Читать книгу Can I Let You Go?: Part 2 of 3: A heartbreaking true story of love, loss and moving on - Cathy Glass, Cathy Glass - Страница 6

On Monday I took Faye on the bus again to visit her grandparents, and then on Tuesday we went to see the horses in the field. Faye was delighted when she called their names and they cantered over, although I think they would have come anyway with the promise of handfuls of fresh grass and being stroked. I’d found an old hairbrush at home and had given it to Faye so that she could brush their manes. A few of the horses stood still to let her brush, but the others shied away, probably not used to having their hair done, for I doubted many visitors arrived with a hairbrush! ‘We could bring some mascara next time,’ I joked.

‘Yes, like Lucy,’ Faye said. ‘She wears mascara. I’ve seen her putting it on.’

‘Would you like some?’ I asked, wondering if this was a hint.

‘No. My gran wouldn’t like it, and I try to please Gran and keep her happy.’ Said without any hint of dissent or regret. Faye was a truly selfless person.

‘I know you do, love.’

The hairbrush was filthy by the time Faye had finished brushing the horses’ manes, so I put it into a carrier bag to wash on our return home, and gave Faye plenty of antibacterial wipes for her hands.

On Wednesday I took Faye to see her grandparents again, and on the return journey she finally remembered, without prompting, when to press the bell button to stop the bus. ‘Well done,’ I said. I decided that if she did it correctly on two more journeys then she could travel to see her grandparents by herself, as Becky wanted her to. Faye didn’t seem too bothered if she made the journey alone or not. True to her character, she tended to go along with everyone else’s wishes.

Edith, my support social worker, telephoned on Thursday afternoon for an update and to see how Faye had settled in. When I was fostering a child she would visit every month to check I was caring for them to the required standard, assess my ongoing training needs, give support and advice where necessary and sign off my log notes. As Faye had been referred from adult services it was felt that Becky could support and supervise me, although I could phone Edith if I needed to and I still sent her my monthly reports.

Now Faye knew that Becky and I wanted her to talk to me about her feelings and her pregnancy, she continued to do so in a relaxed and spontaneous manner. The number of comments and questions steadily increased, and they weren’t just to me but to Lucy, Paula and Adrian as well – as and when the moment arose, although Adrian usually told Faye to ask me if she wanted to know something about pregnancy or childbirth. I always answered her questions honestly, in detail, and using language appropriate for her level of understanding, rephrasing and repeating if she didn’t grasp it the first time. I found some books that I’d used with my own children and children I’d fostered, which explained how babies were conceived, grew inside the mother’s womb and were born. One of the books had large colourful illustrations and told the story of a new life as if it was an incredible adventure. Faye loved the story with the passion a child shows for a fairy tale, which in a way it was. She wanted me to read it over and over again. The wonder of creation never ceases to amaze me: a microscopic sperm joining with a single-cell egg and growing into a baby. It’s pretty awe-inspiring, even for adults, and it was true magic for Faye. However, in all our readings and discussions about babies I was no nearer to finding out who the father of Faye’s baby was, although we got close a few times.

‘You understand that it takes a man and a woman to make a baby?’ I asked Faye one time.

‘Of course I know,’ she said a little indignantly.

‘Good. So you know that every baby must have a daddy, even though he might not see the mother. He gave the mummy the sperm to make the baby.’

‘Yes, I know. There’s a picture here,’ she said, flipping back through the book.

‘So your baby has a daddy, although you may not see him now.’

‘I know,’ she said matter-of-factly.

‘Do you want to tell me about him?’ I asked.

‘No. Gran wouldn’t like it.’

‘But you know you can talk to me or Becky about him?’

‘Yes, but I don’t want to. It’s our secret.’

‘Did he tell you that?’

‘Yes. And I agree with him,’ she said emphatically.

I could have continued my questioning, but I felt to do so would have been unreasonably intrusive and would possibly have forced her into saying something she’d later regret or even to make up something. Becky had asked me to try to find out who the father was, as she had concerns that Faye might have been forced into having intercourse, but from Faye’s manner when I’d mentioned the father I didn’t think so. She wasn’t distraught or tearful as surely she would have been had she been raped. It was still possible she’d been persuaded or coerced into having sex, and, if so, the circumstances in which that had happened would need to be looked into if they ever became known. But, then again, Faye had sexual feelings as much as anyone, so she might have entered into the relationship of her own free will, although where and with whom would remain a mystery for now.

Faye began making the journey alone to her grandparents’ flat the following week. Each morning before she left I checked she had her phone and bus ticket with her, but I was on tenterhooks until Stan phoned to say she’d arrived. On the return journey I telephoned her grandparents to say she was back. I didn’t think we were being overprotective, for although Faye had used the buses to go to and from the day centre for many years, the route to my house was very different and in the opposite direction, so checking she’d arrived seemed a sensible precaution. The first three trips went without incident, but then on Saturday, at the time Faye should have been leaving to catch the bus to me, Stan telephoned and asked if I could collect her in the car. He said that while she’d been waiting at the bus stop outside the flats some boys who lived locally had begun taunting her and calling her names. She had tried to ignore them for a while, but then she’d felt threatened and had fled back to the flat. I was horrified, angry and upset that anyone could be so cruel as to pick on someone with a learning disability – as, I expected, her grandparents were. But when I arrived Stan was philosophical.

‘It’s not the first time it’s happened and I doubt it will be the last,’ he said. ‘Faye does her best to ignore them, but today it got personal. It was worse when she was at school. They’d surround her and take her snack money. Bullying was one of the reasons we moved her to a special school.’

It was pitiful and I felt my eyes well. Poor, gentle Faye, who’d never hurt anyone, having to put up with that. Yet while I was incensed, Faye and her grandparents seemed to accept bullying was part of her life. Wilma said that these lads were part of the group who’d picked on her at school.

‘They want reporting to the police,’ I said.

‘We have done in the past,’ Stan said. ‘But by the time the police arrive they’re long gone. The sooner we move away from here the better.’

‘Is there any news on that?’ I asked.

‘No,’ Wilma said with a sigh. ‘I phoned housing again on Monday. We’re gradually moving up the waiting list for either a bungalow or a ground-floor flat, but there are others ahead of us.’

‘I’d have thought you would be a priority.’

‘We are, but because of the ageing population there are many others like us who need ground-floor housing too.’

‘Can’t Becky put a word in for you?’ I asked. I knew that social workers could write to the housing department if there were special circumstances.

‘She has,’ Wilma said. ‘And our doctor has sent a letter. We’ll just have to be patient and wait now.’

Faye kissed her gran goodbye and then Stan came into the corridor as usual to see us to the elevator. Outside the block of flats there was no sign of the bullies, but I saw Faye glance around. I wouldn’t bring up the subject unless Faye did. There wasn’t much I could say. She’d probably had far more personal experience of dealing with bullies than I had, and there wasn’t any advice I could give her beyond what she was already doing – ignore them. However, once in the car Faye confided that this time they’d been calling her names because she was pregnant.

‘They asked me if Snuggles was the baby’s father,’ she said.

‘That was stupid of them.’

‘I didn’t tell Gran, it would have upset her.’

‘Yes.’ I paused. ‘Faye, I’m wondering if perhaps it would be wiser if I started giving you a lift in the car when you visit your grandparents. Not just because of what happened today, but as you’re getting bigger now you don’t want to be standing around waiting for buses.’

‘Yes. I like going in your car,’ Faye said easily.

That evening I telephoned Faye’s grandparents and suggested that in future I brought and collected Faye in my car. I didn’t tell them the nature of the boys’ bullying, but I said, as I had to Faye, that I thought it would be more comfortable for her. They agreed.

‘Faye’s proved she can do the bus journey alone,’ Stan said. ‘She doesn’t have to prove it any more.’ Which I thought was a sensible view. I’d mention our decision to Becky next time I spoke to her. From then on I took and collected Faye in the car. It saved a lot of time and worry.

The days passed and Faye continued to talk openly about her pregnancy and what she now referred to as ‘my baby’. My family and I were happy for her; her openness seemed preferable to ignoring her condition, as long as you didn’t think about the end result: that it would never be her baby. But with all the talk and openness, something else was starting to happen: I was bonding with her baby, as I was sure Faye was, and possibly my children too. When Faye had refused to acknowledge her pregnancy the baby had remained a vague and indistinct entity – something apart from our lives. But now she was sharing her pregnancy openly, by telling us when the baby moved and what it felt like, and that it was uncomfortable at night, for example, and she was now sitting with her hands resting over her bump, it had gone from being an ‘it’ to a real living person. As we didn’t know the sex of the child we couldn’t refer to it as ‘he’ or ‘she’, so we used the term ‘baby’. We always asked Faye how baby was today and she’d reply with, ‘My baby is very well, thank you,’ or something similar. So in a few weeks we’d effectively gone from fostering Faye who was pregnant to fostering Faye and her unborn baby, which felt very different. And perhaps part of me saw what was coming next, for I wasn’t as surprised as I might have been.

In complete contrast to Faye’s previous antenatal check-ups, she was very enthusiastic about the next one, at twenty-eight weeks gestation, and was looking forward to learning how her baby was doing and hearing its heartbeat. As we entered the consultation room she smiled at the midwife and said a bright hello, then answered her questions and generally engaged with her, interested in all aspects of her developing baby. We’d brought the urine sample with us from home and the midwife dipstick-tested it in the surgery and said everything was normal. Faye was pleased and thanked her. She then took her blood pressure and that was normal too, as was her weight gain.

‘You’re doing very well,’ the midwife said.

Faye smiled, thanked her again and then, looking down at her stomach, said, ‘Did you hear that, baby? You’re doing very well.’

The midwife was looking slightly bemused and I felt I had to say something.

‘We’ve had a change of heart and we’re more accepting,’ I said.

‘So she’s going to keep the baby?’

‘Oh no. I didn’t mean that. But Faye has accepted it is better to talk about the pregnancy.’

‘Good. That makes life easier for us all.’

Faye was ready and lying on the couch to have her bump measured even before the midwife asked her to.

‘Am I fat enough?’ she asked as the midwife read out the measurement.

‘Yes. That’s perfect,’ she said.

‘Are you going to put that jelly on my tummy now?’

The midwife smiled. ‘The ultrasound gel? Yes, here it is.’

She put on the gel and then ran the Doppler over Faye’s stomach until the steady clip-clop of the baby’s heartbeat could be heard. Beaming, Faye clasped her hands together in delight. ‘That’s my baby’s heart.’ Then she asked the midwife: ‘Can I hear the rest of my baby?’

‘There isn’t any more to hear,’ the midwife said kindly. ‘But you would have seen your baby on the monitor when you had your scan.’

Faye didn’t say anything, but I knew from Wilma that she hadn’t seen the baby on the monitor at either of the previous scans, because she’d refused to look. There were no more scans scheduled, so I hoped she didn’t regret not looking and not having a print-out of her baby’s image to keep.