I Miss Mummy (6 page)

B
efore I ran Alice’s bath, Adrian took the two suitcases upstairs and into Alice’s bedroom. I lay one flat on the floor and opened it, leaving the other standing by the wall. Opening a child’s bag or case is always a poignant moment: a bittersweet reminder of the life the child has left behind. Sometimes the bag contains no more than a handful of ragged dirty clothes which aren’t of any use, and I make do with clothes from my emergency supply and then go shopping at the earliest opportunity to buy new. But as I opened the first of Alice’s two cases my heart ached: rows and rows of her little clothes, washed and neatly pressed, and smelling of a fabric conditioner which, while unfamiliar to me, would be very familiar to Alice. I looked through the case and found skirts, jumpers, dresses, pyjamas, dressing-gown, slippers, little jogging outfits, coat, gloves and scarf, and shoes wrapped in a plastic bag. It was like a suitcase packed for a holiday where, unsure of the weather, all eventualities had been catered for. I knew how much love and care had gone into that packing;
Alice’s nana had wanted to make sure Alice would be comfortable and have everything she needed. I also knew the pain it must have caused her nana to pack her cherished granddaughter’s belongings for a holiday from which she would never return.

Alice, who had been watching me, wide eyed and in silence, now began diving into the case, taking out the little bundles of her clothes and pressing them to her face. The smell and feel was a welcome reminder to her that at least some of her past had come with her. She took out another bundle of clothes and an envelope appeared. ‘To the Carer’ was written on the outside and I quickly picked it up. Directing Alice towards the wardrobe so she could begin putting away some of her clothes, I moved to one side and slit open the envelope. My eyes filled as I read the short handwritten note: ‘Dear Carer, Please take good care of our beloved granddaughter. She means everything to us. God bless you. Janice and Martin Jones.’ I looked at the note and then at Alice. I dearly wished I could have phoned Alice’s grandparents there and then and tried to reassure them. But the social worker had clearly stated that phone contact should take place on Saturday evenings, and I knew I couldn’t go against her instructions.

Tucking the note into my pocket, I joined Alice in unpacking. She was engrossed in the task and, while many of the clothes would need refolding later if they weren’t going to be badly creased, she was happy in her work and, with her clothes in the wardrobe, it was starting to look more like home. I was conscious of the time: I needed to get Alice into bed before long, as she
would have to be up early in the morning for nursery, and she hadn’t had her bath yet. I suggested to her that we left unpacking the second case until the following day.

‘Can we just find Brian?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I smiled, guessing that Brian was a favourite toy rather than a stowaway. ‘I hope Nana has remembered to pack him,’ I said.

‘She will,’ Alice said. I shared her confidence: Alice’s grandmother had remembered to pack everything else that Alice could possibly need, so I was sure she would have remembered a favourite toy.

Closing the empty suitcase I stood it on the landing, ready for putting away later. I laid the second case on the floor in Alice’s bedroom and unzipped the lid. Sure enough, to Alice’s delight, there lay Brian: a cuddly teddy bear, resplendent in a Nottingham Forest football kit.

‘Who supports Nottingham Forest?’ I asked.

‘My grandpa,’ Alice said, smiling, and, scooping up the bear, clutched him to her. ‘Grandpa bought him at an away match when they won,’ Alice explained knowledgeably. ‘Brain Clough was the manager and Grandpa said he should have a bear named after him because he had done so well with his team. You can say hello to Brian the Bear if you like.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, shaking his paw.

We assume our lives are pretty constant and that our surroundings and routine will remain constant too, but for a child who is taken into care all continuity vanishes when the child is suddenly uprooted and set down in a
strange environment, with strange people and customs. Now that Alice had been reunited with Brian the Bear and her clothes I could see she was already starting to feel more at ease. There were more toys in the second suitcase, and books, a set of towels, a wash bag, and a throw-over bed cover with a big picture of Barbie doll. I took this out, together with the wash bag, one of the books and a towel. Although I had plenty of towels I would use the one Alice’s grandmother had sent, which was familiar to Alice.

Closing the case, I stood it to one side and then removed the pink blanket Alice had arrived in from the bed and draped the Barbie cover over it. I then took Alice through to the bathroom, where I ran her bath. I squirted in a few drops of the child’s bubble bath her nana had included in Alice’s wash bag, and used the sponge and face flannel that were also in the bag. I washed Alice’s back and she did the rest. Then I lifted her out and wrapped her in the bath towel her nana had sent. It was fragranced with the same fabric conditioner as her clothes and Alice pressed it to her face as I helped dry her. I helped her into her Sleepy Cat pyjamas, squirted toothpaste on her toothbrush and waited while she brushed her teeth.

In her bedroom Alice snuggled beneath the duvet and Barbie cover and looked much more relaxed and at home. ‘All right, love?’ I asked. She nodded. ‘You’re doing very well.’ I perched on the edge of the bed and, lightly stroking her forehead, ran through what we would be doing the following day: I would take her to nursery, collect her after lunch, take her to the family
centre to see her dad and Sharon, and then collect her and bring her home. Although I’d already told Alice this I repeated it, as children can get very confused when they first come into care with so many new things and routines to adjust to. Alice didn’t make any comment, but she looked quite tired. I asked her if she wanted a story before she went to sleep. She nodded so, still sitting on the bed, I read the book I’d taken from the suitcase –
Favourite Nursery Rhymes
, which I guessed her nana had read to her many times, for Alice was word perfect.

When I finished the book I went on to the landing and called downstairs that Alice was ready to say goodnight. Lucy and Paula broke off from doing their homework in the dining room and came up, and Adrian appeared from his bedroom. They took it in turns to say goodnight to Alice; the girls kissed her cheek while Adrian blew a kiss and gave a little wave from the door. ‘See you in the morning,’ they chimed as they left, and Alice smiled.

As Adrian, Paula and Lucy returned to their homework, which they knew had to be completed before they watched television, I returned to sit on Alice’s bed for a moment, stroking her forehead and just looking at her little face. ‘You’re doing very well,’ I said again. ‘I know it isn’t easy, but you’ll find it gets a bit easier as time goes on. There’s nothing for you to worry about. If you’ve got any questions or there is anything worrying you, ask me, won’t you?’

Alice’s gaze went to the window where the curtains were drawn. ‘Is it dark outside?’ she asked in a small voice.

‘Yes, love. But I’ll leave your light on low, like I did last night.’ I assumed she was worried by the dark, as she had been the night before.

Alice paused and thought for a moment. Then she asked seriously: ‘Can we go to the quarry now it’s dark?’

‘No, love,’ I said, surprised. I’d have thought that would have been the last place she’d want to go. ‘The quarry is closed. It’s night-time. We don’t go to the quarry at night.’

‘But my mummy might be there,’ she said. ‘I want to see my mummy. I want to sleep with her in the shed at the quarry. Why can’t we go?’

‘Oh, love, Mummy isn’t at the quarry now. People don’t normally sleep at the quarry; they sleep in their beds. Your mummy will be sleeping in a bed now.’

I continued to stroke her forehead. Despite the trauma of being snatched and taken to the quarry at night, where the sound of the barking foxes had terrorized her, Alice would risk it all again just to be with her mother.

‘Where is my mummy?’ Alice asked after a moment, her large eyes finally moving from the window to me.

‘I’m not sure, love, but I do know she isn’t at the quarry. I expect your nana is looking after her.’ Clearly I had no idea where Leah was, but this seemed enough to reassure Alice. I continued to sit with her, stroking her forehead until her eyes finally closed in sleep.

I
always feel like the ‘new girl’ at school when I walk into a playground for the first time. I don’t know the layout of the school or where the child’s classroom is, and I feel other mothers are looking at me, wondering who I am. Without any further instructions from Martha, other than I had to take Alice to nursery on Tuesday, I had decided to do what I usually did on the first morning: introduce myself at the school’s reception and ask for directions to Alice’s classroom. Alice, however, bright as a button and happy at the prospect of seeing her friends again at nursery, wanted to go straight to her classroom.

‘It’s this way,’ she said, pulling me across the playground. ‘I’ll show you.’ She led me to the side of the main school building and to a separate entrance with a door marked ‘nursery only’. ‘We can go straight in,’ Alice explained. ‘The older children have to wait in the playground until the bell goes.’

I pushed open the door, then followed Alice down a short corridor and through another door into the actual
nursery. It was a large, brightly lit room, with gaily coloured mobiles hanging from the ceiling and children’s artwork decorating all the walls. The floor was covered with toys, floor cushions and themed mats; around the edge of the room were tables containing all types of activities. There was a home corner, an ‘office’ corner with a couple of desks and chairs and two small computers, and further along two large fish-tank-like bowls for sand and water play. A couple of children were already seated at one table, modelling dough.

I had purposely come early so I could introduce myself to Alice’s teacher and have a brief chat with her before all the children arrived. A lady in her mid-forties dressed in slacks and a jumper approached us.

‘That’s Mrs Davis,’ Alice said, smiling at her.

We shook hands. ‘I’m Cathy Glass, Alice’s foster carer.’

‘Pleased to meet you. Margaret Davis.’ Then to Alice: ‘Would you like to hang up your coat and find an activity while I talk to Cathy?’ Mrs Davis waited until Alice had gone to hang up her coat and was out of earshot before she asked, ‘How is Alice? We were all so concerned. Thank goodness she was found safe and well.’ From which I assumed she knew Alice had been missing.

‘Alice is doing very well,’ I said, ‘considering all that has happened. She came to me late on Sunday. I expect her new social worker will be in touch with the school soon.’

Mrs Davis nodded. ‘All the staff have been very worried. Leah hasn’t been well for some time. I do hope
she can get the help she needs now. How long do you think Alice will be with you?’

‘I don’t think it will be very long. I understand the social services want her settled with her father as soon as possible – in about a month, I think.’

Mrs Davis frowned, puzzled. ‘Really? So she’s staying with her father until her mother is well again?’

I glanced at Alice, who had joined in the dough modelling. ‘No, I understand it will be permanent.’

‘What?’ Mrs Davis asked, clearly shocked. ‘I wasn’t even aware there was a father on the scene. Are you sure? He’s certainly never been to the school.’

Not knowing how much the school had been told about Alice’s background, and not really knowing enough myself to be able to add anything that would reassure Mrs Davis, I said the social worker would be the best person to ask; then I moved on to the practical arrangements.

‘I’ll need to collect Alice at one thirty today and on Thursday,’ I said. ‘Alice has contact with her father. I understand she usually has a school dinner?’

‘Yes. She’ll be finished by one o’clock.’

‘That should work out fine. We’ll go straight from school to the family centre. Shall I go into the office and advise them of the arrangements, and also check that they have my contact details?’

‘Yes please,’ Mrs Davis said.

‘Is there anything else I need to do or know about the school?’

‘I don’t think so. The office can give you a copy of the term dates.’

‘Thanks. I’ll see you at one thirty, then.’

I went over to say goodbye to Alice as Mrs Davis greeted another parent and child. Alice was busy dough modelling. As I said goodbye Alice pursed her lips, wanting to kiss me. I lowered my head and she kissed my cheek.

‘Goodbye, love,’ I said. ‘Have a good day. I’ll see you just after lunch.’

‘Bye,’ Alice said. Then, turning to the child sitting next to her, who was eyeing me suspiciously, she announced: ‘That is Cathy, my carer.’ I smiled, pleased, for so often children are embarrassed about being in care and having a carer, but Alice had made me sound like an acquisition to be coveted.

‘Bye,’ I said to the other child.

She grinned, and as I left I heard her asking Alice where you got a carer from.

Before I left the school I went to the office and introduced myself. The school secretary was aware that Alice was in foster care but hadn’t been given my details. She handed me a form and I filled it in with my name, address, telephone numbers, plus the contact details of the person who should be called in an emergency if I wasn’t available. Because Alice was a looked-after child I filled in the second contact details with those of the social services; then I told the secretary that I would be collecting Alice at 1.30 p.m. today and on Thursday.

On the way home I stopped off quickly at the supermarket; then when I got home Jill phoned for an update. I told her how well Alice had been doing but
that she missed her mother and grandparents. I also told her of the contact arrangements and that I still hadn’t received any paperwork. Jill said she would chase up the paperwork, and then made an arrangement to visit us – after school the following day, Wednesday, when Alice wouldn’t have contact. I told Jill that Martha was now off the case and Jill said she would try to find out who was taking over.

Once I’d said goodbye to Jill I grabbed a quick coffee, put the washing in the machine, and then went upstairs and finished unpacking Alice’s second suitcase. It contained toys, cuddly dolls, books and another towel. I put the towel in the airing cupboard and arranged Alice’s personal possessions on her bookshelves. Now her bedroom was full of her things it looked very cosy and inviting and I hoped it would make her feel comfortable and more at home.

I stowed the two suitcases in the cupboard under the stairs; when I spoke to Alice’s grandparents I would ask them if they wanted them back. Aware of the passing time, I pegged the washing on the line, then had a sandwich lunch while I wrote up my log. All foster carers keep a log which is a daily account of the child they are looking after. They record everyday events like going to nursery, the child’s mood and behaviour, if they are sleeping and eating well, and anything significant – positive or negative. Once I’d brought my log up to date I shut it safely away in a drawer. Then I sent Toscha out for a run, put on my coat and shoes and returned to the school for 1.30. Because it wasn’t home time the gate to the playground was security locked and I pressed the
buzzer. A voice came through the intercom; I gave my name and the gate released.

I could see Alice in the nursery section of the playground, playing hopscotch with a friend. As soon as she saw me she came bounding over with another child in tow.

‘This is Cathy,’ Alice said proudly to her friend, ‘the carer I was telling you about.’ Clearly I was getting something of a reputation!

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m looking after Alice. How are you?’

The girl grinned shyly; then the playground supervisor, spotting a stranger in the playground, came over and I explained who I was. The supervisor had been told by the office that Alice was being collected early and that it would be by her foster carer, Cathy Glass, but having never met me before she sensibly asked to see my ID. All foster carers are supposed to carry their ID and it’s not only for going into government buildings, where security is strict, but also for situations like this where they are collecting a child and the person responsible for the child doesn’t know them.

‘Thanks,’ she said as I took my ID from my bag and showed it to her.

Alice already had her coat on, so there was no need to go into the school. We said goodbye to the supervisor and Alice’s friend, and then crossed the playground to the gate, where I pressed the security buzzer to exit.

‘Have you had a good morning?’ I asked as we walked hand in hand up the road to where I’d parked the car.

‘Yes, but I wanted to stay at nursery all day.’

‘You can tomorrow, but this afternoon you’re going to see your dad and Sharon,’ I reminded her.

‘When am I seeing Nana?’ Alice asked, as she had done that morning.

‘Wednesday next week, which isn’t too far away.’

Alice didn’t say anything further and it was impossible to know what was going through her mind. She still hadn’t spoken of father – all her thoughts and memories of home were of her mother and grandparents.

The traffic was light in the early afternoon and we arrived at the family centre five minutes early. I knew the family centre from having taken other children I’d looked after there for contact with their families. It’s a single-storey building with an office, kitchen, gardens and play area, and six rooms furnished like sitting rooms where children see their parents with a supervisor present. The rooms are very comfortable and designed, as much as possible, to feel like home, with pictures on the walls, carpets, sofas, curtains at the windows, table and chairs, a television, board games and so on. In fact the family centre is so comfortable, warm and inviting that some parents don’t want to leave, and hang around chatting to the staff long after contact has finished and their children have gone home with their carers. Some parents have been known to pop in even when they are not scheduled to see their children, feeling that the contact centre offers more in the way of home than their own homes, which is very sad.

Alice knew the centre from having seen her father and Sharon there a few times while she’d been staying with her grandparents. I parked in the small car park at the
side of the building and then got out and opened Alice’s car door which, as always, was child locked. Alice slipped her hand into mine and we went up the short path to the front door, where I pressed the security buzzer. The CCTV camera overhead allowed the office staff to see who was at the door and a moment later the lock released and we went into reception.

Before I had a chance to sign in the visitors’ register or say hello to the office staff, a very fashionably dressed woman in her late twenties, with jeans tucked into red knee-length boots and long flowing hair, appeared from the waiting area.

‘Hi, precious!’ she cried at the top of her voice to Alice and, rushing over, scooped Alice into her arms. ‘I’ve missed you so much! How are you, my precious?’ In a flurry of hair and perfume she began planting kisses all over Alice’s head, face and neck while Alice just lay in her arms, expressionless. Then as quickly as she’d picked up Alice she set her down again. Alice staggered for a second before she got her balance. Turning to me, the woman smiled and offered her hand.

‘I’m Sharon, Chris’s wife and Alice’s new mother.’

I glanced at Alice and her look said it all: this woman isn’t my mother and won’t ever be.