a huge sigh of relief. ‘Is he all right?’
‘Just a bit cold. But there is a problem.’ My stomach churned.
‘What?’
‘He doesn’t want to come back to you.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s not saying. He just says he can’t.’
‘I don’t understand. Can I speak to him?’
‘No, he doesn’t want to talk to you.’
Not only was I hurt, but it seemed to reflect badly on me as a foster carer that Stevie didn’t want to come home or even talk to me.
‘Has he given you any idea why he ran away?’ I asked.
‘No. We’re going to contact the social services now. They’ll have to find him a bed for the night.’
‘What about his grandparents? Can’t he stay there for tonight?’
‘He says he doesn’t want to go there either.’
‘You’ve spoken to them?’
‘Yes. They know he’s safe.’
‘Where did you find Stevie?’ I asked.
‘At the bus terminus.’
‘Was he going to catch a bus?’
‘No, it was just somewhere to shelter. But the heating goes off in the waiting room at midnight when the last bus leaves, so it was cold. I need to phone the social services now, but at least you know he’s safe,’ the officer said.
‘Yes, thank you. Please tell Stevie I would like him to come home. He’s not in any trouble.’
‘Will do.’
I dropped my phone beside me on the bed and leant back on the headboard with a very heavy heart. I’d failed Stevie. What had started off so positively, with him quickly settling in, being able to work with his grandparents and the likelihood of him staying with us for at least three years, was ending in failure, and for reasons I didn’t know. I wasn’t being dramatic: a young person running away and then refusing to return to their foster carer was a failure; it couldn’t be looked upon any other way. I was the adult, Stevie was the minor, so it was my responsibility to make it work. That Stevie had refused to go to his grandparents didn’t lessen my feelings of failure; indeed, I had even more concerns now. Stevie would be placed with an emergency foster carer for the night and then be moved to a more suitable placement within the next couple of days. That would mean he would have had four homes and three foster carers in the last three months. And there was no guarantee he would settle with the next carers, resulting in yet another move. I thought I’d established a bond with Stevie, as had Paula, Lucy and Adrian, so why didn’t he feel he could come home? I was upset and bitterly disappointed, as I knew my children would be. It was one of the worst endings imaginable for a foster family.
With my thoughts in turmoil, I wondered if I should telephone Peggy but decided against it. It was 2.30 a.m. She’d been told Stevie was safe and would have probably gone back to sleep now. I needed to try to get some sleep too so that I was in a better frame of mind to deal with whatever tomorrow brought. I’d phone Peggy in the morning. However, fifteen minutes later, when I was still wide awake, torturing myself with what more I could have done to help Stevie, the landline rang. It was Peggy. ‘Well, at least he’s been found safe,’ she said. ‘Strange that he doesn’t want to return to you, though. That makes two of us.’ I heard the self-exoneration in her voice, because I had failed as she had done.
‘Yes,’ I said wearily.
‘What about all his belongings at your place? How will he get them?’ she asked.
‘His social worker will make arrangements to collect them. Don’t worry, he’ll get them.’
‘You’ll take them?’ she asked. I really didn’t need this conversation now.
‘I don’t know yet,’ I said.
‘Fred said that the social worker will have to get it sorted.’
‘Yes, she will.’ Peggy seemed to see me as a kindred spirit, a confidante, and I think she would have talked all night. ‘Peggy, I’ll phone you tomorrow when I know more, OK?’ I wound up the conversation and replaced the handset.
I lay on my back, staring at the bedroom ceiling. The shade of my bedside lamp was casting a round shadow on the ceiling, infilled with irregular patterns that seemed to resemble a map of the world. A big lonely world if you didn’t have anyone, I thought. Why was Stevie cutting himself off from the only homes he knew – mine and his grandparents’? What had been going through his mind as he’d sat alone in that cold and draughty waiting room at the bus terminus, and then in the back of the police car, telling them he didn’t want to return to me or his grandparents? I thought I’d understood Stevie and what he needed, but apparently I’d got it just as wrong as his grandparents, only in a different way. It’s at times like this that foster carers doubt themselves and wonder if it’s time to quit.
Gazing up at the ceiling, my eyes gradually grew heavy and finally closed. I was woken again by my mobile ringing. The lamp was still on and my clock showed 3.21 a.m.
‘Yes?’ I asked groggily, answering.
‘Cathy Glass?’
‘Speaking.’
‘It’s the duty social worker. We spoke earlier.’
‘Yes.’
‘The police have been in touch, but we’ve nowhere suitable to place Stevie, so he’s agreed to come back to you for tonight rather than be placed out of the area. He’s at — police station. Can you collect him from there?’
‘Now?’ I asked, struggling upright in the bed and trying to clear my thoughts.
‘Yes, as soon as possible.’
‘I’ll have to get dressed first.’
I’ll tell them you’re on your way. How long do you think you’ll be?’
‘Half an hour.’
‘I’ll let them know, and please don’t tell Stevie off. Wait until his social worker sees him to discuss his absence.’
‘Of course, I’m an experienced foster carer,’ I retorted. I was tired, stressed and now expected to get out of bed on a cold night to collect a teenager who thought staying with me for a night was the lesser of two evils. I didn’t need the duty social worker telling me how to behave. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ I confirmed.
He didn’t even say thank you.
But once out of bed and on the move, my ill-humour evaporated, the adrenaline kicked in and I became more positive. That Stevie had agreed to come back to me even for one night gave me some hope. Tomorrow we would talk and try to get to the bottom of what had been worrying him
