‘Cathy Glass, Melody’s foster carer,’ the IRO said, remembering me, and ticked off my name from his list of those who’d been invited.
Jill arrived, quickly followed by Neave but without her student social worker, whom I guessed had finished his placement. The IRO checked off their names, then the Deputy Head Mrs Farnham came in with a bright, ‘Good afternoon all.’
‘I think that’s everyone,’ the IRO said, glancing around the room. ‘I’ve had apologies of absence from the Guardian and also Dr Marina Short, who has sent in a short letter. I’m assuming no one from Melody’s family will be attending?’
‘No,’ Neave confirmed.
The IRO opened the meeting by thanking us for attending and then asked us to introduce ourselves – standard practice at reviews even though we had all met before. The introductions over, he began by saying, ‘I understand there have been some developments since Melody’s first review.’ At that point I assumed he was referring to contact being established, so I would mention that early on when I spoke. ‘Cathy,’ he said, looking at me, ‘thank you for sending in the review forms. I’ve read them. Would you like to start by telling us how Melody is doing now?’
‘Yes, of course.’ I straightened in my seat, glanced at my notes and then met the gaze of the others in the room. I said that Melody continued to do well at home and school, and I took her to see her mother once a week at the care home. I covered what Melody liked to do in her spare time and that, while she hadn’t joined an after-school club, I was taking her swimming most weekends. I included that she was healthy, up to date with her dental and optician’s check-ups, and since the first review she had seen Dr Marina Short at CAMHS for an initial appointment and was going to be offered play therapy. I concluded by saying she was generally more confident, was making friends and had one special friend, Lizzie, whom she saw out of school.
The IRO thanked me and then asked, ‘When you take Melody to the care home to see her mother do you stay with her the whole time?’
‘Yes. Always.’
‘Does her mother talk to you or her daughter?’ he asked.
‘Not really. She says things sometimes, but it’s not really talking as in having a conversation. She has very little language now.’
‘Because of her dementia?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And the prognosis?’ he now asked Neave, glancing at her.
‘Not good. I’ll cover that and say more about contact in my report.’
The IRO nodded and made a note. I had an uncomfortable feeling. Neave hadn’t observed contact; indeed, as far as I knew she hadn’t been to the care home, so what could she possible have to say about contact?
‘Does Melody find her visits to the care home and seeing her mother distressing?’ the IRO now asked me.
‘Not distressing, but obviously it’s a lot for a child of eight to cope with. We talk about it after and Melody knows if she has any questions she can ask me. Play therapy should help too.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you for all you are doing. And Melody can stay with you for as long as necessary?’ This was a standard question asked by most IROs.
‘Yes.’
He made a note and then asked Neave for her report. I looked at her carefully.
‘I visit Melody every four to six weeks at the foster carer’s home,’ she began – a standard opening. ‘Melody attends school regularly and punctually and is making steady progress. I haven’t seen Melody’s mother, Amanda, since she was diagnosed and her case was transferred to the adult social-care team. Amanda will remain at the care home for the foreseeable future, until she needs nursing care.’ Which I knew, but then Neave said, ‘The care plan has been revised and the family-finding team has begun to look for an adoptive family for Melody. In line with this, contact is going to be reduced from weekly to fortnightly.’ So these were the developments the IRO had referred to! I struggled to concentrate on what Neave was now saying.
‘When Melody first came into care,’ Neave continued, ‘she wasn’t considered adoptable because of her very challenging behaviour, and she had a strong bond with her mother. Her behaviour has improved dramatically, which has allowed a chance for her to be adopted. Obviously it’s going to be difficult to place an eight-year-old – most adoptive families want babies or young children – but the department believes it’s worth exploring.’
‘But Melody still has a strong bond with her mother,’ I said, speaking out of turn.
‘That bond will lessen with time as her mother’s dementia progresses,’ Neave said. ‘Her prognosis is poor and it is likely that Amanda will die before Melody reaches adulthood, effectively making her an orphan.’ Blunt but true. ‘She has no relatives to look after her, so the alternative to adoption is for her to remain in long-term foster care. We expect to be granted a Full Care Order in November, so the permanency team has started family finding. Contact will be reduced now and then again if a suitable adoptive family is found. These are the changes; everything else in Melody’s life remains the same.’ Neave stopped and while I could see the logic in reducing contact and trying to find an adoptive family, it had still come as a huge shock.
‘When will the reduction in contact start?’ the IRO asked as he wrote.
‘From this week,’ Neave said, and turned to me. ‘Can you tell Melody tonight and then I’ll explain in more detail the reason behind the reduction when I see her next week?’
‘So Melody isn’t going to see her mother this week?’ I asked, seeking clarification.
‘No. Next week, so fortnightly from now on.’
‘She won’t be pleased,’ I said.
‘No. But we all have to deliver unpalatable news sometimes. As you’re an experienced foster carer, I’m sure you’ll know how to handle it.’ That told me, I thought.
‘Can you send a copy of the new care plan to the agency and to Cathy?’ Jill said.
‘Yes,’ Neave confirmed.
‘If Melody is adopted, will she be able to remain at the same school?’ Mrs Farnham, the Deputy Head, asked. ‘She’s only just settled in here and with so many changes going on in her personal life, it would give her some stability.’ I knew the answer.
‘It will depend on where the adoptive family live,’ Neave said. ‘We keep children at the same school when possible. But family finding is nationwide and we haven’t identified a family yet. Please don’t tell Melody there’s a chance she might have to move. It could make her unsettled.’
‘No, of course I won’t tell her,’ Mrs Farnham said, affronted at being told what she considered obvious. ‘But the school does need to be kept informed. The staff here work very closely with the children and we pride ourselves on our pastoral care.’
Neave nodded. The IRO finished writing and looked up at me. ‘It shows what a good job you’ve done that Melody can now be considered for adoption,’ he said.
I smiled weakly.
That was all Neave had to say and the IRO asked Mrs Farnham to give her report. As she talked about Melody’s IEP (Individual Education Plan), I thought over what I’d just heard. While it had come as a shock, I thought it was highly unlikely that Melody would be leaving us any time soon. She was eight, and as Neave had pointed out it wasn’t going to be easy finding an adoptive family. I knew plenty of foster carers with a child or sibling group where they’d been told the department was family finding for an adoptive home and years later the children were still with the carer. Eventually, the family-finding team gave up and the child or children stayed with the carer long term and became permanent members of their family. I was more worried that Melody would only be seeing her mother every two weeks and the effect that would have on her.
Mrs Farnham finished her report and passed to Miss May, who, a little nervously, told us about the work she was doing with Melody. The IRO then read out the letter from Dr Marina Short, which just confirmed that she’d seen Melody in the clinic with her foster carer and play therapy was being offered. He then ticked off t
he swimming target as having been reached and carried over ‘out-of-school activity’ as an ongoing target. Jill was asked to speak and as usual explained her role, said we were in regular contact and that I was providing a good standard of care.
The IRO thanked her and then asked Miss May if she would bring Melody to her review. Melody came in far more confidently than at her first review. Sitting beside Miss May, she threw me a lovely smile, and I felt guilty, as though I was part of a conspiracy to stop her from seeing her mother. As she answered the IRO’s questions, bright and bubbly and blissfully unaware, I knew I’d have to tell her as soon as we got home, and I steeled myself for the anger and upset that I knew would follow.
Chapter Nineteen
Caught His Plane
‘They can’t do that!’ Melody screamed at the top of her voice. ‘It’s not fair!’
‘I know it’s upsetting, love,’ I said. ‘But two weeks isn’t so long.’
‘Yes, it is! I hate you, I hate you all!’
‘Some children in care only see their parents two or three times a year,’ I offered.
‘I don’t care about them!’ she stormed. ‘I want to see my mummy every week! I want to live with Mummy again like I used to!’
Then her anger gave way to tears and, throwing herself face down on her bed, she sobbed as if her heart would break. I sat beside her, my hand lightly resting on her back, waiting for her upset to subside. Sometimes it helps to have a good cry and let out all that bottled-up emotion.
This scene was playing out exactly as I’d imagined it would since I’d been told at the review that Melody’s contact with her mother was being reduced to fortnightly. Needing to get it over with, I’d told Melody as soon as we were home, with just the two of us in the living room. I’d approached it as sensitively as I could. There’d been no easy way of telling her and unsurprisingly she had reacted angrily and fled to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. I’d followed her up, and reassured Paula and Lucy who, having heard Melody screaming, were concerned. I’d been talking to Melody ever since, offering her platitudes that sounded feeble even to me.
After a few minutes, her sobbing reached a climax and then began to ease. I lightly rubbed her back, trying to soothe away the pain, then she sat up and looked at me through tear-filled eyes. ‘It’s not fair,’ she said, defeated, her bottom lip trembling. ‘I want to visit my mummy every week.’
‘I know, love. Come on, let’s dry those eyes.’ I took a tissue from the box and gently wiped her face. ‘I know it’s difficult, but two weeks will pass very quickly. You saw Mummy last Friday and you’ll see her again next Friday, so not many sleeps. Some of the children I’ve looked after have found that writing a letter to someone they miss can help.’
‘I like writing,’ she said, brightening a little. ‘Can we post it like a proper letter?’
‘Yes, or we can take it with us next week and you can read it to your mother.’
‘I want to post it,’ she said.
‘OK.’
Strictly speaking, sending a letter was considered a form of contact by the social services, but Amanda wasn’t going to be able to read it and probably wouldn’t even know who it was from. The letter was to help Melody, so I’d have no qualms about posting it. Some older children I’ve fostered have found that writing their thoughts and feelings in a diary helps – journal therapy is sometimes used by therapists.
‘Can we still bake cakes on Thursday?’ Melody asked as I wiped away the last of her tears.
‘Yes, but we’ll have to eat them ourselves, as they won’t keep, and then make fresh ones to take the following week.’
‘I don’t mind eating them,’ she said.
‘All of them!’ I exclaimed. ‘You’ll go off pop!’ Finally she smiled.
‘Good girl, come on, let’s go downstairs.’ I helped her off the bed.
‘Can I go to Paula’s room and play with her doll’s house?’ she asked.
‘Yes, if it’s OK with her.’
Paula had a beautiful doll’s house with collectable furniture, which she’d added to over the years. Even now, aged twelve, she valued it, and although she didn’t play with it as such herself, she allowed other young children to when she was present.
She was sitting on her bed listening to music and was happy for Melody to stay and play. I thanked her, came out and then looked in on Lucy, who was also listening to music, then Adrian, who was studying hard as his first exam was the following day. ‘See you at dinner,’ I said, and left him to it.
Melody stayed with Paula until dinner was ready, then once we’d eaten and Melody had done her homework I sat with her at the table and helped her with the spelling as she wrote the letter to her mother.
Dear Mummy
I am sorry I can’t see you this week. I can only see you every two weeks now, but I am thinking about you. I hope you can think about me. I know it’s hard because you forget things. Don’t forget me. Look at the photos. Don’t worry about me. Cathy and her kids look after me. I am doing well. Bye for now.
Lots of love
Melody
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Her words touched me and I thought it was a very mature and insightful letter for an eight-year-old. Although it was written in a young child’s writing, it seemed to show that Melody understood and accepted her mother’s condition – that she did forget things and might eventually forget her.
I fetched an envelope and stamp and helped Melody write the address on the front of the envelope.
‘Can we post it now?’ she asked as she sealed it.
‘Yes, but then it’s straight to bed after. It’s getting late.’
We could have posted it on the way to school the following morning as it would have caught the same post, but I knew that sending it on its way now would help Melody settle.
I told the rest of the family where we were going and then we changed into our outdoor shoes, left the house and walked up the road to the post box in the high street. It was a pleasantly mild evening in May and Melody held my hand as we went and chatted about school, Lizzie and how pleased her mummy would be to receive the letter. At the post box I pointed out the collection times on the front. ‘The postman will collect your letter from here at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning and your mother should have it the following day.’
‘Good. Night, Mummy,’ she said as she dropped the letter into the post box. ‘See you next week.’ Writing to her mother had made her feel that little bit closer. She slipped her hand into mine and we turned and retraced our steps home.
The following morning, Miss May was waiting in the playground for us. Melody ran off to play with her friends and Miss May told me she’d had a restless night after the review, worrying about how Melody had taken the news of not seeing her mother.
‘That’s kind of you,’ I said. Miss May was a treasure. I told her that Melody had been angry and upset to begin with, but had written to her mother and had become less anxious, and was now looking forward to seeing her the following week. Miss May said she’d keep an eye on her, and I thanked her. I think that having had her father at the care home and suffering from dementia, she was even more sympathetic to what Melody was going through.
On Thursday evening, Melody and I baked and iced cupcakes – the same number we usually made. I said I’d put the extra (those we would normally have taken to Amanda) in a container for us to eat the following day, to stop everyone devouring the lot in one go. However, on Friday morning I woke with a different thought. Although Melody couldn’t visit her mother, there was nothing to stop me going – I could take her a few of the cakes she enjoyed. As far as I knew, Amanda didn’t have any visitors apart from us, and the social worker responsible for her wouldn’t be seeing her more than once a month maximum. Why shouldn’t I go? If I went that morning and spent an hour with Amanda I’d be back in plenty of time to collect Melody from school in the afternoon. No one need ever know. So often in fostering bonds are formed with the child’s family as well as
with the child.
The thought grew as I woke the rest of the house and made breakfast. I wouldn’t tell Melody I was going, as she’d find it confusing and possibly upsetting that I could visit her mother but she couldn’t. Neither would I tell Paula, Lucy or Adrian, because if I did it would come with the rider that they weren’t to tell Melody. Secrets are generally not good between siblings in foster families. Surprises are fine, but secrets often have negative connotations.
On returning home from taking Melody to school, I set aside cakes for the children and put the rest in a box for Amanda, together with some grapes. I’d been replenishing the fruit bowl in her room every week, so I assumed she was eating the fruit. As I locked up and left the house I felt like a child on a secret mission. Adrian would be home first as he was now only in school for his exams, so I’d left a note saying that I’d gone to see a friend and would be back in the afternoon. That was all he needed to know.
The roads were clear and I made good time, although it was strange driving to the care home without Melody in the back, either chatting or listening to her favourite CD. It was 11.30 a.m. when I arrived. The care home’s visiting times weren’t like a general hospital’s, which were strictly controlled. Visitors to the care home could go in between 10 a.m. and 8 p.m., and even these times were relaxed.
Retrieving the carrier bag and my handbag from the passenger seat, I made my way to the main entrance. The air smelt fresher here and the skyline stretched as far as I could see to the distant hills beyond. As I let myself in the outer door there was no sign of Mr and Mrs Bennett, but I now knew they’d be waiting for the bell to ring in the small lounge just around the corner. I signed the Visitors’ Book and pressed the bell. Sure enough, a few seconds later they appeared on the other side of the door and we went through the usual routine of them gesturing for me to open it while I shook my head and said I couldn’t. As with most of the residents, there was nothing in their manner to say they recognized me or that I looked familiar, although they’d seen me many times before.