Four Waifs on Our Doorstep

by Trisha Merry

  We were called to attend a review meeting and, as usual, I went on my own. Mike was deaf and his hearing aid wasn’t discerning enough to help him cope with round-table discussions, so he left all that to me. I think I was in shock when I drove back home that afternoon, but I had to go and get the children from school and do all the usual things, so I didn’t have time to sit down and really think about it until after the children had gone to bed.

  ‘I need to explain what might happen,’ I said to Mike. ‘From what they were saying at the meeting today, I think the time has run out for the children, financially.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Social Services can no longer afford to pay that much and they are now looking for cheaper options.’

  ‘How can they do that?’

  ‘Well, they say that the children will have to come out of the system because they cost too much to foster for any longer.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Yes, they’re pulling the plug, or trying to. They’re pushing to get the children adopted.’

  ‘Oh. Did they ask you what you thought about that idea?’

  ‘Of course not. I soon realised I wasn’t there to contribute to the discussion. Their decision had already been made in some anonymous office where they don’t know anything about children, or care about their needs.’ I paused. ‘To be fair, I can see it’s a very high cost to the local authority.’

  ‘But they should have thought about that years ago,’ said Mike. ‘When they could have intervened and avoided the children having so many problems.’

  ‘Well, we always knew their time with us might be limited.’

  ‘Yes, but they need more than two years for us to set them on the right road.’

  ‘They might need a lifetime for that!’

  ‘So what will they do?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose they will try to have them adopted.’

  ‘Together?’

  ‘I can’t see that happening.’

  ‘But they have to stay together.’

  ‘We know that, but try telling the accountants!’

  ‘I can’t see anyone adopting them separately either,’ said Mike. ‘Aren’t they too old already?’

  ‘Then it would be children’s homes.’

  ‘Separately?’

  ‘I expect so. Where would they find four spare places at once?’

  ‘That would be awful. They would go wild.’ He scratched his head. ‘How long have we got?’

  ‘As long as we can persuade them to let the children stay here, or as long as it takes to get them adopted or placed.’

  ‘Have they suggested paying us less?’

  ‘No. They would want it to be a lot less . . . or nothing. How could we manage that?’

  ‘I don’t know. But surely they have to keep the children together?’

  ‘They don’t have to do anything. The decision is entirely in their hands.’

  ‘I suppose we couldn’t adopt them?’

  ‘No, we’re much too old. We’d have to be at least twenty years younger for them to even consider us.’

  ‘So it all comes down to money!’ groaned Mike.

  Just as there had to be court orders that the children should be brought to us, firstly as an emergency placement, then for longer-term care orders, so any change would have to go back to the courts for legal agreement.

  Social Services appointed a guardian ad litem for the children. Her name was Liz and it was her role to ensure, as far as she could, that the best interests of the children were taken into account in any decisions about their future and to advise the courts accordingly.

  I remember when she first came round and introduced herself. I liked her straight away and she’d obviously done her homework. She’d even visited Jill’s house sometime before, when the children still lived there, and she told me a lot of things about what went on that the local authority had refused to reveal.

  ‘I’ve been to some houses in my time, Mrs Merry,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t even sit on the settee. The children had no nappies on and they’d messed and wet everywhere.’

  ‘Yes, Hamish told me about that. He used to worry about the younger ones, with no one to look after them when he was at school.’ I gave her a look. ‘How awful.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely awful,’ she nodded emphatically.

  She was very sympathetic to the situation, and had some understanding of the children’s individual needs. Of course, I filled her in on their progress since coming to us.

  ‘It seems as if you’ve both done a brilliant job so far. The children are very lucky to have you.’

  ‘You do know I’ve got a lot wrong along the way?’ I said, almost automatically, then realised how badly misconstrued that could be. ‘I mean . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she laughed. ‘I know you were being modest, so I shall ignore that comment. You might be only human, but it looks to me that you’ve done extremely well with these children – that’s what Steve at Social Services told me. And the agency was full of your praises, both of you.’

  Well, you don’t get many compliments in this job, so it was good to hear.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  We sat down and started to go through everything. She had a lot of questions and I answered as best I could. Then it was my turn to ask her some things that were preying on our minds, starting with the biggest question of all.

  ‘What do you think will happen to these kids?’

  ‘Do you want me to be frank?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think they will be split up. The social workers are going to advertise for adoptive families for them, but nobody would take them all together, so they will be advertised separately.’

  ‘Do you think that will work?’

  ‘It doesn’t look good for them,’ she sighed. ‘To be honest, you can forget Hamish, at nine, coming up to a difficult age. From what I’ve read and what you’ve told me, Anita will be almost impossible to place, because of her behaviour. Caroline would also be very difficult to place, in my opinion, with her learning difficulties. Simon is the only one that’s saleable.’ She paused, then must have seen the shocked look on my face. ‘I’m sorry to be so blunt,’ she explained with a shrug. ‘But that’s how it is.’

  ‘And what if nobody comes forward?’

  ‘Children’s homes.’

  ‘That’s what we thought. It’s what we dread. Even a change of any kind at this stage would probably break them. But children’s homes . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  A few days later, Steve turned up with a camera.

  ‘I’ve got to take some photos of the children for this adoption magazine,’ he said.

  ‘You mean their photos will be part of the advertisements?’

  ‘Yes, it helps to see happy, smiling faces. It makes them more likely to read the text.’

  ‘Sounds like a meat market to me! It’s the worst thing for these children. They’ve hardly been here two years and there’s still a lot of work to be done. You want to take them away and split them up?’

  ‘It’s not my choice, Trisha.’

  ‘No, I know that. But who else can I moan at?’

  It was a cold day, but we took the children out into the garden to get some natural shots. Then we tried them indoors as well, playing at the kitchen table. Finally he felt he’d got enough smiling shots to choose from. I didn’t tell the children at that point why Steve was taking photos, but Anita, usually the most difficult one, loved preening herself for the camera and giving it her best smile, so all the others followed suit and nobody asked why.

  ‘So how do the adverts work?’ I asked Steve, away from the children.

  ‘They go in the magazine and we hope that brings forward some interested people.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘Well . . .’ he said shifting uncomfortably. ‘It will come out next week and after that I’ll come down for another visit an
d fill you in on any responses we get. We’ll let you see any applications, so that you can make comments if you wish.’

  ‘Are you saying your bosses will take our opinions into account?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure, but they usually share information with carers, to try and avoid making any big mistakes in placements, so I think that means they will include your responses in the decision-making process.’

  ‘Good. I expect we’ll have plenty to say!’

  Three weeks later, Steve returned with a thin sheaf of papers. ‘They’re all for Simon,’ he said.

  ‘Can I see them?’

  Steve pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. ‘Well, this man has come forward.’

  ‘What is he like?’

  Steve made a face as he started to read a note fixed to their form. ‘No . . .’ He placed it on the bottom of the pile. ‘You can’t put anyone here.’

  I didn’t even ask why, but I guessed.

  ‘There’s this family in Liverpool . . .’ He placed their form on the table to where we could both read it, and then got out a social worker’s notes following a visit to their house.

  ‘But it says here that their house is in a very grubby state, with cat-pooh everywhere.’

  ‘Yes. We’ve offered to clean their house before they can be eligible to adopt anyone.’

  ‘What good would that do? It would soon go back to what it was,’ I fumed. ‘You must be mad! You’ve taken them away from a filthy, dangerous home, you’ve brought them here, and now you want to take them back to that kind of squalor? The world has gone mad!’

  ‘Point taken,’ he said, putting that application away. ‘What about this one? It’s a woman on her own with just one son.’

  I began to read the notes. ‘But it says here that she runs a chip shop, her son has severe disabilities and she is his sole carer. How is she going to manage all that and adopt a five-year-old disadvantaged boy who’s probably on the autistic spectrum? What do you think she wants him for? Will he end up being their skivvy?’

  Steve sighed, slipped that application under the others and picked another off the top. ‘This is the only other one we’ve had so far,’ he said.

  I read the beginning of a letter that said: ‘Yes, we’ll have them all, if you build an extension on our house and buy us a minibus and pay us at least £500 per week for each of them and . . .’ I didn’t read any further.

  ‘How dare they see our children as a meal ticket! They must be blinded by the pound signs in their eyes. That’s nearly double what we get as foster parents. Adoptive parents don’t get any allowance, do they?’

  ‘Not unless they qualify for the usual state benefits.’

  ‘Surely the panel wouldn’t take any of these people seriously?’

  ‘I honestly can’t say.’ Steve looked almost as depressed as I felt.

  ‘I’m not being rude, but these people are the dregs. I know the local authority just wants to get our children off their books and—’

  ‘I know,’ said Steve. ‘It’s going to be an uphill climb.’

  ‘I don’t care what metaphor you use. This isn’t right. These are children. I know they’re not high on the local authority’s list of priorities, but this is their future, good, bad or worse.’

  ‘We did approach their grandparents,’ he said.

  ‘Over my dead body! I’m ninety-nine per cent certain that animal has abused both the girls, and almost certainly their mother too.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry, because they said no.’

  ‘I bet that was their grandmother’s answer, not his.’

  ‘Well, we always have to go through family members first.’

  ‘No matter how dangerous?’ I was tanking mad. ‘Hasn’t enough harm been done to these kids already? You might as well give them back to a paedophile ring.’

  ‘Ooh, I think that’s going a bit far.’

  ‘It’s not! Believe me.’ I paused to let my blood pressure drop from the top of my head. ‘Somebody needs to stand up for them.’ I gave him a challenging stare.

  Steve turned his head away, with a look of defeat. ‘I wish I could be that person,’ he said. ‘But I can’t. I’ve tried it before. Why should it be any different this time?’

  ‘Well, if you can’t do anything, I bloody well will. I’ll kick up the biggest stink Social Services has ever known if they don’t find the right family for these vulnerable children.’

  He gave me a long look. ‘There’s only one way that’s going to happen,’ he said.

  I returned his gaze, hearing but at that moment failing to understand his meaning.

  Just then the kids came home, collected by Mike who had taken the afternoon off work. They all ran in helter-skelter, as usual, school bags and shoes in all directions, then into the kitchen to see what snacks they could have.

  ‘Hello, Steve,’ said Mike, following them in. ‘I’ll take the biscuit tin downstairs with the children,’ he said, always willing to help, never complaining.

  ‘He’s a good man, Mike,’ smiled Steve.

  ‘Yes, he’s been a wonderful support all these years. I couldn’t have done any of it without him.’

  ‘Well, it’s time I went. I’m already too late to miss the rush-hour traffic!’ He put the sheaf of papers away in his briefcase. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘Yes, make sure you do.’

  ‘And if you have any further thoughts . . .’

  ‘I’ll have my say. You can be sure of that.’

  The following morning, the guardian ad litem came.

  ‘I wanted to find out how the children are coping with the stress of everything that’s going on,’ she said. ‘It must be a very worrying time for all of you.’

  ‘I don’t think they’ve noticed anything different,’ I laughed. ‘Their life has been stress from the day they were born, so I haven’t bothered them with all this yet. They’re just enjoying the extra attention. But Mike and I are reeling, and I’m absolutely furious at the totally unsuitable options being considered.’

  She nodded sympathetically as we sat down in the living room.

  ‘I dread to think what will happen to them in the end. If they get split up, you might as well throw away the key. And, if they end up in a children’s home, it will be like passing a death sentence on them.’

  ‘Well there’s only one way to avoid that,’ she said.

  ‘That’s exactly what Steve said yesterday, but I didn’t know what he meant.’

  ‘Why don’t you and Mike adopt them?’

  That silenced me. It was several seconds before I picked my jaw up off the floor as my thoughts raced in confusion.

  ‘You must be joking!’ I replied. ‘Have you gone off your head?’

  She laughed. ‘No, I’m serious. That way you could assure their future and everyone would be happy.’

  ‘But we’re too old,’ I protested. ‘We hadn’t even thought of that. Everyone knows you have to be under forty to adopt even one child, let alone four!’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘That is the general rule, but there can be exceptions.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You can just apply to adopt them. Simple as that. But you would need to have a big enough house for them each to have their own bedroom.’

  Nearby, in Victoria Road, there was a four-storey Georgian townhouse for sale. It had been on the market for quite a while. Mike and I had looked at it a couple of times, but we decided we couldn’t afford it. It was very, very run-down, with parts of it falling down, but it had seven bedrooms.

  Right, I thought . . .

  So, when Mike came home from work that evening I was keen to tell him.

  ‘Have you had a nice day?’ he asked, as usual.

  ‘Yes, I had a lovely day today.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I’ve bought 27 Victoria Road.’

  He gulped. ‘Has it got a roof and windows?’

  ‘Yes . . . at the front.’

  We both broke i
nto a fit of hysterical laughter. And Mike didn’t even know why, yet.

  ‘The guardian ad litem came today,’ I told Mike after dinner.

  ‘Oh yes. How did that go?’

  ‘She was fine, but it was all rather depressing . . . until it took a strange turn!’

  ‘How do you mean?’ He gave me a quizzical look.

  ‘She said why don’t we adopt the children ourselves?’

  ‘But we’re much too old,’ shrugged Mike. ‘We knew that.’

  ‘She said they might consider making an exception.’

  We sat and talked through all the angles we could think of to this new suggestion. It was potentially the ideal solution, yet we hadn’t even thought of it before, so there was a lot to consider. If we had talked it all through clinically there would have been so many possible barriers from a selfish point of view. But neither of us thought of it like that. Emotionally, we could only focus on the more obvious factors that might affect the children as well as ourselves. Their future was uppermost for us and there was no question what our decision should be as far as they were concerned.

  ‘Do you think we will have the energy?’ I asked. ‘To keep going for the next fifteen years, coping with all their ups and downs?’

  ‘That would take me through to nearly eighty. And I’m creaking now!’ laughed Mike. ‘But we’re both healthy enough, touch wood. And, anyway, you’ve always got enough drive for the both of us.’

  ‘Yes, but just think. If their behaviour is a problem now, at five, six, eight and nine, what’s it going to be like from fourteen to eighteen?’

  ‘That’s true, but you’re the behaviour expert. I’m just the entertainments manager, so that will have to be your decision.’

  ‘Well, I suppose we’ve been through it enough times with other foster children, as well as our older adopted family when they were teenagers.’

  ‘And that stretched your abilities from time to time,’ Mike reminded me with a grin.