known – had just come to an abrupt and traumatic end. They’d been taken from their hysterical mother in tears and had lost the only family they’d known and everything they held dear. Only in the worst cases of abuse had I ever seen a child happy to be in foster care, to begin with at least. It would take time, love, care, patience and lots of reassurance before they began to relax and were able to trust and smile again.
With encouragement from Lucy and me, Molly fed herself, while Paula and I – we had Kit sitting between us – popped spoonfuls into his mouth. Both children ate a little of the main course but didn’t want any apple crumble and custard for dessert. I didn’t know if Kit could feed himself. Apart from being hampered by the plaster cast, he was clearly too overwhelmed to make any attempt, and it didn’t matter. If the children were staying with us long term, as Tess seemed to think, there’d be plenty of time to teach him to feed himself. That was the least of my concerns at present. It was eight o’clock by the time we’d finished and I needed to bath the children and get them into bed.
Paula apologized and said she had college work to do. I thanked her for her help, and she went upstairs to her bedroom. Lucy offered to help bath Kit and Molly, and Adrian and Kirsty said they’d clear away the dishes and wash up. I was grateful for their help. I was already worrying about how I was going to manage alone tomorrow when everyone was out. You’ve done it before and you can do it again, I told myself as another crisis of confidence loomed.
I thought it would be easier to bath the children separately to avoid Kit’s plaster becoming wet. However, it was clear that Molly didn’t want to be separated from her brother, so she came with Lucy, Kit and me into the bathroom. Lucy and I talked brightly to both children, trying to put them at ease, as we explained the bedtime routine and what we were doing. Kit just stood there as I undressed him, then put a plastic bag over his plaster cast and secured it at the end. Most toddlers would have shown some interest, perhaps laughed or tried to pull off the bag, but he stared at me, wide-eyed and lost. It broke my heart.
I carefully lifted him into the bath. He was heavy with the weight of the plaster cast. ‘Sit down, love, but try to keep your arm out of the water,’ I told him. ‘We need to keep it dry.’
Neither child spoke. Molly was holding Lucy’s hand and watched in silence as I gently wiped Kit’s bruised face with a facecloth, and then sponged his little body. His skin was pale and he had some bruises on his shins and one on his other forearm, but I couldn’t see any other marks – scars, cuts or cigarette burns, as I’d seen before on children I’d fostered. I’d let Tess know, although of course the bruises could have been from playing. Toddlers are always tripping, falling and bumping into things as they explore their surroundings with little sense of danger.
Once washed, I lifted Kit out of the bath and into the towel Lucy held out ready. I took the plastic bag from his arm and Lucy dried him as I bathed Molly. Children of her age can usually wash themselves a little, so I gave her the sponge and she drew it across her chest and legs. I washed her back. Her skin was pale too and she had one small bruise on her shin, which I’d noticed before when I’d changed her and was likely to be the result of a fall while playing. Thankfully there were no other signs of injury. I helped her out of the bath, wrapped her in a towel and then dressed her in the pyjamas I’d taken from their case. Lucy had dressed Kit and put a nappy on him. Both children had clean hair, so hair-washing could wait until another night when they felt more at ease.
We hadn’t found any toothbrushes in their case, so I was using some from my spares. I always kept a supply of new children’s toothbrushes, face flannels, pants and so on. Kit opened his mouth to allow Lucy to brush his teeth – he had his front teeth, top and bottom, and some molars coming through at the back. Clearly from the way he cooperated he was used to having his teeth brushed – a sign that the children had received some good parenting. Once Lucy had finished brushing Kit’s teeth, I put a little toothpaste on Molly’s toothbrush and passed her the brush.
‘Can you give your teeth a little brush?’ I asked her.
She took the brush and made a small attempt to clean her teeth, then burst into tears. ‘I want my mummy!’ she cried. ‘Mummy, Mummy, where are you? I want you.’
It was heart-breaking and I felt my own eyes fill.
‘Oh, love,’ I said, taking the toothbrush and putting it to one side. ‘You’ll see Mummy soon.’ I held her.
‘I want my mummy,’ she wept inconsolably. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s at home, love.’
‘I want to go home.’
I wasn’t surprised she was distraught now. She’d been bottling it up since she’d arrived and, now she was tired, it was all coming out. Kit, seeing his sister in tears, began to cry too. Lucy cuddled him as I cuddled Molly. We sat on the bathroom floor, gently rocking them and telling them it would be OK and trying to console them. Not for the first time since I’d begun fostering, I wished I had a magic wand I could wave that would undo the past and make everything bad that had happened go away.
Eventually the children’s crying eased. ‘Come on, let’s get you both into bed,’ I said, and stood. ‘You’ll feel better after a night’s sleep.’ It was a reassurance in which I had little faith. It would take many nights before they began to feel better. Lucy held Kit’s hand and I held Molly’s and we went round the landing to their bedroom.
As soon as we entered the room Molly became upset again. ‘I want my mummy,’ she cried, her tears flowing.
‘I know you do, love,’ I said. ‘You’ll see Mummy soon.’ I helped her into bed, wiped her face, and then sat on the edge of the bed.
‘I want Mummy now,’ she said again and again, grief-stricken.
‘Mummy, Mummy,’ Kit said from his cot as Lucy tried to settle him.
‘Would you like a bedtime story?’ I asked Molly, trying to distract her. She shook her head and just sat in bed, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘Come on, love, lie down and try to get some sleep.’ I wiped her cheeks again.
She laid her head on the pillow, Kit lay down too, then, as Molly pressed her face into her cuddly toy, Kit did the same. His cot was adjacent to Molly’s bed – against the opposite wall – so he could see her through the slats. ‘Does your cuddly have a name?’ I asked her.
‘I want Mummy.’
‘Mummy,’ Kit repeated.
I began stroking Molly’s forehead, trying to soothe her off to sleep. Lucy was leaning over the cot and gently rubbing Kit’s back.
‘Lucy, you go, love, if you want to,’ I told her after a few minutes. ‘I’ll stay with them.’ I was mindful that she had come in straight from work and hadn’t had a minute to herself.
‘It’s OK, Mum. I’ll stay until they’re asleep.’
‘Thanks, love, I am grateful.’
For the next half an hour Lucy and I stayed with the children, Lucy by Kit’s cot and me with Molly, soothing them, until eventually, exhausted, their eyes gradually closed. We waited another few minutes to check they were asleep and then crept from the room. With older children I usually ask them on their first night how they like to sleep – the curtains open or closed, the light on or off, the bedroom door open or shut, as it’s little details like this that help a child settle in a strange room. But for now we left the curtains slightly parted, the light on low
