by Cathy Glass
As we walked towards the High Street I explained the significance of Bonfire Night to Molly and Kit. That over 400 years ago in 1605 a group of men led by Guy Fawkes planned to blow up the Houses of Parliament in London but were caught in time and we remembered the occasion with fireworks and bonfires. Molly nodded thoughtfully while Kit latched on to the word ‘fireworks’ and repeated it endlessly until Molly shouted at him. ‘Yes, fireworks! You silly boy!’
‘He’s only little,’ I reminded her. ‘Children learn to talk by repeating words.’
The newsagent in the High Street stocked fireworks in the run-up to 5th November. They were in a locked glass display cabinet and Molly and Kit helped me choose some by pointing through the glass. Once home, I stored the bag of fireworks safely in the shed at the bottom of the garden. After lunch I showed Molly and Kit some YouTube videos of firework displays and then got out paper and crayons and encouraged them to draw and colour pictures of fireworks. Molly quickly became engaged in the project and produced page after page of colourful swirls, while Kit tried to eat the crayons and then scribbled on Molly’s drawing, so she pushed him off his chair. I told her that was unkind and found him something else to do.
Tess didn’t phone back until 4.30 p.m., and again I took the handset and moved out of earshot of the children. Her voice was calm and efficient. ‘Thank you for what you did,’ she began. ‘I shall be observing contact tomorrow. Please take Molly and Kit as usual. There will be a temporary ban on all food and drink being brought into the Family Centre until we get to the bottom of this. I don’t want Filip and Aneta singled out.’
‘All right,’ I said slowly, puzzled.
‘I’ve spoken to the contact supervisor and the manager at the Family Centre. They can’t be sure if any of the packets of food or drink were open when the parents brought them in. However, they are certain none of it was ever stored in the kitchen or fridge at the Family Centre.’
‘Sorry, Tess, I must be missing something here,’ I said, even more puzzled. ‘Why should that matter?’
‘It rules out the food and drink being contaminated in a communal area.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘At this stage we can’t be sure what is making Molly and Kit sick, only that it could come from food and drink the parents have taken in. I’ll need to see your food diary. Can you bring it in to contact with you tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ I thought I was starting to understand her reasoning now.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, but don’t say anything to Molly and Kit about this.’
‘No, I won’t.’
Tess said goodbye and I replaced the handset. ‘Contaminated,’ she’d said, whereas I’d used the term ‘gone off’. I supposed it was the same in the end. It appeared Tess was now taking my concerns very seriously. Banning food and drink from being taken into the Family Centre was going to have an impact on all the families who used it, but I could see her logic. Also, she wanted my food diary, but I’d be lost without it. How would I know which foods to give the children and which to avoid? Then it dawned on me that if it was food that had gone off, resulting in a high level of bacteria that was causing the children to be sick, then they probably weren’t allergic to anything. What a relief that would be! Not only for me, but for Aneta and Filip too. Although for the time being, until it was confirmed, I would err on the side of caution.
That evening when Molly and Kit were in bed and I had a moment, I looked online to see whether food poisoning could produce a rash and breathing difficulties. I found that in severe cases it could, although it was usually accompanied by a prolonged bout of vomiting. Molly, Kit and Lucy had only been sick once, but I supposed all cases were different. It seemed to strengthen my suggestion that it was food poisoning.
The following afternoon I put the food diary into my bag and we set off for the Family Centre, with Molly and Kit looking forward to seeing their parents again. Having been with me for two months, they were settled in the routine of seeing them every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I was expecting this level of contact to remain the same until the final court hearing next year, when a decision would be made on where the children would live permanently. If it was decided they could return home then contact would be increased to every day with overnight stays in preparation for them returning. If it was decided they couldn’t go home then contact would be drastically reduced, sometimes to only a few times a year, to allow the children to bond with their new family – whoever that would be.
As usual I parked outside the Family Centre five minutes early and we went in. A large handwritten notice fixed to an easel was positioned in reception where everyone could see it.
No food and drink to be brought
into contact until further notice.
Please hand food and drink you
have with you to the receptionist.
Sorry for the inconvenience.
A woman was remonstrating with the receptionist that she’d cooked a meal for her children and now they couldn’t have it, and that the foster carer wouldn’t have done them dinner as she knew they didn’t need it on a Wednesday. The receptionist apologized and explained that some children had become ill after eating food on the premises and they were trying to find out what had caused it.
‘My children aren’t sick!’ she said, annoyed.
I kept my head down and signed the Visitors’ Book, feeling guilty that we were responsible for the upheaval. However, I knew that the foster carer concerned would give the children dinner if they hadn’t eaten at contact. They wouldn’t go hungry. As we went down the corridor towards Blue Room I heard the receptionist say that the centre would be providing a drink and a snack for all the children, and perhaps the dinner she’d cooked could be sent home with the children so it didn’t go to waste.
‘It’s not the same,’ the woman said emotionally. ‘My kids have it with me. They look forward to it every Wednesday.’ I felt sorry for her. She wasn’t being awkward: very likely cooking her children dinner once a week and then eating it with them was the highlight of her week – a small occasion when she and her family were reunited around the meal table. It would be a huge disappointment for her and her children.
The door to Blue Room was open and Molly and Kit rushed in ahead of me. I sensed immediately the atmosphere was tense and I thought we should have waited outside until they’d finished talking. Aneta, Filip, Tess and the Family Centre manager were standing in the centre of the room, while the contact supervisor sat at the table, watching their heated discussion, clearly worried. I guessed what it was about before the manager said, ‘I am sorry, but this does apply to everyone. I really can’t let contact go ahead until you have given me the food and drink that is in your bag.’
Aneta’s face was set in anger. She had the shopping bag she usually brought to contact held close to her side. ‘You’re not having it, but I promise I won’t give it to the children,’ she snapped.
‘I’m afraid that won’t do,’ the manager said evenly.
Aneta stormed over to the sofa and plonked herself down while Filip remained standing with Tess and the manager. Molly and Kit had gone to their father, not their mother, and wrapped their arms around his legs.
‘I will need to take the food and drink out of the room,’ Tess said to Aneta. ‘It should have been handed in at reception.’ Aneta held on tightly to her bag. I assumed she and Filip had been told the same as everyone else: that some children had become sick after contact and until they could find out what was causing it, no food or drink was being allowed in.
There was a moment’s impasse and then Filip, who was usually passive and said very little, said sharply, ‘Aneta, will you just give it to them! I don’t know why you’re making all this fuss.’
Aneta must have realized she wasn’t going to get her own way, for she suddenly jumped up from the sofa and, wrenching open her bag, took out a large carton of pineappl
e juice and a packet of biscuits and pushed them at the manager. ‘There! Satisfied?’ she snarled, and flounced angrily back to the sofa where she told Molly and Kit to come to her.
They were looking worried and stayed by their father. I wished I’d remained outside so the children hadn’t had to witness this.
‘Thank you,’ the manager said calmly, and showed Tess the juice.
‘It’s open,’ Tess said to Aneta. ‘The seal is broken.’
‘So? I was thirsty and had some coming here. Or is that not allowed either?’
‘I’ll take it outside,’ the manager told Tess and came towards the door. I stepped aside to allow her to pass, then I went over to Tess and handed her the carrier bag containing the food diary. She glanced in and thanked me. I said goodbye to Molly and Kit, told them that I’d see them later, and left. The manager was nowhere to be seen. I wondered why Aneta had created such a fuss. Surely she realized it was for her children’s good?
When I returned to collect Molly and Kit the manager was waiting in reception. ‘You’ve come for Molly and Kit?’ she asked. She wouldn’t necessarily remember all the foster carers going in and out.
‘Yes.’
‘Their social worker wants to speak to the parents, so you can take the children now. It’s nearly time.’
We went down the corridor to Blue Room where she gave a perfunctory knock on the door and we went in. It was quieter than usual for the end of contact when the children had been playing for two hours. The toys and games had already been packed away and Molly and Kit had their coats on. Tess and the contact supervisor were at the table, both writing. Aneta was sitting on the sofa and glared hostilely at me, which was nothing unusual. Filip was his usual affable self and told the children it was time to go. He took them over to their mother to kiss her goodbye, then brought them to me. I always waited just inside the door. I thanked him, said a general goodbye and left the room, holding the children’s hands.
‘Did you have a nice time?’ I asked them as I always did as we made our way out.
Kit, who was going through a phase of saying yes to everything, said a resounding, ‘Yes.’ He was so cute.
Molly, that much older, with more advanced vocabulary, replied, ‘Mummy said she couldn’t give us juice and it was your fault.’
‘I wonder why she said that,’ I replied easily. I guessed Tess had told the parents my suspicions about the food and drink they were taking in.
‘Don’t know,’ Molly said. And we left it at that.
By the time we were in the car it was forgotten and they were looking forward to playing with Paula, who would be home now.
Chapter Seventeen
Accused
The following day was Thursday, 5th November, Fireworks Night, so I made sure Sammy was indoors. Once everyone was home and it was dark outside, we put on our coats and went into the garden for our firework display. It was a clear, cold night with a crescent moon – perfect for letting off fireworks. Aware of keeping everyone safe, the girls and I stayed on the patio with the children while Adrian lit the fireworks at the end of the garden, using the light of a torch. Once he’d lit the touch paper of the first one, he walked swiftly away and joined us on the patio to watch it go off – there’s always a few seconds’ delay. We oohed and aahed and admired the various fountains of sparkling colours that shot from the firework and fell glittering to the ground, some sparks bouncing on the grass. Watching fireworks was a new experience for Molly and Kit and they were mesmerized, but also a little anxious, and stood very close to us. Adrian waited until the firework had completely extinguished before going down the garden to light the next one.
‘Will Daddy be doing this?’ Molly asked.
‘I don’t know, love. He might.’
‘Whoosh!’ said Kit, imitating a firework.
Neighbours began letting off much grander and louder fireworks in gardens around us. They exploded overhead in a volley of bangs, which frightened Kit. I picked him up and comforted him, but eventually I took him indoors and we watched the rest of our display through the patio windows where the sound was muted. Paula and Lucy stayed outside and looked after Molly, who was really enjoying it. Sammy was curled up behind the sofa with his paws over his ears.
Our display lasted about thirty minutes, which was long enough for the little ones. Once everyone was indoors, I served the hot dogs and jacket potatoes I’d left cooking in the oven. I thanked my family for helping, as this had been primarily for Molly and Kit’s benefit, but they said they’d enjoyed it too. There were still plenty of fireworks going off when we took Molly and Kit up to bed at nine o’clock. It was past their bedtime and they were both tired. Lucy and Paula helped Molly get ready for bed while I saw to Kit. We skipped their baths for tonight and just gave them a good wash. The fireworks continued to explode and fizzle outside and it was some time before both children were asleep. It was midnight before all the fireworks stopped and the night was silent again, save for a lone dog barking in the distance.
I hadn’t heard anything from Tess since I’d seen her on Wednesday, and I took the children to contact on Friday afternoon as usual. The notice about food and drink not being allowed in was still in reception. I signed the Visitors’ Book and we went down the corridor and to the room. Only Filip and the contact supervisor were there, so I assumed Aneta was using the bathroom, until Filip said to the children, ‘Mummy isn’t coming today. She’s not well.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘Nothing serious, I hope.’ Aneta hadn’t missed a contact yet.
‘No, she was feeling sick, so she’s having a lie down.’
The children ran to him. He’d already set out some toys for them to play with.
‘I hope she’s better soon,’ I said, and, saying goodbye, I left.
As I drove home it crossed my mind that if Aneta and Filip were storing food incorrectly or eating it beyond its use-by date then that could be the reason she was now ill. I assumed Tess would have talked to them about the importance of storing food correctly and food hygiene when she’d spoken to them on Wednesday.
When I returned to collect the children at the end of contact I could hear their whoops of joy from the corridor. I knocked on the door and went in. Filip was on his hands and knees, red in the face from giving the children a piggyback ride.
‘Gee up, horsey!’ Molly shouted, clinging to the back of his jumper to stay on. Kit was seated behind her with his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. They were having great fun and I laughed as the children clung to their father and he trotted horse-like around the room. Even the contact supervisor, who normally sat expressionless, was smiling. I remembered my father giving my brother and me rides like this when I was Molly’s age.
‘Final lap!’ Filip cried, out of breath. ‘Then it’s time to go.’
He set off around the room one last time with the children shrieking with laughter, then drew to a halt by the sofa so they could dismount. He was a big-built man and the children must have felt they were riding very high while on his back. Once the children were off, he straightened and, kissing them both, lifted them from the sofa and onto the floor. Not for the first time I thought how far his relationship with his children had come since we’d first met. Back then he’d been working very long hours, seven days a week, and had hardly seen them. It was such a dreadful pity that it had taken the children coming into care to improve their relationship. I wondered how different their home life might have been if he’d spent more time there.
Molly and Kit were very hyped up and wanted to stay and play some more, so it took quite a bit of time and cajoling to get them to say goodbye.
‘See you both on Monday,’ Filip said, finally bringing them to me.
‘Will Mummy be coming?’ Molly asked him.
‘Yes, I would think so,’ Filip said.
I was expecting Molly to be pleased, but she looked disappointed.
I put it down to the fun time they’d had playing with their father compared to the more controlled and subdued games and interaction that took place when their mother was there. I think it’s probably true of many families that traditionally the father is allowed to play unreservedly and be a child again with his children, while the mother tends to remain in control and sound cautionary warnings about not getting overexcited and to play safely.
On Saturday I took Molly and Kit shopping, primarily for some more winter clothes for them and to have their feet measured for shoes. Molly liked the idea of new shoes, and in the shoe shop she stood still as the assistant measured her feet, and then cooperated as she brought various styles of shoes for her to try on. Kit was more interested in rearranging the displays of shoes on the many shelves that were within his reach, and brought the shoes over to show me. I kept returning them, but a few seconds later they would be thrust into my lap again as I tried to concentrate on Molly and what the assistant was saying. Then mischievously Kit took a shoe from an elderly woman who was about to try it on and ran off with it. She wasn’t impressed! I caught up with him, gave the woman the shoe back, apologized and then strapped Kit in the stroller with a snack until I’d finished with Molly. An hour later we left the shop with a pair of shoes for each of the children, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Some workmen were putting up Christmas lights in the shopping centre ready for 1st December when they would be turned on, another was erecting Santa’s grotto, which we’d visit when it was open nearer Christmas. I stopped by the toy section in the department store so the children could have a look. The decorations were up, as were some of the Christmas displays of toys, and I bought a few stocking fillers for Molly and Kit. I felt a frisson of excitement at the thought of having two little ones with us for Christmas. But I also had great empathy for the parents who would wake on Christmas morning to face another day without their children – even more painful than usual. It’s such a family time and I know many families who can’t be together are pleased when it’s all over. I assumed the family would swap presents at the last contact before Christmas. I’d buy some for Molly and Kit to give to their parents.