by Cathy Glass
Although we weren’t late – the Klaxon hadn’t sounded – we were one of the last to arrive in the playground. It was full of chattering parents and children sheltering under their umbrellas, which was probably why I didn’t spot them straight away. Then I heard two female voices call, ‘Hi, Cathy!’ and ‘Over here!’ I looked over to see Fran and her daughter and, to my surprise, Laura, with the pram and Kim, waving to me.
I began towards them but the Klaxon sounded, so I made a detour to the entrance. Because it was raining the children didn’t have to line up in their classes; they could go straight in. As I said goodbye to Adrian a friend joined him in the queue to go in and Adrian immediately brightened as they began talking. ‘Have a good day,’ I said to the both of them. Adrian smiled and gave a little wave, which was a relief.
Paula now began agitating and kicking the inside of the rain cover, wanting to get out. ‘No, you have to stay there. It’s raining. Baby Liam’s over there.’
I crossed the playground to Fran and Laura. Their children had now gone into school and they were standing under Fran’s umbrella waiting for me. Laura, like me, didn’t have an umbrella but had her hood up, as it’s virtually impossible to manoeuvre a pram or stroller while holding an umbrella.
‘How are you? Good to see you,’ Fran said, tilting her umbrella to one side so we could cheek kiss.
‘I’m fine. Lovely to see you both.’ Then to Laura I added, ‘What a nice surprise.’
‘I surprised myself!’ Laura joked, and laughed easily.
‘Did you have a good summer?’ Fran asked me.
‘Yes, very relaxing. And you?’
‘We went camping in France. Three weeks. Bliss. I wish I was there now.’ She pulled a face and looked up at the sky.
‘Rather than stand here getting wet, why don’t you both come back to my place for coffee?’ Laura suggested. ‘We can talk there.’
‘I’d love to,’ Fran said. ‘But I’ve got the plumber coming in half an hour to quote for a new boiler. Another time.’
‘I’m free,’ I said.
‘Good,’ Laura said. ‘And you’re in luck – Mum was with us at the weekend and made one of her cakes.’
‘Even better,’ I said.
‘I’m jealous,’ Fran joked.
We left the playground together and then Fran said goodbye and went on her way.
‘How is Liam?’ I asked, glancing into the pram. I couldn’t see much of him because of the rain cover.
‘He’s doing very well. Putting on weight. You’ll notice a difference; he’s grown so much.’
‘Baby Liam!’ Paula cried from under the rain cover and gave it another kick. The rain had eased now to a light drizzle, so I stopped and drew back the top part of the cover so she could see out.
‘Baby Liam!’ she cried, much happier now. Pushing herself up in the stroller, she tried to peer into the pram, but it was too high.
‘You can see Liam when we go to my house,’ Laura said to her.
‘We’re going to Liam’s house,’ I confirmed to Paula.
Now she was free of the cover and had the promise of seeing Liam, she was happy to stay in the stroller rather than walk. Laura and I made polite conversation as we walked.
‘Is your husband home now?’ she asked. I must have mentioned a while back that he was due home at the end of August.
‘No, unfortunately not, he’s been delayed. A technical hitch with the project he’s working on.’
‘Oh dear. What a disappointment.’
‘It was, but he’s hoping to be home in a couple of weeks. The time will soon pass.’
‘It will. I can’t believe Liam is over six months old already.’
We continued making polite conversation, small talk on safe, general, non-probing subjects: the weather, the children, and the new classes they were in. I asked her how Gina and Geraldine were. I didn’t ask how she was feeling – I couldn’t think of a way of phrasing it that didn’t make it sound blunt or intrusive. Laura looked well, but then she had done the last time I’d seen her, before her setback. That’s the problem with mental health; it’s often hidden, not like a broken arm, which is obvious. But of course ignoring Laura’s health or that she’d had issues with her social worker was like ignoring the elephant in the room. She must have felt it too, for once we were in her hall and she’d closed the front door and was removing the waterproof from Liam’s pram she said, ‘You know, Cathy, it’s OK to ask me how things are. I won’t go to pieces and embarrass you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Don’t be. I know it’s difficult. Let’s settle the children. I’ll make us a drink and tell you what’s been happening.’
Fifteen minutes later we were all in her living room, with Liam in his bouncing cradle being kept amused by Paula, who was showing him a selection of toys from a box Laura had brought in. She had a bottle ready for Liam when he needed it and on the coffee table was a beaker of water and a biscuit Paula had wanted. Laura and I were sipping coffee and tucking into Gina’s delicious walnut and butter-icing sponge cake – another recipe I’d be asking for. Paula had tried a little of mine but hadn’t liked the ground nuts.
‘Thank you for telephoning the social services,’ Laura began, setting her cup in its saucer. ‘It was a great help. Andy was going to phone you to thank you, but I told him I’d be seeing you in the playground.’
‘That’s OK. I’m pleased it helped,’ I said.
‘It did, a lot. I’ve been given a new social worker, but what really helped me was when the one I had telephoned and apologized. She admitted that once it had been pointed out to her she could see that the way she’d approached some aspects of my case could have been handled differently. You see, Cathy, she kept giving me advice and referring to meetings she’d had with other professionals involved in my case, so I felt they were taking over and running my life. It was like when I was really ill and Geraldine took over. My confidence went and I felt useless. I began overthinking everything again, questioning everything I was doing. There’s this internal dialogue going on in your head, telling you you’re a waste of space and you’ll never cope. Everything the social worker said seemed to make it worse, and then I started to have the distant, far-away feeling I’d had before when I was ill, like I was not fully there and was watching myself in a movie. If that makes sense.’
‘It sounds dreadful,’ I said. I’d stopped eating my cake and was concentrating fully on Laura. It was the first time she’d talked candidly about what she’d actually experienced, and I began to have an insight into just how frightening it must have been for her.
‘I was nowhere near as bad this time as I was when I was very ill,’ she continued. ‘But there were enough reminders to make me scared. I knew where it could go if I didn’t say something and get help. I felt I was being dragged towards the edge of that cliff again. It’s a very scary place, Cathy, a dark and dangerous place, and I knew I mustn’t ever go there again. Before, when I was really ill, I used to sit in here huddled up at one end of the sofa and cry silently for hours and hours.’ She shuddered. ‘I kept the curtains closed so the room was always dark. It seemed safer, but I began to feel as though the walls were closing in and crushing me and I couldn’t breathe. I felt I was being crushed to death.
‘And poor little Liam,’ she said, glancing towards him. ‘I thought he hated me – when I was really bad, psychotic, before I went into hospital. It seems ridiculous now, but the way he looked at me and wouldn’t cooperate seemed to confirm it. When I tried to feed him he’d turn his head away sometimes, and would scream if I changed his nappy or bathed him. I know all babies do that, but when I was in that dark place I thought it was because of me. At night he wouldn’t settle for me, but he would for Geraldine and Andy, so I thought he’d be better off without me. Now, of course, I realize he was probably picking up on my anxiety. But at the time I thought I was such a bad and wicked mother that I’d been punished by giving birth to the devil’s child.’
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br /> ‘Oh, Laura,’ I said. ‘You poor thing.’
‘Thankfully he was unaware of it,’ she said stoically. ‘But when I started having issues with that social worker and began to slide again I knew I needed help. Geraldine and Andy saw me in tears and I was able to tell them how I was feeling. As soon as I’d told them, and we had a plan of action to try and change social workers, I started to feel a bit better. I felt I was taking control again. Then after Andy spoke to the manager and the social worker phoned and apologized, I felt vindicated. It wasn’t all my fault, and a huge weight lifted from my shoulders. Even if I hadn’t been given a new social worker, I think I would have got by – once she’d acknowledged there was a problem and it wasn’t just me. I haven’t met the new social worker yet, but she sounded nice when she phoned. I think you know her.’ She gave the name of Shelley’s social worker.
‘Yes,’ I said, smiling. ‘You’re in safe hands there.’
‘I feel I am,’ Laura said, finally picking up her cake again. ‘I know I’m going to be just fine, thanks to you.’
‘Thanks to you,’ I said firmly. ‘You’re a great mum. Your children are very lucky to have you, Laura.’ And I felt my eyes fill.
I stayed for a second cup of coffee and a slice of cake and then left with a copy of the recipe and a big hug from Laura, in the happy knowledge that she and her family were going to be all right. They had come through a very difficult time but were now looking forward to a brighter future, their family stronger from the experience they’d shared. Sadly, this wasn’t true for Samson, who at present was blissfully unaware that very soon he would be packing more than a backpack and going away for a lot longer than a few days’ respite, possibly for good. I felt for him having to leave his family and endure all the changes that lay in store, but at least now that I knew it was almost certain he would be arriving on Friday I could plan ahead, unlike with an emergency placement when there is very little notice.
That afternoon I changed the duvet cover and matching pillowcase again in what would shortly be Samson’s room, putting on one suitable for a six-year-old boy. It was light grey with images of action heroes – Spiderman, Superman and so on. I took down the posters of cute, cuddly animals and then gave the room a good dust and hoover, as it had been standing empty for a while. That evening after dinner I told Adrian that it was very likely Samson would be coming to live with us on Friday and I asked him how he felt about it.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘But he won’t be allowed to bring Bruno, will he?’
‘No, although he’s going to miss him.’
‘Perhaps he could have a photo of him,’ Adrian suggested. ‘Like the children have of their parents.’
‘Good idea.’ I always encouraged the children I fostered to bring some photographs of their family with them, and Bruno was part of Samson’s family.
Although Adrian seemed OK about having Samson come to live with us, I would be keeping a close eye on them, especially in the early weeks while Samson was settling in, as well as making sure all the children received their fair share of attention. While Samson’s behaviour on respite hadn’t been too bad, I knew it could be very different when a child came to live long term with a carer. Angry, hurting and confused at having to leave their family and wanting to test their carer’s commitment, their behaviour can deteriorate rapidly and become very challenging. Then they adjust to being in care and their anger begins to leave them. They decide you’ve passed their test and have proven that no matter what they throw at you, you will still care about them, and they turn the corner and settle down. Well, that’s the theory, at least.
On Tuesday, after taking Adrian to school, I drove into town and bought some new posters for Samson’s bedroom: of the moon, a robot, a shark leaping from the water, a large male lion roaring, and one showing the times tables, which I knew he was struggling to learn at school. I also bought a poster each for Adrian’s and Paula’s bedrooms so they didn’t feel left out. On returning home, Paula came with me to Samson’s room and ‘helped’ me decide where the posters should hang. There was already a clock on the wall and a child’s calendar, which were useful for a child of any age. Satisfied that the room was welcoming and ready for Samson, I came out and closed the door.
I knew I’d have to establish a routine for Samson that would include time for learning as well as play. We couldn’t hold sports days and pretend birthday parties every evening and weekend, although I would of course give him a proper party when it was his birthday, which was some months away yet. I would also need to put in place guidelines for when and how long he watched television and played on his PlayStation, which I assumed he would want to bring with him. He would still be allowed these, of course, but as a recreation, something to do in his spare time, not as a tool for babysitting or keeping him quiet. I’d have to check the PlayStation games for their suitability. If they weren’t age appropriate, which, from what he’d told me, I assumed many of them weren’t, then I’d put them away until he was older and inform his social worker I’d done so. I could foresee Samson kicking off big time if I did have to put away some of the PlayStation games, but it would be irresponsible of me as a foster carer and a parent to allow him to view inappropriate material in any form, on the PlayStation, on television or in magazines.
I knew Samson’s school work was a long way behind what it should be, especially his literacy skills, and I would be helping him to catch up, a little at a time. Adrian was learning to read and he was in the routine of reading to me for a while every evening, as well as doing any homework set by the school, before he played or watched television. But of course it’s easier to establish a routine when you’ve had your child since birth, whereas Samson would have to relinquish some of what he was used to before accepting my guidelines. It was for his own long-term good, although I doubted he’d see it that way. But I’d take it gently, one step at a time. You can’t make too many changes all at once or the child can withdraw or rebel. I was also mindful that Adrian, a year younger, was well ahead of Samson academically, and I’d need to make sure Samson didn’t feel this, as it could undermine his confidence. As far as I knew, Samson didn’t have learning difficulties and his lack of progress was due to neglect at home, so he should be able to catch up. I’d know more about his abilities and his background when his social worker gave me the placement information on Friday.
On Wednesday morning as I showered and dressed my thoughts went to Samson’s gran, who at this moment was rising and getting ready for three days in court. I didn’t know if anyone else from the family would be going, but my heart went out to her. She wasn’t in good health and going to court is an anxious and gruelling ordeal for anyone, even more so for someone of her age, and of course she was fighting to keep her only grandchild. What must she be feeling!
I walked back from school that morning with Laura and I mentioned that I was expecting a new child on Friday, although I didn’t give any details. I saw her face grow serious and she went very quiet. ‘You know, Cathy,’ she said after some moments, concentrating on the pram, ‘that really scares me, hearing you say that. The poor family, having their child taken away. That moment when you have to say goodbye and hand your child to another person … I don’t know how they cope.’
‘Neither do I,’ I said quietly.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Reprieve
On Thursday morning my thoughts turned again to Samson’s gran and how she was coping as she faced her second day in court. The adversarial nature of our court system in care proceedings meant that his gran and any other family members responsible for Samson would be in court, represented by a solicitor and barrister who would argue their case for Samson not going into foster care. If the child’s parents are not living together then they are likely to have a solicitor and barrister each, the child often has their own legal representation, and the social services has a legal team. In addition to the judge there is a court recorder, an usher and other court staff, although journalists an
d the public are not allowed in, which is why these proceedings are sometimes referred to as taking place behind closed doors. But like any court there is a correct procedure, which must be strictly adhered to, as statements are scrutinized and witnesses called to give evidence. While solicitors do their best to explain procedures to their clients, it can still be daunting, confusing and complex, especially for someone like Samson’s gran, who presumably had never been involved in care proceedings before. It’s also very nerve-racking to have to stand in front of a court, swear an oath, give evidence and then be cross-examined by a barrister.
I wasn’t expecting to hear from Samson’s social worker until Friday when the judge had made his or her ruling. I’d planned to take Paula to the mother-and-toddler group on Thursday afternoon as I had been doing the previous term. She enjoyed the contact with the other children and I enjoyed the company of the other mothers and one father. However, mid-morning on Thursday I received a telephone call – or rather an SOS – from Chris, another foster carer I knew.
‘Cathy, could you do me a big favour and look after Elspeth for an hour or so this afternoon? I’ve been up all night with raging toothache and I’ve made an emergency appointment at the dentist for one-thirty.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘You poor thing.’ We arranged for her to bring Elspeth to me just after one o’clock.
Fosters carers often network in the area in which they live, for company, emotional support and to help each other out. It’s difficult as it is to attend appointments with a small child, but it’s even more so for a foster carer when babysitters have to be identified to the social services in advance. You can’t, for example, simply ask a random friend to help out in an emergency as you would with your own child.
Elspeth was the two-year-old girl Chris had been fostering for over a year, and after lunch I explained to Paula that she was coming to play for a while. She tried to say ‘Elspeth’ and was still practising when they arrived. It had been a couple of months since I’d last seen Elspeth, and in that time she’d grown and was now more adorable than ever. With her mop of loose black curls, large dark eyes and chubby little cheeks she looked like a life-size doll. ‘This is Elspeth,’ I said to Paula.