I Miss Mummy (18 page)

T
he following day was Tuesday and Alice was due to see her father and Sharon. I obviously hadn’t said anything to Alice about her father being prosecuted, and I hoped Chris and Sharon would have enough good sense not to say anything either. Unusually, they were late arriving at the family centre, so Alice and I waited in reception. When they arrived, fifteen minutes after the scheduled time, they looked sombre and, as they signed the register, they just about managed a nod in our direction. Chris had never been one for open displays of affection and had always left greeting Alice to Sharon, but now Sharon showed no more enthusiasm than Chris as they came over and we waited for the contact supervisor to appear.

Once the supervisor had arrived, Alice exchanged my hand for hers and kissed me goodbye. As usual I watched them go; Alice and the supervisor went first with the supervisor asking Alice about her day at school, while Chris and Sharon followed in silence. I guessed Sharon, usually the one to do all the talking,
was preoccupied with Chris’s prosecution; or maybe Kitty had told Sharon that an application by her to adopt Alice was unlikely to succeed; or possibly it had become obvious to Sharon that while she and Chris were still being considered to have Alice long term, their position had become seriously compromised by the criminal proceedings against Chris. I wondered if Sharon ever doubted Chris’s integrity now there was enough evidence for a police prosecution. She didn’t appear to.

At the end of contact Alice told me that Sharon hadn’t wanted to play with her, and her father had had a headache, so they had watched television. At the end of the next contact, on Thursday, as I was driving us home Alice told me that Sharon had said she thought two hours after school was too tiring for Alice and she would speak to the social worker about reducing contact. Sure enough, the following afternoon Kitty phoned to say that Sharon and Chris had agreed to reduce their contact to one hour, in line with the grandparents’, as they recognized Alice was exhausted after a full day at school. While I was relieved and pleased that Sharon had been able to do the correct thing, I wondered if she was losing interest in Alice as she had before. Chris had never shown that much interest in Alice and appeared to do as Sharon told him. But whatever the reason, the upshot was that by reducing their contact to one hour, Alice wasn’t too tired to eat her dinner and had time to play before going to bed, which was much better for her.

Two weeks later, on 10 October, Alice went into school blissfully unaware of the family-finding meeting I was about to attend, which was the first step to Alice being adopted. Alice no longer asked where she would live permanently, not because she didn’t have the maturity or intelligence to contemplate her future – she did – but because she had convinced herself that when her mother was well enough she would return to live with her. ‘Happily ever after, like in the books,’ she said.

When Alice said this or made similar comments about her future I tried to steer her to the idea there were other possible outcomes, so it wouldn’t come as such a shock when the judge made his decision. I had accepted it was impossible for Alice to return to her mother and that the social services wouldn’t leave Alice in care indefinitely on the off chance her mother might one day recover. Trying to prepare Alice, I showed her photographs of, and talked about, some of the other children I’d fostered who had gone to ‘live happily ever after’ with new forever families – i.e. had been adopted. But while Alice nodded politely and liked looking at the photographs, I knew that what I was saying fell on deaf ears. ‘I’m pleased I won’t need a new family,’ she said. ‘I’ve got my own family,’ meaning her mother and grandparents.

Part of my role as a foster carer is to prepare children for the future and I was concerned that if Alice didn’t adjust, and was adopted, she would have problems bonding with her new family because of the strong
bond she still had with her natural family. It was all so dreadfully sad, and not for the first time since I’d begun fostering I wished I had a big magic wand to turn back the clock and make everything OK.

At the family-finding meeting I raised these concerns, and Kitty, Jill and Faith (from the family-finding team) appreciated what I was saying.

‘I’ll have to do some work with Alice to prepare her for moving on,’ Kitty said. ‘Once we know the outcome of the criminal proceedings, and are advertising for an adoptive family, I’ll speak to Alice. And perhaps you could try talking to her again,’ Kitty said to me. ‘She trusts you and I like the way you used the examples of the other children you’ve fostered who were adopted. That sounds very positive.’

Faith nodded.

‘I’ll do my best,’ I said. ‘But Alice firmly believes she will be returning to live with her mother at some point, so strong is their bond.’

‘Which is surprising when you think how frightened Alice must have been when her mother snatched her and took her up to the quarry that night,’ Jill said. ‘You’d have thought Alice would have lost faith in her mother’s ability to keep her safe. Alice must be angry with her.’

‘I don’t think she is,’ I said. ‘Alice never appears to be angry or feels let down by her mother. Clearly she didn’t see the danger in being at the quarry at night. I think she views her mother taking her as a sign of her love and loyalty, which in a way it was.’

Jill nodded.

‘I’ll talk more to Alice about all of this when I begin preparing her for moving on,’ Kitty said. ‘If necessary I’ll make a referral to a therapist. We don’t want a failed adoption on our hands.’ I inwardly cringed at the very thought – Alice going to an adoptive home and then having to leave if it didn’t work out. This does happen to some children, and it’s a rejection from which they take a long time to recover.

Faith then asked me to describe Alice’s character, her routine, likes and dislikes, in fact anything that should be taken into account when matching her to a suitable adoptive family. A lump immediately rose in my throat as I began describing Alice, the little angel who’d come to us in the dead of night and had become so much a part of our lives.

‘She’s a beautiful child,’ I said. ‘Small for her age, petite, but very intelligent. She has a naturally happy disposition and brightens up any room – you can’t stay sad around Alice very long. She sleeps from seven p.m. until seven a.m. and eats well: she enjoys a wide range of food and is willing to try anything new. She loves all types of games, especially role playing – shops, schools, etc., and she likes dressing up as a nurse. She says she wants to be a doctor when she grows up so she can make her mummy, and all the mummies like her, well again.’ I stopped and felt tears well in my eyes. ‘Can you add anything?’ I asked Jill, my voice unsteady.

Jill, who knew Alice from all her visits, added to my description, as did Kitty, while Faith took notes. Faith
hadn’t met Alice but would do so in the months to come, as she was responsible for drawing up a profile of Alice and the type of adoptive family she would be looking for – i.e. one that would best match Alice. It was decided that in order to meet Alice’s cultural needs, the family should be white, British and preferably Christian, as Alice and her mother had been christened and Alice’s grandparents went to church. Given that Alice had enjoyed having older siblings in the family in the form of Adrian, Lucy and Paula, it was felt that her adoptive family could have older siblings but not a baby or toddler, as Alice was going to need time and attention in order to settle in.

‘I can see Alice going to a childless couple in their early thirties,’ Faith said thoughtfully, looking up from her notes. ‘I have a number of childless professional couples on my books who have already been approved to adopt. Some of them have been waiting for years for a young child. There is a shortage of healthy white children who need adoptive homes. Alice would be ideal.’

While it sounded as though Alice was a commodity that could be packaged and shipped to new owners, I recognized that if she was going to be adopted then a good match was imperative. A childless couple in their thirties, desperately wanting but unable to have children of their own, seemed ideal, and they would appreciate what a special gift Alice was. Doubtless they would love and cherish Alice as her mother and grandparents did. Whether or not Alice could ever return that love only time would tell.

Once Faith had clarified the legal position with Kitty and also the time frame, she drew the meeting to a close. Faith said another family-finding meeting would be arranged once the criminal proceedings were out of the way. In the meantime she would type up her notes – the profile of Alice and the type of family she would be looking for. Faith asked me if I could find some recent photographs of Alice and bring them to the next meeting so that she had them on file to show would-be adopters.

On the drive home I tried to picture the – as yet unidentified – childless couple waiting to start a family, who would be lucky enough to have Alice if she went on to be adopted, which was looking increasingly likely. I knew their gain would be our loss, but the loss my family and I would feel when Alice eventually left us would be nothing compared to the loss Alice’s mother and grandparents would suffer if Alice was adopted. As a foster carer I have to prepare myself for children leaving, painful though it is, but not so with Alice’s mother and grandparents, who had naturally assumed Alice would be with them forever.

That afternoon when I took Alice to the family centre for contact with her grandparents I felt underhand and deceitful for having attended the family-finding meeting where, unbeknown to Mr and Mrs Jones, I had been ‘plotting’ with Kitty, Jill and Faith to take away their granddaughter. I couldn’t look Mrs Jones in the eye for the guilt I felt, and to make matters worse she gave me
another pot of her home-made chutney. ‘I know you like it as much as Alice,’ she said, smiling. ‘So I’ve stepped up production.’

I thanked her and silently prayed that the strength and courage that had seen them through so much would stay with them and see them through what was to come.

Regardless of my own feelings I still had to do my job as a foster carer, so the following weekend I took the opportunity to talk to Alice about the future as I’d tried to in the past, and as Kitty had asked me to continue to do. Alice was looking at one of the many framed photographs I had on the walls in the sitting room, and I told her the boy in the picture was called Oliver, and he had stayed with me for a year. When she asked where he was now I said he’d been found a new mummy and daddy – a forever family who loved him very much and with whom he was very happy. Alice seemed quite interested and began asking questions: Where does he live? Does he have any brothers or sisters, or pets? Does he go on holiday with his family? And so on. I told Alice what I knew of Oliver’s family and then added: ‘It’s possible that one day you might be found a new mummy and daddy who will love you as Oliver’s do, and you will be very happy.’

Alice turned from the photograph and looked at me as though I had just spoken the unspeakable. ‘You mustn’t say that,’ she said, her little face creasing. ‘I don’t want a new mummy. I want my old mummy. She’s the best mummy in the world.’

‘But Alice, pet,’ I said gently. ‘Your mummy can’t look after you as mummies are supposed to. You don’t want to stay in foster care forever, and keep having to go to the family centre for contact, do you? You want a normal family life with parents who can look after you and play with you, and will love you more than anyone else in the world.’

Alice continued to stare at me. ‘I want to stay with you, until my mummy is better. Then I can go home. Don’t you want me to stay with you, Cathy? I thought you liked me.’

‘Oh, of course I like you, pet,’ I said, putting my arms around her and drawing her to me. ‘I like you very, very much, and you will stay with me until everything is sorted out. But you have to understand that where you live permanently isn’t my decision. The judge will decide what is best for you. And I think he will want you to have a proper mummy and daddy who will love you forever and be your very own family.’

Alice continued to stare at me; then her eyes slowly filled and her little face looked sadder than I had ever seen it before. A large tear escaped and ran down her cheek; then another and another. I drew her to the sofa and on to my lap, where I cuddled her closely as she sobbed openly. Alice had been so brave for seven months, holding it all together in the unshakable belief that her mummy would recover and she could eventually return to live with her. Now she was finally starting to listen to what I was saying, and having to accept there might be a different outcome and she wouldn’t be returning to her mother, and it hurt. It hurt Alice, and
it hurt me, for there was nothing I could do but reassure her, and hope that eventually, given time, she would come to terms with it.

D
espite everything that was going on, the week leading up to 2 November was a light-hearted and joyous one. Not only was Christmas on the horizon – the shops were already displaying Christmas cards and novelties – but 2 November would be Alice’s fifth birthday, and she was getting very excited.

‘I’m going to be a big, big girl,’ she said, strutting around the house with her back straight and head held high, making herself as tall as possible. ‘Soon I’ll be as big as you,’ she said, measuring herself up to Adrian who, 80 centimetres taller, looked like a giant beside her. ‘I’ve got long legs,’ she said, ‘and on my birthday I’m going to be bigger than all the other four-year-olds in the whole wide world.’ Quite clearly this wasn’t so – Alice was very petite and one of the smallest in her class – but we didn’t disillusion her.

‘Five is a very big girl,’ I said, and Adrian, Lucy and Paula agreed.

‘My friend Tammy doesn’t have to go to bed until nine o’clock now she is five,’ Alice said, testing the water for an extension on her bedtime.

‘Really?’ I said, unconvinced. ‘I bet she’s tired the next day at school.’

‘No, she’s not,’ Alice said quickly. ‘And Shaun is allowed to stay up till midnight watching television with his dad now he’s five.’

‘If that is so,’ Lucy put in dryly, ‘someone should tell the social services. Sleep deprivation is a form of abuse.’

I laughed. ‘Very well put,’ I said.

‘Cathy,’ Alice said, finally getting to the point. ‘When I am five what time will I have to go to bed?’

‘Well, let me see,’ I said, thinking out loud. ‘You’re four now and you go to bed at seven o’clock. Is that right?’ Alice nodded. ‘So when you are five I think six o’clock would be a good time. What do you think, Lucy?’

‘Yes,’ Lucy said, stifling a smile. ‘Definitely.’

Alice looked at me, horrified, before she realized we were joking. ‘You’re teasing me,’ she said with an old-fashioned smile. ‘And you, Lucy!’

I went over and kissed her cheek. ‘OK, seriously, love, I think seven o’clock on a school night is late enough for a big person of five. But we could make your bedtime seven thirty at weekends – on a Friday and a Saturday when you don’t have to be up early in the morning.’

Alice smiled, pleased. ‘But when I tell my friends I’ll say now I’m five I go to bed at seven thirty, and forget the bit about weekends. Emily still has to go to bed at six and she’s been five for ages.’

‘I think I’ve been duped!’ I said, and Lucy agreed.

On the Wednesday before her birthday Alice had contact with her grandparents and they took her birthday presents to the family centre so that she could open them while they were together. Her grandparents also gave Alice a little party – just the three of them, with the supervisor joining in. The family centre accommodates families wanting to celebrate birthdays and can provide plates, cutlery, cups, glasses, microwave oven, etc. Mrs Jones had taken in party food and a small iced birthday cake with five candles. When I went into the contact room to collect Alice at the end she was very flushed and excited, and eager to show me her presents and tell me of the games they’d played. Mr and Mrs Jones were clearly pleased that Alice had enjoyed herself, but I could see it had been a bittersweet event for them. This year they had been forced to celebrate Alice’s birthday in the confines of one hour at the family centre, under supervision, unlike previous years when presumably the family had all been together at home.

‘Leah has promised to send Alice a present and card,’ Mrs Jones said quietly to me as Mr Jones helped Alice into her coat. ‘I offered to put her name on our present and card but she wants to do something of her own.’

‘That’ll be lovely,’ I smiled. ‘How is Leah now?’

‘Making progress. It’s good she feels up to organizing a present and card. She wouldn’t have done that a month ago. Having Chris prosecuted has helped.’

‘Oh?’ I asked, uncertain what she meant.

‘Leah felt everyone was against her, but now the police are prosecuting him she feels someone believes her and is on her side.’ Mrs Jones shrugged. ‘We’ve always
believed her and have been on her side, but that hasn’t been enough to help her.’

I nodded, and then turned towards Alice, who had finished kissing Grandpa goodbye and was on her way over to us.

‘Now, have I put in all her presents?’ Mrs Jones said, checking the large carrier bag before passing it to me. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Cathy, I’m taking the rest of the cake home with me. Leah is coming later and we’ll have a slice with her as a little celebration.’

‘No, of course I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘I’ve bought a cake for Alice’s actual birthday on Sunday. I hope you have a nice evening.’ But I thought how sad it was that the closest Leah would get to celebrating her daughter’s birthday this year was with a slice from the remaining birthday cake.

The following day, Thursday, Alice had contact with her father and Sharon and they also took in a birthday present, which Alice unwrapped. There was no party food or cake, but it was a nice present – a child’s first computer, which taught letter sounds, word and number recognition, and had small puzzles to do. At the end of contact Sharon, always ready to undermine Leah, asked me in front of Alice if her mother had bought her anything for her birthday. The contact supervisor was still present and motioned for Sharon not to continue.

But Sharon didn’t have to say anything further, for Alice, having heard Sharon, naturally asked: ‘Will my mummy remember my birthday?’

‘I should think so, love,’ I said. Then I redirected Alice to say goodbye.

Outside, in the car, Alice asked again: ‘Cathy, do you think my mummy will buy me a present and card?’

‘I hope so.’ I couldn’t say yes, for clearly I didn’t know for definite. Mrs Jones had said Leah was going to arrange to send something but I hadn’t heard anything from Kitty to this effect. Leah didn’t have our address, so I assumed the present and card would come to us via the social worker, which is what had happened in the past with other children I’d fostered who hadn’t seen their parents on their birthdays. But Leah was leaving it a bit late, for the next day was Friday – the last possible day for a present and/or card to be given to the social services in time for Alice’s actual birthday on Sunday. That night as I tucked Alice into bed she looked sad.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked, adjusting the duvet under her chin. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, as I did every night after reading a story – making sure Alice was all right, that there was nothing worrying her and that she was ready to go to sleep. I’ve found – with my own children and those I’ve fostered – that this time, this little space between daytime ending and night-time beginning, is when children are most relaxed, and more likely to share a worry or release a secret. It is also a good time for me to talk to a child, as they are often more receptive.

‘I hope my mummy remembers it’s my birthday,’ Alice said pensively. ‘She doesn’t have to buy me a present or send me a card, but I would like her to write a
little note. It could say “Happy Birthday, love from Mummy”. It will make me so very happy.’

‘Alice, love,’ I said, stroking her cheek. ‘I know your mummy won’t forget your birthday. Not this year, not ever. I know wherever your mummy is on your birthday she will remember and be thinking of you. But what I don’t know is if mummy will be able to send you anything. It is very difficult for her right now. But if she doesn’t send a card or present, I want you to know mummy hasn’t forgotten you, but is thinking of you on your birthday; it will make you both feel that little bit closer. Like the kisses you send down the phone to Nana and Grandpa – they bring you closer, don’t they?’

Alice thought for a moment; then she gave a little nod and a smile crossed her face. ‘If I think of my mummy now perhaps it will help her write a card.’ She screwed her eyes closed in concentration, willing her mother to write her a birthday card. ‘I think she’s writing it,’ Alice said. ‘I think she’s writing: “Happy Birthday to my darling Alice. Love from Mummy”. Yes, I’m sure she is.’

Alice was right: her wish was granted, although the wording in the card wasn’t quite the same. The following day, after I’d taken Alice to school, Kitty phoned from her mobile. ‘I need to ask you a favour,’ she said, against the sound of a train on the track. ‘Two favours, actually.’

‘Yes?’

‘Leah has dropped off a present and card for Alice at the offices. They’re in reception. I won’t have time to collect them and bring them to you today. I’m visiting a
child who had just been placed out of the area. Could you collect the present and card so Alice has them for her birthday?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll go as soon as we’ve finished.’

‘Thanks. And secondly could you have a little look at the present before you give it to Alice to make sure it’s suitable? I’ll leave it to your judgement, Cathy, and also how much of the card you read out. I don’t want Alice upset, so if mum is pouring out her heart could you edit it out when you read it, please? Fortunately Alice can’t read yet.’

‘Yes, of course, I understand. I’m just so pleased Leah has sent Alice something. It will mean the world to her.’

‘Yes, although it was Leah’s partner, Mike, who took the present and card into reception while Leah waited outside,’ Kitty said, mildly critical. ‘Leah still thinks the department is out to get her, so she won’t come into the building.’

‘It’s understandable, given everything that’s happened,’ I said, instinctively rallying to Leah’s defence. ‘And it’s nice that Leah has Mike’s support. Chris has Sharon’s.’

‘Agreed. Well, thanks for your help, Cathy. Have a great day on Sunday. I’ve put a card from me in the post for Alice.’

While Sharon’s presence and support of Chris was viewed in a positive light, Mike’s similar support of Leah had been interpreted as something lacking in Leah. I’d noted similar before and I wondered if a negative comment had been made by one of the first social workers involved in Alice’s case, before Alice came to
me, and the attitude had persisted. I was sure if it had been Sharon taking a gift for Alice into reception at the social services while Chris waited outside it wouldn’t have been commented on.

We had a fantastic day on Sunday – Alice’s birthday and also the day of her party. I had invited six of Alice’s friends from school and Alice wore a new cream dress and matching slipper-shoes. She looked and behaved liked an angel. It had been some years since I’d had an opportunity to provide a full-scale children’s birthday party, with jelly and ice cream, games, pass the parcel, and party bags to take home at the end. My children understandably considered themselves too old for all that, and the children we’d looked after recently, being that bit older too, had preferred bowling, football and themed parties; Paula had had a sleepover.

But suddenly age and maturity were forgotten when it came to joining in and having fun at Alice’s party. Lucy’s sophistication vanished as she competed with the little ones in trying to keep a balloon in the air without using her hands. We all laughed when Adrian, following Alice’s instructions, got down on his hands and knees so she could reach to blindfold him for a game of ‘pin the tail on the donkey’, while Paula, aged ten, was a little child again and joined in unreservedly with everything.

By the time the parents arrived to collect their children at 6.00 p.m. and we called our goodbyes from the doorstep we were all pleasantly exhausted. I knew Alice had had a lovely party and had liked her presents –
from us and her friends, but the present and card that was most treasured were of course those from her mother. The present, opened that morning, was a china doll in beautiful hand-knitted clothes, which Alice had tucked into her bed; and the large card with sparkling letters stood in place of honour on the mantelpiece in the sitting room. When Alice had opened the card that morning, following Kitty’s advice and my own intuition, I had read only some of the words: ‘To my beautiful daughter. Have a wonderful birthday. I’ll be thinking of you. All my love Mummy xxxxx’.

Once everyone had gone, we’d cleared up and Alice was in bed, I returned to the sitting room, where I took down the card and looked at it again. On the front in large glittering letters was ‘To My Darling Daughter’ with a glittering picture of a fairytale princess. I carefully opened the card and began re-reading the lines written on the left-hand flap of the card – those I hadn’t read aloud to Alice that morning. The words were very moving and I knew they would have been upsetting for Alice, but there was something else, something that had been niggling at me all day, but which I’d put on hold so I could concentrate on Alice’s birthday and party.

‘My dear Alice,’ Leah wrote, ‘I’m so very sorry I can’t be with you on your birthday. Please try and forgive me. I will be thinking of you as I think of you every minute of every day. I know I haven’t been a good mother and now I am being punished by losing you. I have no one to blame but myself. I should have been stronger, I should have said no. I did so well for four years and we were happy, but then I stupidly put him before you and now
I have lost you for good. I know you won’t make the same mistakes I did. You are a bright girl and I have been such a fool. If only I could turn back the clock and have another chance, but I can’t. If we don’t see each other again please try and find it within your heart to forgive me. I didn’t mean to cause you pain. I love you more than life itself. Take care my precious one. All my love Mummy xxxxx’

I read the last few lines again and then looked up and stared across the room with the card still open in my hand. What I didn’t like, and what had been bothering me all day, was the ring of finality at the end: the way Leah seemed to be saying goodbye for good – ‘If we don’t see each other again’. And while I recognized that the words could have been referring to the way Leah had lost Alice into care, or would lose her permanently through adoption, increasingly I was feeling that there could be another, more sinister interpretation, and that given Leah’s desperation she could be thinking of ending her life.