around her, taking in her small features for the first time. Her lashes were almost invisible so that her eyes, closed in a tight line, appeared as fine slits, as if they had been painted on. The skin around them was mottled with faint, uneven patches of blue, her eyebrows barely there. ‘She’s beautiful,’ I whispered to Ciara without glancing up. I liked to think of myself as open-minded enough not to make snap judgements, but at that moment it was difficult to comprehend the wilful abandonment of a helpless baby.
My thoughts began drifting towards her birth mother when the regular, pulsating beeps of the nearby monitor became an insistent wail. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I looked at Ciara with wide eyes.
‘It’s OK,’ she smiled, resetting the alarm with the flick of a switch. ‘The monitor’s picking up on her altered breathing, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.’
I clapped a hand to my chest and let out a breath, struck by the depth of Hope’s vulnerability. Suddenly it was scary to think that I would soon assume sole responsibility for her wellbeing. Could the unexpected arrival of someone so fragile be enough to tip a person into some sort of psychosis, I wondered, as I cradled the newborn in my arms.
It wasn’t until much later that I began to suspect there was more to Hope’s abandonment than any of us realised.
‘Ignore the mess,’ I said as I led Ellen through the hall. It was Monday of the half-term holidays, and although Hope had been home from hospital for ten days, this was her mother’s first contact since she had given birth. I still hadn’t cleared away the breakfast things, and there was what could only be described as stuff strewn across almost every surface in the living room. Hope’s padded changing mat was balanced on top of Emily’s giant doll’s house, the sofa was littered with Jamie’s shin pads and football socks, and the new baby clothes I had ordered online were piled up in the middle of our coffee table, like some way-out arty centrepiece.
‘Would you like a cup of tea or something?’ I asked, contravening one of the first rules of contact in the foster home. Social workers regularly warned against making home visits too comfortable, as accommodating foster carers sometimes find themselves at the beck and call of demanding birth parents with a penchant for bacon butties and sugary tea.
I’ll never forget visits from one young mother, who would mumble a gruff hello as she plodded past me to the sofa, barely glancing in her toddler’s direction. Halfway through one session she withdrew a Thermos flask full of chipolata sausages from her mucky rucksack and proceeded to chomp on them two at a time, head tilted backwards for faster swallowing.
Grudgingly impressed that she’d bothered to cook her own snacks (neglecting to provide food was one of the reasons her little one had been removed from home), I commented on her resourcefulness. ‘S’easy,’ she shrugged, still dressed in pyjamas; she didn’t seem to feel it necessary to dress before leaving the house. ‘Marks do bangers ready cooked. I just stick ’em in the zinger for a couple a secs and that’s it. Done.’
Unable to resist, I asked her if her son liked them as well. ‘Oh, God, I don’t give ’em to him. He eats them frankfurter thingies that come in a jar. Has ’em cold. I wouldn’t eat that crap, personally,’ she’d added with a righteous shudder. What had surprised me most of all, though, was her reply when her toddler asked to participate in her feast. ‘Na,’ she’d said, shooing him away with greasy fingers. ‘Ask Rosie for summat.’
In Ellen’s case I couldn’t help myself, though. Her skin was as white as paper and there was a bluish tinge around her chapped lips – a telltale sign that she’d been walking around in the cold for a long time, perhaps trying to summon the courage to visit. It may have been instinct, or the glint of terror in her eyes, but something told me she needed a minute or two to gather herself before being reunited with her baby.
The picture of her floating around in my mind over the past week had been way off beam. I had imagined a frame heavy enough to disguise a pregnancy, along with hardened features and an impassive, callous nature. In the flesh, Ellen was of small build, wiry even, in her slim-fitting jeans and cable-knit jumper. She had a pleasant face, although a pained expression tightened her small features. I almost wanted to reach out and give her a hug.
There was no visible sign of her recent pregnancy either, not even a hint of the stubborn mummy tummy that still stalked me eight years after leaving the labour ward. I had heard of surprise births before, but with Ellen’s build it was almost impossible to believe that she hadn’t known she was pregnant, unless of course she had wilfully chosen to ignore it – it was amazing what people were capable of overlooking, if they truly wanted to.
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