by Jane Renshaw
I open the section ‘Contact with the Child’.
The latest thread, ‘Help! Council mistake gives contact details!!!’, was started by JennyPenny.
Hi all, got a bit of a strange one here, the County council (not going say which one) sent our son’s Ex-Partner a copy of the adoption order for their child after she wrote them to ask them to send it because she’s entitled to see it by Law but they’ve made a mistake and the details of the couple our GD is being placed with havent been sensored.
So… We now have their names and address!!
What to do? Obv we’re not going to alert the council that we now have this info, my son is all for making contact but I’m worried this might be held against him. My son’s Ex doesn’t want to do anything.
Thoughts, anyone?
Thanks, JennyPenny
EagleHasLanded was straight in there:
JennyPenny, you MUST NOT do anything with this information, you must send the documents back to the Council, alerting them to the problem, and forget you saw this. Any attempt to contact your granddaughter will have serious repercussions for you and your family and could compromise your prospects of contact at a later date.
Then all them that always sook up to EagleHasLanded:
Fran:
JennyPenny, Eagle is right, you must forget you saw this. Hard I know. Hugs.
KJ:
God Almighty, what next? Bloody idiots. But yes, you can’t do anything with the info. Sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but I have to say I’m a bit worried by your reaction:
Obv we’re not going to alert the council
Why ‘Obv’? This sounds like you’re intending to take some kind of action. Just because they’ve made a mistake doesn’t give you the right to make contact if the courts haven’t said you can.
Stitcher:
Oh dear. I have to agree with the others, Jenny. You don’t want to jeopardise anything by using this. You don’t want to alienate the APs by hassling them or trying to make contact with your GD. Also, think about your GD – could really upset/traumatise her. You are making a big mistake IMO which could hurt a lot of people. Please think long and hard about this.
Then in comes Bertha:
Hey, am I missing something here or has JennyPenny done nothing wrong? Get off her case, people.
JennyPenny:
Thanks Bertha ☺.
Everyone, I’m not going to do anything, it’s my son I’m worried about he is an adult and I cant stop him going round there if he wants. But what would happen if he did? Could he get arrested ☹?
EagleHasLanded:
Yes he could get arrested.
Bertha:
Yes he could get arrested.
And get a slap on the wrist.
EagleHasLanded:
Big Bertha, I hope you’re not suggesting that JennyPenny’s son SHOULD make contact with his daughter and/or her adoptive parents. He should NOT!!!
And you need to be very careful what you say on here. Suggesting that someone should defy the courts is dangerous and wrong. Please remember what happened to Bekki’s Gran when she posted similar advice.
Bertha:
Bekki’s Gran, if you’re reading this, miss ya babe. ☹
OK Eagle, pull your horns in. Am I allowed to say that JennyPenny and her son and his ex could use this info to look on Facebook etc. and see if the APs have anything up on the net? That way they could maybe see photos of their girl and find out how she’s doing etc. without breaking the court’s conditions. How would anyone know you were doing that anyway?
Miss ya too, babe.
Bertha’s spot on, as ever. What a woman.
I read out the posts to Jed and Connor, who’s just come in to get the end of Bargain Hunt before his shift at PC World. He looks like he’s back at the school in his uniform, black trousers with a belt and a short-sleeved blue shirt with ‘Currys PC World’ in red over his tit.
Jed goes ‘Ya beauty’ when I read out Bertha’s first post. Jed’s Bertha’s number one fan so he is.
I goes, ‘Mair might have made a mistake an’ all. Left those bastards’ details on a document.’
‘Naw,’ says Connor. ‘Me and you’ve read through that shite how many times? I think we’d mebbe have noticed a minor detail like the folks’ name and address?’
‘Aye, well, we need to check again. And we need to check we’re no missing any documents – anything where Mair might have left crap uncensored. We need to check we’ve been sent everything we’re entitled to. Connor son, get all the shite out, aye?’
He goes to the sideboard and gets out the pile of papers and dumps them on the table next my chair. ‘Right then. See yous later.’
‘Throw a sickie, son, and gies a hand here. Get on the net and check what all we’re entitled to get sent.’
Connor sighs but he gets out his phone.
On top of the pile there’s my scrapbook with our articles. While Connor’s coughing down the phone, I take a wee look at the Daily Mail one with the big photy of me and Jed on the settee. Settee looks dead nice. That was right after we got it and it’s like something out a showhome, pure white and shiny. I’m in a black Laura Ashley top with lacy bits and Jed’s washed and shaved and in a brand new black cashmere jumper that covers his tats, most of them, and we’ve both got our sad faces on us. The caption says: ‘Devastated: Lorraine and Jed Johnson.’ The article goes on about how our wee angel was torn from our arms, just because our daughter was mentally ill, and quotes me saying how Social Work failed to inform us of meetings and that.
Media campaign turned out pish but.
And brought the nutters out the woodwork, mad bastards giving it You people should all be sterilised, and there was this Holy Mary kept posting on the Get Bekki Back page on Facebook wanting to know if we’d been saved by Jesus and saying we should pray for Bekki and trust in the fucking Lord.
I sort out all the letters and documents sent us by the Council, and Connor gets a list of what all we’re entitled to, and we read and cross-check all through the One O’Clock News and Reporting Scotland. I dinnae even bother turning over for Home and Away. I dinnae even stop for my lunch.
‘Looks like we’ve got everything, Maw. And there’s no address or that on any of this. That’s for definite.’
I goes, ‘Fuck it.’
‘Worth a try though, eh?’
‘Aye. Fuck it, but.’
Jed wakes back up and turns over and reaches for his fags, effing and blinding. Was a time, eh, when he’d no just limit hisself to mouthing off – he’d come at me. I was a fucking doormat by the way, daft wee bint that I was, but the first time he made to raise his hand to a babby I told him – you fucking touch that wean and we’re outta here. Aye he maybe skelped them when they were older, but only when they were out of order. Anything more than that and he knew I wouldnae stand for it. And any road, most of the time the kids were growing up, thank Christ, his arse was under lock and key in Barlinnie.
‘Wait a wee minute,’ I says to Connor. ‘Wait a wee fucking minute! This could still be the way to go. Forget Facebook. Forget the press. It’s the system has what we want, aye? It’s the system can tell us where Bekki is?’
Jed flicks his lighter, and says round his fag: ‘Like they’re gonnae go, “Oh aye Lorraine-hen, here you go, here’s Bekki’s address, you only had to ask, hen.”’
‘Shut it, you! What I’m saying is, we can get it out them if we’re a wee bit sleekit-like.’
‘Aw Christ, Maw.’ Connor’s sitting on the carpet with the Rotty, pushing his fingers through the dug’s hair. ‘Next time it’ll no be just a caution, eh?’
A couple years back I phoned up Mair pretending to be those bastards who’ve got Bekki, all Hello Ms Mair, sorry to bother you, it’s Bekki’s mum, I just wanted to check you’ve got our current address. But Mair goes To whom am I speaking, please? and course I didnae know their name. And they traced the call.
Jed goes, ‘Never mind all that shite. Gi
ve me five minutes with Mair. Five minutes. I swear to God.’
‘Aye, and that’s Mair got another excuse to get the polis on us.’
‘She’ll no be making any calls to the polis after I’ve paid her a wee visit.’
‘You cannae touch her, Da,’ says Connor.
‘Nae wonder folk cannae credit he’s a Johnson, eh? If he didnae have your fucking ears’ – I point at Connor – ‘I could maybe fantasize I’d been Rohipnol-ed by some fucker on this scheme whose DNA’s half way to fucking normal.’ I eat a bit scone. ‘Right then, listen up. The most successful scams, they Nigerian email scams and that – what is it they’re counting on?’
‘Folk being eejits,’ says Connor.
‘Aye, and? This is the best ones I’m on about, the ones folk fall for.’
Connor shakes his head. ‘Maw, you’re no –’
‘They use. The fact. That every bastard is feart o’ scams.’
And now Connor’s got a wee smile on his face. He cannae help it.
He’s a Johnson right enough.
‘They’re all This is an urgent message from the Bank of Scotland. There is a possibility there may have been fraudulent activity on your bank account and we need you to transfer all your funds to a new, more secure account immediately to prevent their misappropriation… They’re getting the bastards panicking, aye, and no thinking straight, they’re no giving them time to maybe be a wee bit sensible and check it’s for real.’
‘Belter!’
‘Right, son. Get me the phone numbers of all the adoption agencies in Glasgow. I’ll call some and you call some, making out we’re from the Council doing checks. Auditors or that – what’s the name of that fucking committee I sent my complaint to about Mair?’
‘Scrutiny and Audit Committee.’
‘We’re on the Scrutiny and Audit Committee and we’re needing all the names of the case workers who’ve had anything to do with Bekki Johnson. If they say Sorry, that’s not one of ours we try the next agency, and the next, until we get the name of the bint at the adoption agency who’s been the main one on Bekki’s case.’
‘Aye, and then?’
‘And then, we’ve got Adoption Woman’s name and number. Let’s say she’s called Bunty. We wait a few days. Then I’m Mair, right? I’m shitting myself because I’ve just telt the Johnsons where Bekki is. The fucking Johnsons have been and scammed me for real this time –’
‘But how would we –’
‘Naw naw. We dinnae. But I calls up Bunty. I goes, “Oh, hi, Bunty. It’s Saskia from Social Work.”’
Jed and Connor are pissing themselves.
‘That’s Mair,’ goes Connor.
‘“Bunty, I’m just checking, sorry if I’m being paranoid here but you just called me ten minutes ago, yes?” Bunty goes, “No.” I goes, “Oh shit. I’ve just had a call from someone saying they were you… saying you were checking that all stakeholders had up-to-date details for Bekki Johnson’s adoptive parents, and asking me which address I had on file, because some mail from the Council seems to have been sent to the wrong address. That wasn’t you who called me just now?” Bunty: “No.” “In that case, we may have a problem. I – I’m afraid I read out the address we have in the database…” “Oh my God. Saskia!” “Well I thought it was you! It sounded like you!” You know how Mair would, she’d make out like it was Bunty’s fault for having a voice any fucker could copy. “Shit. I think we’ve been scammed. I think it could have been Lorraine Johnson.” Bunty’s thinking, You stupid fucking bitch. But she just goes, “Oh God.” Mair’s up shit creek and she’s like that: “I’m going to have to call the police. There’s a real possibility the Johnsons will try to snatch Bekki. I’ll alert the parents too. The mobile number I have for them is oh-blah-blah-blah. Is that right?” Bunty checks her files. “No, it’s oh-blah-blah-blah.” Mair goes, “And do you have their landline number and a current email address?”’
‘Belter,’ goes Jed.
‘Then you can use the phone numbers and email to find out their name and address on the net, aye Connor?’
‘If they’ve got any kinda web presence, aye.’
‘And if they dinnae, we just phone them up and scam their name and address out them.’
‘Aw God Maw, that’s fucking wicked! You are a fucking evil genius!’
‘You watch your mouth son.’ But I’m that made up I chuck the rest of the scone to the dug. ‘Gies the phone.’
Chapter 9
‘Beckie?’ Ruth peered over the hedge to scan the paddock.
No sign.
Surely she wouldn’t have gone over to Emma’s without telling her?
‘Beckie?’ She turned and pushed her way through the knee-high grass between the apple trees, wading round the side of the house to the front.
There she was, still in her blue and yellow school uniform, trying to balance Fat Bear in the branches of the gean tree. The camera they’d got her for Christmas was carefully placed on the study windowsill. Hildebrand, the sinister cross-eyed lemur, was already in position, long legs hooked over a branch, leering upside-down at Ruth.
‘Mum!’ Beckie came bounding over and jumped up at her, hugging her arm. ‘Can I take a photo of you? Pleeeease? You look so pretty in that top. I mean, you always look pretty, but that top’s really really nice.’
Beckie knew how much Ruth disliked having her photo taken and was under the impression that it was because she was insecure about her rather full figure. Hence the flattery. But Ruth found herself looking down at the top she was wearing – a gypsy blouse in a floral print – and thinking it did rather suit her.
‘If you must, I suppose...’ While Beckie ran for the camera, Ruth stood under the tree. ‘Here?’
The little paparazza considered the composition. ‘If you move a bit that way I can get you in the middle more.’ She was squinting at the screen on the back of the camera.
‘I’m not sure I want to be in the middle… Remember to hold the camera straight, Beckie.’
‘Oh yeah.’ A smile. ‘I’m so rubbish at photos. But I can delete them if they don’t work out, so it doesn’t really matter.’
‘You’re not “rubbish” at photos. That’s a lovely one of the sunset Dad has in the study.’
‘It’s so not! It looks like a monkey took it, or maybe you know that elephant who paints pictures? Maybe him. If I took a blurry photo of a big poop, you and Dad would still be like “Oh Beckie that’s lovely” and putting it on the wall.’
‘We certainly would not!’
‘Oh, hold it there, that’s good.’ Beckie started snapping. ‘Work it, Mum, work it!’
Where did she pick this stuff up from? Emma, presumably. Ruth put her hand on her hip and made a pouty face at the camera.
Beckie frowned through a smile. ‘Don’t make me laugh or it’ll be all shaky.’
‘That’s the general idea.’
Ruth posed and pouted and made faces for what seemed an age.
‘Come on, darling, that’s enough, surely? I’ll take some of you now.’
Beckie handed Ruth the camera, then pulled her hair out of her ponytail and fluffed it round her face. She had become self-conscious about her slightly protruding ears after a boy at school had started calling her Wingnut.
Ruth had gone straight to Miss Barbour, her class teacher, and it had been nipped in the bud. And then she’d had a big row with Alec about the possibility of an operation to have Beckie’s ears pinned back.
‘Why would you want to change her?’ Alec had said, dangerously quietly.
‘I don’t! I’m thinking of her! Of how it might just make her life a bit easier if she didn’t have to worry about her ears.’
‘Why should she have to worry about them? There’s nothing wrong with her ears. I love her pixie ears.’
‘So do I, but she doesn’t.’
‘What message would it send, bringing up the possibility of an operation? That we think she’s defective and needs fixed? How’s she going to f
eel about that?’
He had a good point, of course, but Ruth wasn’t going to give up on this. She’d revisit it in time. Let the idea sink in; let him get used to it. She loved Beckie’s ears too, but Alec just didn’t understand what it was like for girls these days.
Beckie had already picked up from somewhere how to pose for a photograph like a little cheerleader, one leg in front of the other, nonexistent chest pushed out, big false smile plastered on her face.
Ruth took three photographs. As she was lining up the fourth, her phone rang.
‘Hi, Ruth, it’s Deirdre Jack.’
‘Oh, hi Deirdre!’ She handed Beckie the camera and walked off back into the house.
‘Have the police been in touch, Ruth?’
The words sucked the breath from her lungs. She froze, gripping the phone so hard she could feel the muscles contracting, painfully, all the way up her wrist and forearm.
‘The police?’
‘Or Social Work? Saskia from Social Work?’
She sat down on the pew, her heart starting to gallop. ‘No. Why would they?’
‘I’m afraid we’ve done something very stupid. There’s a possibility the Johnsons have found out your address.’
‘The Johnsons? Beckie’s –’
‘Beckie’s biological family. Yes. I’ve just had a phone call from Saskia Mair, the social worker on Beckie’s case who –’
‘Yes, I remember Saskia Mair.’