Innocent: Part 1 of 3. Cathy Glass
Читать онлайн книгу.
coming to me as an emergency placement. Stevie, fifteen (whose story I told in Finding Stevie), had left at the end of August and now, a few days later, at the start of September, I was preparing myself and the house for the arrival of these two little ones, who were certainly going to be distraught. Sometimes taking children into care can be done with the cooperation of their parents, voluntarily, which is known as ‘accommodated’ or a Section 20. It’s usually considered the better option, as the parents retain legal responsibility for their children and the process is less distressing for all involved. But that couldn’t happen here, so the social services had gone to court that morning to ask the judge for a care order to remove the children from home and bring them to me.
Edith, my supervising social worker, had telephoned at 11 a.m. to tell me to expect the children if the care order was granted. The reason for the social services’ application was that one of the children (she didn’t know which one) had suffered what was thought to be a non-accidental injury. That meant that someone – presumably one or both of the parents – had harmed the child. Apart from this and their ages, Edith didn’t have any more details. I would learn more when their social worker brought the children to me later today.
As soon as I’d finished speaking to Edith I’d gone into the loft and brought down all the early-years equipment I’d stored away there, including a cot, pushchair, car seats and boxes full of toys, all of which I’d wrapped in polythene to keep them clean after the last time I’d used them many years before. I’d struggled to get them down and to assemble the cot on my own, but my family were all out and I didn’t dare leave it until they returned in the evening. Adrian, aged twenty-four, and Lucy, twenty-two, were at work, and Paula, twenty, was at college. I was a single parent, my husband having run off with a younger work colleague when the children were little. Very upsetting at the time but history now.
Having made up the bed and cot with fresh linen, I set a toy box at the far end of the room and came out. Hopefully Molly and Kit’s parents would feel up to packing some of their children’s clothes and toys, as it would help them settle with me to have familiar things around them when everything else in their lives had changed.
Downstairs, I quickly made a sandwich lunch, which I ate at the table with my mobile phone beside me. I was expecting Edith or the children’s social worker to phone at any moment – as soon as the care order had been granted and they’d left court. Of course, there was a chance the order wouldn’t be granted. If so, then preparing the room would have all been for nothing. It had happened to me in the past – I’d been put on standby to receive a child or children, and plans had changed at the last minute, which is why foster carers have to be flexible. It’s unusual for a care order not to be granted, but what happens more often is that a relative steps in at the last minute to look after the children so they don’t have to go to a foster carer they don’t know.
I’d just finished eating my sandwich when my mobile rang.
‘Cathy Glass?’ a female voice asked.
‘Yes, speaking.’ I could hear traffic noise in the background.
‘It’s Tess Baldwin, social worker for Molly and Kit. I believe Edith spoke to you this morning and you’re expecting Kit and Molly.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Their room is ready.’
‘Good. We’re on our way to collect them. We should be with you by five o’clock. The children have never been away from home before so are likely to be very upset.’
‘Poor dears.’ My heart clenched. ‘I don’t have any information about them other than their ages.’
‘I’ll explain more when I see you. The family only came to the notice of the social services on Monday. The decision to remove the children was made by us yesterday afternoon.’ It was only Thursday now, which showed just how urgent they considered it to be to bring the children to a place of safety.
I had a couple of hours before Molly and Kit arrived. I texted Adrian, Lucy and Paula to let them know the children were coming so it wouldn’t be a complete surprise. I then went quickly into the High Street where I bought a trainer cup, nappies and baby wipes for Kit (I assumed he was still in nappies), and some snack food that might tempt them both if they were too upset to eat – for example, corn and carrot sticks, little packets of dried fruit and fromage frais in brightly decorated pots. If the children didn’t come with their own clothes, I’d be back here tomorrow to buy them what they needed. We’d get by tonight with the spares I kept in the ottoman in my bedroom. I had most sizes, from newborn to teens, all washed and pressed and ready for emergency use.
An hour later I was home again and, having unpacked the shopping, I began to make a cottage pie for dinner later. There wouldn’t be much time once the social worker arrived with Kit and Molly, and most children enjoy cottage pie. I didn’t know yet if Kit and Molly had any special dietary requirements, allergies or special needs, and it would be something I’d ask Tess when they arrived. If this had been a planned move, I would normally have received background information like this in advance of the children arriving, but this was an emergency, so everything was happening quickly.
Shortly after four o’clock my phone rang and it was Tess, the children’s social worker. ‘We’re in the car with the children,’ she said. ‘We should be with you in about twenty minutes. Molly will need a change of clothes, she’s just wet herself.’
‘I’ll have some ready,’ I said. ‘Tell her not to worry.’ I knew how children fretted if they had an accident. It wasn’t surprising she’d wet herself, given the trauma of being taken from home.
‘See you shortly,’ Tess said, and ended the call.
I went straight upstairs to my bedroom where I searched through the ottoman until I found a new packet of pants marked ‘Age 3–4 Years’, and a pair of jogging bottoms and matching top that should fit Molly. I took them into the children’s bedroom and returned downstairs, my heart thumping loudly from nervous anticipation.
Waiting for a new child or children to arrive is always nerve-racking for the foster carer, regardless of how many times they’ve done it before. We worry if the children will like and trust us enough to help them, if we can meet their needs and work with their family – very important. Now I had the added challenge of fostering not one child but two, who were both very young. I hadn’t fostered little ones in a long while. As a specialist foster carer with lots of experience, I was usually asked to look after older children with challenging behaviour, who, to be honest, I felt more confident in dealing with. Would I remember what to do with two little ones?
My crisis of confidence continued until the doorbell rang, when common sense and instinct kicked in. I answered it with a bright smile. ‘Hello, I’m Cathy. Come in.’
Two female social workers stood before me, each carrying a child.
‘I’m Tess, and this is Molly,’ Tess said, introducing the child she was holding. ‘And this is my colleague Preeta, with Kit.’
‘Hello,’ Preeta said as they came in.
I smiled at both children. They looked petrified – large eyes stared out from pale faces and they clung desperately to their social workers. Kit had a plaster cast on his left arm, his cheeks were bruised and there was a red bump on his forehead. ‘Hello, love,’ I said to him, and swallowed hard.
He drew back from me further into Preeta’s shoulder.
‘I’ve put some toys in the living room,’ I said, and led the way down the hall, although I guessed it would be a long time before either child felt like playing. Their little sombre faces suggested they were very close to tears.
In the living room, Preeta sat on the sofa with Kit on her lap, still clinging desperately to her. Tess put Molly down. The child grabbed her hand for comfort. ‘It might be a good idea if you changed her now,’ Tess said to me. ‘She’s sopping wet, and can I use your bathroom to wash my hands?’
‘Yes, of course. This