The Girl with the Suitcase

by Angela Hart

  A statement of special needs is a formal document that spells out a child’s learning difficulties and the help needed at school, beyond what their regular teachers can provide. I knew that not being ‘statemented’ did not necessarily mean a child had no learning difficulties. We’ve dealt with several kids over the years who we felt ought to have had a statement but, for whatever reason, had not.

  The process of having a child statemented is quite complex and time-consuming and, with the backing of experts, we’ve fought for several children in our care over the years, to give them the help they need. Unfortunately, when kids with learning difficulties are being moved from one foster home to the next sometimes they slip through the net, as by the time their needs are picked up on by the carer or the school the child is on the move again and back to square one. I know of a case where a child in care had waited many months for an appointment with CAMHS – Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services – but just as the appointment came through he was moved out of county. Very frustratingly, the neighbouring county’s CAMHS department said the boy would have to start again at the bottom of their list. After more than thirty years of fostering, I have to say that the lack of support for children with mental health issues is one of my biggest bugbears. The service is crying out for more staff and resources, because kids with mental health problems need help straight away, not at some indeterminate date in the future.

  I waited for Barry to continue giving me information. He said he had the notes from the last review meeting with Grace’s mother. ‘Mum said, “Grace doesn’t listen on purpose, to wind me up”,’ he read.

  I considered this and asked if a single placement had been sought for Grace, as this would seem to be a logical strategy, given her apparent difficulties in getting along with others. Barry agreed with me. He said that that would have been ideal, but there was simply nobody available.

  ‘The problem we have is that there are no specialist carers available at all in our area to take on Grace. There’s nobody with your expertise and training, that’s the issue. That’s why this has become as urgent as it is. Time is running out. We didn’t want to have to go out of county but we have no choice, because this young lady needs a fresh start in a new home.’

  I asked Barry to hold the line while I consulted Jonathan, as I always do. We both agreed instantly that Grace should come for the weekend, arriving the next day. I shuddered to think how a little girl’s tendency to annoy people around her could have led to such a devastating chain of events. Eight foster placements in seven years, and a mother who had access to her child but was not bringing her up? My heart ached just thinking about it.

  2

  ‘They call me Little Miss Trouble’

  ‘Hello, I’m Grace.’

  I looked down at the petite young girl standing on my doorstep. She appeared dwarfed by the burly middle-aged man standing on one side, who cheerfully told me he was Barry, and a large grey suitcase that was bulging at the seams on the other. Everything about Grace seemed small, from her heart-shaped little face and tiny hands to her soft, whispering voice. Everything, that is, except for her eye-catching explosion of strawberry blonde curls.

  Grace looked slightly dazed as I told her I was pleased to see her, invited her to call me Angela and asked her to come inside. ‘What about my scooter?’ she said shyly, turning her head towards Barry but not looking at him.

  ‘I’ll fetch that for you, little lady,’ he said kindly. ‘Let me worry about bringing all your things inside. I trust you have room for a scooter, Angela?’ Addressing Grace he added, ‘There’s a pogo stick as well, if I’m not mistaken? Aren’t you the lucky one? I’d have sold my granny for a pogo stick when I was your age!’

  Grace looked a bit confused and nodded at nobody in particular while I said that yes, of course we had room for her scooter and the pogo stick. I took to Barry straight away. He was less stressed than he had been on the phone, and I liked his friendly manner and the engaging way he talked to Grace.

  Normally, a child coming for a short weekend stay would not bring so many belongings, but I didn’t question it. Instead, I explained that we liked to get out in the fresh air whenever we could, and that there were plenty of places to go with the scooter. I also said we enjoyed cycling and liked to go on rides with all the children who stayed with us, and that we had a bike she could use, if she wanted to. ‘My husband will be here in a minute and he’ll show you where we can lock the scooter up, in the garage,’ I said to Grace. ‘The pogo stick will be fine in there too. My husband’s called Jonathan, by the way. He’ll also show you where we keep all our spare helmets and things.’

  Barry caught my eye and gave me an encouraging smile and, unexpectedly, a wink. Having this conversation in front of Grace was basic good practice. Our training had taught us that when a child comes to stay they need to be reassured that their possessions are safe and secure, particularly when they are stored out of sight. I imagined that Grace, more than anyone, needed to have her mind put at rest; I couldn’t imagine how unsettling and worrying it must have been for her to have moved house so many times.

  I invited Grace to sit at the kitchen table while Barry went back to the car. I’d only expected her to have a weekend bag and I wondered why she had brought so much.

  ‘Would you like a drink, Grace? It’s very warm today. I’m having a glass of water.’

  ‘Have you got any Coke?’ she asked quietly, pushing some stray curls out of her eyes and fishing in the pockets of her jeans for something.

  I avoided having fizzy drinks in the house, having seen how some children went a bit ‘hyper’ on them, as we used to say. In that day and age – more than twenty years ago – we didn’t have half as much information as we have now about how bad fizzy drinks can be for kids, but it seemed common sense to avoid them; life was challenging enough without kids bouncing off the walls!

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve got squash. Let me see – orange, lemon or forest fruits?’

  Grace looked around blankly as she pulled a thick, white cotton headband out of her back pocket. In one swift movement she pulled it down over her curls until it was around her neck, then pushed the front of it up and over her forehead, revealing a shiny ring of sweat at her hairline. She’d clearly done that many times before. The wide, elasticated headband had the effect of flattening and taming the spiral curls on top of her head and creating two thick curtains of ringlets that cascaded down either side of her little face.

  Grace was extremely pretty. She had lovely hazel green eyes and, under the last drops of evening sun that beamed through our kitchen window, her hair shimmered with copper and blonde highlights. I’d paid fortunes over the years to put highlights of all shades in my naturally mousy brown hair. I wanted to tell this to Grace and compliment her on her natural colour, but it wasn’t the right time. Kids often feel incredibly self-conscious when they first arrive, and focusing on their looks, however positively, can increase their shyness and anxiety and make them feel uncomfortable.

  Grace didn’t seem to be able to make up her mind about which drink to have. She continued to look rather bemused and she screwed up her eyes, as if she was trying to concentrate hard. To fill the silence, I told her I could also offer her some fresh pineapple juice. Opening the fridge door to check, I added, ‘We have some apple cordial too, if you’d like that?’

  Grace blinked several times and looked around the room. Her skin was naturally very fair but was quite pink in the heat. I expected she really needed a cold drink.

  ‘Erm, I don’t mind. What have you got?’

  I wasn’t sure if Grace wanted me to repeat the list or remind her that I was drinking a glass of water, so I thought I’d make it easy for her.

  ‘I’ve got a nice glass of cold water. Do you want water?’

  She didn’t reply. ‘Or maybe orange squash?’

  ‘Orange squash,’ she whispered.

  The poor mite, I thought. She was probably feeling very nervous, and no doub
t all her concentration was going into simply coping with being in a different house, yet again. She was probably tired too; the foster home she had come from was more than an hour away and Barry must have hit rush hour traffic, which was typically heavier on a Friday evening.

  I prepared a tumbler of orange squash and asked Grace if she wanted ice.

  ‘Ice?’

  ‘Yes, sweetheart. Do you want ice in your squash? Like I have ice in my water? I’ve got a tray of ice cubes in the freezer. It’s no trouble. It’ll make your drink nice and cold and might help cool you down if you’re feeling hot.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Jonathan came through from our florist shop next door and introduced himself to Grace. He said he’d met Barry on the way and had suggested he take the scooter and pogo stick straight round to the garden, ready to go in the garage.

  ‘What d’you think of these?’ Jonathan was carrying a couple of bunches of flowers that were past their sell-by date. He explained to Grace that we ran the shop that was attached to our house. ‘I thought these would brighten up our kitchen for the weekend,’ he added cheerfully. ‘Shame to throw them away.’ Grace didn’t speak. Jonathan then asked her if she liked flowers – I imagined that’s one of the reasons he thought to fetch them in, to use them as an ice-breaker – and she nodded and said she did.

  ‘But I like trees best.’

  ‘Trees? I love trees too. We’ve got some trees in our back garden. Do you want me to show you, and we can lock your scooter and pogo stick in the garage at the same time?’

  Grace picked up her beaker of orange squash, downed the drink in one, wiped her lips with the back of her hand and got up to follow Jonathan.

  ‘What’s your favourite type of tree?’

  ‘Any.’

  ‘What about the mighty oak? I love oak trees. And conker trees, of course.’

  ‘Any tree I can climb,’ I heard Grace say as they headed outside. Her voice had grown a little louder, I was pleased to note.

  I watched them from the window. Barry was in the back garden with the scooter and pogo stick, and he stayed chatting to Grace and Jonathan for a minute or two before coming into the kitchen to talk to me about the arrangements.

  ‘She seems such a sweet little thing,’ he said, nodding in Grace’s direction and frowning slightly, as if he couldn’t really understand her situation. ‘Let’s hope things start to turn around for her.’

  Barry told me once again that he had not been Grace’s social worker for very long. In fact, he was so new to the job he had only taken over when her last placement was already breaking down. He would continue as Grace’s social worker even if she moved out of her local authority, and he told me that in the next week or so he would take charge of all her lifts, to and from her previous carer’s home, and back and forth to her mother’s home, both of which were about an hour away by car.

  In normal circumstances, our support social worker would have been present for this drop-off, but as Jess was on leave it was left to Barry to do the handover on his own. He told me everybody involved was hoping this trial period would work, and that afterwards Grace could come to us for at least six months, and hopefully more.

  ‘Is that why you let her bring so much stuff?’ I asked, smiling.

  ‘Ah, yes! I did try to encourage her to leave the scooter and pogo stick behind and not bring that big suitcase, but she wasn’t having it. Lucky I’ve got muscles, hey?’ He raised his fist and flexed his biceps jokingly. ‘Seriously, though, I’ve got a big boot and it was no bother; I didn’t see the point in arguing. I hope you don’t mind.’

  I said I didn’t at all; we had plenty of space. ‘What else can you tell me?’

  Barry pulled a file from his briefcase and placed it on the table as I fixed him a glass of water.

  ‘OK. Here goes,’ he said, picking out several sheets of paper. ‘Grace has been in care since she was three and has had eight placements. I told you that on the phone?’

  I nodded. Barry shuffled through the files, pulled out more notes and continued.

  ‘Dad was an alcoholic. Dad was in sole charge of Grace and her sister Lily after splitting from their mother. He left the two girls home alone. Lily, aged six, phoned a relative – paternal grandfather, now deceased. Said she and Grace were “frightened and hungry”. Grandfather called Social Services. Mum was contacted. Didn’t want to have the girls living with her. No other family members in a position to help. Both girls taken into care. Emergency order, placed in separate foster homes on the same day. Lily eventually went home to Mum – looks like the following year – yes, that’s right. But Grace didn’t. Since then Mum has consistently refused to take Grace back. Mum is now remarried and has two older stepsons living with her and her husband. Lily is now thirteen, still with Mum. Mum is on record repeatedly saying she can’t have Grace back because of her “aggravating and disruptive behaviour”. States she “never listens”, “deliberately winds everyone up” and is “impossible to live with”.’

  Barry cleared his throat and took a drink of water before reading from the most recent notes in Grace’s file. He spoke quietly. ‘This is what Colette – that’s Grace’s mother – said last week: “She is the same difficult child she always has been. It would be impossible to have her living with me. Nothing has changed and we also have no room in our house for her.”’ He said he had not met Colette in person; they had only spoken on the phone. We both took a moment to consider what Grace’s mother had said. Neither of us commented, but there was a note of sadness hanging in the air.

  Though Barry wasn’t stressed, he did seem to be in quite a rush. He gathered together all the paperwork he was leaving with us, including the standard new placement form, complete with emergency contact details. This had Colette’s address and phone number clearly written on it, in bold black pen. I stared at the information.

  I’d cared for children whose parents had died or were in prison. Though Grace was on a full care order, meaning the courts had decided neither of her parents could have her living with them full time, Colette was very much alive and had her freedom. She had access to her daughter and Barry had told me that Grace was allowed to stay in the family home for weekend visits, and he reiterated that she was going home the following week, after her trial with us. What exactly is the problem? I thought. I didn’t know the full circumstances, but I thought how desperately sad it was that Colette couldn’t raise Grace herself. I wanted to know more, but at the same time I was happy to wait and find out, all in good time. Usually that’s the best way, so you can make your own mind up about a given situation.

  As is often the case, when I thought about Grace’s predicament I found my mind wandering back to my own childhood. I thought about how lucky I was to have been brought up by two parents who loved and cherished me. We had our ups and downs and life was not perfect – my dad had struggled with alcoholism when I was a young girl – but fundamentally I had a happy, stable childhood. I knew I was wanted. I was safe and well cared for, and I was praised and encouraged and taught to expand my mind. Mum always told me the world was my oyster and I never forgot that. In fact, it’s one of the things that helped me follow my dream and go into fostering. My attitude was, why not give it a go? If it doesn’t work, at least you will have tried. I’d grown up with high self-esteem and developed a pragmatic, optimistic outlook on life that I’m still grateful for to this day.

  Jonathan had a tougher time. He was smaller than his three older brothers, and short-sighted too. His father, a farmer, treated him like the runt of the family and hit him with a belt when he made clumsy mistakes on their farm. Despite this Jonathan knew his father was not all bad; rather, he was the product of another era, when boys were expected to match up to old-fashioned male stereotypes. Ultimately, Jonathan forgave his dad and looked for the good in him. He worked hard at school so he could leave home and get himself a good job, and he was fortunate to have had a loving mother, whose support carried him through the hard times.
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br />   What is Colette’s story? I thought as I looked at her name and address. I had no idea how Grace had ended up being in care for so many years while her sister went home to Mum. I desperately wanted to find out more, and I wanted to help the family as much as I could. I simply couldn’t imagine the trauma a child like Grace would go through, knowing their own mother can’t, or won’t, have them living at home. The fact Colette was raising Lily and her two stepsons must have been so confusing for Grace, and incredibly painful, I imagined.

  I asked Barry for more details about the fact Grace would go back to the family home after her stay with us. He explained that Grace had always had fairly regular contact visits with her family, and typically spent a weekend at home once every six weeks or so; it was always a loose arrangement, depending on what was happening in the family, and in Grace’s placement. In the summer holidays she usually spent a full week at home. I considered this. At ten years old, Grace was old enough to question her situation, and no doubt her sense of self. What went through her mind when she left the family home behind each time, seeing her sister staying there with Mum?

  On the face of it, her circumstances seemed difficult to fathom, but of course I knew next to nothing about the family’s background. If fostering had taught me anything, it was that you never really know what goes on in other people’s lives, and therefore you can’t jump to conclusions and need to stay open-minded. I mustn’t judge Colette. All I could do was give Grace a safe and comfortable home for as long as necessary, make her feel as cared for and wanted as possible and show her that I believed in her as a lovely young person.

  As he was leaving I noticed that Barry had a ring of perspiration in each armpit from the effort of moving Grace’s belongings into the garden and hallway.

  ‘Let’s hope the trial is successful for all our sakes,’ I said, smiling.