not be for long,’ I said. ‘Just until his mother gets back. And we’re not that strange,’ I added, trying to lighten her mood.
‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ she said, forcing a small smile through her tears. ‘I’m sure you’re very nice, but it’s not Oskar’s home, is it?’
‘I’ll do my best to make it home while he is with me,’ I said, touching her arm reassuringly. Erica Jordan, Oskar’s teacher, was blaming herself for Oskar coming into foster care. ‘It wasn’t your decision to bring Oskar into care,’ I pointed out.
‘No, but I logged everything he told me and reported it to my Headmistress.’
‘Which was right,’ I said. ‘That was the correct procedure. If you hadn’t reported your concerns and something dreadful had happened to Oskar, how would you have felt then?’
‘I’d never have forgiven myself. I’m sorry,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘I’m only in my second year of teaching and I’ve never dealt with anything like this before.’
‘I understand, and believe me, it doesn’t matter how experienced you are, it’s still upsetting. No one wants to see a child removed from their home, but sometimes it’s necessary to keep them safe.’
‘I don’t think Oskar has much of a home from what he’s told me,’ she admitted.
‘No, but the social services will thoroughly investigate. I’ve been a foster carer for a long time, and a child who regularly arrives at school unkempt and so hungry that he has to steal food – as Oskar has – suggests they are not being looked after at home. It doesn’t mean he’ll remain in care for good, just until the social services are satisfied that if he goes home he’ll be properly cared for.’
Being hungry and unkempt weren’t the only reasons Oskar, aged six, was being brought into care. He was pale, withdrawn and so tired he kept falling asleep in class, and sometimes he arrived at school with unexplained bruises on his arms and legs. He had first come to the school in January, so four months previously, and the concerns had been there right from the start, which Miss Jordan had been correctly reporting to the Headmistress. Although Oskar’s mother had first registered him at the school, a series of ‘uncles’ had been bringing and collecting him, sometimes arriving very late. Originally from Eastern Europe, Oskar and his mother had good English, but the uncles claimed to have none.
Miss Jordan had also told me that the school had set up a number of meetings with his family to try to discuss their concerns, but no one had ever turned up. Now, on the second day back at school after the Easter holidays, Oskar had arrived very late, hungry, in tears and with an angry red mark on his face. The man who had dropped him off at the entrance to the school had gone straight away, when those arriving late were expected to bring the child into the school and sign them in. Now even more concerned for the boy’s welfare, the Headmistress had asked Miss Jordan, who had established a relationship with Oskar, to talk to him privately, one to one, to try to find out as much as possible, while she contacted the social services again. Reluctant at first to say anything about his home, Oskar finally told her his mother had been away for most of the two-week holiday and his uncles had been left in charge of him. He said the mark on his cheek was from one of his uncles, who had slapped him that morning for not doing as he was told. The social services had tried to contact his mother without success, so, not wanting Oskar to return home, they had applied to the court for an emergency protection order to bring him into care temporarily. At the same time, I’d received a phone call from my supervising social worker, Edith, putting me on standby to receive Oskar if the court order was granted. Edith had phoned again at midday to say the order had been granted and I should go to Oskar’s school at three o’clock to collect him.
It was now nearly 4.15 p.m. and most of the other children had gone home. I was with Miss Jordan in her classroom while Oskar, his social worker, the Headmistress and the uncle who’d arrived to collect him were in another room. Also with them was a teaching assistant who worked at the school and was now acting as an impromptu translator for the uncle. It was pure luck she spoke his language, having come to the UK from the same country many years before. I’d said goodbye to my previous foster children, Molly and Kit, in very unhappy circumstances a few days before. (I tell their story in Innocent.) Aware that foster carers are in short supply and my spare room never stayed empty for long, I’d given it a thorough clean and prepared it for the next child virtually straight away.
It’s a strange feeling when a child or children you’ve loved and cared for leave, like a mini bereavement. But as a foster carer you have to be brave and stoical and remind yourself you have done your best and that the children are now able to return home or go to a loving adoptive family so they can move on with their lives. While each child comes with a different story, one thing they all have in common is that they need loads of love, understanding, kindness and reassurance. The last of which Miss Jordan needed too.
She seemed a bit happier now I’d told her that Oskar’s social worker was sure to arrange contact so he could see his mother. As we talked, waiting for his social worker to finish the meeting in the room next door, my mobile rang. It was Edith, my supervising social worker. ‘I’d better take this,’ I said to Miss Jordan.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Have you got Oskar yet?’ Edith asked.
‘I’m at his school now. His social worker is with him. Shall I call you once I’m home?’
‘Yes. Leave a voicemail message if I don’t pick up and I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’
‘OK.’ Sometimes Edith updated me, but more often I updated her. As a supervising social worker (SSW) her role was to monitor, support, advise and guide the foster carers she was responsible for in all aspects of fostering.
Just as I ended the call and returned my phone to my bag, the classroom door opened and a tallish man in his thirties with fair hair came in with a small boy beside him.
‘Oskar, love,’ Miss Jordan said, immediately standing and going to him.
I went over too.
‘I’m Andrew Holmes, Oskar’s social worker,’ the man said to me. He must have already met Erica Jordan.
‘Cathy Glass, foster carer,’ I said, smiling at Oskar.
‘This is the lady I told you about,’ Andrew explained to him.
‘Hello, Oskar,’ I said gently, my heart going out to him. He was pale, slightly built, small for his age and his eyes were red from crying. He looked at me, petrified. The bruise on his cheek was even more pronounced against his pallid skin.
‘Are you OK, Oskar?’ Miss Jordan asked, squatting down in front of him so she was at his height. He gave a small nod, wide-eyed and anxious.
‘Cathy is going to look after you for a few days until your mummy gets back,’ she said, which wasn’t strictly true and made it sound as though he would automatically be returned to his mother when she reappeared. I knew Miss Jordan was trying her best to comfort him, but I’d learnt from years of fostering that we have to be careful what we tell children and not give them false hope.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said to him, straightening.
‘Will Oskar be coming to school tomorrow?’ I checked with his social worker. It was usual for a child to go to school the day after coming into care, as it offered some routine and familiarity.
‘Yes.
