Читать книгу Moving Fostering Memoirs 2-Book Collection - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 19

It took some heavy-duty self-coaching that night to convince myself to stick with the placement. Phoebe had looked at me with such hatred that my instincts were screaming at me to put as much distance between her and the rest of the family as possible. Digging deep, I forced myself to draw on my drive to heal, on my past experiences, and the amazing turnarounds I’d witnessed before, so that I could turn the dislike I was feeling into empathy. She must have been hurting badly to feel so much hatred, her self-harming told me that. Once I felt more forgiving, I decided that the first thing I should do was to broach the subject of self-harm with her.

After rehearsing the conversation in my mind overnight, I invited her to sit next to me on one of the fluffy beanbags in her room once she had washed and dressed, hoping she was in one of her more coherent phases. Since she flipped from rational to illogical several times in any one hour, catching her at the right time was simply a matter of chance.

I nudged her playfully with my shoulder. She smiled, nudging me back. It was a positive start.

‘How’s your arm feeling this morning, honey?’

From her hesitation and the way she stared at her forearm, almost in surprise, I got the impression she was thinking, what on earth is that bandage doing there? After a moment she shrugged and reached for a shiny bracelet on her bookshelf that had grabbed her attention. ‘It’s OK,’ she said, making a move to get up.

I decided to move the focus to a previous, fictional placement. In the past I had found that children were fascinated to hear about others in a similar position to their own, particularly when I regaled them with tales of naughty exploits. It somehow helped them to conceptualise their own situation without the associated pain.

‘I looked after another little girl once. She was about your age …’

Phoebe swung back to face me again, immediately interested. ‘What was she like?’

‘She was VERY badly behaved,’ I said dramatically.

Delighted, Phoebe giggled. ‘Was she? What did she do?’

‘She painted our cat red. When I told her off, she cut off all the buttons from her school coat and dropped them down the toilet.’

Phoebe gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth. It was funny how unaware she was of her own suspect behaviour. Totally unaware of the irony, she squealed, ‘That is very naughty! What was her name?’

My eyes moved upwards to the creative area of my brain. ‘Jessica,’ I lied. There was a hesitation before I continued. ‘There were reasons why she behaved in that way, though.’

‘What reasons?’

Studying her face, I replied slowly, ‘Sometimes she felt unhappy about things that had happened to her, but she didn’t feel she could tell anyone about it. It was difficult to keep such big things to herself so she behaved badly as a way of letting all those sad feelings out.’

Instead of asking for more details, as I expected, Phoebe fell silent, turning her gaze back to the bookshelf.

‘I want you to feel you can talk to me if you’re feeling sad, instead of ever hurting yourself again. Will you do that, Phoebe?’

‘Will you do that, Phoebe?’

The asinine grin had returned and, with a sinking heart, I knew our conversation was over.

My dark mood lingered through the rest of the week. Every now and again a lump rose in my throat with thoughts of Tess and Harry, knowing I would have to break the news to Emily and Jamie that we wouldn’t be seeing them again. I pushed the thoughts aside – Tess and Harry were safe and well cared for, I knew that. Phoebe was the one who needed my help now and I determined to put all my energies into doing just that.

By Friday afternoon, when I picked Phoebe and Jamie up from school, I had reached the point where even my accomplished acting skills were stretched and it was difficult to summon a cheery smile. Phoebe was back on form again after the self-harming incident four days earlier, repeating every word Jamie uttered as I ushered them both into the car. I heard him sigh as he fastened his seat belt beside me and another blade of guilt passed through my chest; he looked frazzled.

I was about to pull him into a quick bear hug when Phoebe lunged forward with a wet finger outstretched, trying to smear his face with her drool. ‘No,’ I yelled, twisting in my seat and catching hold of her wrist. ‘I’ve had enough and so has Jamie! Now sit back and put your seat belt on.’

‘Sit back and put your seat belt on.’

Jamie groaned. While counting silently backwards from 20 to one I made a mental note to teach my son the same technique.

‘Sorry,’ I mouthed at him, trying to bestow what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

Fortunately for him, one of his football club friends had invited him for a sleepover. When we arrived at Ben’s house he leapt from the car with gusto, tearing down their path like a boy released from a burning building. I couldn’t blame him; I felt like taking off somewhere myself.

‘Argh, it’s going to be SO boring with just you,’ Phoebe whined as we pulled away, dropping back against the tan leather headrest and bumping against it several times. ‘What are we going to do now?’

She knew exactly what we were doing. I had taken her through the day’s itinerary several times since she’d woken at 6am, knowing that autistic children feel more at ease when they follow a precise routine.

‘We’re going to meet some other foster carers and play with the children they’re looking after. Do you remember?’

Jenny, a woman in her 50s who began fostering just over a year ago, lived in a lovely house near the river and a group of us carers met regularly at hers, to share the frustrations of being closely involved with social services and generally offering support to one another. Whenever one of our group accepted a new placement, the others were always keen to meet them and I knew they were all intrigued by my description of Phoebe. I had called ahead to warn them I would be bringing her along, if only so that Jenny could ensure her liquid soap was out of reach.

As I crossed over a wide bridge, Phoebe leaned forward, shouting in my ear, ‘If I see any babies there, I’m going to kill them. I’m going to stab them with a knife and twist it ’til they’re dead!’

‘What did I tell you about that, Phoebe? You mustn’t say nasty things, it’s upsetting.’

She spent the rest of the journey repeating ‘It’s upsetting, it’s upsetting,’ over and over again so that by the time I turned into Jenny’s wide, tree-lined road I had counted backwards several times. ‘Here we are,’ I said, forcing joviality as I secured the brake. ‘Out we get.’ Phoebe leapt from the car and spun in circles, her arms flapping up and down in super-fast motion. I wondered what the girls would make of her, and the other foster kids, for that matter. It was an alarming sight, particularly with her blue eyes swivelling in unison.

Rachel, a foster carer who wouldn’t look out of place in a nightclub, pulled up behind my Vauxhall. I first met her two years earlier, on a paediatric first aid course. The moment she appeared in the classroom and took the seat next to mine, I knew we would be friends. Tall and curvy, she wore sparkly eye shadow and bold red lipstick. The curious fusion of glamour and mumsiness conjured an image of a nurturing ‘madame’. It was clear that she had a personality to match her bright wardrobe and soon we were bellowing with laughter.

She was dressed in her customary tight skirt and colourful, silky vest top, a cluster of bracelets jingling as she waved at us before reaching into the back seat of her car to pick up her latest charge. Katy was eight months old and had only been with Rachel for three weeks, but the little one was already attached, crying whenever she left her sight.

Phoebe rushed over and planted her face barely two centimetres from Katy’s.

I followed quickly behind.

‘Be nice, Phoebe,’ I warned.

‘I like your baby, lady …’

Rachel’s brightly made-up face lit up with a wide smile. ‘That’s nice – I expect she likes you too. I’m Rachel, and you must be Phoebe. Rosie’s told me all about you.’ A whizz with young children, Rachel grinned and hunched her shoulders at Phoebe while taking a subtle step backwards to give the baby some breathing space. ‘Shall we go in and you can help me give her a bottle, if you’d like?’

‘I’d rather eat the baby,’ Phoebe said in an earnest voice. ‘Can I bite her? I have sharp teeth – we could see what colour her blood is.’

Rachel looked at me and chuckled. ‘Well, that doesn’t sound too healthy, if you ask me, honey. But tell you what, I have some cakes in this bag – why don’t you carry it in, give it to Jenny? We can eat some of those instead.’

Phoebe shook her head. ‘No, yuck, I only eat porridge or chocolate.’ She turned abruptly, bounding off up the path. The door was eagerly opened by Jenny; despite being in her early 50s the foster carer gave off a youthful aura, with her slim figure and keen, intelligent face.

‘Hello, lovey, so wonderful to meet you! Come in, come in! I’m Jenny. I bet your name’s Phoebe, am I right?’

‘Am I right?’ Phoebe sneered, surprising Jenny by squeezing past so forcibly that the foster carer almost lost her footing.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mouthed as I reached the door, closely followed by Rachel and the baby.

Jenny laughed and hugged me freely. ‘You did warn us,’ she said under her breath, giving my shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

She led us into a large living room, with a double set of large patio doors at one end overlooking a well-maintained, child-friendly garden. A large sofa was placed either side of a long coffee table, with several armchairs dotted around the space as well. On one of the walls was a framed tapestry of a child’s handprint with the words, ‘Quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep, I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep,’ embroidered in the cloth. Her house was immaculate, with a lingering smell of furniture polish, but it was comfortable too, and Jenny was so laid-back that I wasn’t terrified to sit down in case I crumpled the cushions, which was just as well, because Phoebe had already made herself at home. She was jumping up and down on one of the sofas and she still had her shoes on.

‘Get down from there, Phoebe,’ I said, striding forward with my arm outstretched.

‘Come on, let’s get you some colouring out, shall we?’ Jenny chipped in.

Phoebe jumped off the sofa in an instant, skipping off to follow Jenny. Her skills at distraction were impressive and I felt grateful that a battle had been averted.

Jenny returned a few minutes later, having settled Phoebe at a wooden table on the patio, a large assortment of pens and crayons laid out in front of her. She had left the garden doors open just an inch, probably so that we could talk in private.

‘Here he is!’ she cried as a dark-haired little boy walked shyly into the room, a cuddly toy clutched in his hand. He made straight for Jenny, burying his face in her skirt before peering shyly at us from behind her legs.

‘Hello, Billy,’ I said, crouching to greet him. Rachel, with Katy in her arms, waved hello with her free hand.

Billy glanced up at Jenny several times, seeking reassurance. I could almost visualise the thoughts behind those questioning eyes. Were these adults to be trusted or were they like the ones he had known before? Three years old, Billy had been placed with Jenny five months earlier due to severe neglect. The change in him over that period was staggering. She smiled down at him.

‘You remember Rosie, don’t you, sweetie? And that’s Rachel,’ she murmured softly.

‘Wosie and Wakel,’ he lisped sweetly, daring a smile.

‘What have you got there, Billy?’ I asked. He glanced up at Jenny again. On another smile from her he walked over and rested a plump hand on my knee, lifting his cuddly toy until it was a few centimetres from my eyes.

‘Bunny,’ he said. ‘Jenny got him for me.’

I felt a moment’s tightening in my stomach, a longing for the all-encompassing, defining comfort that young children offer.

Jenny grinned, her expression doting. ‘Come on, Billy. Let’s introduce you to Phoebe and you can do some colouring with her.’ I felt a familiar prickle of anxiety as she took Billy’s hand and led him to the table, wondering whether Phoebe could be trusted to be in such close proximity with a little one. So I took a seat in one of the armchairs nearest the garden, close enough to leap up at the first sign of trouble.

While the kettle boiled, Jenny answered the door to Liz, a former primary school head teacher who had made the decision to give up the position she had worked hard to achieve so that she could focus on her ambition of improving the futures of under-privileged children by helping them achieve academically.

Jenny came in with a tray laden with tea, pastries and biscuits. As Rachel reached for her tea, I marvelled at how she found time to match her lipstick with her nail polish. Running my bitten fingernails through my own less than neat hair, I realised I could learn a few lessons from her.

‘So how’s it going?’ Liz murmured, lowering herself onto a bright pink beanbag next to the sofa.

‘Apart from the plate-throwing, kicking, swearing and self-harming, you mean?’ I answered wryly. ‘Couldn’t be better. How about you?’

Liz had recently taken on a 14-year-old girl who had worked her way through four carers in three months. I knew she was reluctant to give up on her but it was clear her extreme behaviour was taking its toll on the family.

Liz dragged her hands down her face and sighed. ‘I had to take her to A&E the other day. She came in around lunchtime, staggering around the house like she’d had a stroke. Her eyes were glazed over and she couldn’t formulate her words, not that she’s that coherent at the best of times. Anyway, doctors couldn’t work out what was wrong with her and gave her a CAT scan. Turns out the girl had inserted a tampon inside herself – soaked in gin.’

‘What?’ we exclaimed in horrified unison. ‘Why?’

Liz rolled her eyes. ‘New craze, apparently. The smell is undetectable that way and they can get away with consuming litres of the stuff, even at school.’

‘No!’ We stared at each other in amazement and I made a mental note to contact Ellie, the glamorous local authority tutor, so that she could add yet another shocker to her list of outrageous facts.

I found myself relaxing into the armchair, the adult contact reviving me. I loved our regular meet-ups. There was a camaraderie among us that reminded me of being back at school, each of us understanding the unique challenges that came with fostering. The gossip and scandal helped me feel less isolated, part of a team, but most valuable of all was the mutual support and kindness. Our backgrounds were quite different: Jenny was the middle-class one and probably the only carer in our group who could still afford to foster if there was no allowance available. Her husband ran some sort of internet trading company based in London, staying in the city and travelling back home for weekends. With both of her own children at university, I got the impression that Jenny would have been lonely, if not for the company of the children she fostered.

Liz had been drawn to fostering after working at an inner-city school where the catchment area took in several housing estates. She had often sent the most deprived children home with a few treats tucked into their book bag but for years had longed to take a more direct role in helping to improve their long-term prospects. Often she would come out with depressing statistics about how children fared once they left the care system, radiating frustration as she told us that 40 per cent of the prison population had spent time in care as children and almost one third of fostered children leave school with no qualifications. Her determination to make a difference was inspiring and I loved her company, but of all the foster carers I knew Rachel was the one I probably felt closest to.

In many ways we mirrored each other in our life experiences. Soon after the birth of her second child Rachel had moved with her husband to the US, returning six months later as a single parent. During one of our coffee mornings she had tearfully confided in me that, while she had found the move to an unfamiliar country difficult, her husband had embraced all that was American, reserving most enthusiasm, it seemed, for its female citizens.

Fostering gave Rachel the opportunity to gain the large, happy family she had always yearned for, as well as helping to distract her from her own angst by turning her focus outwards. The sense of achievement she gained from helping children was gradually boosting her battered self-esteem, but, like me, Rachel was one of those carers who found it difficult to let go and so, for her, fostering was a bit of a roller-coaster ride.

‘Have you heard how Tess and Harry are doing?’ Jenny asked. ‘Can’t be long now until you meet up with them, is it?’

Jenny must have noticed my crestfallen face because she quickly added, ‘Oh dear,’ before I’d even managed to nod my head or gather a response. The trauma of yesterday’s letter had settled into a background ache but still it was hard to ignore and there was a quaver in my voice as I spoke: ‘They’ve decided to make a clean break – I got a letter from the couple yesterday.’

They all listened, Rachel pressing her hands to her heart and shaking her head as my eyes filled up. ‘Ah, but they were so attached to you,’ she said, her dangly earrings trembling in a heartfelt way as if each bead was independently attuned to our conversation.

‘The inevitable happened, then?’ Jenny asked.

What I needed from Jenny and the others at that moment was indignation to match my own, so I took the remark badly.

‘It wasn’t inevitable,’ I said spikily. I wanted to dissect the new parents’ failure to keep their promises of staying in touch and was ready to welcome bitter remarks from all. The more vitriol the better, as far as I was concerned. I was thirsty for it, such was the mood I was in. ‘It didn’t have to be that way – I could have been auntie to them and …’

Jenny eyed me sceptically and teased: ‘You would never have taken a back seat, honey, not in a million years. The poor new mummy would have been constantly fending you off.’

I possessed enough self-awareness to recognise that Jenny’s remarks contained grains of truth. Probably it would have been difficult for me to stand back and not offer ‘helpful’ advice but that realisation made her comments prickle all the more.

‘Of course she wouldn’t,’ I protested, a defensive edge to my tone.

Jenny scoffed. ‘Yeah, right! It would have been “Are you sure that nursery is a good idea?” and “I really don’t think they’re old enough to stay with relatives while you swan off for the weekend …”’

The others joined in with a fusillade of quips, bouncing off one another with the ease that only well-meaning friends can, and I soon surrendered, laughing along with them. Despite the mockery, I could sense the flare of fellow feeling among the four of us – I knew that I wasn’t alone in grieving for children lost to me. In their own way, my friends were rallying round in the best way they could – helping me to see that my fostering really shouldn’t ever be about me. What mattered, over and above my own feelings, was the welfare of the children.

If we were honest, each of us drew many personal benefits from the ‘job’. None of us were saints. Besides the immense satisfaction of helping someone, fostering was the perfect antidote to a sense of worthlessness. Since registering I no longer felt quite such a waste of space. And it was also true that foster carers without a sense of humour should find themselves a new career.

‘They only need one mummy, honey,’ Liz said as she leaned over and patted my leg.