Читать книгу Angels in Our Hearts: A moving collection of true fostering stories - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 10

With the familiar pips of the BBC News at Ten’s closing music pulsing away in the background, I secure the dead bolt on the back door and walk back through the kitchen. My eyes stray to the smiley face etched onto one of the cupboard doors – a legacy of three-year-old Alfie – then I go through to our ‘lived-in’ lounge, where a carefully placed coffee table fails to conceal a lingering pink glow on the carpet: fuchsia nail varnish, courtesy of Amy.

Amy was fifteen years old when she arrived as an emergency placement the previous year, staying with us for four weeks. By the time she left we were more or less buddies (what’s a few cracked vases and a broken television between friends?), although her arrival and the ensuing days while she acclimatised to the sobering reality of living in a cannabis-free house were, to use social services’ mild description, ‘challenging’.

But I don’t mind that much if our home is less than perfect. Not really. Dimming the lights on our weathered but cosy rooms, I climb the stairs knowing that I wouldn’t have it any other way. Smudges on the window panes or scribbles on walls can be erased with some elbow grease or a splash of paint, the effort more than compensated for by the hope that the children we have fostered aren’t the only ones to leave their mark behind.

It’s nice to think that the time they’ve spent in our family leaves its own impression. Muddy walks in windswept woodlands, splashing through puddles on a rainy afternoon, drinking hot cocoa while playing board games in front of the log fire; the simple, gentle monotony of everyday life spent with people who care leaves an imprint, perhaps even replacing some earlier, less tranquil memories. Sometimes, all it takes to make a positive difference to a young life is just one adult who cares enough to show an interest. Carving a place in a troubled heart nurtures resilience, buffering whatever turbulence may lie ahead when the haven of foster care has ended.

Up in my bedroom I climb into bed, leaving my clothes and mobile phone within reach. Tonight I’m on call and covering the eleven-to-eighteen age range, as well as my usual under-tens. Switching my electric blanket on, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be needed and who it might be. When covering such a wide age range, I have to be prepared for anything. Jenny, a fostering friend of mine, recently accepted an unaccompanied minor while on call. When the Somalian arrived at her house, she couldn’t help but notice his emerging facial hair and rippling six pack; it turns out that Nafiso was, in fact, twenty-one.

However much my imagination strayed, I must have dropped off fairly quickly because when my phone dances impatiently around the top of my bedside cabinet and I reach out to switch the lamp back on, the bulb is still hot. Still half asleep, I reluctantly grope for the ANSWER button.

‘Hello,’ I answer croakily, switching to loudspeaker mode and blinking rapidly in the soft light. My pulse quickens at the sound of Des’s Scottish burr.

‘I’m just giving you the heads-up, Rosie,’ my supervising social worker tells me in an urgent tone, converting my adrenaline into action.

I force myself to my feet and dress hurriedly, pulling on an old jumper, leggings and a pair of fluffy socks. At 1 a.m. in mid-November, the temperature is already dipping close to zero.

‘Boy, aged three. Suspected neglect. He’s receiving emergency treatment at the moment. Not sure how long he’ll be at the hospital but you’s best get yourself ready.’

Aw, three, I think, aware of a familiar clawing in my stomach; it’s the desire to make him all better before he’s even arrived. Des promises to ping the details through to me and reminds me I can call him for support any time, day or night. After making a quick coffee I switch on the computer and open the email sitting in my inbox from Des.

EMERGENCY PLACEMENT REQUIRED

Charlie SMITH, age three

Charlie has been on the vulnerable children’s register since birth, as his mother, Tracy, has struggled for years with depression and addiction issues. With support, Tracy has demonstrated that she’s able to meet Charlie’s basic needs, but he’s rarely present at nursery, and neighbours have complained of continued bouts of crying coming from their flat. Tracy has no extended family or network of friends to offer support.

Late this evening Charlie was found wandering the concrete walkway below the family home. Though his vocabulary seems limited, the boy indicated to a passer-by that he had fallen from the first-floor window. Police were unable to rouse his mother when they entered the flat. She appeared to be heavily intoxicated. Charlie’s currently in A&E where he’s receiving treatment for a gash to the head. An urgent foster placement is required while investigations are carried out.

I click ‘X’ to close the window, and sit staring at the blank screen for a moment. It sounds to me like both Charlie and his mother have been living an isolated existence, with no one but professionals around to offer support. My stomach begins to churn, as it does whenever someone new is about to arrive.

Stop fretting, I tell myself. If Des were here he would say, ‘You’s haven’t done too badly so far, m’darling.’ All of the children I’ve cared for in my years as a foster carer have left happier than when they came, so I suppose he’d be right. Knowing the trauma Charlie has been through, I feel the familiar tug to offer comfort intensifying. The chance comes sooner than expected. Just as I’m finishing the dregs of my coffee, the doorbell rings.

Charlie stands on the doorstep, the top of his mousy-coloured hair bathed in pale moonlight. The delicate skin above his right eye is covered with white gauze and tape, held in place by a bandage circling his head like a bandana. I can’t see his face as he’s staring down at his black plimsolls, but I notice how tiny he looks next to the stocky police officer beside him. It’s freezing, but all he’s wearing is a pair of dirty pyjamas. A middle-aged woman, presumably the duty social worker, hovers behind.

‘I’m Evelyn,’ she says, leaning around the officer who’s massaging Charlie’s shoulder with meaty fingers.

‘Hello, Evelyn. And you must be Charlie,’ I say softly, crouching down to his level.

His eyes are barely visible under a heavy crop of wispy hair, but I can sense bewilderment there. His features are small and appealing but unusually angular for a child so young – he’s much too thin. His head hangs awkwardly to one side, as if it’s too heavy or uncomfortable to hold up. I feel a rush of pity.

‘You look freezing. Come in, all of you.’

‘He wouldn’t let me carry him or wrap him in my coat,’ Evelyn says, as she follows me through the hall, her fingers on Charlie’s back, propelling him in. His eyes are swollen with tiredness. ‘And we couldn’t find anything warm for him at the flat.’

She hands me a small, grubby Fireman Sam rucksack. ‘Here are a few of his bits, but not much, I’m afraid.’

When we reach the living room she leans towards me. ‘Most of his clothes were damp, covered in all sorts. Mum was so out of it we couldn’t make head or tail of what she was saying.’

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I have spares.’

Turning to Charlie, I kneel beside him. He stares at me with an anxious frown.

‘Don’t worry, Charlie, everything will be fine. We’ll find you some things to wear in the morning. I’m Rosie, by the way. You’ll be staying with me for a bit. You’re safe here, sweetie.’

The police officer, a man in his forties with closely cropped dark hair, smiles warmly at me, then grimaces and shakes his head, his expression saying: doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?

Evelyn and the officer sit on the sofa, and Charlie sinks down on the rug in the middle of the floor, exhausted.

‘I know the mum.’ The social worker speaks out of the corner of her mouth like a ventriloquist, as if Charlie would be unable to hear that way. ‘I was hoping she’d get a grip on things, but …’ She gives a weary sigh, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Well, you know …’

I nod. How many times had I seen it now? An over-dependence on alcohol or drugs – or both – and a child’s chances of having a good day or a harrowing one spin on a penny, all determined by the chemicals pulsing through their mother’s veins. It’s not always beatings and bruises that signal the end of a birth family and the beginning of life in foster care, I muse. Sometimes it’s a simple case of daily deterioration, the slow unravelling of a mother’s ability to cope. I flick my mind back to the early days, after my daughter Emily was born.

Catapulted into a life without the reassuring structure of work, I felt isolated and lonely. Each day was seemingly endless, and the monotonous cycle of changing, feeding and rocking really got me down. If someone had told me back then that I would soon choose to spend my life caring for other people’s children, I would have pronounced them deluded. Remembering how lost I felt, it doesn’t take a huge stretch of the imagination to think that I too might have been unable to cope, perhaps drifting towards a crutch to numb the feelings of uselessness. I shudder at the thought, feeling a stab of pity for both mother and child.

Charlie’s chin is quivering. I’m not sure whether it’s with cold, fear or perhaps because his head’s aching.

‘When did he last have pain relief?’ I ask Evelyn, while I reach behind the sofa for a small, pale-blue blanket. I drape it around his shoulders then sit quietly beside him, letting him get used to having me near. He looks sideways at me with solemn eyes and I smile, noticing that his face is dotted with fine white crusts, presumably salty deposits from anxious tears at separating from Mum.

‘Just before we left the hospital, about …’ Evelyn inclines her head towards the police officer.

He checks his watch, pursing his lips. ‘About half an hour or so ago, I’d say.’

I nod grimly, knowing that the poor little mite is in for a rough few days. With his legs splayed and shoulders hunched over, Charlie looks like he’s reached the same conclusion, as if he’s lost all hope at the tender age of three. Watching as he nibbles his fingernails, tearing into the ragged skin, I’m flooded with a longing to pick him up and soothe him.

It’s actually this first, unscripted half an hour or so that I find the most difficult, when I’m weighing up what the child needs, trying to read their signals. I’m getting better at it. In the early days I was overly attentive, moving awkwardly around children who probably would have preferred a little distance while they adapted to their new environment. I would fuss around, straightening toy boxes that were doing perfectly well where they were, and offering endless litres of juice and other refreshments. Experience has taught me to hold back a little.

Evelyn hands me a short report from the hospital to read. I’m pleased she’s decided not to discuss everything in front of Charlie, especially once I read the contents. It seems that his short life has been peppered with regular trips to the emergency department – scalding-hot tea spilt on him when he was just three months old, stitches at the age of nine months after a falling shelf happened to catch him on the head. The depressing list goes on and suddenly Charlie’s mother becomes a more shadowy figure. My sympathy wanes.

It’s a familiar tale. Another early childhood eroded by circumstances, leaving the vulnerable – well, Charlie at least – lost, scared and sitting alone in a heap on my rug. It will take a while for the fragments of his short life to be pieced together. With an investigation underway, nursery teachers, GPs, health visitors, everyone who has come into contact with Charlie will be interviewed and the jigsaw will eventually be pieced together. Of course, there will be gaps, ones that perhaps only his mother will ever be able to fill. The emerging picture will hopefully reveal neglect and not wilful abuse; I still struggle to come to terms with the possibility that a mother could deliberately harm her own child. However many times I hear about it, my brain just can’t assimilate something that disturbing.

The rest of the hospital report matches what was summarised in Des’s email and, for now, what more do I need to know? Evelyn hands me a leaflet – Care Following a Head Injury – reminding me of my own duty of care. Every parent knows how heavily the responsibility of caring for a child can sometimes weigh, especially when they’re unwell. That responsibility increases tenfold when that child is a ward of the state. For a brief moment I feel overwhelmed, but then I remind myself that help is just a phone call away, should Charlie take a turn for the worse.

‘They’ve assured us that there’s no sign of serious injury,’ Evelyn says, perhaps noticing the cloud passing over my face, ‘but best keep a close eye on him. It seems he had a soft landing so they don’t think he bumped his head. From what the neighbours had to say, he cut his head on the lid of a tin can, but if there’s any vomiting or you’re at all concerned …’ She makes an L shape with her forefinger and thumb, raising her hand to her ear in imitation of a phone.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay close by.’

Evelyn hands me a placement agreement to sign and I scribble my signature, longing for her and the constable to leave so that I can get Charlie settled.

‘Well, we’ll leave you to it.’

Evelyn zips up her bag and rises to her feet. The movement rouses Charlie, who was beginning to nod off where he sat. His head shoots up and he howls, rocking back and forth in a self-soothing action. To see such a small boy surrounded by adults and yet too afraid to reach out to any of us for comfort almost makes me weep. He must think the world an unfriendly place and I wonder how he’ll cope with all the turmoil ahead. Children in care have to adjust to lots of different people coming and going in their lives.

‘Aw, it’s all right, sweetie,’ I whisper, reaching down to lift him up. His legs dangle lifelessly around my hips but he stops howling, tears rolling silently down his cheeks. He must have feared we were all about to abandon him.

‘I’m not going anywhere, honey. I’m going to take care of you.’

He nuzzles his face into my shoulder. I can feel heat from his little body pressing against my side. His bandaged head rests against my cheek, the sticky tape cold against my skin. With Charlie perched on my hip I walk quickly through the hall to show Evelyn and the officer to the door, wondering if Charlie’s path had been mapped out from the moment he was born. Could his mother, on the day she first cupped his tiny head in the palm of her hand, ever have imagined that barely three years later she would lose him, at least for the foreseeable future? The might of social services rides like a steam roller over families, whose fate sometimes turns on which social worker is assigned to work on their case.

On my way back to the living room I fall into the classic words of comfort – ‘There, there, it’s all right, you’re safe here, baby, no need to cry. Hush now, sweetie, everything’s going to be fine’ – but I suspect that Charlie’s in a place where words won’t reach him. With his face tear-streaked he glances up at me, his dirty, overlong fringe falling across his eyes. Close up he smells of hospitals, although antiseptic masks another, acrid stench: tobacco and something muskier.

‘Come on, sweetie. Let’s get you a drink and then we’ll tuck you up, shall we?’

I walk to the kitchen, chatting in soft, sing-song tones. As I pour the milk I notice him watching me with a sullen wariness. He really could do with a bath, but I won’t put him through the trauma at this time of night. What he needs, over and above anything else, is sleep. I hand him a beaker of milk and he takes it, listlessly running the sippy lid over his lips.

‘There’s a good boy. Have a nice drink.’

He begins to cry again and I feel a familiar sharp pang in my stomach, a longing to reassure him that what he’s known is not all that there is.

Ten minutes later, talking in a loud whisper so as not to wake the others, I hold his hand and guide him, still hiccoughing with tiny sobs, into the spare room.

‘I want Mummy!’ he wails suddenly, the sight of an unfamiliar bed filling his voice with urgency. He sinks to the floor, tears streaming down his puffy red cheeks.

Searching through the rucksack that Evelyn gave me, I try to find a comforter, something familiar that might smell of his mother and console him. Apart from a few ragged items of clothing there’s nothing; no teddy or special blanket. Reaching up to the top shelf of our bookcase, I grab the first teddy I lay my hands on. Lowering my chin to my chest, I deepen my voice and make teddy pretend-talk.

‘Hello, Charlie. I’m Harold. Can I come to bed with you?’

Charlie stops mid-sob, his eyebrows slowly rising with interest. Holding his breath, he stares at ‘Harold’ and nods, clasping the stuffed toy to his chest and wiping his tears on the soft fur. Gently steering him to bed, I half lift, half guide him in. He winces in pain as his head touches the pillow. The tears return as I switch off the main light and plug in a night lamp.

‘Night, night, Charlie,’ I whisper, sitting beside his bed and stroking his hair. Eventually his breathing settles and his eyes flutter to a close.

That night I stage a vigil beside his bed, setting my alarm at two-hourly intervals so that I can keep a regular eye on him. I am surprised to find that he sleeps through it all, and I even manage to get snatches of uninterrupted sleep myself between checks. I guess that he must have been too exhausted from all the drama to fret about his unfamiliar surroundings.

At 5 a.m. I am confident enough to leave him and chance an hour’s rest in my own bed. It’s Saturday morning and there aren’t any football matches or clubs to get the older children up for, although at just gone six o’clock I get up anyway to make sure Charlie’s not lying awake and fretting. Creeping along the hall, I peer around his bedroom door – he’s curled up on his side in a tight ball, one hand tucked between the pillow and his pink cheek, the other arm resting heavily on teddy. Soft dimples of flesh emerge from the cuffs of his over-small pyjamas, his tiny fingers lightly brushing against his chin. He looks angelic and, I’m relieved to find, quite relaxed.

I quietly back away and suck a lungful of fresh air from the hall; his room was redolent with the same musky smell I noticed on him last night. Before I reach the stairs there’s a loud wail. Back in his room I find him sitting bolt upright in the bed, staring around in shock. He looks terrified.

‘It’s all right, sweetie. You’re in Rosie’s house.’

I crouch down beside his bed and stroke the back of his head. In daylight I can see that his eyes, though red-rimmed and fearful, are a beautiful blue-grey. He really is a gorgeous child.

‘You’re going to be staying with me for a little while. Do you remember me tucking you in last night?’

He gives a slight nod, hesitantly trusting.

‘Where’s Mummy?’ he asks, his voice quavering.

‘Mummy isn’t feeling well at the moment but you’ll see her soon, don’t you worry.’

I expect more tears but he surprises me by throwing the duvet back and shuffling his bottom to the edge of the mattress.

‘Me need breakfast.’

‘Oh, yes, OK, sweetie, but first you need a bath.’ He really does smell awful.

As I help him out of his pyjamas I have to suppress a gasp. Charlie’s covered in a series of sores, all the way down his back, arms and legs. I hope I’m wrong but the small red bumps look to me like bed-bug bites. My heart sinks. If any have travelled with him in the creases of his rucksack or on his pyjamas, I’ll be lucky not to have my own infestation soon.

He continues to plead for food as I lift him into the tub so I hurry things along, giving the hair at the nape of his neck a quick wash, careful not to dislodge the bandage. Not wasting time with soap, I use the shampoo suds to clean the rest of him.

As I wrap him in a towel, trying not to rub the sores, I hear movement in the corridor. Charlie’s widened eyes tell me he’s noticed, too.

‘It’s all right, honey. That’s the other children getting up. We’ll just brush your teeth, and then we’ll go and meet them, shall we?’

His chest puffs out and his big eyes blink, tears brimming. Reaching into the cupboard for a new, toddler-sized toothbrush I tell him, ‘They’re lovely children. They’ll be very pleased you’re here.’

Charlie stares at the toothbrush in amazement. Every time I put it in his mouth he pulls away and grabs my hand, twisting and turning the alien object so he can examine it from every angle. When I finally get a good look at his teeth I realise that he’s probably never owned his own toothbrush or even used one before; they’re all chipped and grey, his gums so inflamed that after just a few seconds of brushing his saliva is streaked with blood. When he swills water and spits into the sink I break into song to distract him. ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round …’ He’s already upset. I don’t want the gory contents spinning down the plughole to completely freak him out.

Charlie frowns, watching me with suspicion. ‘That stick maked blood come,’ he says accusingly, pointing at the toothbrush.

‘Never mind, you’re fine,’ I say, steering him briskly away and stowing the toothbrush in a holder of its own. Without knowing Charlie’s full history, I have to bear in mind that he could be incubating a blood-borne infection like hepatitis or even HIV. He follows me out of the bathroom, Harold clutched tightly in his hand.

‘Aw, look at him. He’s so cute!’ my daughter Emily exclaims, her brother Jamie already on his knees, pulling faces and trying to elicit a laugh. Phoebe, a nine-year-old girl who has lived with us for eight months, stands behind them, staring at the new arrival with concern. Suspecting she’s worried that he might usurp her position I slip my arm around her, squeezing her shoulder.

‘Charlie, here’s Phoebe, and this is Jamie and Emily. I’m sure they’d love to be friends with you, wouldn’t you, guys?’

‘Yes, course. You’ll love it here, Charlie,’ Jamie tells him in a soothing tone.

Emily nods and pats him on the arm. Phoebe copies Emily by nodding but she still looks dubious. Charlie stares at everyone, visibly shrinking away. Instinctively, Emily knows how to put him at ease. She reaches for Harold, balances the soft toy on her head, and sneezes loudly. Harold rolls off and lands in Charlie’s lap. I was worried the sudden noise might startle him but his face breaks into a large grin, and then quickly grows serious again.

‘Me need break-f-a-s-t,’ he reminds me, his voice rising with anxiety.

It’s not unusual for children in care to have food issues. Many come from an environment where regular meals are unheard of and they survive by grazing on what they can find lurking at the back of a cupboard, although when Phoebe first arrived it was the opposite problem: she ate nothing but a few spoonfuls of porridge.

Charlie’s mother being a drug user, it figures that food would probably appear low on her list of necessary weekly purchases.

‘Yes, me too, Mum. What’s for breakfast?’ Jamie asks.

I should have told Charlie not to worry; Jamie would never allow me to forget a mealtime. My son is going through a growth spurt and food is an obsession second only to cricket.

‘Come on, then. Let’s go and make some pancakes.’

I reach out to Charlie and he stands up, slipping his small hand into mine. Jamie, Emily and Phoebe charge downstairs, the sudden withdrawal of attention pricking Charlie’s interest. When we get downstairs he follows them with his eyes, watching their every move as I whip up the pancake mixture. At the table he wolfs down his food, all the while studying them closely. Whenever they look at him he quickly turns away.

We spend the whole day at home, giving Charlie time to get used to his immediate surroundings before exposing him to the world outside. Emily and Jamie revel in having a little one to play with again, enthusiastically pulling toys from the cupboard and parading them in front of him. He comes to life and for the most part he seems to enjoy their company, but he’s easily distracted, spinning around at the slightest background noise. I suspect that he’s watching out for danger, which speaks volumes in terms of his past experiences.

Throughout the day Charlie tumbles casually onto my lap for regular hugs, pushing himself against my back as if he’ll only achieve the reassurance he craves by tucking himself beneath my skin. I have to acclimatise myself to being pawed all day – Emily and Jamie drape an arm around me occasionally or slouch next to me on the sofa, but I’m redundant as far as earthy demands for close contact go. I’d almost forgotten how exhausting it is to be needed so intensely; by teatime I’m craving the solace of my duvet, counting the hours until I can retreat to my bedroom alone.

On Sunday morning I set my alarm early again, wanting to be nearby when Charlie wakes up. Yawning, I peer around his bedroom door and suddenly all trace of tiredness evaporates, my eyes widening in terror. He’s gone. Stumbling into his room, I tear back the duvet and rummage around the empty sheet, as if doing so might conjure his reappearance.

My rational head tells me not to panic – all the exterior doors are locked so he can’t have gone far. But then the news story of the incident where a toddler climbed into a washing machine during a game of hide and seek, closing the door on himself, flashes into my mind. A search party found the two-year-old suffocated.

With a montage of disastrous scenarios unspooling before my eyes I shriek out his name, tearing back downstairs to check the washing machine, tumble dryer, even the fridge.

‘What’s going on, Mum?’ Emily, Jamie and Phoebe charge bleary-eyed into the kitchen. ‘What’s wrong?’

Squinting, I notice another pair of bare feet behind Phoebe’s. I let out a long breath.

‘Charlie, where were you, honey?’

I kneel in front of him and stroke his long hair back from his forehead, unconsciously performing a quick health check.

Charlie points innocently at Phoebe, whose smile is rapidly evaporating.

‘He was in my room. We were only playing,’ she says, simultaneously defensive and hurt.

‘You mustn’t play together in the bedrooms, you know that.’

Phoebe looks suddenly crestfallen and I realise that, still recovering from the shock of seeing his bed empty, my tone must have been sharp. Until recently, Phoebe had no idea how to play with other children. It’s lovely that she’s chosen to share her toys with Charlie of her own accord.

‘It’s all right, honey. I’m sorry, it’s my fault. I should have reminded you of the rules. I think it’s very kind of you to be so welcoming to Charlie. How about we bring some of your toys down to show him?’

‘Yay!’ Phoebe cheers, and runs back to her room.

Charlie claps his hands and scrambles onto the sofa, all trace of yesterday’s shyness gone. The resilience of children never fails to surprise me.

‘Me be good boy,’ he announces, bouncing up and down on the cushions in spite of his injured head.

I’m about to tell him that the sofa is for sitting on when Phoebe arrives back in the living room, armed with piles of toys. Charlie’s eyes light up and he throws himself down on the sofa on his tummy, then rolls to the floor.

‘Be careful of your head, Charlie,’ I say, cringing, but his kamikaze antics don’t seem to have caused him any pain.

Emily and Jamie, well past playing with toys at their age, join in eagerly now they have a young housemate to entertain. I go off to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, the sound of their loud laughter bringing a smile to my face.

Sometimes, when we welcome a child into our family, relationships are thrown out of kilter. It can take a while to establish a new fulcrum, but with younger ones it’s much easier to rearrange ourselves around them, perhaps because it feels more natural for older ones to make way for the new.

With breakfast on the table, the three older children take their places; Jamie, unsurprisingly, the first to sit down.

‘Come on, Charlie. Breakfast time,’ I say.

Knowing how desperate Charlie was to eat yesterday, I can hardly believe that he rejects the invitation with barely a glance, continuing to play with Phoebe’s toys.

‘Come on, honey.’ I slip my hands under his arms and try to lift him to his feet, but he arches his back then suddenly plays dead, taking advantage of my surprise by wriggling free. I lunge for him a couple of times but he dodges me, screeching in triumph. I suppose I should feel encouraged, knowing that he would only strop if feeling safe and secure. Part of me feels pleased. The rest of me is weary.

‘Guess what I’ve got over here,’ Jamie says, his tone enticing.

Charlie’s head shoots around, so I go and take my place at the table, leaving my son to work the magic therapy that seems to come so easily to children.

‘I think Charlie’s going to like this, Mum,’ Jamie says, lowering his voice theatrically.

It’s one of his strengths, the art of persuasion. I’m convinced that my son has the makings of a future MP. The beginning of a smile touches Charlie’s lips and he crawls slowly to the table, kneeling up when he reaches Jamie’s chair.

‘Me see?’

Jamie shakes his head. ‘Sit up first, then I’ll show you.’ I could have hugged him.

Charlie performs a convoluted roll onto his tummy then rises on all fours, drawing the whole process out as long as he can. Standing, he plants such a small part of his bottom on the chair that he has to grip hold of the edge of the table for balance. He looks at me, a glint of defiance still lurking in his eyes. I lean back in my chair and stretch, heading off a battle of wills by looking casual and faking a yawn.

‘Me see now?’

‘OK,’ Jamie announces, strumming a drum beat on the table. ‘Are you ready? Ta-da!’ he shouts, producing a banana.

Expecting Charlie’s face to fall with disappointment I prepare to grab him before he slips off his seat, but I’m surprised to find that his eyes widen in amazement.

‘S’dat?’ he asks, pointing.

‘It’s a banana, of course. That’s so obvious,’ Phoebe says, tutting and rolling her eyes.

Jamie peels the fruit, looking at me.

‘Can he have some, Mum?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Charlie sticks his finger into the fruit and it breaks in half. He picks it up and turns it over several times in his hands, looking at it with the same interest that he showed in the toothbrush. Emily, realising the significance, cocks her head on her shoulder, her eyes brimming with tears.

‘Ah, bless him, Mum,’ she says quietly, looking towards me. ‘I don’t think he’s ever seen a banana before.’

Since Charlie had been removed from home suddenly, contact with his mother is arranged at the earliest opportunity. Tracy Smith was offered a session at 9 a.m. but she declined, pronouncing early mornings ‘difficult’. And so at a few minutes before 11 a.m. on Monday morning I walk into the contact centre with Charlie pottering along behind, so close that the soles of my feet brush his little legs with every stride. Knowing how much reassurance Charlie craves, I desperately hope that the meeting will go well.

The receptionist smiles a welcome and tells me that Tracy is waiting for us in the Oak suite, one of the contact rooms. I tense as we pass through a large waiting area; liaising with birth parents can be tricky. Emotions, understandably, run high and sometimes foster carers bear the brunt of it.

We pass a thin woman in her early thirties sitting on a dark-blue sofa. My attention is drawn to her because she’s wearing flip-flops, even though it’s November. She stares blankly at the wall ahead and I can’t help but notice that her eyes are glazed over with the vacant look of a toddler watching television on a loop.

Scanning the wall opposite, I can’t work out what she’s so transfixed by. It’s bare, barring a few scratches in the paintwork and other, more dubious-looking splotches. It looks like someone has been preparing to redecorate. Apart from traces of old Blu-tack, there’s no sign of the posters that usually feature in contact centres – ‘Are You Claiming All You’re Entitled to?’ or ‘Domestic Violence Is a Crime, Report It.’

As we near the Oak suite, Charlie runs two or three feet ahead, enticed by the sight of unfamiliar toys. I find myself absent-mindedly imagining the posters that might feature in less impoverished areas, perhaps ‘Trouble Finding Suitable Stables? Have You Considered Pony Sharing?’ or ‘Inheritance Tax a Burden? Call Us for Independent Financial Advice’. It’s only when I catch up with Charlie and see that no one else is in the playroom that I stop mid-step, some inbuilt facial-recognition program finally kicking into gear. Charlie’s already mounting a rather sickly looking rocking horse and so I leave him where he is, walking backwards from the room so that I can still keep my eye on him but check out the woman on the sofa. There’s definitely a family resemblance.

‘Excuse me,’ I call out, hovering midway between the playroom and the waiting area. ‘Are you Charlie’s mother?’

There’s a prolonged pause before she turns around, as if she’s a news reporter communicating via a temperamental satellite link. Eventually she nods and stands, unsmiling, staring as she walks towards me with the same unswerving attention that she gave the blank wall. She carefully negotiates every step and as she approaches I realise why she looks like she’s being operated by remote control; she smells strongly of alcohol and cigarettes. Her pale blonde hair is greasy and so is her face, like she’s coated in some sort of filmy substance. She’s wearing a short denim skirt and her thin legs, not surprisingly considering the weather, are mottled by the cold.

My hand flickers at my side as she nears, as I wonder whether to offer a handshake. Tracy resolves my indecision by walking past me, straight into the playroom.

‘There you are, Charlie. Wha’d’ya go walking right past me for?’

Charlie swings around to the door, slipping off the horse and landing awkwardly on his bottom. He whimpers and cradles his head but it’s me he looks to for reassurance, even though his mother is standing closer to him. Already we share an unspoken understanding. After such a short time I am his ‘safe base’, his source of protection and comfort; yet another serious cause for concern. I smile with a sympathetic glance but don’t do anything more; experience has taught me that nothing winds mothers up more ferociously than taking over and playing mum in their presence.

It’s only then that Tracy acknowledges me, giving a curt nod.

‘I’m Rosie,’ I say, smiling, willing her to scoop Charlie up.

She doesn’t. Bending over, she knocks his shoulder with the back of her hand. Accidentally? With affection? It’s difficult to tell, but what’s obvious is that Charlie’s now hyper-alert; if he were a kitten his back would be arched, his fur up on end. His bottom lip quivers. The sympathy I feel for him swells to fill up my chest and I feel irritated with myself for ever feeling any for her.

Rotating on his bottom, Charlie follows her around the room with his eyes. Instead of sitting beside him on the floor as I had hoped, she sits on one of the straight-backed chairs at the rear of the room and reaches into her handbag for her phone.

Charlie continues to study her, his brow furrowed. Is he looking for clues as to her mood? I wonder. There are a hundred questions in that little stare, one of which is perhaps, ‘Why?’ Tracy’s bland expression must signal safety on this occasion because he potters over to her, resting a small but slightly hesitant hand on her knee.

‘I’ve ’at to get two buses to get here, and they haven’t given me no fare money yet,’ she moans, lips tight with bitterness.

I hesitate, not sure how to respond. Does she expect me to commiserate?

‘How tiring,’ I manage to say, couching my words in an overly polite tone.

Take a look at your son, I want to say. He looks so alone. I find myself eager for contact to come to an end so I can draw him into a cuddle. It won’t be the same, it won’t mean as much, but it might go some way towards soothing that furrowed brow. Does she not know that it’s her job to show him how lovable he is?

Before I became a foster carer I’d never considered that the ability to accept love was a skill that needed to be learned. I’d imagined that every child exits the womb with an innate capacity to be cherished. Tracy, surly and hostile, yet curiously frail, looks like she’s never had an affectionate cuddle in her life. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that she can’t pass a gift on to her son that she herself was never given in the first place. Remembering how ferociously Charlie clung to me as I put him to bed last night I can’t help but feel terribly sad, knowing that he had to come to a stranger to get some affection.

Out of nowhere Charlie lunges at Tracy, scratching her face. She gasps and clamps her hand to her cheek, the other bunching into a fist.

‘You f*cking bully!’ she screams, looking ready to shake him. Her eyes dart from him to me, weighing up whether she can get away with giving him a quick slap. ‘See what he did to me?’

It was glaringly obvious that Charlie lashed out in desperation for some sort of attention. Negative or not, anything was better than indifference.

‘He’s a little animal. Like yer f*cking dad, you are.’

He learned at your feet, I feel tempted to say. Instead I stay silent, making a conscious effort to loosen my tightened jaw. Since fostering I’ve battled to master my renegade expressions, but by the look of suspicion on Tracy’s face my success is questionable.

The awkward moment passes when her mobile goes off.

‘Hello,’ she says, brushing Charlie aside and resting her crusted feet on a large yellow tipper truck. For the next half an hour she receives a number of different calls while I play with her son, each conversation peppered with swear words. I like to think I’m not a prude – actually, remembering some of the conversations I’ve had with the likes of Amy and other teens, I know I’m not – but I can’t help bristling at the vulgarity of this woman. The most attention Charlie gets from her is when she hangs up on someone called Dwayne and holds up her phone to take a picture of him.

‘Photos aren’t allowed during contact, I’m afraid,’ I tell her.

Tracy’s face reddens as she rises and, sensing an ill wind, I steer Charlie towards a wooden garage and a box of cars, hoping he’ll become absorbed. Her feet slap slap towards me and she stops barely a foot away.

‘You telling me I can’t take photos of my own kid? Why don’t you go f*ck yourself?’

This close up I notice that her eyes are the same blue-grey as Charlie’s, except the whites of hers are threaded with the tracks of broken capillaries. For a split second I glimpse symmetry with her son; in the angle of her lips and the curve of her cheeks. With their faces momentarily merged into one, Tracy seems suddenly familiar and the connection warms me to her. For the first time I’m able to see past the hostility, registering the sense of hopelessness reflected in her dull, tired eyes. I can’t help but wish there was something I could do to help.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules.’

She furrows her brow, wrong-footed by my conciliatory tone. For a brief moment she looks like she can’t decide whether to hit me or fall into my arms for a hug.

‘What’s all that over ’is hands?’ she asks, regaining her composure and striding across the room to Charlie.

She yanks his arm towards her and he looks up, startled. This is familiar territory – a mother desperate to minimise her own guilt by finding something to criticise in another woman’s care, as if mucky hands are negligence on a par with falling from a first-floor window.

‘It’s felt-tip pen,’ I say soothingly, trying to calm her so she’ll release her hold on his arm. He looks terrified.

‘He had a lovely time drawing you a picture. I have it here, actually,’ I say, trying to deflect her attention and digging deep to draw on some humility. However difficult, it’s in everyone’s interests for foster carers to build positive relationships with birth parents.

‘Would you like to show Mummy what you made for her, Charlie?’

Charlie scampers after me as I rustle around in my bag. When she sees the picture her face softens, breaking into what I imagine to be a rare smile. With an inward wince I realise why Charlie was so surprised to see a toothbrush; spear-like teeth jut from Tracy’s swollen gums at such awkward angles that I imagine it must be uncomfortable for her even to talk, let alone eat. I feel an unconscious rush of genuine compassion.

‘Aw, thanks. I like that, mate,’ she says.

His thin chest expands and, beaming up at her, he throws his short arms around one of her legs. She briefly pats him on the back then begins pacing the room in tight circles, her fingers working over the keys of her mobile phone with such diligence it’s as though she’s being paid to produce a certain number of words per minute.

Charlie looks as if someone has taken a pin and stuck it in his chest. Deflated, he turns his attention back to me, sombrely offering me toys to pass comment on. I exclaim animatedly as I take each one, trying to rouse a smile. It works, although every now and again he glances around, staring at his mother with a yearning that breaks my heart. An hour and a half after we first arrived, when I tell her that contact is coming to an end, Tracy buries her face in her sleeve and sniffs loudly. Charlie’s face clouds with confusion, then he joins her, tears rolling down his cheeks. I feel the familiar prickle of my own empathetic tears threatening to spill over. She’s a mother, after all, and one who can probably taste the fear of losing a part of her forever. I can’t imagine that any woman would ever truly want that.

Later that afternoon Emily, Jamie and Phoebe decide to watch a DVD. Unable to agree on one, Emily and Jamie begin to tussle, each grabbing their own disc and trying to reach the DVD player before the other. It’s a playful exchange and I can tell that Phoebe wants to join in, but horseplay with foster children is forbidden.

‘Come on, you two,’ I say, not wanting the others to feel left out. ‘That’s enough.’

Ready to launch herself into the scrum, Phoebe looks disappointed. What I hadn’t noticed in all of this was Charlie’s reaction. He’s crouching in the corner of the room, shuddering with fright. As I approach him he throws his head back, screaming in terror. His arms are locked at the elbows, his legs stiff with fear. As I crouch and take him into my arms his body is rigid, trembling and sweaty. Rocking, I murmur reassurance and eventually he relaxes, nuzzling close.

Phoebe approaches and kneels silently in front of us. Her brow furrows, perhaps remembering how frightened she was when she first came to us. Reaching out, she touches his face with the edge of one finger and softly strokes his cheek. She’s come a long way from the detached, troubled girl who arrived so many months ago. I’m so touched by her gentleness that I have to look away to gather myself. Charlie gives us both a watery smile.