Читать книгу Moving Fostering Memoirs 2-Book Collection - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 12

The next morning I woke at just after 6am, feeling a bit more positive. Phoebe had slept right through the night, something I hadn’t expected at all. Most children struggled to settle for the first few nights in a strange bed and so I had been prepared for some degree of sleep deprivation.

Relishing the silence, I washed and dressed then pottered downstairs and made myself a coffee. Sitting at the kitchen table, I watched a pair of robins settling on the branch of our apple tree, their wings shining in the bright, early morning sunshine. The scent of winter jasmine floated through the open window, boosting my already lightened mood. As I sipped my warm drink, I dared to think that the placement might not be as difficult as I had first thought. With firm boundaries in place, Phoebe’s symptoms might not be so pronounced as they were on her arrival. I wasn’t that knowledgeable about autism but I had heard that routine went a long way in helping sufferers to cope with the everyday stresses that other children barely noticed.

And anyway, that was the nature of fostering; no one ever said it would be straightforward. Whatever the reason for their removal from home, fostered children arrive in placement at probably one of the lowest points in their lives. It’s not surprising that they may then ‘act out’ their unhappiness, perhaps by stealing food, money or items of sentimental value, destroying property, refusing to wash, being deliberately provocative, violent or aggressive, or more passively, wetting the bed or self-harming. But having a hand in helping a child to mend was hugely satisfying and certainly worth all the hardships along the way.

That’s not to say there is always a happy ending. It took me a while to accept that. Alfie, for instance, whose mother was imprisoned for a short period for his neglect, stayed with me about four years earlier, while a Care Order was secured through the courts. Members of his wider family were assessed and it was decided to award his grandmother special guardianship. I have since heard through the grapevine that Alfie’s mother left prison and went straight to live with her own mother in the flat where she cared for Alfie.

Within weeks a new young boyfriend had joined her there and recently grandmother (who hadn’t yet celebrated her fortieth birthday) fell for a roofer from Essex and spent long periods of time drinking with him in his bedsit in Hornchurch. I have known social services to spend two years and an inordinate amount of money securing a Care Order through the courts, only for the children to then return home via obliging friends or relatives. It’s not an ideal system.

It is sometimes said that foster carers are ‘in it for the money’. I find it difficult to believe that anyone could survive more than six months as a foster carer unless there was a powerful drive to ‘heal’ hurt children.

For one child, a foster carer’s ‘wage’ is around £200 per week, although this amount varies depending on the local authority. On top of that an allowance of between £60 and £100 is paid (depending on the age of the child), an amount that must be spent solely on the child and meticulously accounted for. Surviving on £800 a month can be a struggle, particularly in a one-parent household. With two children in placement, life is a bit more comfortable but certainly not luxurious.

I’ve never been driven by money; for me a happy home life and contented children holds far more value and so being able to just about manage was all I needed to be content. Fostering had given me many ‘I will never ever forget this’ moments, some of them for their awfulness, but others that were almost magical.

By 7.30am I was beginning to find the stillness unsettling. In my experience it was unusual for the under-10s to sleep in. Reluctant to disturb the blissful peace but unable to relax without checking on Phoebe, I crept up the stairs and along the hall. The smell hit me before I reached her closed door and I groaned, anticipating the scene before I had even laid my hand on the handle.

It was worse than I’d thought.

Retching as violently as Phoebe had done the evening before, I clamped my hand over my mouth and forced my feet to shuffle into the room, flicking the light switch on with my elbow. Phoebe lay serenely in bed, the duvet pulled up to her neck just as it was when I left her the night before. The room was considerably different, though: the magnolia walls were smeared with streaks of excrement, each lilac butterfly spattered with a generous coating of stomach-churning brown. Even the curtains hadn’t escaped Phoebe’s attention, with clumps of stinking excrement clinging to the fabric.

I couldn’t help myself: ‘My God, what have you done?’

‘My God, what have you done?’

That was it. I charged into the room and yanked the duvet away from her. Phoebe squealed, drawing her soiled hands up to her cheeks and rolling to one side. Curled up in a foetal position, she buried her face in her stained and smelly pillow. My fury ebbed away at the sight of her lying there, so thin and pitiful. Instantly I felt ashamed that I’d broken my promise by entering her room without being invited. Still panting in shock, I stared down at her, frowning. There was something different about her, though, and it wasn’t just the streaks of brown across her hands.

‘Phoebe, you need to get out of bed so I can clean you up,’ I said, my voice wobbling with the strain of keeping my feelings of revulsion under control. She pushed herself up to a sitting position, watching me warily. As she stood up I realised what had changed; she looked bulkier, as if she’d put on half a stone overnight.

‘What have you got on under those pyjamas?’ I demanded, wondering what other horrors might yet be uncovered.

‘What have you …?’

‘That’s enough,’ I shouted, my finger raised and pointing at her. ‘I don’t want you to copy me, do you hear? Now go to the bathroom, right now!’

Without warning she ducked and ran past me, out of the room. I tried to grab her but she was too quick, darting out of reach.

‘Phoebe, come back,’ I called, trying to sound firm but unthreatening. Holding my breath, I followed the brown prints her soiled feet had made on the cream carpet. The air smelt vile.

‘What’s all the noise, Mum?’ Jamie’s timing couldn’t have been more devastating. Bleary-eyed, he sauntered out of his room as Phoebe tore along the hall, holding out his hands in a defensive action as she flapped her arms through the air. His look of horror told me that he realised exactly what she was covered in.

‘Sorry, Jamie,’ I muttered, charging past him and, with damage limitation at the forefront of my mind, followed Phoebe down the stairs.

‘Urgh, she is sooooo disgusting!’ Jamie, usually so mild-mannered, wailed angrily from upstairs. ‘Come and have a look at her room, Mum.’

Ignoring him, I followed Phoebe into the living room, desperate to catch her in case she nursed an intention of sprawling herself out on one of the sofas in all her self-decorated glory. There was no sign of her there so I quickly scanned the dining area, half-aware of Jamie’s bewildered shouts of disbelief floating down from upstairs. ‘Mum, really, you’ve got to come and see this. You won’t believe what she’s done in here.’

‘Eww-urgh!’ Another horrified shriek announced Emily’s emergence from her room. ‘Mum, what’s happened to my butterflies?’

Phoebe was crouched in the corner of the kitchen, her face full of fear. She held her dirty hands protectively in front of her.

Ten minutes later Phoebe sat in the bath with the door open while I gathered together every cleaning product in the house to spray, squirt and obliterate the smell permeating each room. Jamie hunkered down in his room with Emily. I was pleased that they had chosen to recover from their shock together. The pair had always shared a good relationship and it seemed that bad experiences brought them even closer. I could hear their urgent chatter drifting beneath the closed door, low tones interspersed with manic giggles.

As I scrubbed Phoebe’s soiled room, I was gripped by regular heaving fits: it wasn’t only the acrid smell – every time I set about cleaning a new area, the mess spread. What it really needed was a power hose.

Every few minutes I stopped what I was doing and peered around the bathroom door to make sure Phoebe wasn’t feasting on anything she shouldn’t. After the ‘Bubble Gate’ affair I had cleared the bathroom of anything that wasn’t nailed down but there was a chance I might have overlooked something. For all I knew, even the bath plug might be adequate fodder in her eyes.

The hollow gaps above her clavicles were so deep with undernourishment that the bath water pooled there as she sat up. Resolving to try and tempt her into eating with double chocolate pancakes for breakfast, I leaned into the bathroom and, with reluctant, pincered fingers, picked up her discarded pyjamas from the floor. Her soiled knickers were knotted up with the legs so I tried to separate the items, realising there was far more than one pair of pyjamas in the tangled heap. Unravelling the clothes, I pulled out four pairs of knickers and three sets of bottoms.

A dismal, draining feeling crept across my skin as the memory of another little girl I had cared for broke the surface of my thoughts. Four-year-old Freya came to stay soon after I first registered as a foster carer seven years earlier, along with her younger sister and baby brother. She had a habit of wearing all of her clothes in bed, one layer on top of another. It was her way of trying to keep herself safe, should anyone pay an unwelcome nightly visit to her room, as her father had done.

Feeling nauseous, I stared at Phoebe’s fragile back, trying not to let past experience colour my perception. Foster carers, like social workers, can be prone to jumping to conclusions and piling on layers of clothing was not necessarily an indication of abuse; it could simply be yet another manifestation of her condition. ‘Phoebe,’ I said gently, holding up the smelly clothing. ‘Why did you wear so many pairs of pyjamas to bed?’

She stared at me blankly, so I decided not to make an issue of it. Stuffing the clothes into a carrier bag, I dropped it onto the floor. ‘Do you mind if I give your hair a wash, Phoebe? I won’t do anything else, just your hair. Is that OK?’

‘NOOO!’ she howled. ‘I hate having my hair washed.’

‘Yes, I can see that. But you need to have it done.’

My tone made it clear that refusing was not an option. Surprisingly, she sat motionless as I lifted the shower head and dampened her hair down, running my fingers over the stubby ends. It really was frizzy, almost Afro-style in texture. I reached up and unlocked a cabinet fixed up high on the wall and retrieved the shampoo, squeezing a generous blob into my palms. After rinsing the suds away I smoothed in some conditioner, trying to massage it all the way through to her scalp. The tightness of her hair seemed to loosen so I lavished another handful through, rubbing it in with my fingertips.

Phoebe wriggled away, whimpering.

‘Keep still or you’ll get conditioner in your eyes,’ I said. As I massaged and rubbed her scalp, the texture softened beneath my fingers. Strangely, the tendrils seemed to be extending, like the hair of one of those dolls that Emily had years ago, where the style could be altered by winding a ponytail in and out of the head. It was then I realised her hair wasn’t as roughly chopped as I had first thought; it was actually matted.

‘Owwww!’ Phoebe began to howl.

‘It’s alright, you’re done now,’ I soothed. I wasn’t surprised she’d been moaning – it must have been very uncomfortable. There were still balls of matted hair clumped to her scalp and I was itching to sort them out but I decided to rinse her off and tackle it again next time. Leaving Phoebe to dry herself, I grabbed the bag of soiled clothes and went downstairs to prepare breakfast, wondering why on earth any mother would leave her daughter’s hair to get into such a bad state.

Phoebe managed to eat a few mouthfuls of porridge before clanking her spoon onto the table. Leaning forward to rest her elbows, she cupped her chin in her hands and watched the rest of us tuck into our chocolate pancakes with a look of sickly distaste on her face. She really seemed to derive no pleasure from eating, or anything else, come to think of it. Despite her middle-class background she looked malnourished, her cheeks the colour of frozen pastry and her eyes dull and lifeless. She had that look that children seem to get the day before a cold comes out, where their eyes just don’t seem right.

After clearing away the breakfast things I packed up my manicure set and hairdressing scissors and told Phoebe we were going to visit a friend of mine who needed some help. The friend was actually an ex-neighbour who was elderly and unable to get out and about as she once did. Apart from one son there was no one else to help her so I paid her a call once a week to give her hair a wash and tidy the house. Once or twice over the last couple of years I had made the suggestion that her son might consider running some of the errands himself but each time I broached the subject he shuddered, declaring old age made him nauseous.

Today Mary had requested a haircut and foot manicure, something I wasn’t looking forward to with any relish, but it was a relief to escape the gloomy confines of the house. Before we left I suggested that Phoebe choose a book to take with her and I was surprised to find what an interest she showed in selecting one. While she scanned our bookshelves there were no strange whirly arm movements or whooping noises; she just ran her fingers across the spines, pulling one out every now and again to examine the cover. I was also a bit taken aback by the one she finally settled on: Roald Dahl’s The Giraffe and the Pelly and Me. I wasn’t sure she’d be able to manage it and was wondering whether she chose it for Quentin Blake’s colourful illustrations alone, when she read the blurb out loud, inflecting parts and showing real expression. Amazed, I chastised myself for jumping to conclusions and underestimating her.

With an interest in reading, I hoped that Phoebe would behave and let me get on with sorting Mary out. And I was grateful to find that she did. Apart from exclaiming when we first arrived that the house ‘stinks’ and that Mary’s toenails looked like ‘dirty old twigs’ she simply sat reading her book and looking up occasionally, watching us with interest. It was a joy to witness her animated face as she read. There were lots of smiles interspersed with gasps and sudden bouts of giggles. I made a mental note to take her to the library so that she could choose from a wider range of books.

Soon after we arrived back home I suggested a walk to the local shop. ‘You could have a look around and see if anything takes your fancy for lunch,’ I said, hopeful that if I gave Phoebe a small trolley she might gain a bit more enthusiasm for food, the way children often do when they feel involved.

‘Hwah.’ Phoebe instantly gagged at the thought.

‘Alright, not to worry,’ I soothed, assuming all the emotion had upset her system. ‘I’ve got to get some milk anyway.’

Jamie looked revolted by the sounds Phoebe was making, watching her with his lip curled in disgust.

It was a lovely spring day with few clouds in the sky. I closed my eyes briefly as Phoebe skipped ahead, tilting my face to the warm sun. The tenseness I was carrying in my shoulders eased slightly as I enjoyed the fresh breeze rippling over my skin. It was such a relief to be out of the house; it had been only half an hour or so, but I felt as if I’d been cooped up for days.

Lowering my face again I saw that Phoebe was spinning her hands either side of her hips and walking with a strange gait, something she hadn’t been doing indoors. She began muttering and every so often broke into a snarl, shaking her fist at passing traffic like a confused old drunkard. It really looked most odd and I noticed a few drivers slow down, frowning. One, a young lad driving a white van, did a double take, no doubt surprised to be on the receiving end of aggressive jeers simply for driving inoffensively down the road.

Phoebe reached the mini-store first. To her credit, she obediently waited outside the entrance for me to catch up. Facing the glass doors, she stood with her legs a foot apart, gesticulating wildly at her reflection. Several customers gave her a wide berth as they left the shop, trying to avoid her flaying arms.

As I caught up they stared at me in disapproving puzzlement, as if I’d allowed my eight-year-old daughter access to magic mushrooms or some other hallucinogenic that might explain her strange conduct.

‘Come on,’ I said, cupping her elbow and guiding her into the shop.

‘Ow! Ouch!’ she yelled, struggling as if I’d wrestled her into an arm lock. Embarrassed by stares from several other customers, I released my hold, hoping she wouldn’t run off. Fortunately her path was blocked by a young woman who rounded the corner from the next aisle, pushing a pram in front of her.

‘Ah, a baby!’ Phoebe sounded delighted. ‘Can I say hello, please?’ She leaned into me, her manner suddenly coquettish.

‘Yes, nicely then, if that’s OK?’

The baby’s mother nodded and smiled. ‘Of course,’ she said, although her expression said otherwise.

‘What is its name?’ Phoebe asked sweetly, inching a step or two forwards. Without warning she reached into the pram, stroking the newborn’s tiny hand.

‘It is a her,’ I said, smiling reassuringly at the new mum, who hovered close by, ready to pounce if necessary.

‘Best not to touch the baby,’ I warned gently. I was reluctant to set off a tantrum in the busy shop but the look on Phoebe’s face prompted me to apply the brakes. Her eyes were swivelling with excitement, but there was also a manic element to her look that frightened me. Despite her slightness, there seemed to be a barely contained violence simmering beneath the surface, an unexploded rage. Besides, I wanted to secure an escape route for the young baby’s mother. She looked distinctly uncomfortable and who could blame her?

‘It’s Ella,’ the new mum responded politely, edging herself between Phoebe and the pram.

‘Can I kill it?’

The woman looked at me in horror, her eyes widened in alarm. Jerking the pram backwards, she swung it into the next aisle and stalked away, turning to bestow one final look of disgust my way.

‘Fucking baby! I’m going to eat it, I am,’ Phoebe called out gruffly after her.

‘Be quiet,’ I growled under my breath, grabbing her elbow again and marching her to the cold aisle so that I could grab some milk. ‘You mustn’t say horrible things like that.’

‘You mustn’t say horrible things like that.’

I stared at her, considering my best move. ‘Right, choose something for lunch and then we’ll go,’ I suggested mildly, though my teeth were gritted.

‘Blwah, ew!’ The retching started.

‘Right, let’s go, right now.’

Several heads turned as I slipped my arm around Phoebe’s waist, propelling her towards the checkouts. Shoppers from all angles eyed the pair of us as if we carried some contagious disease. An elderly gentleman stood at the end of our aisle, two bags of shopping planted either side of his feet. He stared openly as we approached. Phoebe squirmed and fought me off, still gagging grotesquely. It was an awful, stomach-churning noise and I felt myself reddening with all the attention being focussed on us.

‘Goodness, your daughter’s clearly out to lunch, my dear,’ the old gentleman whispered loudly in the way old people seem to do, his eyes twinkling with sympathy. ‘It must be very difficult for you.’

Until fostering I had never realised how rude some people could be. I glanced at Phoebe, wondering the effect such thoughtless words would have on her. Fortunately she seemed to be switching her attention elsewhere. Nodding grimly to the elderly customer, I was about to pay for the milk and guide Phoebe out of the shop when I realised that she had spotted the confectionery shelves.

‘Please may I have some chocolate?’ she asked, her eloquence incongruous with her unrefined appearance.

Were it not for the fact that she looked as if she might be in danger of snapping in half right there in the middle of the shop, I would have marched her home empty-handed. As it was, I felt desperate to get some calories inside her, in whatever form I could.

‘Yes, choose something quickly then,’ I told her.

Outside the shop, Phoebe removed the wrapper from her Twix bar, discarding it casually over her shoulder. She was about to tuck into the chocolate when I caught hold of her wrist.

‘Wait a minute, honey. Go and pick up your litter and put it in the bin first.’

‘You do it.’

‘No,’ I said calmly. ‘It’s your wrapper, not mine. You need to pick it up now, before it blows away.’

‘No, leave it there. The bin men will get it when they come.’ Her tone was dismissive. All at once she shoved a third of the bar in her mouth, her cheeks bulging.

Grabbing the rest of the chocolate from her hand, I held it behind my back. Never one to court attention, I felt conspicuous, uncomfortably aware of the glances we were attracting from passers-by. I forced my shoulders back and tried to compose myself.

‘You are not going to eat the chocolate until you deal with the wrapping. By the time I count to five I want you to pick it up and put it where it belongs – in the bin. If you don’t do as I ask, I will throw the chocolate away. Do you understand?’

Dropping her hands to her hips, she splayed her legs to stand her ground, glaring at me. ‘I’m not picking it up and you can’t make me! Give me my chocolate back.’

‘One, t-w-o …’ I counted as slowly as I could, willing her to turn and do as I’d asked. A small crowd had gathered outside the shop, watching the showdown with amused interest.

‘GIVE ME MY FUCKING CHOCOLATE BACK!’ she screamed, her face puce with anger.

As a foster carer, it can sometimes be a challenge to see beyond difficult behaviour and not take it personally, particularly if your own children suffer as a result. Mercifully, with regular mealtimes, a calm environment and a reliable routine in place, most children quickly respond and start to seek out the trusted adult’s approval.

When looking after a ‘challenging’ child, I sometimes find myself recalling previous placements – two-year-old Billy, for example, with his pudgy knees, brown eyes full of mischief and the foulest language I’ve ever heard. After a few weeks in a house where he wasn’t regularly set upon by his sadistic stepfather, the toddler was a delight to be around and began to use words that began with letters other than ‘f’.

‘Three, f-o-u-r …’ Mortified though I was, I couldn’t give in to Phoebe’s demands any more than I could allow her to drink liquid soap. No child could possibly feel secure if they were allowed to wield power over the adults around them. I felt she needed someone to take control and show her that there were limits, lines that I simply wouldn’t allow her to cross. Until she learnt to impose those limits herself, something most children grasped as toddlers, I would have to do it for her. I had to accept that there might be nothing I could do to alleviate the problems associated with autism, but I was determined to help her gain some self-control so that she would feel safe in her own skin.

‘Five,’ I said quietly, dropping the half-mauled bar into the bin and then bending to pick up the wrapper.

Phoebe balled her fists and threw her head back, wailing a tortured roar of fury.

‘Well done, my dear. Good on you!’ The old man who had watched us inside the shop shuffled over and patted my arm. ‘Old-fashioned discipline, that’s what she needs. Shame you didn’t do it when she was a toddler but at least you’re on the right track now. Let’s hope it’s not too late.’

Shamed, I gave him a crooked smile and turned towards home, praying the outraged Phoebe would follow me without further protest.

She repeated everything I said for the rest of the day – apart from the time she spent screaming for no discernible reason. By midday Emily and Jamie had lost all trace of humour and decided to seek refuge in the garden. Shutting themselves away in the summerhouse, essentially a shed with curtains, they played cards and board games for the entire afternoon. How I longed to follow them and draw up the barricades behind me. I felt guilty that the placement was spoiling the start of their school holiday but at least they were together and it was probably best they gave Phoebe a wide berth for a few days, in case she took it into her head to lash out at one of them again.

My attempts to engage Phoebe in some sort of constructive play failed. She seemed to lack any imagination, preferring to walk around in circles like a caged animal, talking incessantly. Every now and again she would enter a period of calm, when she would sit and chat like any other eight-year-old girl. Once or twice I broached the subject of the mother and baby in the shop, explaining that if she couldn’t say anything nice, it would be best not to say anything at all. She responded with a blank expression, as if the incident had been a figment of my imagination. Sometimes it was as if Phoebe had just emerged from a coma and had no access to old knowledge, even if it was from only a few hours earlier.

At least with her hair now clean and less matted, she looked a bit more ‘normal’, bordering on pretty actually, when she wasn’t flapping her arms in a crazy way. I wondered how she behaved at school and whether she had any friends she could play with. She couldn’t seem to sit still, even for a minute. It was as if she had restless leg syndrome that had spread to her whole body (my mum would have called it ‘Syvitis Dance’). Whatever the cause, her strange actions were exhausting to watch and my appetite was shot to pieces by the time we sat down for our meal that evening.

Phoebe’s eyes bulged when I put her dinner on the table, staring at her plate with such horror that anyone would have thought I’d just unveiled a lamb’s head instead of pizza Margherita.

‘What’s wrong, Phoebe? Don’t you like pizza?’

I had tried to find out what she might like to eat during the day, but each time I mentioned food she had gagged. Breakfast had been a small bowl of porridge, Phoebe’s untouched pancake polished off by Emily, who hated to see good chocolate going to waste. She had refused lunch so I was keen for her to eat something that evening. I thought I couldn’t go wrong with a trusty Italian meal. Every child I had fostered so far had had food issues, but usually it was a case of trying to stop them from gorging themselves until they were sick.

Phoebe pushed her plate away, retching. ‘I want porridge,’ she choked, her eyes irresistibly glued to the source of her revulsion.

Emily lowered her own pizza slowly to her plate and Jamie screwed up his face, staring at Phoebe in disgust. ‘Can you stop her making that noise, Mum?’ he asked, his chin tucked close to his chest as if close to throwing up himself.

I whipped Phoebe’s plate away, slipping it onto the bookshelf behind me. Her shoulders sagged in relief but she continued to make gagging noises.

‘Alright, that’s enough, Phoebe. Take some deep breaths – it’s gone now. But you must tell me what sort of thing you eat at home, so I can get something you like.’

‘I only eat porridge,’ she said, her breath coming in short gasps. She was almost in tears. Her eyes were still bulging as if food were somehow a threat to her safety.

‘Yes, I know you prefer porridge for breakfast, but what do you like for lunch and dinner?’

‘What do you like for lunch and dinner?’ she mocked, then clamped her hand over her mouth. My concern was suspended by a moment’s jubilation. She realises, I thought, she actually knows what she’s doing. I wasn’t quite sure what the implications were but for some reason I was filled with a sense of optimism.

‘I only eat porridge, nothing else. Oh, except chocolate. Anything else makes me …’ she retched again, exaggeratedly. ‘Blwha, sick.’

Emily and Jamie exchanged disgusted glances.

‘Can we leave the table, Mum?’ they chorused.

‘Yes, OK. You can watch TV while you eat your pizza, if you want,’ I said, breaking one of our chief house rules. Usually I was quite strict about eating our meals at the table. It was just about the only time in the day when we had a proper, uninterrupted conversation but if our chat was to be interspersed with Phoebe’s throat spasms, I supposed it was worth skipping.

Phoebe sat pinching her bare arm, her eyes staring glassily ahead, while I picked at the rest of my meal. Seemingly oblivious to the red marks forming on her skin, she increased the pressure, twisting and digging away with short, bitten nails. Just what is going on inside your head? I wondered, sensing a dark undercurrent.

That night I lay in bed, filled with a sense of impending doom. Phoebe had eaten very little that day, despite all my coaxing. Before she went to bed I had made her another bowl of porridge with a heavy grating of chocolate on top and she had nibbled at it but without any gusto. Could it be possible that porridge was literally all she ever ate?

Still, I thought, trying to focus on the positives, at least Emily and Jamie seemed to be coping well with Phoebe’s arrival. There were times when their own lives hadn’t been easy; their father and I had separated eight years earlier when they were much younger. I registered as a foster carer soon after my divorce and in a way I think fostering helped ease the transition from a nuclear to a single-parent family. Our house seemed much livelier with lots of children around, even those troubled and withdrawn. Though their dad, who lives less than a mile away from us, was and still is a big part of their lives, Emily and Jamie always missed the chaos that comes with being part of a full family, whenever it was just the three of us at home.

It was the sound of their laughter earlier that had helped me through the gruesomeness of our first full day with Phoebe. I felt so proud of them: not only were they kind and loving, they possessed a wonderful ability to laugh at the downright awful, a gift inherited from their father. Somehow, remembering their capacity for humour helped me in marshalling my own and my low mood slowly lifted.

But it wasn’t just fretting over Phoebe’s starvation diet that was keeping me awake: knots in my stomach reminded me that I had to supervise a contact session between Phoebe and her parents in the morning. When children are removed without parental consent, contact usually takes place under the supervision of contact workers employed by the local authority, but since Phoebe was in voluntary care, the arrangement was to be more flexible.

Curious as I was to find out what her parents were like, contact was one of the tasks of fostering that I dreaded. Looking after the children was often the easy bit; Looked After Children (LAC) reviews, Child Protection Conferences and contact sessions, in fact anything involving other adults was the unappealing side of the job as far as I was concerned. Being a natural introvert, I tended to shy away from meetings, particularly when there was the possibility of confrontation.

Turning to my side, I tuned in to the low hum of traffic drifting through my open bedroom window, trying to dismiss thoughts of Phoebe from my mind.