could lay the table, love. You know where everything is. There’s a child’s cutlery set for Molly in that drawer, and a toddler spoon for Kit. I don’t know if he can feed himself, but he’ll struggle anyway with the plaster on his arm.’
‘I didn’t know they were coming,’ Kirsty said as she opened the cutlery draw. ‘Are you sure it’s OK for me to stay?’
‘Yes, of course.’ I smiled. ‘I didn’t know they were coming either until this morning. It’s an emergency placement.’
‘What happened to Kit’s arm? And he’s got bruises on his face.’
‘He took a tumble down the stairs,’ I said.
‘Oh dear.’ She knew I couldn’t say much more because of confidentiality.
As she laid the table she told me about a boy in her class whose family was having help from the social services. While Kirsty and I would never break confidentiality by divulging names or discussing the details of cases like this, as a young teacher she sometimes shared her worries with me. If a child kept arriving at school dirty, late and hungry, or had unexplained injuries, she sometimes mentioned it as well as informing her head teacher. Teaching is now so much more than simply imparting knowledge; it involves a large pastoral role too.
Adrian, Paula, Lucy and the little ones all came down together with Adrian now carrying Kit. As Adrian sat Kit in his seat at the table and fastened the belt, I had the briefest glimpse of what a good father he’d make when the time came. I think Kirsty did too, judging from the look in her eyes. We settled around the table and I served dinner. I’d just sat down to eat when the house phone rang.
‘I’ll take it in the living room,’ I said, standing. ‘It’s probably their social worker.’
It was. ‘I’ve spoken to Filip,’ Tess said. ‘He doesn’t think the children have any allergies, although Aneta worries about them a lot. He’ll tell you more tomorrow. I’ve set up a meeting for one o’clock at the council offices so the parents can meet you. If you have any questions, you will be able to ask them then.’
‘OK. I take it I’m not to bring Molly and Kit to the meeting?’
‘No. I’ll be arranging supervised contact at the Family Centre for the children to see their parents.’
‘All right, thank you. I’ll have to get some cover for Molly and Kit.’
‘How are they?’ Tess asked.
‘Having a bit of dinner.’
‘Good. See you tomorrow then.’
I scribbled 1 p.m. in my diary for the following day. I would need to find someone to look after Kit and Molly at very short notice. Lucy would be at work and Paula at college, and I didn’t feel I could ask them to take time off. I knew other foster carers who could help me out as I had helped them in the past, but that would need to be arranged through Edith, my supervising social worker. I couldn’t just do it by myself. I made another note in my diary to call Edith at 9 a.m. the next morning, and then returned to the dinner table.
Chapter Three
Molly and Kit were quiet and subdued throughout dinner. They looked very sad and showed none of the natural exuberance you’d expect from children of their age, which was hardly surprising. Their world – the one they’d always 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
