had passed – and how many offspring were now involved. This was turning into quite an epic. ‘And then what?’ I said. ‘They had four more children, and you say social services have been involved since Ashton was a baby? So how did we get from there to here?’
Anna cleared her throat. She looked embarrassed. And seeing her expression made me sure that we were about to hear an all too familiar story. But you were damned if you did and damned if you didn’t where social work was concerned. ‘Robert,’ she suggested, ‘why don’t you run through some of the follow-up reports and recommendations?’
Robert duly plucked a file from his briefcase, which was on the table. ‘I know how this will look,’ he said, ‘when you see it in black and white, but there’ve been a succession of different social workers attached to the family over the years, each with their own priorities and agendas. In retrospect, it’s clearly a family that should have been dealt with a long time ago, but you have to remember –’ he looked earnest – ‘that our primary aim, always, is to help parents cope. To give them strategies and tools to assist them. The last thing we want is to break up loving families.’
I stared at him incredulously. I’d barely had them two days, and on that evidence I could hardly believe that he believed – or at least, seemed to – that these kids should still be with their parents. Was that what he was saying? ‘So why did they come into care, then?’ I wanted to know.
‘Well, in the end, we realised they couldn’t cope. They’ve had several warnings and there’ve been lots of interventions, but after year after year of evidence, such as them being sent to school unkempt’ – I smiled wryly: such a benign word to describe the state of them! – ‘and not being fed, running around at all hours of the night … they were stealing and getting into trouble from a very young age. Eating out of bins, pinching the contents of other children’s lunchboxes … I can obviously leave you a full report to read … Anyway, the list went on, and we eventually applied for a court order.’
John had been listening to this intently and scribbling notes. ‘Ah, the court order. I understand this is still ongoing. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Anna confirmed. ‘And, um, it’s just been adjourned again. The final hearing was supposed to be this week but it seems the parents have a new solicitor who is insisting upon new psychological reports being compiled for both parents, plus the children.’
‘Do we know why?’ John asked. ‘Are they mounting a defence? And what does this mean in terms of looking for a placement?’
‘Well, that’s the problem, to be honest,’ Anna admitted. ‘Until it’s ruled that the children are officially in the care of the local authority, it’s going to be extremely difficult to get a full-time placement for them. If we do that, we are obviously pre-judging the outcome of the final hearing, and the parents’ solicitor will have us for that.’
I was a bit lost by now but, thankfully, Mike seemed to understand. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, having been mostly silent up to now. ‘So what you are actually saying is that this “short-term” placement – this “interim” placement – may, in fact, not be that at all.’
John obviously understood the implications too. ‘Yes, Mike,’ he said, as he slammed down his pen. ‘I think that’s exactly what Anna is saying. I’m not at all happy about this. To be frank, it feels like we’ve been duped. Surely you knew this when you contacted me last week?’
Harsh words and apologies began flying around the table then, but, even with one ear on the recriminations and accusations, my other was on the sound of the two little mites in my living room. I could hear them chuckling, presumably at the cartoon they were watching, oblivious of the fact that their future – their stark, uncertain future – was being discussed in the very next room. It seemed clear to me, then. If we didn’t keep them, who else would? And when it then came to light – John was nothing if not dogged – that social services had, in fact, been searching for some where to place them for a whole year, I realised the enormity of the damage they’d probably already suffered; no wonder the two of them seemed so feral.
I knew then that we had to keep them – for as long as was needed. They needed a home and some security; a civilising influence. Why couldn’t we be the ones to give them that? I caught Mike’s eye then, and I could tell, to my relief, that he felt the same. These poor ‘neglected’ tots could at least count on us, I thought.
Though I might have thought differently if I’d known what was coming.
Chapter 5
‘We come bearing gifts!’
It was a week or so later, and my mum and dad had arrived to see the children. Fostering was always going to be a whole-family occupation, but with the two we had currently (and with the knowledge that they might be with us for a while yet) I felt it doubly important that we get all our close relatives on board. They were happy to get involved – they always had been, from the outset – but I also felt the children could really benefit psychologically from being in the thick of a big, loving, ‘normal’ sort of family, their own childhoods, so far, having been so barren in that respect.
‘Oh, Mum, you shouldn’t have,’ I said, grinning at the sight of Dad trailing behind her, carrying a big carrier bag from our local toy superstore.
‘It’s our pleasure,’ she said. ‘Really, love. We thought we could all do some painting. Give you an hour’s break, perhaps,’ she added, kissing me.
Olivia, by this time, had come out of the living room to see who’d arrived, and was jumping up and down with glee and asking to be picked up. She was really so much like a toddler, I reflected. ‘Nan an’ granpa here!’ she shrieked delightedly, while Ashton, now in the doorway, smiled shyly.
We all trooped into the kitchen and I set about making a pot of tea for them while the kids pulled them over to the table. Ashton seemed to take to Mum straight away, and pulled a chair up close beside her almost as soon as she sat down. ‘Now then, young man,’ she said, as Dad placed the bag in front of them. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got for you both, shall we?’
Olivia, meanwhile, having now persuaded Dad to pick her up, was busy stroking his hair and kissing his cheek. I kept an eye on her. Privately, I was becoming a little concerned about Olivia, my fostering antennae already twitching. Much as I was pleased to see her – to see both of them – being affectionate with the family (the opposite, sadly, is often true of damaged kids), I had noticed she tended to behave differently around the men. She was so little, yet there was still this definite sense of flirtation; she wouldn’t be aware of it – how could she, she was six! – but it was there. It was tangible, and slightly unsettling.
And today was no different. ‘Gwandad,’ she was asking him. ‘Can I sit on your knee? Casey got bony knees so I don’t like going on her lap. But can I sit on yours to do the painting?’
Dad laughed, as he settled her instead onto a chair. ‘Much easier to paint on your own chair,’ he suggested. I smiled to myself. And much less chance of him getting paint all down his trousers. ‘Come on,’ he said, as Mum began opening up the pots they’d bought. ‘What shall we paint? How about a picture of your nice bedroom?’
But Olivia was having none of it. She pestered and pestered, till Dad eventually conceded and let her sit on his lap after all. And before long, the noise level had fallen to a hush, as both children immersed themselves in the task at hand.
Leaving them to it, I turned around to find some biscuits for everyone and pour out Mum and Dad’s
