by Angela Hart
‘Yes, of course,’ Vicky said obediently. ‘I will. I really want to.’
While we waited for her prescription at the chemist across the street I praised Vicky for her honesty, and told her that I would discuss a reward with Jonathan, so she had something to aim for to help her quit.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I know it won’t be easy. That’s really kind of you.’
That night Jonathan and I put our heads together and decided to offer to buy Vicky a couple of tickets for a music concert she had mentioned she would like to go to later in the year.
‘Awesome!’ she said. ‘I’m definitely going to quit now. I’ll start next week.’
Jonathan and I gave each other a sideways look. We both wanted to say, Why wait until next week? but we held our tongues. If that’s how it was going to work for Vicky, then all well and good.
School broke up the following week and Michelle went off to stay with her father for a few days, a visit she had been eagerly anticipating. Jonathan and I were ready for a little break too, and we shut the shop and took Vicky on a three-night stay at a caravan park near the coast, where we’d been several times before. Vicky had never stayed in a caravan and was really excited, and Jonathan and I were very much looking forward to the trip too. This was something we did two or three times a year, generally on a Bank Holiday weekend, or when we had no weddings or other functions booked in the diary, which made it possible to close the shop.
‘I’ve only been to the seaside once,’ Vicky said on the way there.
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Did you like it?’
‘I think so. I was very small and I can barely remember it. I don’t know who drove us there but it was a man, and Mum wanted to stay in the car with him and so Lorraine took me to jump in the waves.’
Before we set off I’d established that Vicky could swim, having been taken for lessons by the school, and she had agreed that I could buy her a swimming costume as she didn’t own one and predictably didn’t want to go shopping. The break was terrific. The three of us had a wonderful time going to a local water park, eating pizzas in the evening, ten-pin bowling and having barbecues. Vicky seemed very relaxed and didn’t have a cigarette for the first two days, which I praised her for.
‘I smoke when I’m stressed and I’m not stressed here,’ she said.
One evening Vicky went to play crazy golf with twin sisters she’d met on the campsite. Jonathan and I were sitting outside our caravan enjoying the last drops of evening sunshine when Vicky came back. Her skin was tanned and glowing and her hair, which was tied back in a ponytail as usual, looked blonder and shinier than I’d seen it before. She was in a pair of shorts and a vest top I’d bought her along with the swimsuit, and it was great to see her looking so happy and healthy.
‘I love it here,’ Vicky announced, before unfolding a camping chair and sitting down beside me.
‘I think the outdoor life suits you, Vicky,’ I said. ‘You’re looking really well. Perhaps we should get a caravan and put it in the back garden for you when we get home!’
Vicky looked suddenly shocked and blurted out, ‘You wouldn’t do that, would you?’
‘Of course not, sweetheart! I was only joking.’
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Just checking!’
‘Why would you think I was serious about that?’
‘My mum would have been.’
‘How do you mean?’
Vicky shrugged and said, ‘I don’t know, I’m going for a walk.’
I realised this had probably triggered a memory for Vicky, and not a happy one. She was gone for about twenty minutes, and when she came back I could smell cigarette smoke on her breath. I decided this was a battle for another day and kept quiet, though I really wanted to ask what was on her mind.
On our last morning Vicky and I walked along the beach together while Jonathan went to get petrol and check the tyre pressures on the car.
‘I don’t want to leave here,’ Vicky said. ‘I wish I could just stay on holiday.’
‘I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it,’ I replied. ‘Jonathan and I have always loved caravanning. We’re planning a longer holiday later in the year that Michelle will come on, to a different site that’s a lot bigger than this one. Perhaps you can come too, if you’re still with us? We like to have a week away before the schools go back.’
Vicky didn’t challenge my suggestion, and I realised she’d stopped asking when she was going back to Lorraine’s. I’d passed on to Vicky what Tricia had said about the baby being due at the end of August, and she’d simply said, ‘Oh, that’s longer than I thought.’
Now, as she looked out to sea, Vicky commented, ‘One of those twins asked me if I had a sister and I said no.’
‘Well that’s not true, love. Why did you say that?’
‘Because me and Lorraine aren’t like them.’
‘You mean because they are twins and there is a big age gap between you and Lorraine?’
‘Yes, I suppose. Lorraine left home when I was about four or five, I think. It was around the time I started at infant school, anyhow. I can hardly remember her being there, so I was like an only child, really.’
‘And so after Lorraine left, it was just you and your mum?’
‘Me, her and her best friend,’ Vicky said sarcastically.
‘Best friend?’ I ventured gently.
‘Yes. He was called “bottle of vodka”!’
Vicky laughed bitterly after she threw out the last sentence. It had tripped off her tongue in a way that suggested it wasn’t the first time she had said this, or that she was repeating a line she had heard somebody else use.
I felt a pang of sorrow for Vicky and instinctively pulled her towards me, giving her a gentle rub on her arm. I wanted to hug her but I’d been told by the social worker to be careful about such physical contact; you had to ask first if you felt it was appropriate to give a hug.
‘Hugs can be misconstrued,’ Tricia had said. ‘Best to err on the side of caution, especially when you don’t know the child’s background. And if you feel it is appropriate to give a hug, for instance when it would look like you didn’t care if you kept your distance, then you should always ask the child first if it’s OK.’
I understood the advice, but in the heat of the moment, in a situation like this, it often seemed inappropriate to start asking permission to give a hug, so I opted for the safer rub on the arm.
‘Sorry, I don’t want to ruin our last few hours,’ Vicky said, turning to face me and noticing my sad expression. ‘I hate talking about my mum; I don’t know why I mentioned her. She’s the reason I went to live with Lorraine, but I suppose you know that already.’
‘I thought that must be the case, but I wasn’t sure. How long have you been living with Lorraine?’
As I asked the question I was praying the answer was going to be several years but Vicky replied, ‘About two months. I, er, told my mum I was going out to buy some bread.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I said I was going to the corner shop, but I didn’t. I ran all the way to Lorraine’s instead. Lorraine didn’t want me there really, but I refused to go back to Mum’s.’
‘Because of her drinking, I assume?’
I was aware that I might be pushing my luck but I wanted to find out more, so I could help understand and care for Vicky.
‘My mum frightened me.’
Vicky spoke in a whisper and had turned very pale.
‘Can we stop talking about this now, Angela?’
‘Of course, love. But you know you can talk to me any time?’
‘I know. Thanks.’
I took a deep breath, not looking forward to what I had to say next.
‘Just one other thing though, Vicky. Because I’m a foster carer, I’m obliged to tell your social worker anything I feel is important for her to know.’
Vicky looked very worried. ‘Will you tell her what I said about my mum?’
‘I will, next time I talk to Tricia.
I have to, love, but you mustn’t worry. The only reason we talk to each other like this is to make sure you are safe and looked after in the best way, not to cause any more problems for you. Besides, I don’t really think you have said much that Tricia won’t already know. You mustn’t worry.’
Vicky didn’t look convinced and barely spoke another word on our walk back to the caravan. All I could think about was the fact I’d established that Vicky had lived alone with her alcoholic mother from the age of four or five to thirteen. It must have been very difficult for her, and unfortunately it now seemed inevitable there were more disclosures to come, though I wasn’t sure how inclined Vicky would be to confide in me again. Whether Vicky’s mother would turn up for the review meeting Tricia was trying to arrange was now uppermost in my mind. The fact Vicky was so frightened of her mum bothered me a great deal, and I couldn’t imagine it would be an easy meeting at all.
When I’d first seen the advert for foster carers a few years earlier I hadn’t considered the fact that you have to meet the parents of the children you foster. Jonathan and I were both so naive about the role, we imagined we’d take in a couple of children, give them love and provide them with a comfortable home, and that it would all go really well. Then, when the children moved on, we thought we’d simply repeat the whole process with other kids who needed a temporary home. It sounds ridiculous now, but I had no idea about reviews or that foster carers were expected to sit around a table and discuss the foster child’s care with the mother or father, or whoever had parental responsibility.
In addition, all of the children we’d looked after had wanted to go back to their family as soon as possible, no matter what had caused them to be removed from their care in the first place. For example, Michelle’s mother, Maureen, had suffered with a drug problem in the past and was unable to cope with her daughter, and she had placed Michelle in the local children’s home when she was ten years old. Michelle had been there for two years before she came to live with us. I’d learned from Social Services that Maureen had failed to feed her daughter properly, or send her to school regularly, and one of her former boyfriends had been jailed for assaulting a close member of the family.
Michelle refused to be put off by these facts. Even now, two years on, she still talked frequently about ‘when I’m back home’, doing so in the fond and dreamy way you might look forward to returning to a favourite holiday destination. This was in spite of the fact her mother showed no sign of wanting her back, even though she was now a recovering addict and Social Services would have allowed Michelle to return. After her weekend visits Michelle always seemed out of sorts. There was something I couldn’t put my finger on; she was just not quite herself, but Michelle never discussed why this was the case, and whatever made her behave differently certainly didn’t put her off wanting to move back in with her mother She’d have done so in the blink of an eye if Maureen had allowed it.
‘Are you all right?’ I’d always ask. ‘Did you have a good time? What did you get up to?’
‘I’m fine!’ Michelle would say breezily. ‘It was great. We watched telly and had chips.’
‘How’s your mum?’
‘Great! I might be able to move back soon!’
I felt a pang in my heart whenever I heard Michelle talk so bravely and optimistically. In the two years she’d been with us her mother had only attended one review meeting, at which she’d used bad language and become aggressive when discussing future plans for her daughter Still, Michelle never said anything critical whatsoever about her mum, and she never wavered in wanting to return to live with her. Her loyalty towards her father was equally strong. He had remarried and had a new family to support, which he claimed made it impossible for him to have Michelle live with him. She accepted his position without question or criticism and always seemed very happy to see him, rarely going more than a few days between visits to his home, which was a short bus journey away from ours.
The children we had staying with us on short-term placements all very much looked forward to going home too. This made total sense when, for example, a parent was in hospital; I knew exactly how it felt to spend every waking minute longing for a return to normality. However, one little boy of eight had been physically abused by his mother and had suffered a broken skull, yet he still couldn’t wait to be reunited with her. Shockingly, in time we would learn that blood ties can be so powerful that even children who have been sexually abused by a parent often want to leave foster care and return home to their abuser as quickly as possible.
Things were clearly very different with Vicky. She was the very first child I’d encountered who had actually run away from her mother, and was scared of her.
‘I’m feeling very nervous about Vicky’s review,’ I said to Jonathan once we were back home after our little holiday.
The review could happen any time now, and though I was very keen for Vicky to know where she stood and what would happen next, I was beginning to dread the meeting.
‘I’m worried too,’ Jonathan nodded. ‘It could be very difficult, and whatever we’re feeling, Vicky is going to be experiencing ten times the nerves and fears.’
‘You’re right. Poor Vicky. It’s really not fair I’d be more than happy for her to stay with us longer term if it comes to it, would you?’
‘Of course! I’d love her to stay with us, but as you well know, what we want isn’t the issue. We’ll have to see what happens.’
The next time I managed to get hold of Tricia on the phone I told her that Vicky had spoken about her mother’s drinking, and I passed on the information I had gleaned, that Vicky had lived alone with her mother from the age of four or five and was so frightened of her that she had run away to Lorraine’s a couple of months ago.
Tricia told me that Vicky’s mother, who I learned was called Brenda, was still refusing to answer the door, but that she had managed to talk to the elderly lady next door who had passed on some information.
‘Are you able to tell me what sort of information?’ I asked boldly.
Tricia sighed, and I heard the sound of her tapping her pen or fingernail on the desk in front of her.
‘I’m afraid the neighbour said she used to hear shouting and banging coming from the house when Vicky was living there.’
‘I see. Was this when Vicky was very young, or more recently?’
‘Throughout the time Vicky was there. The lady said she had reported this to Social Services on more than one occasion over the years, but unfortunately we have no record of her calls. We should have had something on file, as every call of this nature is logged and responded to as you know, but there is nothing at all.’
‘So what do you think has happened?’ I asked.
Tricia took a deep breath.
‘I’m sorry to say it looks like Vicky’s file has simply gone missing somewhere along the line. Before we had computerised records, files were mislaid from time to time. Also, I know some paperwork went astray when we started to upload files to computers.’
I asked Tricia if it might be possible that the neighbour’s calls were investigated by Social Services and nothing untoward was found, so therefore no file was ever created. I knew I was clutching at straws, especially after Vicky’s admission that she was frightened of her mother, but I asked anyway, as Tricia seemed to be in slightly less of a rush than usual and I was desperate for answers.
‘Vicky’s mother would appear to have been drinking heavily for many years, so if she were investigated I can’t imagine it would have been left there, and we’d still have something on file, even if no action was taken. The neighbour also told me that she often saw Vicky outside in her nightdress, even in winter. Clearly, this put Vicky at risk and is something a social worker would not have dealt with lightly; indeed, it would have been tackled as a matter of urgency.’
Whatever the truth about Vicky’s missing file, she had suffered goodness knows what inside the house with her drunken mother, not to mention being outside in the cold i
n a nightie.
Tricia wound up the conversation by reassuring me that she was trying to talk to the neighbour on the other side, a middle-aged man called Alf. According to the elderly lady he was a close friend of Brenda and regularly did her shopping, but for some reason he was also refusing to answer his door.
‘I’ll keep trying,’ Tricia said. ‘We really need to get this review meeting set up. Hopefully I’ll have more news soon, and if all else fails we’ll have to have the review without Vicky’s mother present’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘We are more than happy to keep Vicky with us for as long as it takes. She’s absolutely fine. We’ve just had a lovely weekend away in fact. We took her to . . .’
‘That’s good,’ Tricia interrupted, sounding a little distracted. ‘Sorry, I have to dash. I have another call waiting now. Hopefully speak soon.’
The line went dead and I felt my pulse quicken. Tricia was a hard-working woman, and I could tell she found it as frustrating as I did that she never seemed to have quite enough time to do her job as well as she wanted to. She sounded genuinely apologetic about cutting our conversation short like that, but there was nothing she could do to change the situation. As well as supporting more carers and children than she was meant to have on her books, Tricia had to do shifts on the ‘duty desk; which involved taking all calls to the office, some of which needed urgent attention. For example, if a member of the public or a teacher raised child protection concerns, the duty social worker might have to find emergency placements for youngsters. Tricia and her colleagues were also involved in recruiting new foster carers, which meant manning stalls in shopping malls or at fetes and encouraging members of the public to think about taking on the responsibility. In addition, Tricia had to keep up to date with all her paperwork and write up every conversation she had on the phone and in person. It had now been confirmed that her colleague who was on long-term sick leave was not returning to work, and no replacement was being brought in. Unfortunately, because of the stress of the job many social workers went off sick, and as they were entitled to paid sick leave there were typically no funds available to pay extra staff to bridge the gap. I knew Tricia was doing a sterling job under these difficult circumstances, but I still couldn’t help feeling agitated.