A Last Kiss for Mummy (4 page)

All very curious. And should alarm bells have been ringing? I had absolutely no idea.

Emma’s possessions – which had been lugged in by her and Roman’s long-suffering social workers – came in four bulging and already torn black bin liners. This was nothing new to me; in my time I’d seen it all. Some kids came with almost nothing and some with loads of possessions, and it was often the ones who’d been the longest in care who had the most stuff to lug about. Similarly, some children had a variety of robust cases, while others – as in this case – just had good old bin bags. But in those cases you expected to find them filled with rags and rubbish – and invariably you weren’t disappointed.

It was always a bit of a guessing game when new children came to stay as to what their possessions might be. Some had plenty of clothes, shoes and trainers, favourite toys, games and books, right down to nightwear and their own toiletries and toothbrush. Others had barely more than the clothes they stood up in. No toys, no nice things, not even a single family photo, and when that happened it really broke my heart. I just wanted to scoop them up and promise them the world, though, ironically, that was usually the last thing I could do. These tended to be the kids that had been profoundly damaged by the adults around them, and the sad fact was that the children who needed the most loving always seemed to be the ones who needed you to keep your distance – in the early days, at least, until they’d begun the lengthy process of learning to trust again.

Emma and Roman, thankfully, didn’t seem to be in this category. Although, judging from my first impressions, Emma had plenty of emotional issues to overcome, she wasn’t in need when it came to material possessions. ‘Good grief!’ I said, once we’d seen off Maggie and Hannah. ‘What on earth have you got in all these?’

She laughed as we hefted a pair each up the stairs, which was good to hear. Now we were alone – and unscrutinised – she seemed in better spirits. ‘Oh, just my clothes and make-up, and my CD player, and Roman’s stuff and everything. Tell you what,’ she said conversationally, ‘social services may be arseholes, but they’ve spent loads on me. Literally. Like, loads.’

That was true enough. We’d already taken delivery of a pristine new cot, which Mike had toiled to assemble the night before Emma came. But I was struck by her choice of language for them – and not in a good way. I was about to answer, not least to pull her up on her choice of words, when she turned, having reached the top of the stairs. ‘And they’re going to buy me a laptop – can you believe it? Long as I go back to school, that is. Can you
believe
that?’

I could believe that, of course, because, these days, a computer was fast becoming more than an optional extra; kids were expected to produce their school assignments at a keyboard more and more, not to mention use the internet for research. Which meant disadvantaged kids – and Emma was very much in that category – were at more of a disadvantage than they’d been in many, many years, compared with kids from affluent middle-class homes.

Emma pouted then. ‘But that’s not going to be for ages, is it? I wish they’d let me have one now. I hate being so much out of touch with everyone.’

I understood that too. So much teenage communication was via computers that I could see how isolated not having one must make her feel. Not that I wasn’t all for policing the use of them, particularly for the kids we looked after, because you could access so much stuff that no kid should ever see.

‘I know,’ I said, gesturing that she should go into the beige bedroom, which was all set now, with its cheerful new coordinating duvet set. ‘But it’ll be sooner than you think – and you really should go back to school. And, in the meantime, I have a laptop that I’m happy to let you borrow – you just have to ask me. Just one thing …’

I paused then and, noticing the sudden silence, Emma turned. ‘The language,’ I said mildly. ‘Now you’re with us you’re going to have to mind your tongue a bit. I don’t know what experiences you’ve had with Hannah and Maggie, obviously, but, well, social services are lots of things, but not what you called them.’

Emma looked at me, assessing me, and with a look of slight confusion. I grinned at her. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m not shocked. I’m used to teenagers – I’ve brought up two of my own, don’t forget. And we’ll treat you just as if you were one of our own, as well, which means that even if you swear when you’re out and about we don’t want to hear it at home, okay?’

Emma was the one looking shocked now. ‘But I didn’t swear, did I?’

I nodded. ‘Sweetheart,’ I said mildly, ‘you called social services “arseholes”, which in my book is swearing. And, colourful as it may be, it’s not something I like to hear from a young lady. I’m not a prude but I just don’t think it sounds very nice – particularly coming from a young mum.’

I was surprised and pleased to see that she had the grace to look ashamed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t even realise. I’m just that used to it. I’ll try not to do it again, promise.’

I was touched. After all her aggressive bluster earlier, this was quite a contrast, and once again I was struck by her child-like vulnerability. And not even child-like – she
was
a child, one that had been thrust into the world of adults. And yet without any adult family to take care of her. I often wondered how it was that the kids we took in so often seemed to have absolutely no one to love them. And equally often I reminded myself that it was precisely the reason why they came to us. Because there was no one else willing to take them in. No indulgent auntie, no older sibling, no grandparents, no nothing. Emma was an only daughter, born to an only daughter – one who’d fallen out with her mother before Emma had even been born. It was all so very sad. And now there was Roman, equally lacking a wider family … I mentally shook myself. Mustn’t go there, Casey.

I pulled open the wardrobe doors while Emma began busying herself taking CDs from one of the bags. These kids and their CDs – music was pretty much all digital now, as far as I was aware, but these kids seemed to pride themselves on being ‘old school’, in the same way as we’d hung on to our ‘authentic’ LPs, distrusting the dawning of the digital disc.

Bless her, I thought, as she began stacking them up. ‘I know you will, love,’ I reassured her. ‘So as far as I’m concerned, the subject is now closed. And look – enough space in here for everything, I think. Do you want me to help you put things away?’

She nodded at me shyly. ‘Yes, please.’

‘Great,’ I said, seeing the CD player which was now in her hand. ‘And perhaps listen to music! Seeing as Roman’s fast asleep downstairs, how about we have some on while we unpack, eh?’ I reached for one of the CDs she’d begun to stack on the chest of drawers. ‘This looks good. Hey, we can dance while we work!’

In common with many a teenager before her, Emma looked horrified at this thought. She looked at me, then at the CD, and then back at me again. It was the sort of look I knew well. It said ‘Whaaattt?’

‘Only kidding,’ I reassured her, passing her the rap CD and laughing. ‘My days of dancing to this sort of thing are long over. If indeed, I ever had them, truth be known. But put it on anyway, eh? Or something else you like. I don’t mind which. Just be nice to help you start to feel at home.’

But as I spoke, and Emma duly took the proffered CD from my hand, I noticed this small but distinct furrowing of her child’s smooth, unworried brow. And as I was something of an expert in the non-verbal communication habits of teenagers, I could tell right away what it meant, too. It meant ‘Home? You stupid woman. What’s “home”?’

‘So, what do you think?’ I said to Mike, once I’d come back downstairs. I’d made a start helping Emma put her bits and bobs away, as promised, but then left her to it, telling her I’d check on Roman for her. I was conscious that perhaps she’d like a little space.

My big hulk of a macho husband, who’d come home from work early, just before Maggie and Hannah had left, was peering into the pram with a big soppy grin on his face.

‘About this one?’ he whispered, glancing up at me. He stepped away, but kept his voice low as he spoke. ‘He seems like a good ’n. Not been a peep out of him since you’ve been up there.’ He motioned towards the ceiling with his eyebrows. ‘And how about his mum?’

He’d spoken to Emma only briefly so far, having only had the chance to say hello to her really, straight after Maggie and Hannah had left.

‘So far, so pretty much what I’d have expected,’ I told him. ‘Fair bit of attitude, particularly towards Hannah – you know, the blonde one you met? She’s Roman’s social worker. But then I suppose that’s understandable, given what her role is.’ I looked into the pram too. ‘And by all accounts she’s been lucky. So far, at any rate. It would have been so much more difficult if he hadn’t been such a placid little thing – which he has, by all accounts, so Hannah tells me.’

I looked again at the little bundle of life nestled beneath the covers, and, as if on cue, he opened his enormous eyes and seemed to consider me. He really was the most beautiful little boy. His eyes were so dark that they seemed almost black, and his skin was a lovely olive colour. His head was sprigged, more than covered, in little chocolate-brown tufts, and thinking about Emma and her pale colouring I wondered about his father and what he might look like. I said as much to Mike, too, in what I hoped sounded like a casual sort of manner, though, in truth, it was anything but.

Seeing this tiny infant and wondering what the future might hold for him, I couldn’t help thinking back to Justin, the first boy we’d fostered, and how never knowing who his father was had eaten away at him. And even though, when he did find the man, the outcome wasn’t quite a happy ever after, just knowing he was there had gone such a way to heal that wound. I remembered his exact words to me. He said he just felt ‘more whole’.

Mike frowned and shook his head. ‘Typical you,’ he said. ‘Casey,’ he then warned, ‘don’t even go there, love. I thought we agreed we wouldn’t go down that road – not unless we have to, at any rate.’

‘I’m just saying,’ I said, tutting. ‘Just wondering, that’s all.’

But Mike was having none of it. He straightened up and made for the door. ‘I know what you’re like, love, once you get to “just wondering”. And you know as well as I do where it can lead.’

I knew exactly what he was talking about. I knew exactly who he was talking about – a girl we’d looked after the previous year, Abby. Abby’s mum had MS and told everyone she was all alone in the world – not a single relative to call on – but I knew there was more to it than that. There was actually a sister; an auntie who was desperate to support both of them, but with whom Abby’s mum had fallen out. Of course, I couldn’t help but poke my nose in, and I’d paid the price for it. It had resulted in an official complaint against me and a really stressful investigation; an experience I would not want to repeat. But him mentioning that was like a red rag to a bull.

‘Mike,’ I chided, ‘that’s so unfair. It was my “wondering” and all my digging that reunited their flipping family!’

Which was true. And I’d been exonerated, and Abby’s mum had apologised to me, profusely. But it might have worked out differently, as we both knew.

‘Yes, but it also might have reunited you with your last P45 too, love,’ Mike reminded me. ‘And, don’t forget, this ex-boyfriend sounds like he’s a wrong ’un. Perhaps that little man there is better off without him in his life. Anyway, I’m off to put the kettle on. Coffee?’

I nodded, and turned my attention back to the baby. I had just been wondering. I wasn’t about to go sleuthing. I had no intention of lifting the lid on that potential can of worms. Emma was right to be reluctant to name the baby’s father; after all, technically, he’d committed an offence just by
being
the baby’s father, given Emma’s age. Mike was right. Best not to even go there.

‘So we won’t,’ I whispered to Roman who was now properly stirring, stretching his little limbs and blinking, fixing his gaze once again on me. I smiled at him – how could anyone not automatically smile at a baby? – and reached into the pram to pick him up. He gurgled as I nestled him gently against my shoulder and breathed in his distinctive baby scent. I loved sniffing babies; they always smelt so good, even if this one, at this particular time, had another smell going on – one that wasn’t quite so attractive as baby talc.

I wrinkled my nose as I carried him to the foot of the stairs, thinking I’d call Emma downstairs to change him. But as soon as I got there I could hear the thump of the music overhead and realised there was little chance she’d hear me.

‘No worries, little man,’ I whispered into the baby’s ear. ‘Auntie Casey will change your bottom for you, eh?’

I took Roman back into the living room and grabbed a blanket from the pram to lie him down on. So much for Riley’s dismissive ‘you won’t need to buy baby stuff’ – there’d been no sign of a changing mat amongst Emma’s things that I’d seen. Still, I thought, as I lay him down, we could soon see to that. The thought made me smile. I was quite looking forward to going baby shopping again.

I was just reaching for the bag that was hanging on the pram handle when Mike returned, brandishing two coffees.

‘Casey,’ he asked pointedly, ‘should it be you who’s doing that?’

I waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, it’s fine, love. Just for today, at any rate. Emma’s still busy putting her thousand and one possessions away upstairs, and she’s got to get the bedding on the cot too, don’t forget. Better I do it this once than have her break off when she’s busy moving in properly. Don’t worry – I won’t be making a habit of butting in. I’ll make sure she does it from tomorrow on.’

Mike put my coffee down on the table behind me. ‘I wasn’t just thinking of that, love. I was thinking of Emma. Don’t you think she might have issues with someone else doing these things for her? You know what my sister was like – wouldn’t so much as let anyone breathe near little Natalie. How d’you know Emma won’t feel the –’

He stopped then, and I turned to see why. Emma’s ears must have been burning, because she was now standing in the living-room doorway.

‘Hello, love,’ Mike began. ‘Did you find everything you needed upstairs okay?’