A Last Kiss for Mummy: A teenage mum, a tiny infant, a desperate decision. Casey Watson
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to Hannah’s face. But Hannah just smiled. Like Emma, she was blonde, with her hair corralled into a neat ponytail, and perhaps in her late twenties, I guessed. She had the no-nonsense air of a capable big sister, and I was sad that so far she and Emma obviously hadn’t bonded. Not that they didn’t have a bit of repartee going on. Or a semblance of it, at least – though maybe it wasn’t that. Perhaps it was all one-way traffic on Hannah’s part to try and jolly Emma on. I hoped their lack of closeness wouldn’t affect how things played out.
‘Ah, I see you’re on form today, Emma,’ she said mildly. ‘That’s good. I think I’d start to worry if you actually let up a bit!’ She began unbuttoning her coat, a fur-trimmed khaki parka. ‘I would properly introduce myself,’ she said to me, ‘but I see my reputation precedes me!’
It was an interesting dynamic and I was anxious to take it in. So while Hannah began outlining her role and how she and Maggie would work together, I kept an eye on Emma too, and what she was doing. And what she was doing was calmly getting on with the business of feeding Roman, holding him snugly in her left arm while reaching into her bag to retrieve his bottle.
‘Do you have a microwave?’ she asked me politely, when there was a lull in the conversation.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, pointing out where to find it in the kitchen. I then watched as she stood up and, with Roman still in her arms, went and used it, returning and sitting down again with baby and bottle and giving him his feed.
‘Right,’ she said amiably, as the tiny child began sucking lustily on the warmed milk. ‘Where were we? Oh, yes, the kiddie collector was about to tell you how best to spy on me, was that it?’ She met Hannah’s eye then. ‘Carry on.’
All very curious. And should alarm bells have been ringing? I had absolutely no idea.
Emma’s possessions – which had been lugged in by her and Roman’s long-suffering social workers – came in four bulging and already torn black bin liners. This was nothing new to me; in my time I’d seen it all. Some kids came with almost nothing and some with loads of possessions, and it was often the ones who’d been the longest in care who had the most stuff to lug about. Similarly, some children had a variety of robust cases, while others – as in this case – just had good old bin bags. But in those cases you expected to find them filled with rags and rubbish – and invariably you weren’t disappointed.
It was always a bit of a guessing game when new children came to stay as to what their possessions might be. Some had plenty of clothes, shoes and trainers, favourite toys, games and books, right down to nightwear and their own toiletries and toothbrush. Others had barely more than the clothes they stood up in. No toys, no nice things, not even a single family photo, and when that happened it really broke my heart. I just wanted to scoop them up and promise them the world, though, ironically, that was usually the last thing I could do. These tended to be the kids that had been profoundly damaged by the adults around them, and the sad fact was that the children who needed the most loving always seemed to be the ones who needed you to keep your distance – in the early days, at least, until they’d begun the lengthy process of learning to trust again.
Emma and Roman, thankfully, didn’t seem to be in this category. Although, judging from my first impressions, Emma had plenty of emotional issues to overcome, she wasn’t in need when it came to material possessions. ‘Good grief!’ I said, once we’d seen off Maggie and Hannah. ‘What on earth have you got in all these?’
She laughed as we hefted a pair each up the stairs, which was good to hear. Now we were alone – and unscrutinised – she seemed in better spirits. ‘Oh, just my clothes and make-up, and my CD player, and Roman’s stuff and everything. Tell you what,’ she said conversationally, ‘social services may be arseholes, but they’ve spent loads on me. Literally. Like, loads.’
That was true enough. We’d already taken delivery of a pristine new cot, which Mike had toiled to assemble the night before Emma came. But I was struck by her choice of language for them – and not in a good way. I was about to answer, not least to pull her up on her choice of words, when she turned, having reached the top of the stairs. ‘And they’re going to buy me a laptop – can you believe it? Long as I go back to school, that is. Can you believe that?’
I could believe that, of course, because, these days, a computer was fast becoming more than an optional extra; kids were expected to produce their school assignments at a keyboard more and more, not to mention use the internet for research. Which meant disadvantaged kids – and Emma was very much in that category – were at more of a disadvantage than they’d been in many, many years, compared with kids from affluent middle-class homes.
Emma pouted then. ‘But that’s not going to be for ages, is it? I wish they’d let me have one now. I hate being so much out of touch with everyone.’
I understood that too. So much teenage communication was via computers that I could see how isolated not having one must make her feel. Not that I wasn’t all for policing the use of them, particularly for the kids we looked after, because you could access so much stuff that no kid should ever see.
‘I know,’ I said, gesturing that she should go into the beige bedroom, which was all set now, with its cheerful new coordinating duvet set. ‘But it’ll be sooner than you think – and you really should go back to school. And, in the meantime, I have a laptop that I’m happy to let you borrow – you just have to ask me. Just one thing …’
I paused then and, noticing the sudden silence, Emma turned. ‘The language,’ I said mildly. ‘Now you’re with us you’re going to have to mind your tongue a bit. I don’t know what experiences you’ve had with Hannah and Maggie, obviously, but, well, social services are lots of things, but not what you called them.’
Emma looked at me, assessing me, and with a look of slight confusion. I grinned at her. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m not shocked. I’m used to teenagers – I’ve brought up two of my own, don’t forget. And we’ll treat you just as if you were one of our own, as well, which means that even if you swear when you’re out and about we don’t want to hear it at home, okay?’
Emma was the one looking shocked now. ‘But I didn’t swear, did I?’
I nodded. ‘Sweetheart,’ I said mildly, ‘you called social services “arseholes”, which in my book is swearing. And, colourful as it may be, it’s not something I like to hear from a young lady. I’m not a prude but I just don’t think it sounds very nice – particularly coming from a young mum.’
I was surprised and pleased to see that she had the grace to look ashamed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t even realise. I’m just that used to it. I’ll try not to do it again, promise.’
I was touched. After all her aggressive bluster earlier, this was quite a contrast, and once again I was struck by her child-like vulnerability. And not even child-like – she was a child, one that had been thrust into the world of adults. And yet without any adult family to take care of her. I often wondered how it was that the kids we took in so often seemed to have absolutely no one to love them. And equally often I reminded myself that it was precisely the reason why they came to us. Because there was no one else willing to take them in. No indulgent auntie, no older sibling, no grandparents, no nothing. Emma was an only daughter, born to an only daughter – one who’d fallen out with her mother before Emma had even been born. It was all so very sad. And now there was Roman, equally lacking a wider family … I mentally shook myself. Mustn’t go there, Casey.
I pulled open the wardrobe doors while Emma began busying herself taking CDs from one of the bags. These kids and their CDs – music was pretty much all digital now, as far as I was aware, but these kids seemed to pride themselves on being ‘old school’, in the same way as we’d hung on to our ‘authentic’ LPs, distrusting the dawning of the digital disc.
Bless her, I thought, as