The Silent Cry

by Cathy Glass

  ‘Yes. Very wrong.’

  ‘I told me dad she shouldn’t be treating me like that, but he said if I made trouble she’d chuck him out and he’d have nowhere to live.’

  ‘He’s an adult,’ I said. ‘He can look after himself. He’ll find somewhere else to live if necessary. Where he lives isn’t your problem. And as your father he should be protecting you and keeping you safe. Not letting you get hurt.’

  ‘I wish me mum had stayed,’ Samson said thoughtfully. ‘But I guess that’s life.’ With a shrug he turned over, ready for sleep.

  I touched his shoulder. ‘Night then, love. Sleep tight, and see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Night,’ his voice came from under the duvet. ‘Thanks for me party.’

  ‘You’re welcome, love.’

  Sad and worried, I came out, closing the door behind me. I believed what Samson had told me about his father’s girlfriend. His matter-of-fact resignation to being punished and his childlike description convinced me it was true, but it would be for the social services to investigate. I’d telephone his social worker first thing in the morning. The poor kid, I thought, and I wondered how much of his bad behaviour resulted from the abuse he was suffering. He must be angry, and in children anger often comes out in challenging behaviour.

  I went into Adrian’s room, spent some time lying with him, then said goodnight and checked on Paula. She was sound asleep. Downstairs, I wrote notes on what Samson had told me and then I finished washing the dishes and tidying up from the party, although I left Samson’s birthday card on the mantelpiece. With my dissertation finished I didn’t feel guilty watching some television, then after the ten o’clock news I let Toscha out for a run and went up to bed. I didn’t sleep. As soon as I started to drift off my thoughts went to Samson and what he’d suffered, and would still be suffering if something wasn’t done. I appreciated how much patience it took to look after him, even for a short while, but there was no justification for hitting him or locking him in or out of the flat. My anger rose, not just towards the girlfriend, but also towards Samson’s father, who’d put his own needs first and failed to protect his son. By standing by and doing nothing he’d been an accomplice in the abuse and was as much to blame as his girlfriend.

  It was after midnight before I finally fell asleep and then the following morning Samson was wide awake at six o’clock. I settled him in his bedroom with some toys while I showered and dressed. After breakfast, and as soon as the social services’ offices opened at nine o’clock, I told Samson and Adrian that I needed them to look after Paula while I made an important telephone call. Samson rose to the responsibility and held Paula’s hand, which was sweet. I left the three of them seated on the floor in the living room playing with a selection of games, while I went into the hall to make the call. I could hear them from there. I think Samson knew what the call was about, but there was no need for me to tell Adrian; he was used to me making and receiving important calls in connection with fostering.

  Samson’s social worker was at her desk and she went very quiet as I described the bruise and what Samson had said. Then she gave a heartfelt sigh, which seemed to say, ‘Not more suffering … When will it end?’

  ‘We’ve had concerns about the level of care Samson has been receiving for some time,’ she said. ‘But this is new. I’ll need to speak to him. I can’t make it today or tomorrow. My diary is full. I’ll see him on Thursday morning when he’s home. Does he know you’re telling me?’

  ‘Yes. I told him I’d tell you.’

  ‘Good. Reassure him he’s done the right thing in telling you and I’ll see him on Thursday. I think I’ll need to set up supervised contact at the family centre for Friday so he can still see his father, but I’ll explain that to him on Thursday. How is he?’

  ‘Not too bad. He wasn’t upset when he told me. He seemed to think he deserved being treated like that because he was naughty.’

  ‘The poor kid. And how is his behaviour generally with you?’

  ‘Very manageable.’

  ‘So if we do need to bring him into care, you could foster him, rather than just do respite?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you, Cathy.’

  We said goodbye and I put the phone down and returned to the living room. Just in time! Samson was pretending Paula was Superwoman and had stood her on the coffee table and was now telling her to leap off.

  ‘That’s not looking after her,’ I said to both boys as I lifted her off.

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ Adrian said guiltily. Samson glared at me.

  ‘Can’t have any fun here,’ he grumbled. And from then on the day went downhill. Perhaps it was because he knew that what he’d told me would have repercussions, or maybe he was just testing me, I didn’t know, but he spent the entire morning trying to wind me up, teasing Adrian and Paula, and unable to settle to anything for more than five minutes. Eventually, although I didn’t like doing it, I said that unless his behaviour improved we wouldn’t be going to the cinema, and he settled down – until we were in the cinema. Then, with limited sanctions available in the cinema to curb his behaviour, he made the most of it by throwing popcorn, kicking the back of the seat in front, jumping up and down, whooping, shouting, giving a running commentary on the film at the top of his voice and generally making a spectacle of himself. Those around us kept turning and shushing him. Adrian looked embarrassed (as I was) and even told him to sit down and be quiet. Some of Samson’s behaviour was natural exuberance – excitability – but most of it wasn’t. He was testing the boundaries to the limit. The word ‘manageable’ I’d used earlier to describe his behaviour to his social worker came back to haunt me and I wondered what on earth I’d done by offering to foster him more permanently.

  ‘Samson,’ I eventually hissed in his ear. ‘You have to settle down, now. Do you understand me? You’re spoiling it for others.’

  ‘Don’t care,’ he said rudely.

  ‘Well, I do, so sit still, stop kicking the seat and shouting or we’ll have to leave, and you’ll miss the rest of the film.’ Indeed, I didn’t know why a member of staff hadn’t asked us to leave already. Perhaps no one had reported us yet.

  ‘You wouldn’t do that,’ he challenged me. ‘You paid for the tickets. It would be a waste if we didn’t see the film.’

  ‘Try me,’ I said, meeting his gaze.

  He did, and kicked the seat in front so hard that the boy sitting in it jolted forward. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to his mother, who’d turned round and glared at me, annoyed. Then to Samson I said, ‘Right, that’s it. You’ve been warned. We’re going now.’ I picked up my handbag from the floor and moved to the edge of the seat.

  He looked shocked. ‘Not really?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Yes. I’ve warned you so many times.’ I turned to Paula, ready to help her off her seat.

  At that point Samson finally realized that I meant what I said. ‘All right, I’ll be good,’ he said in a loud whisper.

  ‘No. You’ve had your chances. It’s not fair on the others here.’ I made another move to go.

  ‘I promise,’ he pleaded. ‘Really, I won’t do it again.’ I looked at him and hesitated. ‘Pleeeeze,’ he said.

  ‘This will be your very last chance,’ I said. ‘One more naughty thing and we go home.’

  ‘Will you be quiet?’ the woman in front said, turning again.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. Although a bit of patience from her wouldn’t have gone amiss – she could see I was dealing with a difficult situation.

  Samson sat back in his seat and I tried to relax back in mine. My heart was racing and I felt completely stressed. I held Paula’s hand in the dark and waited for Samson’s next outburst, when we would leave straight away. But it didn’t come. He sat back as good as gold for the rest of the film, and eventually I relaxed too. Samson had tested the boundaries, tested me to the limit and had finally accepted my guidelines for good behaviour – in this situation at least. I knew that if I brought him to the cine
ma again he’d remember how to behave and it would be that little bit easier.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Unwelcome News

  When I took Samson home on Wednesday evening it was raining and the window to his flat was closed. We went in through the main entrance and I pressed the doorbell to his flat – number 17. Bruno immediately started barking loudly on the other side and pounded down the hall, landing heavily against the back of the door. Adrian jumped back and I reassured him again that we wouldn’t go in until the dog was safely shut away.

  ‘Bruno!’ Samson yelled at the top of his voice, banging his fists on the door and winding up the dog even more. I picked up Paula just in case someone opened the door before the dog was shut away. He was so big he would have knocked her flying.

  Eventually someone dragged him away and his barks subsided. As we waited for the door to be opened Samson put down his backpack and took out the birthday card and presents we’d given to him, ready to show his family. It was his gran who opened the door.

  ‘Look what I’ve got! Birthday presents!’ he cried, holding them up for her to see.

  ‘It’s not your birthday, you silly bugger,’ she said, leaning heavily against the wall for support.

  ‘I know that!’ Samson cried indignantly. ‘But we pretended it was. I had jelly and ice cream and we played games and won prizes. They’re in me bag.’

  Most parents or grandparents would have said something like, ‘That sounds great. Come in and tell me all about it.’ But Samson’s gran said, ‘Are you coming in or what, you daft bugger? I can’t be standing here all day. Me legs are killing me.’

  I don’t think she meant to be unkind, it was just her way, but I saw the look of disappointment on Samson’s face. I was now expecting him to assume his usual tough exterior and run indoors shouting, without giving us a second thought, as he’d done before. But he didn’t. He stayed where he was and looked up at me. ‘Thanks for me party,’ he said sweetly. ‘It was nice of you to go to all that trouble.’

  I could have cried. ‘You’re very welcome, love,’ I said, and touched his shoulder. ‘We all enjoyed it.’

  Then, turning to Adrian, he said, ‘Bye. Thanks for sharing your toys.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Adrian said.

  Samson reached up to Paula who was still in my arms, wanting to say goodbye to her, so I set her on the ground. ‘Bye, Paula,’ he said, gently tickling her under the chin. She chuckled. ‘Thanks for coming to me party.’ I swallowed hard. All that bravado and underneath he was a kind-hearted, thoughtful child who had so much appreciated our pretend party. I felt guilty, and silently renewed my promise that if he ever needed a permanent foster home, I would look after him. It would be hard work, but I’d manage.

  We weren’t invited into the flat. Gran said to him, ‘Now you’ve said goodbye, boy, you’d better get tidying ya room – ya social worker’s coming tomorrow.’

  He shrugged and disappeared down the hall.

  ‘He’s been fine,’ I said to her.

  ‘That makes a change,’ she said, and shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other she began to close the door.

  We said goodbye and as we turned the door closed behind us. Bruno barked loudly from inside, which set off another dog in a neighbour’s house. It was unlikely I’d hear the outcome of the social worker’s visit, or what decisions were made regarding Samson’s father and girlfriend, unless I looked after Samson again. Foster carers are told what they need to know about a child’s situation while they are fostering them, but once they’ve left their care they’re rarely given updates, which is a pity, as we often think about them and wonder how they’re getting on.

  We were now already halfway through the summer holidays and making the most of every day. John was due home in two weeks and the date was circled on the calendar on the wall in the kitchen, although we didn’t need a reminder. The following day one of Adrian’s friends came to play and stayed for dinner, and then on Friday I took the children swimming again. The week after followed a similar pattern of days out and time at home, and included a day trip to the coast with my parents. I hadn’t seen Laura since I’d been invited to her house for tea to say goodbye to Gina. I assumed all was well. It had crossed my mind a couple of times to telephone her for a chat in the evening, but then the time had disappeared and it was too late to phone. Although I didn’t have another foster child, I was on standby. A social worker had telephoned and said she was trying to bring a teenager into care but she’d run away. She’d asked if I could take her at short notice when they found her – they would bring her straight to me – and I said I could. I’d be told more once she was found and was with me.

  It was early on the Saturday evening at the end of that week and I was in the living room with Adrian and Paula. We were on the floor playing Snap. Adrian and I were trying to teach Paula the game. She was too young really, but she wanted to join in. The telephone rang and I answered it in the living room. There was a short silence before a half-familiar voice said, ‘Cathy, I’m sorry to disturb you. It’s Geraldine.’

  ‘Oh, hello,’ I said, surprised. ‘How are you? Is everything all right?’

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday night,’ she said, ‘but I need your advice.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, puzzled. ‘I’ll help if I can. Is it urgent? Or could I phone you back once the children are in bed?’

  There was another pause before she said, ‘I was wondering if I could come and see you. It would be easier to talk face to face rather than over the telephone.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, concerned. ‘Is Laura all right?’

  ‘It’s partly about Laura, yes, but I’ll explain when I see you.’

  ‘All right. Would you like to come here this evening? About eight o’clock?’

  ‘If that is convenient with you.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll have the children in bed by then. I’ll see you at eight.’

  ‘Thank you, Cathy,’ she said stiffly, and hung up.

  It was clear from her tightly controlled manner that she’d carefully planned what she needed to say. Given that she was not a person who easily shared her feelings or asked for help, I appreciated that whatever she wanted to talk about must be very serious indeed.

  I returned to sit on the floor and play with the children, but my mind wasn’t on the game as I ran through the possible reasons for Geraldine wanting to see me. She’d said it was ‘partly’ about Laura, and I hadn’t pressed her as I respected that she preferred to talk in person, which I understood. At seven o’clock, when we finished playing, I took Paula upstairs for her bath and bed, and once she was settled I fetched Adrian. As I lay propped on his bed beside him, having our little goodnight chat, I told him that Kim’s grandma, Geraldine, was coming later, just in case he heard the door go and wondered who it was.

  ‘Is she your friend then?’ he asked, slightly surprised. I sometimes had a friend round in the evening.

  ‘More like an acquaintance,’ I said. ‘She wants to talk to me about something – I don’t know what exactly.’

  ‘I hope Kim’s mummy isn’t in hospital again,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think she is or Geraldine would have said, but it’s nothing for you to worry about.’ Like me, Adrian was a bit of a worrier and could fret over things that shouldn’t have bothered him.

  ‘I won’t worry,’ he said cheerfully, snuggling down ready for sleep. ‘Dad’s phoning tomorrow and he’ll be home in a week.’

  ‘That’s right. So you think about nice things while you go off to sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.’

  I kissed him goodnight and came out, then checked on Paula before I went downstairs. I gave the living room a quick tidy ready for Geraldine’s arrival and then sat on the sofa. It was now 7.45 and still light outside. Toscha wandered in and settled beside me on the sofa.

  At exactly eight o’clock I heard a little tap on the front door. I went down the hall and checked in the security spyhole before o
pening the door.

  ‘I didn’t use the bell,’ Geraldine explained apologetically. ‘I thought it might wake your children.’

  ‘Come in,’ I said. ‘They’re in bed.’

  She was dressed smartly but reservedly as usual, in a knee-length skirt, button-up blouse and cardigan. Her short grey hair was neatly trimmed.

  ‘I haven’t seen you for a while,’ I said, making conversation as I showed her through to the living room. ‘How have you been?’

  ‘Oh, me? I’m all right,’ she said dismissively, as though her welfare was of no concern.

  ‘Do sit down. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you. I won’t keep you longer than I have to. I’m sure you have things to do.’ She sat in one of the armchairs and I returned to the sofa. She had an air of businesslike formality about her.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ she said, sitting upright and looking directly at me. ‘Laura’s had a setback.’

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry. She was doing so well. Is she in hospital?’

  ‘No. She’s at home, but she’s been very upset and is now depressed again. She knows I’m coming to see you; so does Andy. We haven’t worried Gina with it yet.’

  I nodded. Clearly it was their decision what or when they told Gina, although I thought it should be sooner rather than later.

  ‘The reason I’ve come to see you is to ask if it is possible to change social workers. I thought you might know, as you work with them. Are people allowed to change their social worker?’

  ‘Well, yes, sometimes,’ I said. ‘Are you thinking of asking for Laura’s social worker to be changed?’

  She nodded stiffly. ‘But we don’t want to cause trouble and make things worse for Laura. Would it be held against her?’

  ‘No. It shouldn’t be. Can I ask why you are thinking of requesting a change of social worker?’

  ‘We believe she’s responsible for Laura’s a setback,’ Geraldine said.

  I met her gaze. ‘How?’

  ‘What she says and the way she speaks to Laura is all wrong. Laura is sensitive at present, she’s vulnerable, and the woman doesn’t seem to understand that. It’s not only Laura who thinks this; Andy and I do too. We thought the woman was going to help support Laura, but she’s doing more harm than good. You know that Gina had a couple of blazing arguments with her a while back. Then Andy and I thought it was Gina who was in the wrong and had overreacted, but not any longer.’