Читать книгу Little Girl Lost: The true story of a broken child - Mia Marconi - Страница 5

I’ve always said that giving birth to a child does not make you a mother and simply fathering a child does not make you a father. What makes you a mother and a father is what comes next: sitting up all night with your little one while they’re fighting a fever; watching The Lion King on a loop; covering the kitchen with poster paint, sticky tape and cake mix; and endless visits to the park to swing your beautiful son or daughter on the same swing and slide them down the same slide. It’s repetitive and, dare I say it, occasionally boring, but that contact with your child makes them feel loved and valued. It’s called unconditional love, not childcare. But over the years I had begun to realise that not all parents are capable of loving their children, and that those children who enter the world cocooned by the love of their mother and father are the lucky ones.

Kira initially came to live with us for respite care, and she was a child who could not comprehend the meaning of the word ‘love’. Kira could have written a doctorate on rejection, but love was a mystery to her.

She came into our home one Friday night. When you work on the frontline in foster care you very quickly realise that the most urgent calls come on a Friday, usually just as you’re about to head out of the door to take your other kids somewhere, or as you’re snuggling up in bed with a good book. There’s something about having to face the weekend with a demanding child that galvanises people into action.

On this particular Friday I was trying to make dinner, surrounded by chaos. My own five children were demob-happy and already getting into the weekend spirit. ‘Mum, I can’t find my football shorts,’ shouted Alfie. ‘Mum, Ruby’s got my favourite pyjamas.’ ‘No I haven’t, she’s got mine!’ ‘Mum, Jack’s eating my slippers. Mum!’ Sleepovers were being planned and sporting activities discussed at top volume as usual, but through the noise I somehow heard the phone ring.

I picked it up. ‘Can you hear me?’ said a calm, professional voice that sounded vaguely like a social worker. I couldn’t, and took the phone into my quiet room, one that the children knew to stay out of. It was my room, peaceful, with warm red walls and a thick fluffy carpet, and as soon as I entered it I felt instantly peaceful. ‘Sorry, I can now.’

‘We need an emergency placement for the week. It’s respite for another set of carers. One of the carers has been in an accident. She’s broken her hip and is struggling to cope. Can you help?’

‘How old is the poor little mite? And are we her only option?’ I said, playing for time. As much as I wanted to help, all our weekend plans would take time to change and I had to be sure I could change them before I committed.

‘Kira is three,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid you are the only option. She hasn’t been with these carers for long and she’s only just come into care, so obviously this is all incredibly disorientating for her. She can’t cope as they are in the midst of a crisis. She is quite needy and her behaviour can be challenging, and the carers are struggling with her. They say she’s being quite difficult.’

My mind was racing. From what she had said, I knew that Kira would need one hundred per cent of my attention, and I wondered how I would juggle everything I had to do and give her the care that she needed.

‘Please,’ said the desperate voice on the end of the phone.

‘Okay,’ I said. I love little girls anyway and I couldn’t say no to a three-year-old in need. I heard the social worker breathe a sigh of relief. She sounded so relieved, in fact, that she was close to tears. ‘How long will you be?’ I asked.

‘About an hour. Is that okay?’

‘Fine. See you soon.’

I opened the door of my peaceful, warm red room and stepped back into the chaos. ‘Right, kids! I have an announcement to make. We have a little girl staying with us for the week. Her name is Kira and she’s three.’

‘Does she like Barbie?’ Ruby and Isabella said immediately. Francesca pulled a face. ‘I hate Barbie,’ she said.

‘I don’t know what she likes yet, but I’m sure she’ll love Barbie, and bike rides,’ I added, looking at Francesca, who was the tomboy of the two.

In the meantime everyone was hungry, so while they continued asking questions I gave them fish fingers and chips, a Friday night favourite, and cups half full of Robinson’s orange squash. I had learnt over the years to fill their cups only half full as more often than not they got knocked over and the contents would end up swimming around their dinner plates. Half-full cups offered damage limitation.

It was early December and unusually cold. The night was bitter and bleak, and just looking out of the window made me shiver. I could tell that snow was fast approaching; you could smell it in the air.

After we’d eaten, my four kids got on with their homework and I tackled the dishes. I looked at them, aged between four and fourteen, and smiled. Martin was helping Alfie, who was still looking for his football strip, while his twin Isabella was tackling a large colouring book. Francesca and Ruby, who were thirteen and fourteen, were discussing what to wear to a party the following night. Everyone was chatting and laughing, and for a change there was no bickering. I smiled again. Our activities that night were just straightforward family routine, which as a parent you take for granted, but when you look back you realise how special those moments were when you were all together and just enjoying each other’s company.

A little while later the children heard a car pull up outside the house, and they scampered to the front door like excited puppies, tripping over each other as they went. I followed them, and as I opened it a blast of frosty air hit me full in the face. It reminded me that I must turn up the heating and get the extra blankets out of the airing cupboard. Everyone had cosy duvets, but an extra blanket on top made them even cosier.

It was the social worker, and clinging to her neck was the smallest, frailest little girl, wrapped in a slightly grubby blue fleece blanket. The blanket hid the colour of her hair and most of her face.

‘This is Kira,’ the social worker said. ‘Kira, this is Mia and you’ll be staying with her.’ She handed Kira to me, and I unwrapped her blanket and saw a skinny little girl with unruly dark hair, an Asian complexion and angry eyes as dark as thunder. I looked at her clothes. She was dressed in blue jogging bottoms and a Thomas the Tank Engine jumper. I caught the social worker’s eye. ‘She doesn’t like pink,’ she said, reading my mind. I smiled at Kira. ‘There is no rule that says girls have to like pink,’ I said, and she blinked.

In that short cuddle, I could feel that Kira was tense and only just the right side of being a bag of bones. She looked frightened as well as angry, and I didn’t blame her, but before I could begin reassuring her Francesca shouted:

‘Come on, Kira! Let’s see what’s in the dressing-up box.’

‘Bagsy the princess outfit,’ said Ruby.

‘Bagsy the pirate outfit,’ said Francesca. ‘Kira, you can have the cowboy outfit. It’s your size.’

The children were so welcoming that I saw the fear disappear from Kira’s face. Her look was still cautious, but there was the glimmer of a smile now so I put her down and turned my attention back to the social worker.

I had never met this particular lady. She was frail herself and looked overworked; I already knew she was underpaid – no amount of money could compensate for the tasks you have to carry out in social work. I looked at my watch and it was nine p.m. ‘It’s an hour and 40 minutes’ drive home for me,’ she said. ‘You need a cup of tea,’ I said, but she shook her head and handed me the paperwork to sign, along with a Tesco carrier bag bulging with Kira’s clothes. The bag was not a good sign. I knew her carers were quite well off and could easily have given her a small case, so this meant that either it was so chaotic at their house they had packed her things in a rush, or they didn’t care that much about her.

I took the handover papers and the looked-after children papers, signed them and gave them back to her. She pulled her coat around her, and for the second time I heard her breathe a sigh of relief. I felt sad for her and wondered how long it would be before she was burnt out. She got in her car and I never saw her again.

It was three weeks before Christmas when this journey started and I had no inkling then where we were going with it. All I knew was that Kira would be staying with us for a week to give her carers a chance to assess their needs.

I looked at her playing with my kids. There were no tears, no tantrums and, although you might think that I would be grateful for that, I knew it was a sign that Kira was suffering from an attachment disorder. I felt sad for her. I knew this meant she had never bonded with a special adult – which in most cases is mum and dad, and if they’re not around other members of the family, and if there is no family foster carers take their place – but she was showing no distress at being separated from her primary care givers, as parents and guardians are officially called. I decided I would work hard to give her a family experience that week, but knew I’d have to be careful not to overwhelm her. It was clear her needs had been pretty much ignored up until now but to suddenly make her the centre of attention would probably panic her.

I picked up Kira’s paperwork to see what I could glean from it, but there was essential information only.

I called James and Claire, her official foster carers. James answered. ‘Hello, James, I’m Mia and I’m looking after Kira this week. I just wanted you to know that she’s arrived safely and we’re settling her in.’ Just then, Kira walked past in the cowboy outfit. ‘Would you like to talk to her?’

‘No, thank you. I would normally, but we’re struggling here a bit. Can we speak later in the week?

‘My wife is in shock,’ James explained. ‘A car hit her as she walked across a zebra crossing and she’s broken her hip quite badly. The doctors aren’t sure how long she’ll need to recuperate until after they operate. They’re operating tomorrow. Kira has been so upset, what with the doctors and ambulances, that it’s not fair for her to stay here.’

‘Well, don’t worry. I’ll look after her for you,’ I reassured him.

‘Thank you, Mia, we really appreciate it.’

I knew brief details about them: they lived in a large house near Clacton in Essex and had a child of their own, but had been unable to have more. They thought fostering would be a way to give their own daughter, Jo, a ready-made sibling. It seemed a shame that they had to face this crisis so early in the placement.

Understandably, Kira was quite clingy and spent most of her time with me in the kitchen. She shied away from any affection and wasn’t keen on the dogs, and although she played with my children she didn’t immerse herself totally. She held back. ‘You alright, darling?’ I would ask occasionally.

‘Yes,’ she’d reply.

‘Just ask me if you need anything.’ She’d nod. It was all very formal, but I didn’t want to crowd her. Even so, I kept a constant eye on her. Each time I checked up on her she seemed to be settling well.

There was a knock on the door at 10 a.m. the following Friday morning. The social worker standing there was Roz, a lovely lady I’d met with various other foster children. I headed straight for the kettle. ‘I’ve got the log of how it went, Roz. Shall we go through it?’ I was required to write down detail about Kira’s moods. ‘She was quiet and quite withdrawn but joined in when she was encouraged.’

‘That’s a good sign,’ Roz said.

I told her about our activities: ‘We went to the park, and as a special treat on Saturday we had dinner at Pizza Hut.’

‘How was she in public?’

‘A bit quiet. She was quite pleased to leave. On Sunday we took a long walk in the woods with the dogs, and came back to a huge roast.’ Then I went through the rest of the weeks’ activities. ‘Kira seemed happy enough,’ I said, and I believed it was true.

By that point we noticed Kira standing by the front door, wearing her coat. Awkward doesn’t begin to describe that moment, and Roz leant over to me and whispered: ‘I think she wants to go.’ I was wounded for a split second then quickly reminded myself that it was Kira’s needs that were important, not mine. Then Roz said: ‘She’s probably just been a bit overwhelmed. As there’s only one other child where she is it might have been a shock coming into all this chaos.’ She smiled. I knew this was just good-natured banter; she didn’t really think we lived in chaos.

I was expecting her to say, ‘Thanks for helping out, we’ll take it from here,’ but she surprised me as she went on: ‘Would you be prepared to have Kira on a regular respite basis if we need you? I’ve spoken to her carers and Claire will be in a wheelchair for a couple of months, maybe three. They want Kira to stay with them as she’s been with them for a few months already. She found it really hard to settle at first, but she’s been making some progress and they don’t want to disrupt her unless they really have to.’

‘I’ll be happy to help if you need me,’ I said as I walked over to Kira and picked her up. She looked uncomfortable and gave me a withering look.

I put her down gently and opened the front door. The social worker took Kira’s small, limp hand, which she quickly snatched away, and led her down the garden path. ‘Bye, Kira,’ I said. ‘Bye,’ she said, but neither of them looked back and neither waved, so I shut the door and took a brief moment to reflect.

I began to mull over what had just happened, and I felt hurt and worried about whether Kira had enjoyed her stay with us. My thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing so I put the problem to one side. Later, I spoke to the kids and was happy that nothing traumatic had happened to Kira while she was with us. I just put it down to her wanting to be in a more familiar setting.

Life carried on and I had little time to think about Kira again. The truth is, I was just another adult who had come into her life for a short period.