usually did.
And I did think – we’d also run it by the children the previous evening, because their input was as important as our own. Riley, predictably, was as excited as I was. ‘Oh, Mum, a baby? Oh, that will be such a lovely change for you.’
I grinned. ‘Um, yes, it will,’ I agreed, ‘but not just a baby. This one does come with a teenaged mum attached, don’t forget.’
‘Yes, I know that, Mum,’ she said. ‘But you’ll be fine. Teenagers to you are like toddlers are to me – easy peasy.’
I raised my eyebrows. Oh, really? I thought. She must have a short memory. Or just that selective amnesia that parents need to have, if every child in the world isn’t to be an ‘only’. Bless them, I loved them, but my grandsons had not been ‘easy peasy’ at all; they had been as demanding as any other little boys I ever knew, made worse by the fact that they were so close in age.
Still, I was flattered that Riley assumed teenagers were ‘easy peasy’ for me to handle, even if that wasn’t strictly the case either. I did have some considerable experience of them to draw on, it had to be said, having spent many years handling them in large numbers in a behavioural unit in a high school, but dealing with kids in a school setting and having them in your home were two completely different things, as our experience of fostering so far had shown us.
But I was pleased Riley was happy for me, and felt so positive about it. It was generally Riley who sided with Mike in all situations where jumping in with both feet was my normal way of carrying on.
Kieron and Lauren had reacted in a similar fashion. They’d probably not be that involved in any case because they were both busy with their own lives. Right now, specifically, they revolved around working as many hours as they could manage, to save up for getting their own place.
‘It’s up to you and Dad,’ Kieron had said, laughing, when I asked him how he felt about it. ‘I don’t even know why you feel you have to ask us, because you’ll only do what you want to do anyway!’
I jumped out of the shower, towelled myself dry and began to ferret in my wardrobe for something suitable to wear. Kieron was right, I supposed, though I’d keep asking him anyway. Because one day he might have strong opinions about a placement, and I knew that however headstrong I was I would respect that. In the short term, however, I had to get a move-on. Mike was taking time off from work to attend this afternoon’s meeting, so would be home before I knew it, for an early lunch.
And then we’d be up and running – and there was no mistaking the little shiver of excitement I felt about it. And also intrigue. The start of a new placement didn’t just mean getting to know a new child – in this case, children – but also the start of a new relationship with the child’s social worker, too, and I wondered what this one might be like. It might be someone I’d worked with already, of course; I’d certainly had dealings with plenty over the years. But in reality that had never actually happened. Every new child seemed to come with a new social worker, too, so it was no surprise that I didn’t recognise the name of this one.
Her name was Maggie Cunliffe, and I wondered what she was like. With the name Maggie, I pictured her to be in her mid-forties to fifties, which pleased me for some reason. I tutted to myself – how very ageist of me!
The truth was, of course, that good social workers, like the kids in their charge, came in all sorts of shapes and sizes. I’d met young, fresh-faced types, just out of university and keen as mustard, right through to the battle-worn, tattered-suited, ready-for-retirement types. Where would Maggie fit in here, I wondered? Well, we would soon see.
Very soon, as it turned out, the already short morning having disappeared from beneath me, with Mike dashing in with less than fifteen minutes to spare. And my response to his greeting of ‘Get the kettle on, love, will you? While I run up and shower’ was greeted, in return, by my usual pre-meeting answer of ‘Don’t you dare leave so much as a drip on my bathroom floor!’
I was always a bit like this when an important meeting loomed. I’d done the house from top to bottom yesterday but I still felt I could do more. I’m a bit of a clean-freak and was characteristically anxious in case I’d missed some speck of dust or splash of water somewhere. Ridiculous, really, since neither John nor Maggie would be up inspecting my bathroom, but even so I just couldn’t help it.
‘Now, remember,’ Mike warned me, having come back down and joined me at the dining table, ‘we’re here to listen to what they have to say; to mull it all over and consider the possibilities. Not to immediately ask when the girl can move in, okay?’
‘Oh, be quiet, Mike,’ I chided him. ‘I’m not a child, you know. Anyway, they’re here now,’ I added, gesturing to the car that was pulling up outside. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Go let them in.’
I smoothed my blouse down over my jeans and glanced again out of the window as Mike did so, childishly pleased to see that I’d been right; Maggie Cunliffe looked exactly like a Maggie. Mid-forties or thereabouts, I decided, with a lovely warm expression and curly blonde hair. She was also, I noticed appreciatively, dressed in jeans and a warm jumper. Nothing prim or proper about her. I felt immediately at ease.
The file itself, however, looked rather more daunting. Introductions done, the coffee poured, the biscuits politely declined – so far – it appeared out of Maggie’s briefcase and landed on the table with a dull thud. Which was unusual. It was normally the case that we had almost nothing to go on, and had to find out the extent of a child’s difficulties the hard way.
Not so here, clearly. Maggie dived straight in with a summary.
‘Emma’s mum was only sixteen when she had Emma,’ she began. She had a soft Scottish accent, which seemed to go just perfectly with her name. ‘There was no boyfriend – again, there’s no knowledge of who the father was – and, as you already know, Shelley – that’s her name – has battled with her demons since we’ve known her. She’s an only child herself and has long since been estranged from her own mother, and has a long history of substance abuse. Various addictions have been on file here: alcohol, prescription medicines, as well as an array of illegal drugs. During her worst periods – and there have been quite a few down the years – she’s had Emma placed into care, or had the authorities just step in and take her, but, because she never objected and so often put Emma in care voluntarily, a court order’s never been sought.
‘Every now and then,’ Maggie continued, ‘Shelley would sign herself up for rehab, get clean, and then come out determined to step up to the plate and take proper care of her daughter, but of course the harsh reality is that with each new episode of this kind she was just chipping away at Emma’s trust.’ Maggie sighed. ‘So, as night follows day, each time Emma went back into care – and the older she got – the more and more she felt she didn’t need her mum. It’s a really sad one, this.’ She glanced up and looked directly at me. ‘You can see how the picture’s formed here, can’t you, Casey? And it’s why we’ve ended up with the Emma we have today.’
I nodded sadly. I could see it all too clearly. She’d be feeling lost, hurting lots and desperately needing some attachment. In my years working with teenagers I’d seen so many like her; girls who’d gone on to get pregnant at such a tragically early age simply to stop an ache that they had inside them. It was partly a need to nurture, a need to have at least something – someone – to call their own, to replace the pain of not having a mother’s love and affection.
‘I can indeed,’ I agreed, visualising this poor child so very well. ‘And we’re up to speed with the situation with the boyfriend, as well. John’s filled us in there.’
‘Yes,
