The Cast-Off Kids (12 page)

‘Oh no,’ I said to Edie. ‘I hope they haven’t ruined Frank’s cabbages or knocked over his tomato plants, or—’

‘It’s all right,’ she reassured me. ‘Frank will be able to sort them all out.’

We stood in the open doorway as the children picked up the toys, some more carefully than others. ‘Sorry, Frank . . . sorry, Frank,’ they each said in turn. ‘Sorry, Frank . .
.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’

Just then I heard a giggle from Edie, standing next to me. We looked at each other and both broke into fits of laughter. What a lovely couple they were.

They continued to put up with everything our kids threw at them, almost literally. Frank was always throwing balls back, or cardboard tubes, or arrows with rubber suckers on the ends, or even
stray shoes that flew off when the children kicked.

But Edie and Frank were never ruffled by anything our kids did. They were the best neighbours ever, and the kids loved them as much as we did.

We felt we’d really landed on our feet . . . for now, anyway.

At about this time, there was a bit of trouble in Daisy’s class at school. I can’t remember what it was about, but I found out later that Daisy had been in the
wrong place when it had happened, and was one of the suspects who’d had to go and see the headteacher and be questioned about it.

I remember that coming out of school that afternoon she had her head down and didn’t say a word. When we got home, the children ran upstairs to change into their play clothes and went down
to the playroom while I started to make their tea. It wasn’t until I called them all to wash their hands and come to the table that I realised Daisy was missing.

‘Does anybody know where Daisy is?’ I asked.

But no one had seen her since we’d all arrived home. So, I put everything to keep warm while the kids and I searched the house. ‘Daisy, Daisy, where are you?’ they yelled.

I began to feel quite anxious. She wasn’t in her bedroom, nor in the upstairs bathroom. We looked everywhere, inside and out, but we couldn’t find her.

I felt the panic rising inside me. What if she had run away . . . or someone had taken her? I was horrified as I started to imagine things. I had no idea how long she’d been gone. But I
knew I had to be practical, so I tried to think back. Was I sure she had come into the house with the rest of us?
Yes
, I thought, but then I began to doubt myself.

I knew what I had to do.

‘Hello, John,’ I said to Daisy’s social worker on the phone. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but we can’t find Daisy. I’m pretty sure she came in with us
when we got back from school. But the kids and I have searched the whole house and we can’t find her anywhere.’

‘I’ll be right there,’ he said. ‘Better give the police a call, just to alert them, in case something has happened.’

So I dialled 999 and explained the situation, giving a description of Daisy, just in case.

As soon as John arrived, followed by a policewoman a couple of minutes later, we started a new and more methodical search of the whole house. First downstairs and then on the first floor and
finally the attic rooms. As we worked our way along the corridor where most of the children’s bedrooms were, John stopped.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘Oh, that’s just the airing cupboard,’ I said.

‘Have you looked in here?’

‘No. But it’s tiny inside.’

John opened the door, and there was Daisy, blinking her eyes in the brightness of the light, standing in front of the linen-stacked shelves. She must have been in there on her own, in the dark,
for at least three hours by then.

‘What are you doing in there, Daise?’ I asked her.

‘Hiding,’ she said with a sniffle.

Then I saw the tear-stains down her cheeks. She must have been crying silently and we hadn’t known. I felt dreadful. I stepped forward and gave her a long hug. She didn’t hug me back
– just hung her arms limply by her sides. But I knew she needed this. ‘I don’t know what you’re hiding from, sweetheart, but you don’t need to hide from me, from any
of us. Nothing can be so bad that you need to hide from me.’ I stroked her short, blond hair.

She caught sight of the policewoman and started crying afresh.

‘It’s OK, Daisy,’ said John. The policewoman has come to help us find you and to see that you’re all right. But you’re not in any trouble with the police, or anyone
at all.’

She stopped sobbing and said, ‘Thank you,’ in a weak voice.

John and the policewoman left, and I shooed all the others off to the playroom for a few minutes, so that I could talk to Daisy.

‘So why were you hiding, sweetheart?’ I asked her.

‘I had to go and see the headteacher,’ she said, the tears streaming down her face again. ‘But I didn’t do it.’ She looked so anxious, as if afraid I would think
badly of her. Just the fact that she’d even been suspected of something was enough for her.

‘I’m sure you didn’t, Daise. You’re always so good at doing the right things. So there’s no need to worry about it.’ I hugged her again, and this time she
half-hugged me back.

‘You must be hungry,’ I said. ‘Go and wash your hands and I’ll call the others to come back to the kitchen. Then you can all have your tea. Afterwards, Mike will look
after everyone else and you can come and sit with me in the sitting room and tell me all about it. Will that be all right?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But you won’t be cross with me?’

‘No, sweetheart. I promise I won’t be cross with you. I’m sure that whatever it was, it must have been a misunderstanding . . . and we can put that right.’

Poor Daisy. She was so eager to please, so conscientious, that I knew she couldn’t have been the one who had done whatever it was. And when I went up to the school the next day with her, I
was right. To her great relief, the culprit had been found out and owned up, so it all turned out fine in the end.

As foster parents, we had some flexibility about the children, especially if it was a full care order, but the one and only stipulation that had been made when Daisy and Paul
came into our care was how Daisy wore her hair. Nothing about their education, their accommodation, food, religion or any other major concerns; just that we were not to change Daisy’s
hair.

When she first arrived, her thick blond hair had been cut in a short, angular style – so severe it was almost geometric and, in my opinion, not at all suitable for a young child.

‘Why can’t I have pretty hair?’ she asked me one day. ‘Can I grow it longer, like Sheena’s?’

‘I wish I could say yes, Daisy. But when you first came here, your mummy sent a message to say that you must always keep the same hairstyle you had when you arrived.’

‘I don’t have a mummy,’ she said, with a sad face.

‘You did have a mummy, but you don’t remember her. She left when you were one.’

‘She’s never been to see me, so she won’t know if I grow it longer,’ she reasoned, pleading with me.

‘Well . . .’

‘Please.’ She saw I was wavering. ‘Just a bit longer?’

Who would ever know
? I thought. So we allowed it to grow down to her shoulders. She loved being able to swing her head and make her hair move through the air.

But the next time John, their social worker, came, he noticed the difference.

‘You are aware that Daisy’s mother wanted her hair to be kept the same?’

‘Yes, I know, but Daisy was so desperate to grow it a bit, like the other girls at school; so I thought it wouldn’t do any harm. She’s so thrilled with it.’

‘I’m afraid it will have to be cut,’ he insisted.

So I had to take her to the hairdressers and cut it back to how it was. She was distraught, and I was livid – exasperated that a mother who never visited or took any interest in her child,
not even one birthday card, should exert such control over her, presumably until she became an adult. The poor child only wanted to be like her friends.

L
ate one morning I was doing some ironing in the kitchen, when the doorbell rang. I assumed it must be Edie or Frank, but no. When I opened the
door, it was the milkman standing there.

‘Hello, Mrs Merry.’

‘Hello. I left a note out for you,’ I said.

‘Yes, I found it.’ He waved it at me.

‘You’re running later than usual aren’t you? I hope nothing’s wrong?’

‘Not with me, no. But there was quite a palaver at one of the old terraced houses in Fisher Street this morning. I wondered if you’d heard anything, you being a foster carer and
all?’

‘No . . . why? What happened?’

‘You’re not putting the kettle on, are you?’ he asked me, taking his cap off to wipe his brow. I could tell that behind his smile he was feeling distressed and wanted somebody
to talk to.

I nodded. ‘Come on in. You can tell me all about it.’

We sat down at the table with our mugs of coffee and he took a few sips before telling me his tale.

‘Well, I deliver to most of the houses in Fisher Street, so I was doing my round and stopped my float outside number nineteen, trying to decide whether to leave any milk there. It’s
a single woman with three small children who lives there, and she hasn’t paid her bill for three weeks now. It’s supposed to be weekly, like everyone else. I would have missed her out
till she paid up . . . but I knew the little ones would need their milk.’ He paused and I nodded.

‘So, I went and knocked on the door to ask for my payment, but there was no answer, as usual. I was just turning to go and get a couple of pints to leave on the doorstep to tide them over
when I heard a baby crying loudly inside. Then I noticed the old net curtain in the front window twitching, and a little face appearing. Very pale and thin.’

‘Oh,’ I gasped. ‘One of the children?’

‘Yes, the eldest – a girl. She couldn’t have been more than five or six. She tapped the window and said something, but I couldn’t hear. So she pressed her face to the
window and shouted, “Can we have some milk for the baby?” I said, “No,” in a loud voice. “Not until I talk to your mummy. Can you please go and get her for me? I need
to speak to her.” She shook her head. “Mummy’s not here,” she shouted. “Well, she’s got to be there with you.” She shook her head sadly. “No,
she’s not.” I felt sorry for her.’

‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘That sounds bad. What did you do?’

‘I asked her if she could open the front door and she said “No.” So I said “What about the back door?” and she said “I’ll try.” So I went down to
the end of the terrace and round to the passage along the backs. I counted down to the right house and opened the gate. It was a glazed door, so I could see the little girl standing on a chair,
fiddling with the key in the lock. Finally she managed to turn it.’

‘Thank goodness. Were the children all right?’

‘Just about,’ he said. ‘But the baby was desperately hungry. I could see that his sisters had been trying to feed him with a bottle of water, but obviously that didn’t
stop him crying with hunger. So I went out the front way to the float and brought in a couple of pints. We boiled a small panful up on the stove. Then I let it cool for a bit.’

‘Where was their mother? Why wasn’t she there?’ I was imagining all sorts of things. Perhaps she’d fallen ill, or had collapsed and died upstairs . . .

‘I asked the girl and she frowned, as if she wasn’t sure whether she was allowed to say anything. “I think you’d better tell me,” I said. “So that I can help
you.” Then she told me her mummy had gone out to a party. Apparently, she often did that, and she usually came back in the morning. I asked her “Was it last night that she went
out?” “No. I don’t think so. I can’t remember,” she said. I could see she was worried. I asked if it was the day before, and she said she didn’t know.’

‘So, what did you do?’ I asked him.

‘Well, first of all I wanted to make sure the baby could have some milk. She told me he was nearly a year old, although he looked smaller. So I knew he’d be OK with ordinary milk. I
chatted with her a bit, sitting with her sister on the mismatched kitchen chairs. Then, when the milk was just right, I poured some into the bottle and started to feed the baby.

‘ “I can feed him if you like,” she said, so I passed him over to her and went to phone the police. They were there in five minutes. They spoke to one of the neighbours, who
didn’t seem very happy about the situation.’

‘I should think not! So what happened to them? Did they track down the mother?’

‘No. They said they would sort her out later. First they had to take the children into care. So they put them into the squad car and off they went.’

‘What a morning!’ I sighed. ‘No wonder you’re so late finishing your round.’

‘Yes, I left you till last, because I thought you might know something.’

‘Not yet,’ I smiled. ‘There are other foster carers in Ashbridge too, I’m sure. So I might never find out.’

‘Oh.’ He looked disappointed.

‘Give me your phone number,’ I told him. ‘And I’ll let you know if anything happens.’

‘Thanks. I’d like to know they’re all right.’

An hour later, as I watched my kids tucking into their lunch, I couldn’t help but think back to what the poor worried milkman had told me.

During the past week we’d had two departures. A short-stay toddler had gone back to his mother, and our longest-stay child, nine-year-old Chrissy, had to leave as well. After so many years
with us, it was a real wrench to see her go. Her parents had finally got divorced and Social Services decided she should go and live with her mother. We had to break the news to her and when we
told her she burst into tears.

‘I don’t want to go,’ she wailed. ‘I want to stay here. This is my home.’

‘I know, sweetheart.’ I put my arm around her shaking shoulders. ‘We don’t want you to go either. But it’s not our decision.’

‘Do I have to go?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

‘Why?’ She looked from Mike to me with her beautiful, big blue eyes, silently pleading with us. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘I wish we could keep you with us . . .’ I soothed her. ‘But we’re not allowed.’