Buch lesen: «If Only He’d Told Me: A foster family pushed to the limits»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Also by Mia Marconi

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Chapter One

It was one o’clock in the morning when the phone jerked me out of a deep sleep. I was dreaming that I was walking down the aisle in the most gorgeous wedding dress ever made. It was cream silk overlaid with antique lace. My hair was in a chignon secured with a diamond-studded comb and my bouquet was Lily of the Valley. Martin was waiting for me at the altar with the biggest grin on his face, all four of my girls were dressed as bridesmaids and my son, looking the tidiest he had ever looked, was dressed as a page boy. I felt like a princess and was smiling so hard I was laughing. Then someone rang a bell. I thought it was the priest, but it was the phone ruining my big day.

I had no idea how long it had been ringing but I knew exactly who would be on the end of the line. There was only one organisation that phoned at the weekend and at such an unsociable hour, and that was social services.

‘Good morning, Mia, it’s Roz from social services. How was your sleep?’

I could hear the smile in her voice and had a vision of her face at the end of the line, with her great big grin and warm eyes. She immediately began giggling.

‘Good morning, Roz. It’s so nice to hear from you,’ I said, with a slight note of sarcasm.

She went on to explain that another foster carer had been looking after a six-year-old boy who had gone berserk and smashed up her house. He’d broken everything he could, from the television to the toilet, the goldfish tank to his toys. He’d even smashed his bed and dented the fridge. Could I take him, Roz asked, because his current carer no longer wanted him in the house. He sounded more like a whirlwind than a six-year-old.

Most sane people would have said no, but this pattern of behaviour was a sign that the boy was lost and frightened, and I knew that. I also knew that this was his way of crying out for help. It wasn’t very subtle, perhaps, but nevertheless I knew he needed a friend.

After an awkward silence, I said, ‘How long has he been with her?’ expecting a reply of two weeks.

‘Two years.’

‘Two years! And she wants him out of the house in the middle of a Sunday night?’

‘She’s hysterical, Mia, and can’t stop crying. She wants him to leave now.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘He can come here.’

‘Oh, and she won’t bring him herself so he’s coming in a taxi with her son.’

I looked over at Martin, who was still fast asleep next to me. I had no idea how he never woke up from the noise the phone made. The dogs had started barking the second it rang and even they hadn’t stirred him. World War Three could take place and I swear that man would not move.

I, on the other hand, had gone to bed knowing that I was on call for out-of-hours placements, and having fostered so many babies over the years I woke up at the drop of a nappy pin.

I got up, pulled on my dressing gown, slipped my feet into my slippers, padded downstairs, switched on the kettle and made myself a cup of tea. Jack and Jill were so over the moon to see me they nearly knocked me off my feet and began licking me, which made me laugh and calmed me down. There’s nothing more therapeutic than animals, and as I sat down on the settee with my mug and pulled a blanket around me I soon felt Jack and Jill nuzzling me underneath it.

I began to think about what type of child, at only six years old, could smash up someone’s home after two years. There obviously hadn’t been much progress made with him if he was being this aggressive. And by the time I’d finished my tea my brain had provided me with a vision of a ten-foot-tall bruiser of a kid, complete with horns growing out of his head.

It was two o’clock in the morning by the time there was a gentle knock at the door. I opened it cautiously, expecting the worst, and could not believe my eyes. There stood a tiny olive-skinned boy, who looked about four. He was skinny but athletic at the same time, with his chest puffed out, imitating a proud rooster. His body language was cocky, bordering on the aggressive, and his full mouth was turned down and I wondered what he looked like when he smiled. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, and they were full of fear, but it took him only seconds to meet my gaze and when he did he stared right at me. No doubt this was a warning. I’m sure he was thinking, ‘Don’t mess with me, lady, I’m bigger than I look.’

So there was Brody, standing in front of me with two black bin bags containing his possessions. His foster carer’s son was about twenty-five, a handsome young man who stood silently behind Brody looking embarrassed. His expression said: ‘I can’t believe it either.’ He passed me the bin bags and left without saying a word.

I smiled and said to Brody: ‘Are you coming in or are you going to stand there all night?’ He gave me a look, pushed past me and walked into the kitchen. The dogs jumped on him. He fell to his knees and began cuddling them while they licked him from head to toe. Brody was obviously loving the attention.

‘Sit there,’ I said, pointing to the settee. I then gave him a drink of water. ‘I don’t know what you’ve done,’ I began, ‘but you’ve really upset the other carer.’ He said nothing and looked defiant while I warned him. ‘You’re not going to start smashing up my house. There are other children here and they’re asleep. I’ll show you to your bedroom and I’ll show you where the bathroom is and you can meet everyone tomorrow.’ He nodded.

It might sound a bit harsh, and it was, but Brody had to know from the beginning that there were boundaries in our house. He would find out that I was as soft as a melting marshmallow later, but not yet.

Anyway, I was his fourth foster carer so he knew the routine, and half an hour later he was tucked up in bed fast asleep.

To an outsider, breakfast at our house would have seemed hilarious. Martin and my children came down not having a clue there was a new child in the house, but it wasn’t unusual so they didn’t make much of it.

‘What’s his name?’ was all Martin whispered in my ear.

‘Brody,’ I whispered back before introducing him.

I already had five children of my own. Francesca, Ruby, Lucia and twins Alfie and Isabella, who were just a year younger than Brody.

Martin and Alfie were outnumbered by us girls and I smiled as I caught sight of Alfie’s face. When he saw there was another boy in the house, he lit up like a firework display.

My children grabbed their breakfast and then began excitedly shooting questions at Brody as if they were a firing squad.

‘How old are you?’

‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’

‘Are you good at football? Can you play with me after school?’

Brody obviously enjoyed the attention as his face shone like a Halloween pumpkin. Now I could see what his smile was like. He had a warm, expressive face when he was relaxed and off-guard, and he appeared confident. He looked so comfortable sitting at the kitchen table it was like he had sat in that chair all his life.

My children watched him with their eyes and mouths wide open, anticipating his answers as Rice Krispies crackled in the background. Jack and Jill sat in their usual place under the table, waiting to pounce on any scraps that fell to the floor. Their food was far too boring; they just wanted whatever the children ate and had become professional doggy hoovers. I stood by the over-worked kettle, sipping my tea, wondering why Brody had smashed his home up.

I knew I would find out later when the social worker arrived to fill me in, but for now I couldn’t see it.

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted when Alfie knocked his cereal bowl with his elbow and it hit the floor. The dogs instantly fell over each other trying to reach the contents.

‘Ooops. Sorry, Mum,’ Alfie said.

I rolled my eyes. ‘Come on, kids. Let’s get this show on the road – we have thirty minutes to get ready for school. Show Brody where all the things are to wash his face and brush his teeth.’ Then I added quickly, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get his toothbrush.’

I knew they would all start bickering over who was going to get Brody a new toothbrush from the stack I kept for occasions just like these, and I didn’t have time to referee any arguments. They all looked disappointed but I had been in this position before and I wasn’t about to waste ten minutes negotiating whose turn it was to give the toothbrush to him.

Brody followed, giggling as he left the table. I smiled to myself. He seemed truly settled in.

By the time my kids had left for school, Brody had picked up one of Alfie’s Transformers and was playing happily in the kitchen. There was no school for him today. We needed to meet with his social worker and get to the bottom of what was going on.

You have choices as a foster carer: the ages of children that will fit in with your family and the gender of child; whether you want to take siblings or single kids. I chose school-age children because all mine were still at school. Taking out-of-hours calls is also a choice. It could be disruptive, but I thought it was important to be there to help in emergencies.

Most carers only do this for a few months at a time, as the stress burns you out quickly. Plus, the belief you have when you first start that you’re going to change the world gets lost pretty quickly. Dealing with people at their most basic and chaotic levels, who are at rock bottom and will never have that one in a million miracle transformation, and will never turn their lives around, saps your energy. It’s like trying to hold back a river of treacle; eventually, the black sticky gunge will seep through the gaps.

Brody’s social worker, Lottie, called just after the kids had left for school.

‘I am so sorry. I can’t make it until Wednesday morning,’ she said.

She gave me some basic details – which school Brody went to and who his doctor was, that kind of thing – and then she asked how he was.

‘It’s like he’s always been here,’ I said, expecting her to say, ‘That’s fantastic!’

Instead, there was silence on the other end of the phone. She was obviously not convinced. That, or she knew something I didn’t.

‘I’ll see you Wednesday morning,’ she said and hung up.

So I was left none the wiser about the details of Brody’s life, and I wondered what had led him here and whether I would be able to help him. If I was his fourth foster carer, I shouldn’t kid myself that this would be an easy ride, yet I couldn’t reconcile the boy who had sat happily at my kitchen table this morning with the boy capable of smashing someone’s house to pieces. For the moment, I had to take him at face value and treat him the same as any other child, but nevertheless I knew not to let my guard down.

Lottie was a plump, middle-aged Jamaican lady who had a fantastic zest for life. The minute she came into my home I felt I had known her forever.

Brody was pleased to see her, which is not always the case with children and their social workers, and some will have an extremely negative response to them – one which has been drummed into them by their parents. Social workers are the baddies, they are told, the ones who take them away from their homes. If a child has this attitude it makes settling them very hard, because anything to do with social workers, including foster carers, will be tainted. It takes time to turn this attitude around, and in some cases I never manage to.

I put the kettle on – a good cup of tea is always a universal crowd pleaser. I like to use china cups and make the tea in the pot for visitors. My teapot is made of delicate bone china decorated with pink roses. It belonged to my Auntie Lily and I smile whenever I use it as it reminds me so much of her.

Brody was eager to help and keen to impress me with his willingness.

‘Shall I get the sugar bowl?’ he asked.

‘Thank you, Brody. Can you pour some milk into Lottie’s cup?’

He happily obliged while I poured the tea.

Lottie and I exchanged looks. Mine said, ‘I told you he had settled well.’ Hers said, ‘It looks that way, but the jury is still out.’

She sat back in her chair and fumbled for papers in her rucksack.

For the next few hours we talked about Brody and she filled me in on his life. I discovered that he had been in care for a short period of time when he was a baby. This was due to reports from the hospital that he had been admitted three times for bronchitis, and because he was underweight. After meeting his parents, they put him in the category of ‘failing to thrive’, and he was added to the ‘at risk’ register.

While we were talking, sometimes Brody sat with us and at other times he ran out into the garden to kick a ball around. Each time he went outside, it gave us a chance to talk frankly about his behaviour and his background.

Lottie showed me a photo of his bedroom at home, which was so filthy it would make most people retch. Brody shared a two-bedroom flat with his parents and six siblings. His room was tiny – not so much a box room as a matchbox room – and he shared it with two of his six siblings. The other four children shared the second bedroom, while his parents slept on a sofa bed.

In his tiny, filthy, airless room there was a small window with no blinds or curtains and a frame that was black with grubby finger marks. A metal bunk bed stretched from one end of the room to the other and a camp bed was folded up and propped against the wall. How there was room to open it out I will never know. The mattresses on the bunk beds were bare, and although there were covers on the duvets it looked as though they had not been washed for a while. The saddest thing, apart from the pink carpet that was covered in unidentified black stains, was a discarded Winnie-the-Pooh toy and a sad-looking rag doll, crushed under the rungs of the camp bed.

Brody’s parents were both alcohol abusers, I learned, and his mother had special needs. She was from Ghana, and any character she’d once had had been knocked out of her by Brody’s father, who subjected her to domestic abuse. Not surprisingly, she had tried to kill herself several times with overdoses, and the kids had been in and out of care while she recovered in hospital, as the dad was unable to cope. His father was British, small (like Brody) and had a big mouth – one of those little men who need to be heard by everyone to give them status. Brody was his only child; the other kids who lived in the flat all had the same mother but belonged to three different men.

Along with the alcohol abuse and domestic violence, there had been allegations from the three older girls that Brody’s uncle had been abusing them.

Brody was the youngest child and had been born into this chaos. It was no wonder he was bouncing off the walls.

The family were well known to social services and had been for some considerable time. There had been twenty-seven reports of concerns raised by teachers, neighbours and police. People were looking out for Brody and I was told that one of the teachers at his school made sure that he had a shower when he arrived at school in the mornings.

Social services had tried all the usual interventions with the family and all of them had failed. Brody was finally removed just before his third birthday, but by then a lot of damage had already been done. I knew that to have a real chance of a normal life Brody should have been removed as a baby. His brothers and sisters had been removed at the same time, so the whole family had been separated, which saddened me beyond belief.

The reality for large families is that not many people have the room to take groups of siblings. Whatever their parents have done and however horrific their home lives seem, to the children it is normal and they want to stick together. Their brothers and sisters are usually the only family they have left to cling to, and leaving them, as well as their parents, is a double trauma.

It was fate that brought Brody to us, although I had no idea of that when I took the emergency call. I was stunned to discover that I had been on the brink of being involved with his family on a couple of other occasions. The first was when I was pregnant with Alfie and Isabella. I got a call from social services asking me if I could look after a two-day-old girl called Destiny, but as I was about to give birth I couldn’t take her. Her name was so unusual that I’d always remembered it. I didn’t know then that Destiny had an older sister called Fifi. Fifi became pregnant aged fifteen, and social services called to ask if I could take a mother-and-baby placement. I couldn’t at the time and it wasn’t until Brody came to stay that I discovered that Fifi and Destiny were related and that they were Brody’s half-sisters.