and baby placement. I’m not fully conversant; is there some extra training that might need to be involved?’
Maggie shook her head. ‘Not in this case, I don’t think. If you were new to fostering, obviously, or if you’d not brought up your own kids, but, no, in this case, I wouldn’t insult your intelligence. It’s obviously not going to be like your usual programme – no points system for Emma to follow or anything – just gentle guidance; it’s more a case of both providing a loving, supportive, non-judgemental home for the two of them, and helping Emma take responsibility for taking care of her child herself.’
I nodded. There was a world of difference between that and being looked after. Emma was Roman’s mother and had to be a mother to him. It would be all too easy for her to slip into a completely different, more dependent role, were she allowed to. I’d seen it happen myself. And it was understandable to some extent, as any mother would probably know; even if your child becomes a mother they are still very much your child, so if they were thirteen or fourteen – even fifteen and sixteen – the urge to mother both child and grandchild would be strong. I would have to guard against doing that, for definite, because it was the sort of thing that would feel so natural to do.
Mike must have been reading my thoughts.
‘How much “help” would this entail, specifically?’ he asked Maggie. ‘I mean, you obviously wouldn’t want us taking over, here. She’d have to do all the usual baby-related tasks herself?’
Maggie lifted a hand and waggled it slightly in front of her as if to indicate there was a degree of give and take here, that we’d have to use our judgement about how strict the division of labour needed to be in this specific situation. ‘Well, in normal circumstances – whatever “normal” is – yes, that’s what we’d expect. However, in this case, we do have to make some allowances. Emma obviously hasn’t had the usual sort of upbringing. No younger or older siblings, no extended family, no experience of babies. The place she’s at now is that she seems to be coping quite well; with the support of the baby’s social worker, who stops by a few times a week to teach her the basics, she is coming on okay. Roman’s social worker also has to record supervisory visits, where she’s been noting down Emma’s ability to care. She’ll continue to do this, obviously, because it really is central to the placement. It’s on the basis of those visits that the court will eventually decide if Emma’s fit to look after her child on her own.’
There was a short silence after Maggie said this, as perhaps there would be. This wasn’t just a case of us providing a home for a young mother. Our home would be the stage on which both mother and baby’s whole future would be played out. At some point – and it only just hit me at that moment – someone other than me would stand in judgement over Emma and make a decision that would affect their whole lives.
‘Wow,’ I said quietly, as it sank in how much this period mattered. How much my input or otherwise might affect things. ‘Does this happen with all underage mums or just those in care?’
‘In theory, all of them,’ Maggie explained. ‘When a young girl like Emma becomes pregnant, it doesn’t matter what her background is. The midwives are obliged to inform social services. They also have to record how responsible the teen is; whether she attends appointments, takes advice, eats healthily, plans properly for when the child is born … And, because of this, social services are alerted where it appears help may be required – and that’s whether the child’s in care or otherwise.’
I nodded my understanding. ‘So,’ John said, picking up his pen, ‘do we know who the baby’s social worker is?’
Maggie rustled through her paperwork. ‘Hannah Greenwood. She’s visiting three times a week at present, but if Casey and Mike take Emma on we’d probably cut that down to two, then after a while, if things are going okay, one.’
‘And how long is all this for?’ Mike asked.
Maggie shrugged. ‘How long is a piece of string?’ Then she grimaced. ‘Sorry – that’s not very helpful of me, is it? But, in truth, it’s impossible to say. In some cases it’s evident in a matter of a few weeks that the mother’s capable and has a strong attachment to her baby, whereas in others – well, sometimes, it takes longer to tell.’
I looked at Mike. It was really sinking in now that this was a lot to take on. We weren’t just providing a place of safety, a warm and loving home. We would be part of the process. There was also the small matter – no, the huge matter – of our own attachments. It wouldn’t just be Emma who’d be forming a bond with her baby. We would be too. We’d be fools to think otherwise.
And I knew how I was around babies. It would be impossible for me to see this as just a job, and Mike knew that. But at the same time I knew that I wanted to accept this placement, even knowing that the end of it would probably break my heart. ‘What happens at the end?’ I asked Maggie.
She glanced at John before answering. ‘It depends on the outcome, Casey. If all goes well, Emma and Roman will move on to a sort of halfway house; in a unit with maybe one or two other young mums and their babies until she’s legally old enough to live on her own. We’d assist her then, obviously, with getting a place to live. But if things don’t go to plan, then we’ll have to think again, obviously. But let’s not dwell on the bleak side just yet, eh? Hopefully we’ll get a happy ending out of this.’
Happy endings. You didn’t hear of them so often in this game. Sometimes, yes, and we’d had our share of them, even if ‘happy’ was always qualified – those damaged pasts couldn’t just be spirited away that easily. But if we could have a happy ending for this child-mum and her baby, that would be fantastic.
I was still musing on just how fantastic it would be when Mike did something entirely out of character. Coughing slightly, to get my attention, he looked pointedly at me. ‘I think we’re of a mind about this,’ he said. ‘Aren’t we, Casey?’ He then looked at John and Maggie. ‘We’d like to give it a shot,’ he said, before I’d even opened my mouth to answer. ‘That is, if you two think we’re up for it.’
Well, I thought, having to haul my jaw back into position. Now, that was a turn-up for the books.
In the normal course of events before taking on a new foster child, the next few days (following Mike’s jaw-dropping but very pleasing agreement to us having Emma) would involve a meeting between the three of us – us and the child, so that we could see if we all felt we clicked. This was obviously sensible; for all the discussions over coffee and plates of biscuits, meeting the child who was potentially going to share your home and lives for several months was an essential part of the process. Suppose she hated us on sight? Suppose we felt we wouldn’t be able to bond with her? It hadn’t happened yet – well, not from Mike and my point of view, anyway – but that certainly didn’t mean it couldn’t. And better to say no than to get a placement under way and then terminate it. For a younger child, in particular, this could be extremely emotionally challenging. The children we fostered had already known so much rejection that to inflict more, by getting their hopes up and then deciding we didn’t want to have them, would be nothing short of cruel.
But in this case we were happy to go with Maggie’s instinct.
‘She’s so excited,’ she said. ‘I’ve told her all about you and the family, and she really can’t wait to move in.’
I took this with a slight pinch of salt. I didn’t doubt Emma would be happy to get settled somewhere – anywhere – but
