breath misting the cold air. Bobbi, who was over a year older but only about two inches taller, scowled and shrank away. Megan gave me a bewildered look and my heart lurched. She had been so excited yesterday when I told her that two new children were coming to stay.
Archie leaned over and rested his hands on his knees. ‘Hello, what’s your name?’ he asked engagingly, his whole demeanour softening.
‘Meggie,’ she said with a smile, noticing him properly for the first time.
‘Nice to meet you, Meggie. I’m Archie.’
‘Arty,’ Megan repeated as best she could, a big grin on her face.
‘Hi, Archie,’ Emily said with casual friendliness. She had been welcoming little strangers into our home since she was around eight years old and seemed to have a natural ability for making them feel at ease. Archie flushed and leaned down to stroke Mungo’s floppy brown ears.
Megan made another attempt at grabbing Bobbi’s hand. With her effusive spirit and tactile nature, it was hard for her to comprehend anyone turning down the offer of instant friendship.
‘I know!’ Emily said, eyeing me over the top of the girls’ heads. ‘Let’s go back inside and find some toys for Bobbi.’ She swept Megan up and headed back towards the door.
‘Yay!’ Megan shouted over her shoulder. I felt a swell of gratitude for Emily’s quick thinking. Since Megan’s adoption I had been more careful when considering referrals, only accepting those I was confident would allow me to give her plenty of individual attention. Being born with a cleft palate had left her hard of hearing so she needed more support than other children her age, though she managed well with the use of a hearing aid. Besides struggling with transitions, her exposure to drugs and alcohol in utero had left its mark developmentally. She struggled to learn at nursery, partly because of her hearing difficulties but also because she was easily distracted – a common legacy of exposure to dangerous substances in the womb.
She was a confident girl though, with an awe-inspiring zest for life. She loved the company of other children and was used to fostering – she had grown up with it – but still, she was a vulnerable child with her own set of challenges. I had to bear that in mind.
‘I want fooooood!’ Bobbi whined as I carried their suitcases into the hall. Still wearing her hat, coat and gloves, she charged off up the hall. ‘Where’s the fridge, Rosie? Is it in here? Rosie, is it here?’
‘Come in, love,’ I said to Archie, who was hovering at the open door. I smiled at him. ‘I’ll just see to your sister and then I’ll give you a tour.’
‘Thank you,’ he said politely as I stowed their belongings in front of the stairs. ‘You have a nice house,’ he added as I straightened. I did a double take. Compliments from a child of his age were unexpected, and even more so from someone with a background of domestic abuse. Whenever I accepted a placement I braced myself for verbal insults and even physical abuse. Charming behaviour wasn’t something I’d prepared myself for.
I smiled at him then draped my coat over the banister and went through to the kitchen, where Bobbi had already opened several cupboard doors. ‘Here you are, Bobbi, you can have this for now,’ I said, planting a banana in her hand. I shepherded her out of the kitchen and pulled out one of our dining chairs. She threw herself onto it and immediately began kicking the legs. I bent down and slipped off her shoes. The kicking stopped but almost instantly she began banging her free hand on the table and shouting at the top of her voice.
Her brother appeared at the doorway. ‘Would you like some fruit, Archie? Or do you want to wait for lunch? It won’t be long.’
‘I can wait,’ he said quietly. ‘I need the toilet though.’ At that moment Megan scooted in, carrying a box of Duplo, closely followed by Emily and Jamie.
‘Rosie, Rosie, Rosie!’ Bobbi shouted with a mouth full of banana. She pulled on my top. When I didn’t turn around she picked up one of the placemats from the table and jabbed me in the back with it.
‘Just a minute, Bobbi,’ I said firmly, stepping out of her reach. ‘The bathroom’s straight ahead at the top of the stairs, Archie. This is Jamie, by the way.’
‘Hi, Archie,’ Jamie said easily, as if he were already part of the furniture. And then to me, ‘I’m off to band practice, Mum. See you later.’
Archie, still wearing his rucksack on top of his coat, studied Jamie with interest then followed him up the hall. Emily planted a kiss on my cheek. ‘Sorry to run out on you so quickly, Mum, but I said I’d meet Holly at the library.’ In her middle year of nurse training, Emily spent much of her time off duty from the local university teaching hospital either at the library or bent over the desk in her room.
‘We’ll be fine,’ I said chirpily. I was a big fan of subliminal messages and I was talking as much to the children as to her. I usually muddle through the first few days after children arrive, doing my best to keep a calm environment while everyone adjusts to the changing family dynamics.
Employing foster carers is a snip for local authorities, who have to pay upwards of £5,000 a week if a child is placed in a residential unit or care home. Apart from financial considerations, a care home is usually the last resort for any child. Establishing them in a safe, family environment is the best way for them to build self-esteem as well as a sense of belonging and fair play.
It’s much cheaper for local authorities to place children with their own in-house carers than with those registered with private fostering agencies like Bright Heights, but recruitment challenges mean that it often isn’t possible.
While the allowances I receive as an agency foster carer are on a par with the amounts paid to carers registered with the local authority, the heavy fees charged by the agencies make fostering a profitable business; one of the reasons that hedge-fund investors have been so keen to get involved. It’s a fact I’m uncomfortable with and I’m often tempted to jump ship and transfer to my local authority.
‘Would you two like to do some colouring while I rustle up some lunch?’ I said as Emily and Jamie left.
The suggestion was not to Bobbi’s liking. ‘No, I want food now!’ she shouted, underlining the sentiment by flinging one of the placemats across the room.
It isn’t unusual for fostered children to have issues with food. The digestive discomfort caused by a surge in stress hormones can be difficult to distinguish from hunger pangs, and lots of children seek to cure their ‘funny tummy’ by feeding it. Megan’s exposure to drugs and alcohol had left her with her own digestive difficulties and she suffered with frequent tummy aches, as well as bouts of unexplained sickness. ‘It’s coming very soon, Bobbi. You don’t need to worry; they’ll always be enough food for you here.’ I quickly set out some paper and colouring pens on the table and Megan climbed up onto the chair next to Bobbi.
Thanks to a knock-through by the previous owner our house is open-plan downstairs, so I could see the girls from the kitchen as I prepared some sandwiches. Bobbi chattered continuously as she drew, the noise rising as she washed her hands at the kitchen sink. ‘Rosie, it is ready now? Is it? Is it ready?’
‘Yes, my sweet, it’s here.’ There was still no sign of Archie so as the girls sat next to each other at the table I called up to him.
‘Coming!’ he called back. ‘This looks nice,’ he said when he eventually came down. I smiled at him as he sat next to me but he kept his gaze averted. I noticed
