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Chapter Six Lonely and Afraid

That evening Patrick and I continued talking for another hour while the children played. Our conversation grew easier and more natural as we both relaxed and got to know each other. We didn’t talk about the future again or his illness but about our separate pasts and the many happy memories we both had. He told me of all the good times he’d had as a child in Ireland and then with his wife, Kathleen. I shared my own happy childhood memories and then told him how I’d met John, my husband, and how we’d started fostering. I also told him of the shock and disbelief I’d felt when John had suddenly left me. I was finding Patrick very easy to talk to, as I think he did me.

‘Looking back,’ I said speaking of John’s affair, ‘I guess there were warning signs: the late nights at work, the weekend conferences. Classic signs, but I chose to ignore them.’

‘Which was understandable,’ Patrick said. ‘You trusted him. Trust is what a good marriage is based on.’

‘I’ve let go of my anger, but it will be a long time before I forgive him,’ I admitted.

Patrick nodded thoughtfully.

I made us both a cup of tea while the children continued playing board games; then when it was nearly 7.15 and the light outside was staring to fade, Patrick said, ‘Well, Cathy, I could sit here all night chatting with you but we’d best be off. Michael has school in the morning and I’m sure you have plenty to do.’

‘Will you be all right catching the bus?’ I said. ‘Or can I give you a lift?’

‘No, we’ll be fine, thank you. I’m sure you’d rather get started with your children’s bedtime routine.’

I smiled. As a single parent – having raised Michael alone for six years – Patrick was familiar with the bedtime routine of young children: of bathing, teeth-brushing, bedtime stories, hugs and kisses goodnight, etc. He was right: I did appreciate the opportunity of settling the children into bed rather than driving across town.

We went to the table where the children were now in the middle of a game of Monopoly. ‘Time to go, son,’ Patrick said.

‘Oh, can’t I finish the game first?’ Michael moaned good-humouredly. I was pleased to see he had now relaxed and was enjoying himself.

‘Next time,’ Patrick said. ‘You’ve got school tomorrow.’

Michael pulled a face and reluctantly stood. ‘Do you want some help packing away?’ he asked Adrian, which I thought was very thoughtful.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ll do it. You and your dad need to get on the bus.’

Michael and his father used the bathroom first and then Adrian, Paula and I showed them to the front door and said goodbye.

‘Thanks, Cathy,’ Patrick said, taking my hand between his and kissing my cheek. ‘We’ve had a nice evening, haven’t we, Michael?’

Michael nodded. He looked a lot happier than he had done when he’d first arrived; his cheeks were flushed from the excitement of the games they’d played, and Adrian and Paula looked as though they’d enjoyed playing with Michael. All of which bode well for the future.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ Patrick said as he and Michael went down the front path. ‘Goodnight and God bless.’

‘And you,’ I called after them.

We watched them go and then I closed the front door. ‘All right?’ I asked the children. ‘Did you have a nice evening?’

‘Yes,’ Adrian said. ‘Michael’s OK.’

‘Is Michael’s daddy coming to live with us?’ Paula asked. ‘No, only Michael,’ I said. ‘What made you think that?’ Paula looked thoughtful, clearly having been working something out. Then she said, ‘If Michael’s daddy came to live with us, you could look after him and make him better. You make me better when I’m ill. Then when he’s better we can all live together, and Michael will have a mummy again, and we’ll have a daddy.’

Adrian tutted.

I smiled and gave her a hug. If only life were that simple, I thought. ‘It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ I said. ‘And you have a daddy: it’s just that he doesn’t live with us any more.’

That evening when the children were in bed I wrote up my log notes of Patrick and Michael’s visit. All foster carers have to keep a log – a daily record of the child or children they are fostering. In their log the carer records the child’s progress, their physical and emotional health, their education and any significant events. The log is usually begun when the carer first meets the child and ends when the child leaves the foster home. These log notes are then placed on the social services’ files and form part of the child’s record, which the child can read when they are older. Not only is keeping a log a requirement of fostering: it is also a valuable and detailed record of part of the child’s history. I had begun my log for Michael after meeting Patrick at the social services’ offices the day before and now continued it with their visit. It was just a paragraph saying how long they had stayed, that their visit had gone well, and while Michael had been subdued to begin with he had responded to Adrian and Paula, and the three of them had played together, while Patrick and I had talked. But as I wrote I felt as though I was writing up a friend’s visit in a diary rather than the log notes of a foster carer, so easily had we all bonded.

The following afternoon Jill telephoned to check on how Patrick and Michael’s visit had gone. ‘Very good,’ I said. ‘Much better than I’d expected. Michael was a bit quiet to begin with, but then he played with Adrian and Paula while Patrick and I chatted. Patrick’s a lovely person and very easy to talk to. He’s done a great job of bringing up Michael alone.’

Possibly Jill heard something in my voice or perhaps it was that she knew me from being my support social worker, for there was a small pause before she said: ‘Good, but you might have to put some professional distance between you and Patrick. I know how involved you get with our looked-after children and their families. Patrick is likely to be very needy in his situation with no family of his own to support him.’

‘He’s not needy,’ I said defensively. ‘And although he has no immediate family he has lots of very supportive friends.’

‘Good,’ Jill said again, ‘but just be careful. I wouldn’t want you getting hurt.’

‘All right, Jill. I hear what you’re saying. I’ll be careful.’

Jill then gave me some feedback from Stella – Patrick and Michael’s social worker – who’d spoken to Patrick that morning. Stella had confirmed that the evening had gone well from Patrick and Michael’s point of view. Patrick had sent his thanks and asked if they could visit again the following Saturday, perhaps for a bit longer. Today was Friday, so it was just over a week away.

‘I realize this is more introduction than we would normally do,’ Jill added. ‘But if it helps prepare Michael for when he moves in, when Patrick goes into hospital, then it seems appropriate.’

‘Yes, that’s fine with me,’ I said. ‘I could make us some dinner.’

‘Let’s set the time for their visit as two to six. Does that fit in with your plans?’

‘Yes, or two to seven if they are staying for dinner.’

‘OK. I’ll run it past Stella and get back to you. If I can’t reach her this afternoon, it’ll be Monday. Have a good weekend.’

‘Thanks, Jill. And you.’

When Jill phoned back on Monday afternoon she asked if we’d had a good weekend and then confirmed that Patrick and Michael would be visiting from 2.00 to 7.00 p.m. the following Saturday. She passed on Patrick’s thanks and Stella’s gratitude for being so accommodating, but there was no need. If they came and stayed for dinner it would be more like a social event than part of the introductions for a fostering placement, and something I would look forward to, as I thought Adrian and Paula would too. As soon as Jill had finished on the phone I began planning what I would cook for dinner on Saturday. I knew Patrick and Michael were both meat eaters because Patrick had mentioned the roasts he liked to cook after church on Sundays, so I thought roast chicken with vegetables would be a good idea, and perhaps I’d make a bread-and-butter pudding; I hadn’t made one in ages and Adrian and Paula loved it. Planning for Saturday gave me a frisson of warmth for the rest of the day and indeed most of that week.

However, it was not to be.

On Thursday afternoon when I was standing in the school playground with Paula, waiting for Adrian to come out, my mobile rang. ‘Sorry,’ I said to the mother I was talking to, taking my phone from my pocket. Jill’s office number was displayed and I moved slightly away from the group I’d been standing with in case what Jill had to say was confidential.

‘Cathy, where are you?’ Jill asked as soon as I answered. ‘Are you collecting Adrian from school?’ She spoke quickly, suggesting it was urgent.

‘I’m in the playground now, waiting for his class to come out. What’s the matter?’

‘Patrick has just been admitted to hospital. He collapsed at home this afternoon. A neighbour found him and called an ambulance.’

‘Oh. Is he all right?’ I said, which was a really silly question.

‘I don’t have any more details, but can you collect Michael from school and look after him for the weekend? It’s what we’d been working towards but obviously it’s come early. Michael’s going to be very upset and shocked, as it’s all happened so quickly. His teacher is looking after him until you arrive. I’ll phone the school and tell them you’re on your way. You know where St Joseph’s school is?’

‘Yes,’ I said, shocked by the news. ‘I’ll go as soon as I’ve got Adrian. Is Patrick very ill?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll phone Stella after I’ve phoned the school and see what I can find out. We’ll need to get a change of clothes for Michael and also see about hospital visiting.’

‘Yes,’ I said, my thoughts reeling. The school doors opened and classes began filing out. ‘I should be at Michael’s school in about fifteen minutes,’ I said to Jill.

‘I’ll phone them and let them know. Thanks. I’ll be in touch.’

Saying a quick goodbye, I returned my phone to my jacket pocket and took hold of Paula’s hand. I gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘That was Jill,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid Michael’s daddy isn’t very well. He’s in hospital. We’re going to collect Michael from school and he’s staying the weekend.’ I took some comfort from Jill’s words, which suggested Patrick would be coming out of hospital again after the weekend.

‘Aren’t they coming for dinner on Saturday?’ Paula asked as Adrian’s class began streaming out.

‘No. Well, Michael will be with us but his daddy isn’t well enough.’

I spotted Adrian and gave a little wave. He bounded over. ‘Can Jack come to tea? He’s free tonight.’

‘I’m sorry, not tonight,’ I said as Jack dragged his mother over. ‘Can we make it next week?’

‘Sure,’ Jack’s mother said. ‘I told Jack it was too short notice.’

Adrian pulled a face.

‘I’ll speak to you next week and arrange something,’ I confirmed to Jack’s mother.

‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘Come on, Jack.’

I began across the playground with a disgruntled Adrian on one side and Paula on the other. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Adrian, ‘but it would have been a good idea to ask me first before you invited Jack for tea. I’ve just had a call from Jill and –’

‘Michael’s daddy is in hospital,’ Paula put in.

‘Thank you, Paula,’ I said a little tersely. ‘I can tell Adrian.’ I could feel myself getting stressed.

‘We’re going to Michael’s school now,’ I clarified. ‘His daddy was taken to hospital this afternoon. Michael will be staying with us for the weekend. I know it’s all a bit short notice but it can’t be helped. Michael’s obviously going to be very worried and upset.’

Adrian didn’t say anything but his face had lost its grumpiness and disappointment at not having Jack to tea and was now showing concern for Michael.

We went round the corner to where I’d parked the car and the children clambered into the back. I helped Paula fasten her seatbelt as Adrian fastened his. I then drove to Michael’s school – St Joseph’s Roman Catholic primary school – on the other side of the town centre, although I used the back route to avoid going through the town itself. During the drive we were all quiet, concerned for Michael and his father and feeling the sadness Michael must be feeling.

The road outside the school was clear, most of the children having gone home, so I was able to park where the zigzag lines ended outside the school. The building was a typical Victorian church school with high windows, a stone-arched entrance porch and a small playground at the front, now protected by a tall wire-netting fence. Although I’d driven past the school before, I’d never been inside. Someone in the school must have seen us cross the playground, for as I opened the heavy outer wooden door and entered the enclosed dark porch, the inner door suddenly opened. I was startled as a priest in a full-length black cassock stood before us. Adrian and Paula had stopped short too.

‘You’ve come to collect Michael?’ the priest asked.

‘Yes. I’m Cathy Glass.’

‘Come this way. Michael is waiting in the head teacher’s office.’ He turned and led the way.

We followed the priest down a dark wood-panelled corridor, which was lined with huge gilt-framed religious pictures – of Mary, Christ and hosts of angels. It was like stepping back in time and a complete contrast to the bright modern school with wall displays of children’s artwork that Adrian went to. It had an air of strict religious and moral observance, and discipline, and if I’m honest I found it a bit intimidating. I saw Adrian and Paula cautiously looking around too.

‘Patrick has kept the school informed of his condition,’ the priest said as we arrived outside another massive wooden door with a brass plaque announcing ‘Head Teacher’. ‘He and Michael are in our prayers.’

I nodded.

The priest opened the door and we entered a spacious but cluttered room, which looked as though it hadn’t changed since the Victorian era. Beneath the one window was a huge oak desk; the chair behind it was empty, but over to the right, lost in the centre of a large leather captain’s chair, sat Michael. As he turned to face us our eyes met. He looked so lonely and afraid I could have wept.