was aware that I had voice messages on my mobile; I’d checked my phone briefly at Mum’s, and I’d recognized one of the numbers as that of the local authority fostering services that I fostered for. However, I didn’t listen to my messages until later that night, after we were home and I had telephoned Mum. We were all upstairs, exhausted, and taking turns in the bathroom to get ready for bed. It was eleven o’clock and as I waited for my turn I perched on my bed and checked the texts and voicemails. Most were from friends saying they were thinking of us on this sad day and wishing me and my family well. The last was from Edith, my support social worker from the fostering services, also known as a supervising social worker or link worker. I’d been going to foster a young boy just before Dad had died, but I’d never met him. This was just after Zeena (whose story I tell in The Child Bride) had left us, but I doubted Edith’s call was about that boy, as the social services would have found another carer to look after him when I’d become unavailable. I hadn’t taken many breaks during the twenty-five years I’d been fostering: when my husband had left us many years before, and now with my father’s passing. I’d told the fostering services that I’d be in touch after the funeral when I was ready to start fostering again, but clearly Edith had something urgent to tell me.
‘Cathy, I know you’re on compassionate leave,’ Edith’s message began, ‘but I’ve had a referral from a colleague. It’s not your normal placement, but I think it would suit you and your family. Adult social services are looking for a short-term home for a young lady who is expecting. She’s a lovely person and won’t give you any trouble. It would just be for three months until she has her baby. Could you phone me please as soon as you can so we can discuss?’
Whether Edith had remembered that today had been my father’s funeral I didn’t know – perhaps not, given everything she must have had on her mind. But I was pleased she had telephoned with this referral and my spirits rose a little. I love fostering, it’s a huge part of my life, but I doubt I could have coped with a young child with very challenging behaviour at that time. Supporting a mother-to-be until she’d had her baby and then presumably seeing them both settled in their own accommodation could be just what we needed. A new baby, a new life, is uplifting and full of hope, and on a practical level a young woman wouldn’t need the constant supervision a young child would. Also, there would be no school run, which would leave me free to go to see Mum without having to put arrangements in place to collect the child from school. It felt right, and when I mentioned it to Adrian, Lucy and Paula before I went to bed they all said they thought it was a good idea too. Fostering is a whole family affair, so everyone’s view is important and needs to be taken into consideration.
I slept well – I was shattered – and the following morning, after I’d telephoned Mum to make sure she was all right, I phoned the social services.
‘Sorry I couldn’t return your call yesterday,’ I said to Edith. ‘It was my father’s funeral.’ Mentioning my father’s death or funeral was becoming slightly easier and I wasn’t tearing up so much.
‘How did it go?’ she asked.
‘Very well, thank you, but we weren’t home until late.’
‘Good. I’m pleased it went well. So the young lady I referred to, Faye, is a really lovely person. She is twenty-four.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said, surprised. ‘I’d assumed she was a teenager.’
‘No. But because of her condition she functions at a much younger level. She has learning difficulties, and Becky, her social worker, has given me some background details. Faye has been living with her grandparents, but now that she’s pregnant they’re finding it difficult to manage. They’ve asked if she can be placed with a foster carer rather than live in supported lodgings, as they don’t think she’d cope. We’re trying to accommodate their wishes. They have brought her up, but they’re in their seventies now and not in the best of health. They are struggling to cope with all Faye’s antenatal appointments. Faye’s gran has chronic arthritis and her grandpa had a stroke a year ago. They both use walking aids and don’t drive, and they rely on the community transport scheme to go out, so it’s very difficult. Faye is childlike, apparently. She’s a sweet person. It’s thought her disabilities are a result of FAS. You’re aware of that condition?’
‘Yes.’ FAS, or Foetal Alcohol Syndrome, refers to a range of physical and mental disabilities that are the result of the mother’s alcoholism during pregnancy. The alcohol crosses the placenta and damages the baby.
‘Becky would like you to meet Faye and her grandparents as soon as possible,’ Edith continued. ‘Then arrange a moving date. Faye will still see her grandparents regularly. Her self-care skills are good; she just needs help, support and monitoring, like a child would. She’s coping reasonably well with being pregnant and will return to live with her grandparents once the baby is born. They don’t know who the father is, and Becky says that the grandmother has taken Faye getting pregnant rather badly. She thinks some of their “not coping” is because of this.’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘I’m sure her grandmother will feel differently once the baby is born and she sees her great-grandchild. No one can resist a baby.’
There was a short silence on the other end of the phone before Edith said, ‘Sorry, Cathy, I should have made it clearer sooner. Faye isn’t keeping her baby. You will be supporting her while she is pregnant, but as soon as the baby is born it will be taken into care.’
‘Oh,’ I said, my heart sinking. ‘Why?’
‘Faye can’t possibly look after a baby. She functions at about the age of an eight-year-old. Realistically her grandparents couldn’t look after it either. There is no alternative. Once the baby has been checked over by the doctor, assuming all is well a foster carer will collect the baby from hospital and look after it until adoptive parents are found.’
I was sitting on the sofa in the living room, staring straight ahead. My feelings of hope and optimism at the thought of a new baby were now completely dashed. As a foster carer I’d had to collect a new baby from a hospital without its mother some years previously, and it had been heartbreaking. This would be even worse. Faye would be with me and part of my family for the next three months; we would bond with her and her unborn baby, while knowing all along that she was going to have to give it up as soon as it was born and would never have the chance to be a mother. It would be soul destroying and possibly more than I or my family could reasonably cope with right now. However, foster carers are expected to accept the referrals made to them through their support social worker. It’s not a pick-and-choose situation – I’ll take this child, but not that one. Carers can be registered to foster a certain age group, but many, like me, foster the whole range, from birth to young adult. Unless there is a very good reason why carers can’t accept a specific child, they are expected to take them, for obviously the younger person needs a home. I suppose I could have said that after losing my father we weren’t ready to foster again, but that wouldn’t have been strictly true.
Edith heard my silence and added: ‘You don’t have to worry about Faye being very distraught. Becky said she’s fine about giving up her baby for adoption.’
‘Is she?’ I asked, amazed.
‘Yes. Becky had a long discussion with her and her grandparents. Faye appreciates she would never be able to look after a baby and her grandparents are in no position to help. They have their own needs. Faye’s being very positive. Becky has suggested you all meet at two o’clock on Thursday afternoon. Is that all right with you?’
I was silent again before I said, ‘Yes.’
‘The meeting is at their flat. I’ll ask Becky to contact you with
