I Miss Mummy

  ‘The week after next,’ I corrected. ‘Alice is seeing her grandparents every other week.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ the supervisor said, flustered. I could tell from her expression that she thought, as I did, that an hour every two weeks wasn’t enough, which was why she’d assumed contact was weekly.

  ‘We’ll phone on Saturday,’ I said encouragingly to Alice, trying to sound as positive as I could. But I knew this was small recompense for Alice having to leave her cherished nana and grandpa and then not see them again for another two weeks.

  ‘No,’ Alice said bluntly, her face setting. ‘I want to stay with them.’ She grabbed hold of her grandpa’s arm and clung to him for dear life.

  The contact supervisor knelt in front of the sofa so that she was at Alice’s height and, resting a hand on Alice’s knee, began talking to her gently. ‘Come on, Alice, Nana and Grandpa have to go now. Cathy is here. It will be your dinnertime soon. What are you having for dinner?’ and so on. She continued for a good five minutes, trying to persuade Alice to let go of her grandpa, say goodbye and come away with me. Mr and Mrs Jones sat either side of Alice, offering little reassurances and persuasions of their own, while all the time fighting back their tears. Eventually the supervisor stood and looked at me. ‘I think you’re just going to have to take her,’ she said.

  I nodded and felt my stomach churn. It wasn’t the first time I’d had to take a child screaming from contact, but it didn’t make it any easier. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ I said to Alice, ‘we really do have to go now. Can you be a big brave girl and say goodbye to Nana and Grandpa?’

  Alice shook her head and buried herself deeper into her grandpa’s side. I knew the longer I left it the worse it would be for everyone. I leant forward and reached between her grandparents; then, putting my arms around Alice’s waist, I began to draw her to me. She clung tighter to her grandpa’s arm and screamed. Mrs Jones stood up from the sofa and moved away, unable to watch Alice’s distress.

  ‘It’s all right, love,’ I tried to reassure Alice. ‘We’ll phone on Saturday.’ I slowly eased open her fingers to release her grip from around her grandpa’s shirt. Then I continued bringing her towards me, sliding her off the sofa.

  Although Alice was only slight there was a lot of strength in her as, desperate to stay, she began thrashing her arms and legs. As I held her firmly to my chest the supervisor helped me to straighten. I quickly turned and carried Alice towards the door as her grandparents called tearful goodbyes behind me.

  I was just through the door when I heard Mrs Jones’s voice again. ‘Cathy, wait a minute! I nearly forgot.’

  I paused, wondering what Mrs Jones wanted, and concerned that delaying our departure was only going to upset Alice even further. She was still struggling in my arms, trying to break free and sobbing her heart out. I held on to Alice as Mrs Jones came over carrying a small carrier bag, which she hooked over my arm. ‘It’s the chutney,’ she said, through her tears. ‘Alice wanted my home-made chutney. She mustn’t go without that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. Then to Alice: ‘Look! We’ve got some of your nana’s chutney.’ But Alice was in a very sad and dark place and not even the promise of Nana’s home-made chutney could lighten her mood. ‘She’ll be fine once we’re home,’ I reassured Mrs Jones over Alice’s sobs, but I could see Mrs Jones was unconvinced.

  There was nothing to be gained by prolonging the agony so, saying a quick goodbye, I came away, with Alice still struggling in my arms and her screams ringing in the air. I settled her into her seat in the car and sat beside her until she was calm enough for me to drive home. Alice was quiet but the tears had stopped and I periodically glanced in the interior mirror to check on her as I drove.

  Adrian, Lucy and Paula had just returned home from school when we arrived, so there was a lot going on and plenty to occupy and distract Alice. By dinnertime she had more or less recovered, although she was still quieter than usual. However, I knew that while Alice had recovered, Mr and Mrs Jones, alone again, were likely to still be devastated and plagued by the last sight of Alice being carried screaming from the family centre. I wanted to reassure them, but our next telephone contact wasn’t until Saturday – four days away.

  That evening, once Alice was in bed, I did something I shouldn’t have done and had never done before. I broke the contact arrangements set down by the social worker and phoned Mr and Mrs Jones to put their minds at rest. They were so grateful it was pitiful.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Warm and Cosy Inside

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Mr Jones said for the third time. ‘We’ve been beside ourselves with worry, after seeing Alice so upset. Have you got time to speak to Janice? She’ll be so relieved to hear from you.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. I waited as Mr Jones passed the phone to his wife.

  Having reassured Mr Jones, I repeated what I’d said to Mrs Jones: that Alice had recovered, had eaten a good meal and was fast asleep with Brian the Bear tucked under her arm. Mrs Jones thanked me for phoning, as her husband had done, and then thanked me again for looking after Alice. Her voice was thick with emotion as she said again how much they missed Alice, and that all the uncertainty surrounding Alice’s future was tearing them apart.

  While I sympathized with their position, very much, I could offer little reassurance. I said that I thought once the new social worker was in post things should start to improve, as we’d all be better informed. I felt Mr and Mrs Jones’s pain personally and could empathize with their position. They reminded me of my own parents in their love and dedication to their grandchild, and I knew that had my parents been placed in a similar position – stepping in to look after a grandchild and then having the child taken away – they wouldn’t have coped either. It was the stuff of nightmares and my heart went out to them.

  At least reassured that Alice was no longer distressed, Mrs Jones began talking again about the background to Alice coming into care. Some of what she said she’d already touched on when we’d spoken on the phone on Saturday, while other things she said were new. I didn’t think she was trying to win me over or prejudice me against others involved in Alice’s case – it wasn’t said vindictively; she just needed to unburden herself, and perhaps she thought that as I was an experienced foster carer I could give her some hope.

  She said that her daughter, Leah, had had mental health problems but had been quite well on the tablets the doctor had prescribed until she’d met Chris, who had introduced her to drugs and alcohol. In Mrs Jones’s opinion the drugs and alcohol had combined with the medication and made Leah’s mental health problems resurface, which was certainly possible – it was a toxic combination. Mrs Jones said that the health visitor had been concerned about Leah last August and had persuaded her to seek help. Leah had gone to her doctor, the doctor had notified the social services (the correct procedure if he had concerns for Alice’s safety) and a social worker had visited Leah at home. According to Mrs Jones, instead of giving Leah help so that she could keep Alice, the social worker had said she would start proceedings to take Alice into care. Alice would have gone straight into foster care had Mr and Mrs Jones not stepped in and looked after her. Mrs Jones blamed the social services for not helping Leah, and on the face of it, although social workers are often criticized for leaving children at home longer than would seem wise, it did appear that Leah hadn’t been given the support that could have kept the family together, particularly when she’d done such a good job of parenting Alice in the past. But then again, quite possibly Leah’s condition was so acute that removing Alice was the only viable option. Clearly I didn’t know.

  ‘It’s shocking,’ Mrs Jones wound up. ‘Leah asked for help and was rewarded by having her child taken from her, and now they are giving her to that wicked, wicked man. We were looking after Alice well,’ she added tearfully. ‘She was happy here. I really don’t understand.’

  I didn’t understand either but I didn’t have the facts, and it certainly wouldn’
t have been professional for me to collude with Mrs Jones against Alice’s father. The social services must have had good reason for making the decision to send Alice to her father and Sharon, and once the new social worker was in place I was sure all would become clearer. There was little I could say over what I’d already said, so I changed the subject and asked Mrs Jones, as I had intended to do at contact, if she had photographs of herself, her husband and Leah that I could put in Alice’s bedroom. ‘Children find it very comforting to have photographs of their loved ones with them,’ I said. ‘I’ll frame the photos and put them on the shelf in Alice’s bedroom.’

  Mrs Jones said she’d find some photographs and bring them with her to the next contact. I then asked her about the suitcases which, again, I had intended to do at the end of contact, had Alice not been so upset. ‘The suitcases you used for Alice’s clothes,’ I said, ‘shall I return them at the next contact?’

  There was a short pause before Mrs Jones answered quietly, ‘Cathy, would you mind keeping them there, so that you have them ready if Alice is brought back to us.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said, although I think Mrs Jones knew her hope of having Alice returned was unrealistic. Martha had said the care plan was to have Alice living with her father and Sharon by the end of the month, which was now less than two weeks away. Having not heard anything to the contrary, I assumed this to still be so. So too did Sharon, as I found out at contact the following day.

  ‘When is Alice going to start staying with us for weekends?’ Sharon almost demanded the moment Alice and I walked into reception at the family centre. ‘Martha said at that placement meeting it would be soon.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know any more than you do,’ I said, drawing Sharon to one side so Alice couldn’t hear her. ‘I know it’s frustrating. What have the social services told you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Sharon said, clearly annoyed. ‘Alice hasn’t been allocated a social worker and the team manager has just left. I keep phoning the social services and leaving messages but no one gets back to me. Can she stay this weekend?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t make that decision,’ I said. Clearly Sharon had an inflated view of my power. ‘My role is to look after Alice. I don’t make decisions about contact or her future.’

  ‘I know your role is to look after her,’ Sharon said, agitated. ‘But it should be my role. Alice is getting far too attached to you. It’s not good. I’m her mother now.’

  ‘Alice understands I’m her foster carer,’ I reassured Sharon. ‘And that I look after her while she is with me. It’s nice that she can feel close to me during this time but obviously she knows I’m not her mother.’

  ‘She talks about you and your family all the time at contact,’ Sharon said, still peeved, and apparently viewing Alice’s attachment to us as threat to her relationship with Alice.

  ‘It’s only natural she talks about us. She sees a lot of us and it’s important she feels included.’

  ‘Here’s the photo,’ Sharon said ungraciously, changing the subject and thrusting her hand into a carrier bag. I’d asked Sharon and Chris at the last contact if I could have a photo of them for Alice’s bedroom, as I had asked Mrs Jones when I’d phoned her the previous evening. Although it wasn’t as important for Alice to have a photograph of her father as it was for her to have one of an absent parent – Alice saw her father twice a week – it would be nice for Alice to have photographs of all her family. Also, given the animosity between her parents it was important that I was seen to be fair and treat all parties equally.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, looking at the photograph Sharon had handed me of her and Chris, heads together, smiling into the lens. ‘I’ll put it in a frame and stand it on the shelf in Alice’s bedroom.’

  Sharon nodded, slightly appeased.

  While Sharon and I had been talking, Chris had been hovering with the supervisor and Alice to one side. Chris was a man of very few words and Sharon did the talking for both of them. I now went over to say goodbye to Alice and to tell her that I would collect her in two hours, but as I did I saw her bottom lip tremble and her face grow very serious.

  ‘What is it, love?’ I said, bending down so I was at her height.

  ‘Are Nana and Grandpa here?’ she asked in a small voice, clearly expecting them to be.

  ‘No, love. You saw them yesterday.’

  ‘I want to see them tonight,’ she said. Rubbing her eyes, she began to cry.

  The supervisor – the same one as the previous day – looked at me knowingly, for we both appreciated how very confusing and upsetting it must be for Alice to see her grandparents at the family centre one day and her father and Sharon the next.

  ‘We’ll phone Nana and Grandpa on Saturday,’ I said, trying to reassure Alice. ‘You’re seeing your dad and Sharon this afternoon.’

  ‘I don’t want to see them,’ Alice cried. ‘I want to see Nana and Grandpa.’ Out of the mouths of babes, I thought, but who could blame her? Alice was only saying what she felt; she didn’t know that her loyalties and affection were supposed to be transferring from her mother and grandparents to her father and Sharon.

  Sharon looked affronted and pretty indignant. ‘The sooner she stops seeing them, the better,’ she said, referring to Alice’s grandparents. Chris said nothing.

  The supervisor, bless her, then stepped in and, before Alice could upset herself further, gently took her by the hand and began steering her towards the contact room. ‘Let’s play that Hungry Hippo game,’ she said, distracting her. ‘I bet I can beat you.’ I waited until they had disappeared through the swing doors and then I left.

  That night as I tucked Alice into bed she glanced at the photograph of her father and Sharon, which I’d propped on her bookshelf.

  ‘Cathy?’ she asked innocently, her eyes growing wide and questioning. ‘Who do I have to love?’

  I stroked a strand of hair away from her face. ‘Alice, pet, love isn’t something you have to do. It’s something that comes from your heart; that you feel deep inside. When you love someone that person becomes very special to you, so that you want to be with them lots. And when you are with someone you love you feel all warm and cosy inside.’ Which I thought was pretty good for an instant explanation of love.

  Alice looked at me and her little brow furrowed as she considered what I’d said. ‘I feel warm and cosy when I’m with my mummy, and Nana and Grandpa,’ she said. ‘I love them and they are very special to me. But when I’m with Sharon I think about my real mummy, and I want to be with her. Is that wrong?’

  ‘No, love, it’s not wrong. You haven’t known Sharon for very long. Perhaps in time you might grow to love her. I know she’d like you to.’

  Alice frowned as she thought again. ‘OK. I’ll try to love Sharon. I’ll try to feel warm and cosy when I think about her like I do with my mummy and Nana and Grandpa.’ She closed her eyes, screwed up her face and held her breath as though in deep concentration. After a moment, she breathed out with a long sigh and opened her eyes. ‘No. I don’t feel warm and cosy about Sharon yet. I’ll try again tomorrow.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bad Practice

  In the absence of a social worker, all I could do was carry on as I had been doing and follow the routine that I’d established in the first two weeks. I took Alice to nursery each weekday and on the days she had contact I collected her at 1.30 p.m., when I took her to the family centre. At the end of contact Alice never had a problem separating from her father and Sharon but unsurprisingly continued to have great difficulty in saying goodbye to her nana and grandpa, although it was never as bad as that first time, when I’d had to carry her screaming from the family centre.

  At the next contact Mrs Jones gave me the photographs I’d asked for – one of her husband and her, and one of Alice with her mother. They’d been taken the Christmas before, at the grandparents’ house, and my heart ached each time I looked at their smiling faces. Alice was sitting on her mother’s lap, and they wor
e the party hats they’d pulled from the Christmas crackers. The Christmas tree could be seen glittering in the background, and Alice and her mother were clearly having a great time at what had turned out to be their last family celebration all together. I put these two photographs in frames and stood them on the shelf in Alice’s bedroom beside the framed photograph of her father and Sharon. I often found the photograph of her father turned to face the wall, while those of her mother and grandparents were at the front of the shelf, looking out over her bedroom – Alice’s little statement of her needs.

  I pushed the two empty suitcases belonging to Alice’s grandparents to the very back of the cupboard under the stairs, for realistically Alice wouldn’t be going anywhere until a new social worker was in place, and then it wouldn’t happen immediately. Martha had said that the parenting assessment of Chris and Sharon was only half complete, so I guessed that it had come to a standstill and wouldn’t be complete until the new social worker was in post. Once the assessment was complete, assuming it was positive, contact between Alice and her father would be increased to include weekend stays, in preparation for her going to live with them. From my previous experience, I estimated all this would take at least six weeks, if not longer, from when the new social worker took up post, and there was no sign of that happening yet. It wasn’t good social work practice, but there always seems to be a shortage of social workers, so posts are left empty for far longer than they should be and cases are delayed.

  Alice had been with me just over a month when Sharon phoned the social services, furious, demanding to know of the duty social worker what was happening and threatening to put in a formal complaint. I could understand her frustration, although I would have liked to hear the same commitment from Chris, who was after all Alice’s father. The duty social worker phoned me (not the same duty social worker who’d reported me) and, having admitted she knew nothing about Alice’s case and couldn’t find the case file, asked me if I had a copy of the care plan and could I tell her what was happening. Lost case files should be a thing of the past now, as all the files at the social services are held on computer at a central database. I told the duty social worker I was still waiting for a copy of the care plan and the essential information forms, and then I told her what little I knew of Alice’s case. She thanked me and went off to try to pacify Sharon.