shorts she was wearing. She jumped down the last two steps and skipped over to me, flinging her arms around one of my legs.
I pulled a funny face as I listened to Danny outlining social services’ legal position. Megan giggled and tugged at my hand, insisting loudly that I should come and play. I shook my head and put a finger to my lips, gesticulating for her to go and find the others. She danced around my legs then planted a kiss on my hip and skipped down the hall. Seconds later I heard her chatter cutting through Bobbi’s monologue.
From what Danny was saying it seemed that the Bradys’ neighbours had tolerated months of anti-social behaviour in the lead-up to the children being removed. On the night the children were removed, they had heard a series of disturbing thuds and lots of shouting, followed by crying that went on for hours. Being the early hours of the morning, it hadn’t been possible for the local authority to seek an Emergency Protection Order, so the children had been taken into police protective custody. ‘So you’re in court today?’
‘Yep,’ Danny said over a rustle of papers. His voice was deep and warm, his accent bordering on cockney. ‘They came in early on the 29th. Strictly speaking the police protection only allows us to keep them for seventy-two hours, so we’re out of time on that. I’m meeting Tanya Brady, that’s Mum, later today but I’ve spoken to her over the phone a couple of times. She sounded half-cut the first time, but when we spoke again she told me she’s engaged a solicitor. She’ll be contesting, but I’m certain we’ll get our ICO.’
An ICO or Interim Care Order is a temporary order made by the court when there are reasonable grounds to suspect that a child has suffered or may be at risk of suffering significant harm. An ICO means that the birth parents must share parental responsibility with the local authority until a final decision is made by the courts.
Parents who have had their children removed from their care automatically qualify for legal aid no matter what their financial circumstances, so it’s rare for a care order to go unchallenged.
‘So how they been then?’
‘Erm, well, we’re still getting to know each other really. Archie seems to have taken the move in his stride –’
‘Oh?’ Danny cut in. ‘Not sure I like the sound of that.’
‘– yes, I know, I know,’ I said, lowering my voice. Social workers always reserved more concern for children who seemed not to react when their entire world had tilted on its axis. Some children were highly skilled at concealing their vulnerability beneath a phoney exterior, usually because they feared that their true feelings were too ugly to expose. Such camouflage requires years of practice and monumental levels of self-control. One of my tasks as Archie’s foster carer was to help him peel away the protective layers he’d wrapped around himself. I also had to prepare myself to nurture whatever lurked underneath.
‘And Bobbi?’
I hesitated for a moment. ‘I think it’s fair to say that Bobbi and I are still trying to reach an understanding. We’ve had a few hiccups so far, but we’re getting there.’ It was a sanitised version, given that the siblings were within earshot. In truth the last few days had passed in a blur of frenzied, violent meltdowns. I was grateful that the children had arrived during the holidays when Emily and Jamie were at home. Whenever Bobbi began to blow, one or the other of them had taken Megan off to play, sparing her the worst of the fall-out.
The trouble was, Bobbi flew off the handle at the slightest provocation and with very little warning. Most of the time it was impossible to even begin to ascertain the trigger. She refused to comply with the simplest of requests – I had only managed to brush her teeth three times in five days, and even then only for a few seconds while she thrashed around, snarling and snapping. It was like trying to groom a bowl of jelly laced with nitroglycerin.
Archie, on the other hand, spent most of his time either covering up Bobbi’s misdeeds or assuming responsibility for them, even when it was clear he’d had not the slightest involvement. He spoke to her in soothing tones and went out of his way to try and calm her down, his parentified behaviour offering an insight into the peace-making role he may have assumed at home. Archie had cleaned up the mess Bobbi made in their room, his sister shouting instructions from the sidelines.
He was always eager to help, though he made an effort at being cool whenever Jamie graced us with his presence. He’d been pleased on Saturday when Jamie and a couple of his mates had allowed him to join in their game of basketball in the garden. Since then it became clear that there was a bit of hero-worship going on. Jamie, having grown up with fostering, took it all in his stride.
Danny belted out a laugh. ‘We’ll have a proper chat at the Placement Planning Meeting. You home tomorrow? I’m thinking early. I can’t seem to get hold of your supervising social worker, a –’ There was another rustle of papers. ‘– Sarah Baker? Is she away at the moment?’
‘I’m afraid Sarah left Bright Heights weeks ago. I don’t have a supervising social worker at the moment.’ Des, my longest-running supervising social worker (SSW) at Bright Heights, had left the agency over three years earlier to gather information on a youth behavioural scheme that had been showing signs of success in Boston. Our friendship had grown over the years and I missed his impromptu visits while he was away, so much so that when he returned to England in 2014, we began spending more time together. We weren’t quite in a relationship, but things seemed to be heading that way.
Since Des left the agency I had been assigned to seven different SSWs, each staying in post for such a short time that it had been difficult to build anything other than a polite working relationship with them. ‘I’m able to approach the fostering manager if I have any concerns though,’ I added in defence of the agency, although if I’m honest I did feel a little cast adrift.
‘Yeah, yeah, course you are.’
I sucked in a breath, unsure whether he was serious or not.
‘Mate, I’m joking. We’ll manage. See you tomorrow.’
I laughed. ‘Yes, I’ll see you then.’ I lowered the receiver but then quickly lifted it to my ear again. ‘Danny, sorry, before you go –’
‘Jeez, what now? You’re gonna be one of those awkward ones, aren’t you? I can always tell.’
‘Danny, you have no idea,’ I said with a grin, already getting the measure of him. A low chuckle came down the line. ‘Can I just check, what school do the children go to? Is it Millfield Primary?’
Danny snorted. ‘Yeah. Well, put it this way, that’s where they’re supposed to go. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.’
I spent the next half an hour trying to cajole Bobbi into getting dressed. Neither Bobbi nor Archie had a full uniform to wear in the morning and I wanted to get to the school outfitters before lunchtime so that I could label everything and still make it to Megan’s swimming lesson, which was due to start at half past one.
I had rolled out every weapon in my armoury to try and persuade Bobbi into her clothes: playfulness, competitiveness – I bet you can’t get your jumper on within the next twenty seconds – bribery with chocolate. With Megan’s enthusiastic help, I’d even involved her in crafting a postbox out of cardboard and red paint, so that we could post pictures of each item of clothing she managed to get on herself. It worked a treat with Megan, who paraded her entire wardrobe in front of me in the time it took to get Bobbi into her socks.
‘If you don’t get dressed we won’t be able to get you a costume and you won’t be able to swim
