Where Has Mummy Gone?. Cathy Glass
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But I was saddened to hear yet another example of the impoverished life Melody and her mother had led. No one should have to keep their clothes on to keep them warm at night.
I always give the child I’m fostering privacy whenever possible. Melody was of an age when she could dress and undress herself, so I waited on the landing while she changed into her pyjamas, as I had done when she’d had a bath. Once she was ready I went into her bedroom, thinking how nice it would be for her to climb into a comfortable, warm bed rather than the old mattress on a cold floor she’d been used to, but she didn’t get in. ‘I can’t go to bed here,’ she said anxiously. ‘My mum needs me.’
‘You’ll see her tomorrow,’ I reassured her. ‘Please try not to worry. She’ll be fine. I expect she’ll be going to bed soon too.’ Clearly I didn’t know what Melody’s mother was doing, but it wouldn’t help Melody to keep fretting about her.
‘She’s no good by herself,’ Melody said, still not getting in. ‘She needs me to tell her what to do.’
‘Melody, love, I know you’re missing your mother and she will be missing you, but she’s an adult. She can take care of herself.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ Melody blurted, her anger and concern rising. ‘She forgets things. I have to be there to tell her what she needs and where things are.’
I paused. ‘Is that when she’s been drinking or taking drugs?’ I asked gently. Aware that her mother had a history of drug and alcohol abuse, this seemed the most likely explanation. Of course she would be ‘forgetful’ if she was under the influence of a substance.
‘Sometimes, but not always,’ Melody replied and then stopped, again realizing she’d probably said too much. Many children I’ve fostered have been warned by their parents not to disclose their home life to their foster carer or social worker. It can be very confusing for the child. Before saying anything, they have to sift through all the information they carry and work out what they can or can’t say. ‘Mum can remember some things, but other times she needs my help,’ Melody said carefully, and then she teared up.
‘Oh, love, don’t upset yourself. Come here.’ I put my arms around her and she allowed me to hold her close. ‘I do understand how you feel, honestly I do. I’ve looked after children before who’ve felt just as you do. They worry about their parents, and that they won’t be able to cope without them. Then, when they start seeing them regularly at contact, they find they’re managing fine without them. Your mother will be missing you, but believe me she can look after herself.’
How those words would come back to haunt me.
Chapter Four
Melody finally went to sleep shortly before nine o’clock, cuddling the teddy bear I’d given to her and with me sitting on her bed, stroking her forehead. Bless her. I felt so sorry for her. I was sure she was a good kid who was badly missing her mother. Yes, she was feisty, streetwise, could become angry at times and would need firm boundaries, but I felt positive that once she’d settled I could help her to a better life, which is what fostering is all about. Because it was unlikely Melody could return to her mother, the social services would try to find a suitable relative to look after her as the first option. They are called kinship carers and are considered the next best option if a child can’t be looked after by their own parents. If there wasn’t a suitable relative then she would be matched with a long-term foster carer, and if that happened it was possible I might be considered, but that was all in the future.
Once I was sure Melody was in a deep sleep, I moved quietly away from her bed and, turning the light down low, came out of her bedroom. I left the door ajar so I could easily hear her if she was restless in the night. I checked that Paula, Lucy and Adrian were taking turns in the bathroom. Even at their ages they still needed the occasional reminder to make sure they were in bed at a reasonable time. Some evenings, as with this evening, they were mostly in their bedrooms, doing their homework or relaxing, but at other times, especially at the weekends, they would all be downstairs in the living room, talking, playing a board game or watching television. I felt it was easier for a new child to relax and settle in if my family carried on as normal. I’d see them later before they went to bed, but now I went downstairs to write up my log notes.
All foster carers in the UK are required to keep a daily record of the child or children they are looking after. This includes appointments, the child’s health and wellbeing, education, significant events and any disclosures the child may make about their past. As well as charting the child’s progress, it can act as an aide-mémoire for the foster carer if asked about a specific day. When the child leaves, this record is placed on file at the social services. I wrote objectively and, where appropriate, verbatim about Melody’s arrival and her first day with us – about a page, which I secured in my fostering folder and returned to the lockable drawer in the front room.
I checked on Melody – she was fast asleep – and then as Adrian, Lucy and Paula came downstairs I spent some time talking to them before they went to bed. By 10.30 p.m. everyone was asleep and I put Toscha in her bed for the night and went up myself, again checking on Melody before I got into bed.
I never sleep well when there is a new child in the house. I’m half listening out in case they wake, frightened, not knowing where they are and in need of reassurance. But despite my restlessness and looking in on Melody three times, she slept very well, and I had to wake her at 7 a.m. to get ready for school.
‘Not going,’ she said as I opened her bedroom curtains to let in some light. ‘I need to go home and get my mum up.’
‘Melody, your mother will be able to get herself up, love. You’ll see her later at the Family Centre. Now get dressed, please. I want to go into school early today so I can buy you a new school uniform.’ She reluctantly clambered out of bed. ‘You can wear these for now,’ I said, handing her the fresh clothes I’d taken from my store.
‘Not more clean clothes!’ she sighed. ‘You must like washing.’
I smiled. She could be so quaint and old-fashioned with her remarks – an old head on young shoulders – but then of course she’d had to grow up quickly and take care of herself, living with her mother.
‘The washing machine does it,’ I said.
‘My mum and me had to go to the launderette.’
‘Yes, many people do that.’ I left her to get dressed.
Melody wasn’t used to a routine or having to leave the house on time to go to school, because she’d hardly ever gone to school, so I had to chivvy her along. She didn’t even know the name of her school, let alone where it was. I explained it was on the other side of town – about a thirty-minute drive in the traffic. Adrian, Lucy and Paula were of an age where they went to school by themselves, meeting friends along the way. Melody saw them briefly at breakfast and passed them on the landing and in the hall as we all got ready to leave. We left first, calling ‘goodbye’ and ‘see you later’ as we went.
‘What’s the time?’ Melody asked, bleary-eyed despite a wash, as we stepped outside into the cold morning air.
‘Eight o’clock. I can teach you the time if you like.’
‘Why?’
‘So you’re not late.’
Having never had to be anywhere regularly, punctuality must have been a bit of an alien concept to her. She shrugged and climbed into the back of the car, and I showed her how to fasten her seatbelt, closed her car door and got into the driver’s seat.
‘My mum knows the time,’ Melody said as I pulled away.
‘Good. Adults usually do.’
‘She’s still late, though,