I was used to having one difficult-to-place child at a time. Two of them together, and so young – that was something to think about. It had always been teenagers who were my natural forte. Challenging teenagers, yes. But not little ones!
There was also the question of it being short term again, though this wasn’t entirely unexpected. It was a bit annoying – after all, Mike and I had trained as specialist carers, employed to work to an innovative behaviour modification model – but along with others like us, we’d already been warned that due to government cutbacks we had to be flexible, and that we might be required to undertake any kind of fostering, in order to meet the council’s needs. I supposed it was sensible – better to be utilised than sit around waiting for a child who met our model’s criteria.
But even so, it felt a shame not to be able to do what we’d trained for – we’d done it with our first placement, Justin, and had really seen the benefits. But, hey ho. Such was life in the public sector. And the words ‘badly neglected’ triggered something maternal inside me. Poor mites. What grim story would they have to tell?
Mike was looking at me, considering, as he took in what I’d told him. ‘Two little ones,’ he said. ‘And one of them only six? That’s going to take it out of you, love. You have thought of that, have you?’
Which, of course, sent me straight into overdrive. Finally lighting my cigarette, I fell into step with him as we made our way to the long-stay car park. Stuff and nonsense, I told him. I was in my early forties, not my dotage! Plus I’d already been reminded how tiring little ones could be. Now we had Levi in our lives, it had all come right back. And I pooh-poohed his comment that Levi didn’t actually live with us. I was fired up now. Of course we’d be able to manage, I told him. How difficult could they be? Anyway, I pointed out, it was the summer holidays, wasn’t it? So no school stress to fret about. And I could take them out, keep them occupied. To the park. To the swimming pool, to the cinema and so on. And Riley would help. Little Levi would love it. And it wouldn’t be for long, I reminded him.
But his face, when I was done, still had doubt etched across it. ‘Look love,’ he said. ‘It’s you I’m thinking of here. I’ll be at work. It’s you that’ll have to deal with them.’ We’d reached the car park by now and he turned as we passed the barrier. ‘But if you think you can do it, go on, call John back. Say yes. I have a feeling you’re not going to take no for an answer, anyway, so we might as well put him out of his misery.’
I leaned across and kissed him. ‘We can do it, love. “We” being the operative word here …’
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I can still change my mind, you know!’
But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He knew what I was like. I gleefully grabbed my mobile and began dialling.
Twenty-four hours later, and the house was a hive of activity. I’d been thrilled by the children’s response to the news; after Sophia, whose problems had caused the whole family a lot of heartache, I had expected them to be a lot more reticent. Instead, Kieron was already enthusing about how he and Lauren could take them bowling, and even Riley, though more reserved, and also quick to point out how much hard work young kids were – just like her father! – was happy to pitch in.
We had a four-bed house, one bedroom housing Mike and I, and one housing Kieron, and the third bedroom was currently a confection of pink butterflies and fairy princesses, the way we’d decorated when Sophia had come to live with us. Given the little ones wouldn’t be with us for long, it made sense not to go overboard changing things. The pink room would happily house the little girl who was coming, and her brother could go in the fourth bedroom, the spare room, which was currently home to Kieron and his college friend’s DJing equipment – all the mixers, amps and decks essential to the making of new tracks. It really just needed a good clear-out and clean up, and all the contents transferring to the garden shed.
We’d had some more info by now, from an extremely grateful John, who, had he been able to crawl along the phone line and hug me, would, I could tell, have probably done so. As it was, he just had to content himself with thanking me profusely and letting me know we’d have everyone’s full support. The children now had names at least; the nine-year-old boy was called Ashton, and his six-year-old sister was Olivia.
I’d get more in the afternoon, he said, when the social worker called me, but in the meantime he wanted to let me know that a new bed was already on its way. Happily, Mike, who was a warehouse manager and very busy with his own job, had taken two days off to get the rooms straight, so I could at least be sure the children would both have somewhere nice and welcoming to sleep.
By lunchtime, I was happy that we were getting things organised, so, leaving Mike and Kieron painting – they’d found a big tin of blue emulsion, left over from when we’d decorated for our first foster child, Justin – Riley and I made a trip into town for some bits. I knew it wasn’t really necessary, but the word ‘neglect’ kept jumping out at me, so even if they would be with us only a short while I was determined these poor little ones would find the experience a positive one. It would take no time at all to grab some bits from all the local charity shops: books to read, toys and jigsaws, soft toys and dolls – just some kiddie paraphernalia to help make them feel at home.
Riley and I were just staggering back in through the front door with our haul when the phone rang. As promised, it was the children’s social worker.
‘I’m Anna,’ she told me. She sounded young and very professional. ‘And I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you’ve agreed to help us out. John’s told us so much about you and Mike, and we really don’t know what we’d have done without you. And I have to tell you …’ I mentally braced, because the tone of her voice had now changed markedly, ‘… that the situation’s become somewhat more urgent.’
I wasn’t sure what she meant. In the world in which we worked we were used to pretty much everything being urgent. Well, if they needed something, anyway – it didn’t necessarily work in reverse. ‘More urgent?’
‘In that we’ve had to give the parents notice. That we’re going to be removing the children in the morning …’
‘The morning? You mean tomorrow morning?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ she answered. ‘We would have moved them today, but of course it was only fair to give you notice …’
‘But what about the pre-placement meeting? We know absolutely nothing about them.’
I should have expected this, I thought ruefully as I waited for her answer. In theory, before a child is placed with a foster family, there is a defined process – a formal meeting, in which all concerned parties are present, so that social services can give the new carers some background and so that a plan of action for the child or children’s future can be put in place. But in practice … Hmm, I thought, we’d been here before, hadn’t we?
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘to land the two of you in it like this. We will, of course, arrange an urgent meeting with you, once you have the children, then we can tell you both everything we know.’
I could almost hear her holding her breath, waiting for me to argue. But I’d committed, and these kids needed a temporary home, now.
‘Okay,’ I said.
‘Oh, thank you so, so much,’ she answered. Rather worryingly.
After a fitful night mostly spent making mental lists, the following morning found me sitting in my garden, drinking in its glorious summer scents. It was looking
