what I’ve been dying to tell you for the last hour.’
By the time I got back, of course, the pair of them were both grinning like idiots, so it was clear Mike was now one step ahead of me. I set the tray down and took my place back at the dining table. ‘Come on then,’ I said, plonking both elbows down. ‘Spit it out.’
Mike laughed, seeing my expression. ‘I think you’d better, John.’
John took his time, picking up his mug and taking a first sip of fresh coffee. ‘Actually, it’s not so much a “tell” as something I want to run by you.’
Which was always ominous. John had a history of wanting to ‘run things by’ us. It invariably meant he wasn’t confident that it was something we’d say yes to – at least wouldn’t say yes to if we had any sense. But that never fazed us. We had never been trained to do mainstream fostering. We were specialists – we specialised in taking the sort of kids that were too damaged or disturbed, for whatever reason, to be suitable for mainstream fostering or adoption.
So what would it be today? I raised my eyebrows enquiringly. ‘So, Casey,’ John said, speaking mostly to me now. It was me, after all, who’d do the day-to-day childcare. We fostered together but Mike obviously had his full-time job as well.
‘Yes,’ I said eagerly.
‘Well, it’s this,’ he said. ‘Have you ever considered a mother and baby placement?’
I caught my breath. No, I hadn’t. It had never even occurred to me. A baby was hardly likely to be damaged at such a tender age, after all. On the other hand, what about the mother? My mind leapt ahead. A baby! I adored babies. Always had. Everyone knew just how besotted I was with my own two grandsons, Levi and Jackson. ‘What do you mean, exactly?’ I thought to ask then. ‘A mother and a baby, or a young pregnant girl?’
John grinned. He could read my expressions just as easily as I could read his. And mine currently had the word ‘baby’ flashing up in neon on my forehead. He knew how fond I was of saying how much I could almost eat my little grandsons, so it was odds on my interest would be piqued.
‘Good point,’ he said. ‘You’ve obviously read the handbook very thoroughly, because you’re right; a mother and baby placement can be either. But in this case, an actual baby. The mum, Emma, is just fourteen and baby Roman is three weeks old.’
‘Oh!’ I cooed. ‘Roman! What a lovely name she’s chosen!’ I turned to Mike. ‘Oh, please, we must. Oh, imagine having a new baby in the house. It would be great.’
‘Slow down, love,’ Mike warned, as I’d already known he would. That was the way it worked with us – I was all enthused and optimistic, whereas Mike was more reticent, always considering potential pitfalls. As systems went, it was a good one, because though more often than not I got my way, it at least meant I rushed into things slightly better informed than I would have been if left to my usual impetuous devices.
He turned to John now. ‘Did she have the baby in care?’ he wanted to know. ‘Or is she just coming into the system?’
‘Good question,’ John said. ‘And you’re right to be cautious, Mike. Emma has been in and out of care for most of her life. Her mother swings between periods of calm and what seems to be pretty “difficult” behaviour. It’s a familiar story, sadly. The mum is alcohol and drug dependent most of the time, and suffers from depression too – cause and effect? – though she does go through periods of drying out now and again. She’s a single parent, and Emma is her only child. When she’s clean she always wants to have Emma back living with her again – which is what Emma usually wants, too – but it’s never too long before the depression takes over again, and then the drinking starts and the poor kid is scooted back into the care of social services quick-smart.’
The atmosphere in the room changed. That was all part of the process; going from asking all about a new child who needed us, to the sober contemplation of just how that state of affairs had come about. The baby, for the moment, was forgotten, as my heart went out to his mother – this poor fourteen-year-old girl who I didn’t yet know. I took a moment, even though I knew we would have to take her in. I mustn’t let Mike and John think I was jumping in too quickly and not taking time to assess the situation properly. I tried to hide my growing excitement (and it was excitement, no question) as I turned and spoke to John.
‘So what’s the situation?’ I asked. ‘Any boy in the background who is willing to take responsibility?’
John reached into his briefcase and took out a by now familiar buff-coloured file. Popping on his reading glasses he then flicked through some pages. ‘Yes and no,’ he said. ‘It’s complicated. What happened,’ he glanced up, ‘well, according to the mother, anyway, is that Emma had started running a bit wild and next thing was that she found herself pregnant. She’d been back living at home again for almost a year by this time – a pretty longish stretch, given the history. Anyway, when the mother found out about the pregnancy she insisted Emma have an abortion, but Emma apparently refused. At that point the mother washed her hands of her completely, and threw her out, apparently thinking that in doing so she might make Emma come to her senses.’
Mike frowned. ‘So not out of character at all, then,’ he muttered drily. And I tended to agree with him. Could I ever imagine throwing my teenage pregnant daughter out on the street just to make her ‘come to her senses’? Not in a million years. I couldn’t think of a more perfectly designed recipe for disaster. But then, I wasn’t her, was I? And drink, drugs and depression affected a person in all sorts of dangerous ways.
‘Well, exactly,’ John agreed. ‘And of course, the abortion didn’t happen, and since that time Emma’s been staying with various friends, mostly with another girl – a friend who lives on the same estate, with her single mum. That’s where she is now. But since the baby was born just over three weeks ago, the girl’s mum’s apparently said she can’t afford to keep both Emma and Roman, and that’s the point when Emma’s mum finally got in touch with social services.’
‘To put her straight back into care again,’ I said. It wasn’t a question. Just a sad, all too familiar statement of fact: she obviously didn’t want either daughter or grandchild back at home with her, presumably as the lesson hadn’t been learned. ‘What about the boyfriend, then?’ I went on, thinking what a desperate situation it was for a baby to be born into. ‘There’d be some police involvement, wouldn’t there, given that she’s under age?’
John paused to sip some coffee. ‘As I say, it’s complicated. And here’s the stinger; we and just about everyone else, apparently, believe the father is a nineteen-year-old drug dealer, name of Tarim. Emma had been seeing him for some time, it seems, though she has always denied that he’s the father.’
‘As I suppose she would,’ Mike said, ‘if she didn’t want to get him into trouble.’
John smiled wryly. ‘Which he already is. He’s in prison right now, doing time for dealing. Went down while she was still pregnant. He has previous form, apparently – so has not been on the scene at all. And though Emma’s adamant he’s not the father, the woman she’s been staying with is absolutely convinced he is. The baby is the spit of him, apparently. Though of course they want the relationship discouraged, just as much as Emma’s mother does, saying he’s no good for her –’
I shook my head. ‘Really?’ I said wryly. ‘Whatever makes her think that?’
John nodded and closed the file. ‘Quite, Casey. So that’s where we’re at. And it’s a lot to think about so I do
