by Mia Marconi
It was a difficult conversation but I had to sit India down and tell her. I am a firm believer in telling children the truth, but there are exceptions and this was one. How do you tell a six-year-old that her mother is being investigated for murder?
I waited until Ruby and Francesca had gone to their drama class that evening and I knew I would have some time with India alone. I’d packed a snack and a juice carton in their bags and waved as their friend’s mum came to collect them. They were having a sleepover and I had promised India that we would watch a DVD later with Isabella. I said we could have popcorn and lemonade and I knew she was really looking forward to it.
India looked so cute in a pair of pink tracksuit bottoms and with a big heart on her T-shirt and I thought about what I would have to tell her later.
As she settled down in bed that night, I said, ‘India, I have something to tell you.’ Her eyes grew wide. ‘Mummy won’t be able to see you for a while.’
Most children break down if someone tells them they can’t see their mum, but India didn’t even flinch. She accepted my explanation, picked up her book and began to read. The only hint that she was hurting was the way she clutched her Velveteen Rabbit toy, which I had bought her for her fifth birthday, but other than that, she showed no emotion. Amy had let her down so many times, why should she get upset?
All she said was: ‘Night-night, Mia, don’t let the bed bugs bite.’
It was a couple of weeks later that I spotted Amy on the corner of my road, leaning against a tree. She looked terrible, like she hadn’t slept for days, and her jeans were covered in mud and grass stains, so I guessed she’d been sleeping rough and probably drinking all night. The stench of alcohol hit me long before I reached her.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
She nodded and kept her head down.
‘Come on, Amy, let’s get you a cuppa.’
I had no time to think I shouldn’t be doing this, or I must call the police and social services. I followed my heart, and if ever I was needed it was now. Society had let Amy down so many times and I wasn’t going to turn my back on her.
I had no time to think that my foster-care career could be over, because I knew I could be struck off for not calling them immediately. I would call, but first I thought it was right that we sat down and talked. Social services might see it differently.
I comforted myself knowing that I had been diligent about writing up contact reports each time Amy had visited India at my house. I had been honest if I had any concerns. After this drama blew up I had attended every meeting and made sure I gave the police and social services all the information I could, no matter how small. While Amy was on the run I had logged her phone numbers when she’d called me and handed them over to the police, and thanks to that information they had managed to locate her. If social services did have any doubts about me, surely all that would go in my favour?
Once we were home, I made her a hot cup of tea and a bacon sandwich. There was only one question I wanted to ask and I wanted an honest answer.
‘Did you do it, Amy?’
‘No, but if you’d given me a knife I would have.’
Then she began to tell me in a rush of words and sobs what had happened.
‘They arrested us all, Mia. Well, two of my brothers and me. Mike was living in a flat with a new woman who had four young children. We told her what he had done to us and she called us liars. She called me a nutter and told me to go away and leave her family alone.
‘How could she let him live there knowing that he was abusing them or was going to? They’re just little children, Mia, just little children. We told her that he is a monster, but she wouldn’t believe us.’
Thinking of Mike living with three little girls and a boy had haunted Amy day and night, but I knew she did not kill her stepfather. She told me a number of times then that she could have but didn’t. She had threatened him and he had called the police, which is why they wanted to question her, but for all her faults she was incapable of murder. It did not mean she was sad he was dead; she wasn’t, she was happy, but so were a lot of other people. As one neighbour said: ‘We’ll be dancing the soles of our shoes off tonight.’
Amy finished her story, turned to me, her grubby face stained with tears, and said, ‘He won’t harm anyone any more, will he?’
I shook my head and stood there, shaking, with my mouth open. I had no clue what to say. She was right – the man was a monster, and although I don’t believe in the death penalty, surely an eighteen-month sentence, which means you are out in a year, is more of a pat on the back than a punishment? It was not justice and not a deterrent, which was why he went on to do it again.
Amy sat there sobbing. I sat in silence next to her, held her hand and prayed.
‘You do know that you shouldn’t be here, don’t you?’ I said, aware I was using a tone of voice I would use to speak to a child.
Amy held her head in her hands and I wondered if she had fallen asleep.
‘I will run you a hot bath and get you some clean clothes, but I need to call social services and the police.’
‘Not yet, Mia, please,’ Amy slurred. ‘I’m tired.’
She yawned, curled up on my settee and fell asleep. I covered her with a duvet, tucking her in like she was my daughter.
I could not risk being de-registered so I reached for the phone and dialled the police. As Amy had been arrested and questioned already, they thanked me and said they didn’t need to speak to her for the time being, asked me to make sure I knew where to contact her and told me to call social services. I let them know they were next on my list and rang off.
Social services urgently wanted to see Amy. I said I would personally bring her to the office tomorrow and would ring them in the morning to confirm. We all knew Amy was unpredictable, though, and that I would be lucky to locate her the next day. Social services seemed happy, however, and said that under no circumstances could Amy see India – she must leave before India came home from school. I reassured them.
When Amy woke up she looked a bit better, and I walked her to the bus stop.
‘Don’t let me down,’ I said.
She nodded, got on the bus and waved goodbye.
I had become protective of her, what with the never-ending phone calls. I hadn’t even realised that we had established a bond. It just happened.
Neither Amy nor her brothers were charged with murder, although of the three of them Amy was the most under suspicion. The police were convinced she had paid hit men to kill Mike, but honestly, the most money Amy could ever come up with was enough to buy her next drink.
No murder weapon was ever found and all the Matthews siblings denied they had anything to do with it. They all had a motive, that was certain, but Mike was a prolific sex offender and child abuser, and Amy’s family were not the only ones who wanted him dead. No one was ever charged, the case never came to trial and to this day no one knows who killed him.
My one concern was protecting India from all the drama. I’m pleased to say she never found out until she was fifteen, when Amy decided she should know the whole story. They were at my house and when she finished telling her, India wept and broke down.
‘Please, Mummy, tell me that’s not my dad.’
The release for the Matthews family must have been overwhelming. While Mike was alive, Amy would have gone through a whole raft of emotions over the years: fear, repulsion, hatred, then finally release. The man who sexually abused her and robbed her of her childhood, her mother and her siblings, who had followed her from school and tormented her and raped her in an act of revenge, was finally dead.
Sadly, though, the release had come too late for her and she went downhill rapidly. Constant questioning by the police and talking about the abuse brought it all back. It was never something she could forget, but to have it at the forefront of her thoughts was too much. She had one solution and that was to drink, and drink until she was unconscious. And because she was in such a state, soci
al services decided that all contact with India should cease.
As usual, India showed no emotion. The fact that her mum was no longer a part of her life was neither a relief nor upsetting; it wasn’t tragic, it was normal to her. She just went on with her school life, worked hard and her teachers were impressed with her progress. She had a good circle of friends and she concentrated on them.
The police and social services told me not to contact Amy and for once in my life I listened. I had Isabella, Ruby, Francesca, India, Martin and Jack and Jill, and that was enough for anyone. So the next time Amy called I told her I couldn’t speak to her.
Amy no doubt saw it as a betrayal and abandonment, but this situation was a whole new ball game. My priorities were my family and India, and that was it. Amy was an adult; India was a child and needed me more. I couldn’t put India’s needs second yet again. I thought supporting Amy would help India get her mother back, but I was wrong. The opposite had happened. Amy had shouted the loudest, and those who shout the loudest get heard. In all the chaos I had lost sight of the fact that India came first. She would be with us for a long time now that Amy had completely broken down.
Chapter Seven
I wondered if I would ever see Amy again, and then, six months later, social services called me to say they wanted to re-establish Amy’s contact with India. They said that Amy had been attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, had signed up for parenting classes and had also been to see a therapist. She had tried to kill herself soon after the incident and was sectioned, and once that had happened, the system had taken control. It seemed that in her early forties, Amy was finally sorting her life out.
Amy’s social worker, Max, was the one who had turned it all round for her. He was a lovely man who was gentle and kind and had a smile to make you melt.
‘Nice to meet you at last, Mia,’ he said. ‘I have heard so many things about you – all good, I should add.’
He had an inner strength that kept Amy on her toes and meant she could not manipulate him, and to me he was a guardian angel and a miracle worker. Max was instrumental in the decisions that had to be made in the following years, and it was he who wanted Amy to re-establish contact with India.
India saw her mother for the first time about nine months after the police incident. I prepared her by explaining that Mummy had not been well but that she was better now and really excited about seeing her again. As usual, she showed no emotion. I had never stopped talking about Amy to India – she was not a closed subject – but on this occasion, when I told her, she just kept reading her book as if I wasn’t talking.
‘Is it okay if Mummy comes on Saturday?’ I asked her.
‘Yes,’ she said, very matter-of-fact, as though I was talking about going to the park. ‘We can cook Mummy some dinner.’
Saturday came and Amy arrived with Archie, looking like a naughty child.
‘Hello, India.’
‘Hello, Mummy.’
Amy looked awkward, and so did India, but they shared a small, fumbled embrace and I knew India was happy. I could tell she loved us all being together.
I put a big buffet on the table, with sandwiches and cakes, chicken and a pasta bake, and things slowly started to fall into place until India felt comfortable enough to tell Amy how much she had missed her. Amy took things slowly, telling her how much she had missed her too. They both sat there with enormous grins.
After lunch, the children went out to play and Amy reached out for my hand, looked into my eyes and said sorry.
‘You don’t need to say that,’ I said. ‘I can see you have come a long way and I am extremely proud of you. But you must understand that India is my priority. She needs love, consistency and a mum she knows will always be there for her. She needs unconditional love and I am trying my very best to give her all those things. I am not here to replace you; you are her mother. I will support you and show you what to do, but I ask you one thing: please don’t let India grow up thinking you never tried.’
I looked at Amy who had tears streaming down her face. They were real tears – this wasn’t Amy turning on an act, she was truly sobbing. I wiped them away. Then she said something heartbreaking.
‘I didn’t have any of those things, Mia. When I am with you I dream that I could have had a mum like you.’
I felt honoured. When someone calls you Mum it’s a sign that they trust you, almost more than anyone else in the world. I cried for the years she had longed for a mother and had nothing but abuse instead. I cried because I know how important families are. But mostly I cried because I could see there was a chance that she could reclaim her own title as mother to India.
I looked at India playing happily in the garden, throwing a ball for the dogs and skipping with Ruby and Francesca. I don’t know if Amy took in the significance of the situation, but just then they ran back into the room with the dogs following them, barking.
They played so well together, and Ruby and Francesca were the perfect big sisters. India idolised them. They were her heroes, and she copied their every move. India had learned to be a child, she had learned to be part of a family, and she was learning new skills every day. And I never thought I would say this, but she had a bubbly personality that was beginning to develop.
India had waited years for Amy to behave like a mother. Now, finally, she was, and it was touching to watch the intimacy between them slowly begin to emerge. The first time I realised they were really making progress was when India let Amy brush her hair. India’s bob had grown out. Her hair wasn’t waist length like before but just passed her shoulders. I was stunned when India let Amy put it in a ponytail and decorate her hair with slides.
Playing with her daughter was difficult for Amy as she had no experience, and I had to smile as I watched her sit awkwardly on the floor with a lap full of Barbies, not quite sure what to do with them. In time, though, she learned how to dress them, and it was sweet to watch the two of them deciding what Barbie should wear.
She helped India tidy her room, putting all the books back on her shelf, and they had the occasional cuddle. They always looked awkward, though, and Amy would catch my eye, as if to say, ‘Is this okay?’
She seemed determined to succeed and attended a twelve-week parenting programme with other parents facing similar problems. They discussed anger management and making positive decisions as a parent, what conversations were appropriate to have in front of India and talking to her as a child. That was very hard for Amy to grasp, as she had no boundaries when it came to what was and wasn’t appropriate. I worked hard with her, too, explaining about bedtimes, school and personal hygiene. I felt sad that motherhood was so hard for Amy but delighted that she wanted to learn.
Meanwhile, someone had to decide what India’s future should be. Amy had come a long way, but with her track record was she capable of caring for India full-time? At meeting after meeting two options were being discussed: should India be adopted or should Amy be given another chance?
India was almost eleven years old and had been in short-term care for seven years now. Max was against adoption, and at India’s age it was going to be difficult to arrange as well.
I thought Amy should be given another opportunity to parent India, to show her a family life, however imperfect. What was the other option? If she was adopted it would be a closed adoption with letterbox contact only with Amy, and however fragile her relationship with her mother was, there were her aunts and uncles and Archie, whom she adored, to think about, too. If she was adopted, India would have to start her whole life again, and who knew what problems that could cause?
Eventually, the decision was made that India would move back in with Amy. Before India could move, though, Amy had to prove that she had a decent place to live. Amy’s track record in this department was non-existent, but Archie had a lovely little flat that he turned into a home for them.
When I saw it I was pleasantly surprised. It was nicely furnished, warm and cosy, and India’s room was decorated with
lovely pink wallpaper covered in flowers. She had shelves to put her books on, a little bedside light with white frills and a fluffy white rug, as soft as a cloud, on the floor.
The bed was covered with her teddy collection, arranged up against the wall. Every single one was loved and cherished and each one had a memory. Some were birthday presents or Christmas presents, and some I had bought when she was unwell to cheer her up. Some were cuddled more than others and the fur was bare on her most special two. One was a pink bear with a heart sewn onto its chest. Amy had bought it at a funfair at Southend and she was so proud that she had something nice to give India. India called the bear Luke and cuddled him every night. In pole position was the pink Velveteen Rabbit. This bunny had been dragged around by the ears, taken on holiday, sat on beaches, covered in sand and dribbled with Calpol when India refused to take her medicine. The number of times I’d said, ‘If Velveteen Rabbit has the first mouthful, will you have one after?’
That rabbit had so many uses; I always suspected its main one was to mop up India’s tears when she was feeling confused or low. No wonder it was special.
The move happened gradually, and not until after many, many meetings. Lots of people were at those meetings – all the professionals involved in India’s and Amy’s lives. There was India’s social worker, her teachers, family, Amy’s AA support worker, Amy’s social worker, our social worker and me. No one was going to make a mistake on this one. Even though Amy had cleaned up her act, there were still risks involved, but everyone reasoned that with Archie’s support and her family there as well, Amy would cope. The decision was made: India would go home to her mum, and although I can’t deny I was anxious, I believed from the bottom of my heart that it was what India wanted. If she didn’t go home, she would never have her own family, because as much as she had become part of ours, we were only meant to be temporary. I also believed that India would never accept anyone else as her mum, not unless she had been adopted at birth. Whatever Amy’s failings were, there was a bond there.