we approached the main entrance the net curtain at the window of the ground-floor flat on our left was suddenly pulled back and a boy with a shaved head and piercing blue eyes yelled, ‘Are you the foster carer?’
Adrian stopped dead beside me.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Gran, she’s here!’ the boy yelled at the top of his voice. And the net curtain was flung back into place.
‘Is that Samson?’ Adrian asked quietly, moving slightly closer.
‘I think it might be,’ I said.
Someone in their flat must have released the security lock on the main door, for it clicked open. With a child on each side I went in and turned left to number 17. Although the occupants clearly knew we’d arrived no one came to the door, so after a few moments I pressed the bell. Noise immediately erupted from inside. The claws of a very heavy dog pounded down the hall and then scratched furiously at the other side of the door as it barked loudly. Adrian darted behind me and I picked up Paula. There’d been no mention of a dog in the information I’d been sent, and I was not pleased. Social workers often have to insist that a dog is shut away before they enter premises, but it would be awkward for me to make the same request.
‘Get down, Bruno!’ a male voice now yelled from inside the flat. There was more angry barking and scratching, then a yelp, and the door opened. I took a step back.
A boy in his late teens with a shaved head held the Doberman by its studded neck collar. It strained to be free. ‘Stop it!’ he shouted, yanking on its collar, then looked at me.
‘I’ve come to collect Samson,’ I said.
‘Gran!’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘The social worker’s here.’
‘Foster carer,’ I corrected.
‘Foster carer!’ he yelled.
‘Shut him away, will ya?’ a woman’s voice came from down the hall.
The lad tugged hard on the dog’s collar and managed to turn it around and drag it down the hall, its claws scratching on what was left of the lino.
‘Take no notice of him,’ the woman who now appeared said. ‘His bark is worse than his bite.’
I assumed she was referring to the dog. ‘Is the dog shut in a room now?’ I asked.
‘He will be,’ she said. ‘I’m Samson’s gran.’
‘Hello,’ I smiled. ‘I’m Cathy, the foster carer.’
‘Jason! Is Bruno shut in?’ she yelled over her shoulder.
There was no reply, but the silence seemed to suggest that he was and she beckoned us to go in. Still carrying Paula and with Adrian holding tightly onto the back of my jeans, we went in. ‘I hope you don’t mind me bringing my children,’ I said.
‘No, not at all. I like kids.’ She closed the door. ‘Come through.’
We followed Samson’s gran slowly down the short hall. She was badly overweight and her heavily veined legs and swollen ankles looked painful, causing her to hobble rather than walk. She used the wall to steady herself. Little wonder she struggled to look after Samson, a high-spirited and energetic six-year-old, I thought.
We went into a cramped and cluttered living room where she collapsed into an armchair, out of breath from the exertion of coming to the front door. A large, middle-aged man with a mug of tea balanced on his stomach sat in the other armchair, staring at
the television. Naked to the waist, he had the name of a football club (presumably the one he supported) tattooed across his chest. I assumed he was one of Samson’s uncles referred to in the information sheet. He looked up and nodded in my direction, then returned his attention to the television. Controlling the television with the remote and sprawled on the sofa beneath the window was the boy we’d already seen at the window. ‘You’ve met Samson,’ his gran said, nodding towards him.
‘Hello, Samson,’ I said brightly. ‘How are you?’ Adrian peeped out from behind me.
Samson ignored me and continued pressing the remote to channel hop.
‘Say hello to your foster carer,’ his gran said sternly.
‘Say hello, boy,’ the man repeated gruffly. ‘And leave the bleedin’ control alone.’
‘Hello,’ Samson said, without taking his eyes from the television.
‘Will you leave that thing alone and get your stuff,’ his gran now said to him.
‘Give it here,’ the man demanded, reaching out for the remote.
Samson jumped up, tossed the remote into the man’s lap and ran out of the room. At the same time two women in their early twenties, hair ruffled from sleep and dressed in pyjama shorts and T-shirts, sauntered in carrying a mug of tea each. They seemed unfazed and indeed uninterested that I, a stranger, was in the room, and with barely a glance in my direction wandered over to the sofa where they sat down and gazed at the television.
‘Aren’t you gonna offer her a cup of tea then?’ Samson’s gran said to them.
‘It’s OK,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’m fine. We’re going as soon as Samson is ready.’
‘You know to bring him back at six o’clock sharp on Friday,’ Gran said to me.
‘Yes.’
‘He must be here for six or I’ll catch it from his dad. He goes out with his dad every Friday at six o’clock.’
‘I’ll have him back in plenty of time,’ I confirmed.
Samson reappeared with a small backpack. ‘Are we going then?’ he demanded.
‘You got everything, mate?’ his gran asked him, from which I assumed Samson had done his own packing.