Too Scared to Tell. Cathy Glass
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He said the mark on his cheek was from one of his uncles, who had slapped him that morning for not doing as he was told. The social services had tried to contact his mother without success, so, not wanting Oskar to return home, they had applied to the court for an emergency protection order to bring him into care temporarily. At the same time, I’d received a phone call from my supervising social worker, Edith, putting me on standby to receive Oskar if the court order was granted. Edith had phoned again at midday to say the order had been granted and I should go to Oskar’s school at three o’clock to collect him.
It was now nearly 4.15 p.m. and most of the other children had gone home. I was with Miss Jordan in her classroom while Oskar, his social worker, the Headmistress and the uncle who’d arrived to collect him were in another room. Also with them was a teaching assistant who worked at the school and was now acting as an impromptu translator for the uncle. It was pure luck she spoke his language, having come to the UK from the same country many years before. I’d said goodbye to my previous foster children, Molly and Kit, in very unhappy circumstances a few days before. (I tell their story in Innocent.) Aware that foster carers are in short supply and my spare room never stayed empty for long, I’d given it a thorough clean and prepared it for the next child virtually straight away.
It’s a strange feeling when a child or children you’ve loved and cared for leave, like a mini bereavement. But as a foster carer you have to be brave and stoical and remind yourself you have done your best and that the children are now able to return home or go to a loving adoptive family so they can move on with their lives. While each child comes with a different story, one thing they all have in common is that they need loads of love, understanding, kindness and reassurance. The last of which Miss Jordan needed too.
She seemed a bit happier now I’d told her that Oskar’s social worker was sure to arrange contact so he could see his mother. As we talked, waiting for his social worker to finish the meeting in the room next door, my mobile rang. It was Edith, my supervising social worker. ‘I’d better take this,’ I said to Miss Jordan.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Have you got Oskar yet?’ Edith asked.
‘I’m at his school now. His social worker is with him. Shall I call you once I’m home?’
‘Yes. Leave a voicemail message if I don’t pick up and I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’
‘OK.’ Sometimes Edith updated me, but more often I updated her. As a supervising social worker (SSW) her role was to monitor, support, advise and guide the foster carers she was responsible for in all aspects of fostering.
Just as I ended the call and returned my phone to my bag, the classroom door opened and a tallish man in his thirties with fair hair came in with a small boy beside him.
‘Oskar, love,’ Miss Jordan said, immediately standing and going to him.
I went over too.
‘I’m Andrew Holmes, Oskar’s social worker,’ the man said to me. He must have already met Erica Jordan.
‘Cathy Glass, foster carer,’ I said, smiling at Oskar.
‘This is the lady I told you about,’ Andrew explained to him.
‘Hello, Oskar,’ I said gently, my heart going out to him. He was pale, slightly built, small for his age and his eyes were red from crying. He looked at me, petrified. The bruise on his cheek was even more pronounced against his pallid skin.
‘Are you OK, Oskar?’ Miss Jordan asked, squatting down in front of him so she was at his height. He gave a small nod, wide-eyed and anxious.
‘Cathy is going to look after you for a few days until your mummy gets back,’ she said, which wasn’t strictly true and made it sound as though he would automatically be returned to his mother when she reappeared. I knew Miss Jordan was trying her best to comfort him, but I’d learnt from years of fostering that we have to be careful what we tell children and not give them false hope.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said to him, straightening.
‘Will Oskar be coming to school tomorrow?’ I checked with his social worker. It was usual for a child to go to school the day after coming into care, as it offered some routine and familiarity.
‘Yes. I don’t see why not,’ Andrew replied.
‘You’ll see your teacher in the morning,’ I told Oskar, with another reassuring smile. He stared back at me, lost and bewildered.
‘Mr Nowak, the man who came to collect Oskar, says he is able to contact Oskar’s mother,’ Andrew said to me and Miss Jordan. ‘He’s going to call her and ask her to phone me. Once I’ve spoken to her, I’ll have a better understanding of what the situation is at home.’
‘Will Oskar be seeing his uncles?’ I asked. I needed to know in case one of them approached me at the school gates.
‘Not until I’ve spoken to his mother and got a clearer picture of the set-up at home,’ Andrew said. ‘As far as I can tell, none of the “uncles” is related to Oskar and no one – apart from his mother – is responsible for him.’
That in itself was worrying and was news to Miss Jordan. ‘I had assumed they were real uncles,’ she said, obviously concerned. ‘I’m sure that’s what his mother said when she first registered him.’
Andrew gave a non-committal nod, then said to me, ‘I’ll try to get some of Oskar’s clothes, but at present he’s just got what he’s wearing.’ This isn’t unusual. More often than not, if it’s an emergency placement, the child arrives with what they have on.
‘I’ve got plenty of spares,’ I said.
‘His coat is here,’ Miss Jordan said, and she crossed the classroom to fetch it from a peg.
‘Am I going now?’ Oskar asked in a small voice.
‘Yes, shortly,’ Andrew said. Then to me, ‘I’ll let you have the placement forms as soon as they’re ready.’ These usually came ahead of the child or with them if the placement was planned in advance, but as this was an emergency there hadn’t been time. ‘As far as Mr Nowak is aware, Oskar hasn’t got any allergies and there are no special dietary or cultural needs,’ he added. This type of information would have been included in the placement forms. ‘Hopefully I’ll know more once I’ve spoken to Oskar’s mother.’
‘All right,’ I said. Having so little information wasn’t unheard of, but it was worrying, as I could easily miss something vital while looking after Oskar. ‘He’s not on any medication? Inhalers for asthma?’ I asked.
‘Not as far as we know,’ Andrew replied.
‘None has been brought into school,’ Miss Jordan confirmed as she helped Oskar into his coat.
‘Are you my mummy now?’ Oskar asked his teacher, his bottom lip trembling. Immediately she teared up.
‘Miss Jordan is your teacher,’ I said gently. ‘I’m your foster carer. I’m going to look after you for a while in my house. It’s a short ride in my car. You’ll have your own bedroom and my grown-up children will help you too. We also have a cat. Do you like cats?’
He gave a small nod.
‘Great. I know he’s going to like you.’
‘I’ll phone you tomorrow,’ Andrew said to me.
I said goodbye to him and Miss Jordan, and Oskar and I left the classroom. I was still holding his hand and kept talking to him positively as we made our way out of the school. Bless him – six years old, and only in the country a few months, and he was now coming to live with me in a ‘strange house’, as Miss Jordan had put it. I felt his hand tighten in mine. Although I was doing my best to comfort and reassure him, I knew how lost and alone he must feel.
It was now