I said. And we said goodbye.
I set down the phone and remained where I was in the living room. Through the patio doors I could see the blue sky beyond. Although it was mid-September it was another fine day, with the sun shining in a cloudless sky. I could hear movement upstairs as Adrian, Paula and Lucy slowly got up. Adrian and Lucy had taken an extra day off work after the funeral. Adrian had finished university and was working temporarily in a supermarket until he decided what he wanted to do (he was thinking of accountancy). Lucy worked at a local nursery and Paula, having passed her A-level exams, was starting at a local college the following week. It was now 10.30 a.m. and the meeting with Faye was the day after tomorrow.
As each of my family came downstairs I told them what Edith had said and asked them for their opinion.
‘That’s very sad,’ Paula said. ‘But we can look after Faye.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh, yes. She sounds nice.’
When Lucy came down her response was, ‘Perhaps Faye will change her mind and keep the baby.’ So I explained that this wasn’t an option because of her learning disabilities.
‘Well, someone has got to look after her,’ Lucy said pragmatically. ‘So it may as well be us.’ Lucy had been in and out of foster care before coming to live with me eight years previously and was now my adopted daughter. She had a slightly different view of being in care and I valued her opinion.
‘If the baby has to go for adoption,’ Adrian said when I told him, ‘then I think it’s better that it’s taken away at birth. I’m sure it would be more upsetting to bond with the baby, love it, and then have to say goodbye.’
‘So you think we should look after Faye?’ I asked.
‘Yes, if you do. But, Mum, I know that whatever happens you’ll make sure she is OK.’
‘Thanks for your vote of confidence,’ I said, although I really didn’t see how she could be OK – not a mother having to give up her baby.
Chapter Two
At 1.45 p.m. on Thursday I entered the elevator in the high-rise block on the edge of town where Faye lived with her grandparents. The design of the building, once hailed as innovative and the future for city living, with the passing of time now seemed a monstrous piece of architecture, and was the last of four to be left standing. The others had been demolished and the social housing tenants relocated to a new estate. At some point this would be too. The elevator reeked of disinfectant. I pressed the button and began the ride to the eighth floor. I wasn’t surprised that Faye’s grandparents, exiled up here with their limited mobility, were struggling. What happened when the elevator broke? I wondered. From what Becky, Faye’s social worker, had told me, they couldn’t manage the eight flights of stairs, and not for the first time in my life I felt very grateful that I had a nice home and my family and I were all in good health.
The elevator ground to a halt and the doors juddered open. I stepped out and over a discarded bag of half-eaten fish and chips that someone hadn’t bothered to throw in a bin. I went along the corridor to flat 87 and pressed the bell. The door, like all the others in the corridor, was dark green and in need of a repaint, but that wouldn’t happen now the block was due for demolition. Edith, my support social worker, wasn’t attending this introductory meeting, and this would be the first time I met Faye’s social worker, Becky, although we had spoken on the phone.
A woman answered the door with a cheery, ‘Good afternoon, you must be Cathy. I’m Becky. Pleased to meet you.’
‘And you.’
We shook hands and I went in and closed the door, then followed Becky down the short hall into the living-cum-dining room. She was a mature social worker with a friendly, relaxed manner that I thought would put anyone at ease.
‘This is Cathy, the foster carer I’ve been telling you about,’ Becky said to the three people in the room. ‘This is Stan, Faye’s grandpa,’ she said, introducing me to the portly gentleman sitting in an armchair.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Sorry, I can’t easily get up,’ he said, extending his hand. I went over and we shook hands. In his early seventies, he was wearing a woollen waistcoat over an open-neck shirt and grey flannel trousers; his walking stick was hooked over the chair arm.
‘This is Wilma, Faye’s gran,’ Becky said, referring to one of the two women sitting on the sofa.
‘Hello, nice to meet you,’ I said.
‘And you,’ Wilma replied, looking me up and down. She was a similar age and build to her husband and was dressed in navy trousers and a matching jersey. Her walking frame stood within her reach.
My gaze now moved to her granddaughter, who was sitting beside her on the patterned two-seater sofa. ‘This is Faye, the young lady I’ve been telling you about,’ Becky said.
‘Hello, love.’
Faye threw me a small, anxious smile and immediately looked down.
‘Say hello to Cathy,’ her gran directed.
‘Hello,’ Faye said shyly, without looking up. My heart went out to her. Of average height and build, she had straight hair cut rather severely to chin level, emphasizing her plainness. The maroon jersey and trousers she was wearing were very similar to those of her gran; indeed, I thought they could be hers. They were too big, even allowing for her baby bump, and it crossed my mind that one of the first things I should do for Faye when she came to live with us was to take her shopping to buy some pretty maternity clothes.
Becky drew up one of the dining chairs for me and placed it beside hers, so we sat in a small circle. The room was clean and full of the homely clutter of everyday living. I guessed Faye and her grandparents had lived here for a long time. As I sat down I saw Faye snatch another glance at me and I smiled reassuringly. With her small, round face and petite features, she had the classic look of a person with Foetal Alcohol Syndrome. It gave her a childlike appearance. Yet there was also an elderly quality about her, especially in her mannerisms. Her posture and the way her hands were folded in her lap mirrored that of her gran, which was probably a result of Faye’s reliance on her and having spent so much time with her.
‘Cathy has come here so you can get to know her a little before you go and stay with her,’ Becky said positively to Faye. Her tone was gentle and conciliatory as one might use for a child, although it wasn’t patronizing. ‘I think it would be a good idea if we asked Cathy to tell us a bit about where she lives and her family, don’t you?’ Faye nodded and stole another shy glance at me. ‘Over to you, then,’ Becky said, smiling at me.
I was expecting this and had come prepared. ‘I’ve brought some photographs to show you,’ I said brightly.
‘That’s a good idea,’ Becky enthused.
Dipping my hand into my bag I took out the small photograph album I’d compiled some years before. I usually took it with me to show the child and their family if the move to me had been planned in advance, but if the child came into care as an emergency I didn’t have this opportunity, as they just arrived on my doorstep with their social worker.
