Mummy Told Me Not to Tell (14 page)

I checked on Reece, who was still eating his lunch, and took the opportunity to phone Marie, Susie’s carer. She was expecting my call, the team manager having phoned her earlier with the details of her new contact arrangements. Susie was attending school, so we decided the best time for us to meet would be a Sunday. Marie was busy the next Sunday, so we made an arrangement for the following one, which was the last Sunday in February. Marie lived in a neighbouring
county about 20 miles away, so a children’s park halfway between us seemed like a good idea. We said we would phone nearer the day to confirm which park and what time, and said our goodbyes. I made a note in my diary with a reminder to phone Marie to confirm arrangements. When Reece had finished his lunch I explained about the new contact arrangements, both the ones with his parents and with Susie. He liked the idea of the outing with Susie very much.

Normally when a child first arrives in care, the carer makes appointments for the child to see a dentist, an optician, and the doctor for a medical. With so little information, and the files not being available, I didn’t know if this had happened or not at his previous carers’. I asked Reece if he had been to the dentist recently or had his eyes tested but he couldn’t remember. I would have to leave it until the return of the social worker, who would also issue the consent form for the medical if Reece hadn’t had one.

Reece didn’t mention seeing his parents again until he was getting ready to go to contact the following day, Tuesday. I had made dinner early and given Reece his at five o’clock, leaving the girls’ dinner plated up. This would become part of our contact routine; foster carers’ households revolve around contact.

‘Am I seeing me dad?’ Reece asked as we stood in his bedroom and I passed him clean jogging bottoms.

‘Yes,’ I confirmed. ‘It will just be your mum and dad this time.’

‘I like my dad,’ he said.

‘Good. I expect you will have a nice time then.’ He had one leg in his joggers and was now hopping around trying to get the other leg in. ‘Try sitting down to do it,’ I suggested.

He didn’t, but managed to get his leg in anyway. ‘I like me dad more than me mum,’ he said.

‘Do you?’ I asked lightly. ‘Why is that?’

‘Don’t know,’ he said; then after a thoughtful pause: ‘I think it’s ‘cos he’s nicer.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘Nicer in what sort of way?’ He was struggling into his vest and I helped him get his head in the neck hole rather than the armhole.

‘Don’t know,’ he said again. ‘I don’t like vests.’

‘No, but your mum wants you to wear one because she’s worried about you catching cold.’

‘OK, but I ain’t wearing it on the other days. Only Tuesday and Friday for contact.’

‘All right’ I smiled, impressed, for again Reece had shown, despite all his learning difficulties, that he had remembered not only when contact was but also how to placate his mother. I was beginning to find that when Reece wasn’t consumed by hyperactivity, with his brain randomly firing all over the place, it was surprising what he could remember, having heard it only once. I would build on this as much as was possible. Perhaps he found it easier to remember things when he heard them rather than saw them. Children learn in many different ways and it was a matter of finding out which way best suited Reece.

Drawing into the dark council offices’ car park at 5.50 p.m., I parked as close to the lamp as I could and switched off the car’s engine. There were more cars here than on Wednesday, presumably because more council employees were working late, and as I glanced up at the building I saw that many of the offices were still lit. I pressed my mobile to call the duty social worker.

A different male voice answered: ‘I’ll tell the supervising social worker you’re here,’ he said. ‘She will collect Reece from the car.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. Then I turned to Reece in the back. ‘They won’t be long,’ I said. ‘A social worker will be down to collect you soon.’ He was looking out of the side windows, obviously looking to see if his parents were in the car park. Apparently they weren’t, and five minutes later one of the social workers who had been supervising contact on Friday appeared. Smiling, she came over. I got out and opened Reece’s door.

‘Hi, Reece, Cathy,’ she said. ‘Mum and dad are waiting inside.’

It all seemed a lot better planned and organized than last week. I was able to say goodbye to Reece and wish him a nice time in a calm atmosphere. I waved until he entered the building and then got into the car and returned home, where I ate my dinner and drank a mug of tea, before returning to collect Reece at 7.30. I was hoping that perhaps Reece would say goodbye to his parents inside the building, which is what happens at the contact centres. The child says a calm goodbye in the controlled atmosphere of the supervised contact
and then leaves with the carer, quiet and less fraught. But there was to be no such luck here.

At 7.40 I heard Tracey’s voice shouting something unintelligible some while before she appeared in reception. Then she came through the revolving doors. Reece was behind her, with a tall thin man whom I took to be his father. They came out play-fighting with their fists up, lightly boxing each other on the arm. Every so often Scott picked up Reece by his legs and, turning him upside down, shook him for some moments before setting him down again. Reece’s screams of fright and delight reverberated around the car park and doubtless beyond. Behind Reece and his father came the two supervising social workers and the security guard. I got out of my car and waited as first Tracey, and then Reece and his father, made their way across the car park towards me, the social workers and security guard following.

Tracey came straight over to me and I knew by her manner even before she spoke that she was angry and was going to complain. But I knew it couldn’t be about Reece’s vest because he was wearing one.

‘When ya gonna cut ‘is bleeding ‘air?’ she demanded. ‘I told ya last week to cut it.’ It was still only stubble but I knew that wasn’t the answer.

‘We’ve been rather busy,’ I said. ‘I could get it cut tomorrow if you like.’ In truth I had been so occupied dealing with Reece’s behaviour that I had forgotten all about having his hair cut.

‘Yeah. And that top he’s got on,’ she continued, moving swiftly on to the next complaint, ‘it stinks, and
it’s filthy. I want me kids in clean clothes. I’ll report ya if ya don’t.’

‘Tracey, the sweater was clean on before we left,’ I said, feeling hurt after I had gone to so much trouble to make sure Reece looked smart.

‘Well, it ain’t now. It’s got Coke all down it.’ I failed to see the logic in this, as the Coke must have come from her, but I wasn’t going to argue. I was more concerned to hear that Reece had been given Coke to drink; I hoped, but doubted, it was the caffeine-free variety.

The two social workers had now joined us and were standing a little to one side, watching and listening, and I trusted ready to intervene if it became necessary. Reece was now involved in an amateur wrestling match with his father in the centre of the car park and was shrieking every so often as his father turned him upside down. Although I would rather they had engaged in a calmer activity, I could see, as could the social workers, that this was obviously how father and son related to each other. I knew the social workers wouldn’t stop it unless it got out of hand and became dangerous.

‘You been hitting Sharky?’ Tracey suddenly demanded, jabbing her finger at me.

‘Of course not! I—’

‘How did he get that bruise on ‘is leg then? It’s a thumbprint! You must have done it!’ The social workers were now looking at me, and while Tracey’s accusation was so preposterous as not to merit a response I felt under pressure to defend myself.

‘I would certainly never hit any child, Tracey,’ I said firmly. ‘And I resent your suggestion.’ I looked her
straight in the eyes and could have said a lot more, but stopped myself. I wasn’t even aware Reece had a bruise, and if he had it was probably from playing in the park. It couldn’t be very big because I would have noticed it when he’d changed his joggers just before we had left.

‘Just you watch out in future,’ she barked in the same threatening manner. ‘I’ll be checking him all over, like I did tonight. If I find anyfing I’ll report you to the police. I ‘ope you’re not like those other bleeding carers. They was ‘itting ‘im as well.’

The woman was impossible. ‘Tracey, I would never hit any child,’ I repeated, ‘and I doubt the other carers did either.’ I stopped and looked towards the social workers. ‘I think it’s time we left,’ I said.

They nodded and called to Reece. ‘Time to go home, Reece.’ Reece and his father took no notice. They were still dancing round each other, now aiming punches at each other’s arms. ‘Time to go home!’ they tried again.

‘And what about Sharky’s school?’ Tracey now demanded. ‘What ya bleedin’ playing at? I told you I wanted him in school but he ain’t!’

‘I really don’t know, Tracey,’ I said, exasperated, although of course Tracey had a valid point. ‘You’ll have to speak to the team manager and ask her.’

‘I will, don’t you worry! I’ll be down ‘ere and ‘ave her first thing tomorrow. Stuck up little tart.’ Which I assumed referred to Mary.

‘Reece,’ I called, but he didn’t answer. ‘Reece!’ Having had more than enough, and not wanting a repetition of last week when Reece was wound up to the point of
hysteria, I left Tracey and went over to Reece and his father.

‘Hello, Mr Williams,’ I said, offering my hand for shaking. ‘I’m Cathy, Reece’s carer. It’s nice to meet you.’ He stopped the play-fighting and shook my hand. I smiled. ‘Do you think you could bring Reece to my car now, please? It’s nearly his bedtime.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, amicably. ‘Reece, lad, come on, time to go.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. Not only was I relieved to have Scott’s cooperation but I was also pleased he hadn’t called Reece ‘Sharky’.

He led Reece past Tracey and to my car. I opened the rear door and Reece got in. ‘Thank you,’ I said again to Scott. ‘Reece has obviously had a nice time.’

‘Yeah,’ Scott said. ‘So have I.’ I thought whatever the truth of the allegation in connection with Susie, Scott clearly had feelings for his son, and seemed far more level-headed than Tracey. I found Tracey’s illogical aggression very difficult to deal with. What also struck me about Scott, now he was standing in the light of the lamp, was that Reece didn’t look anything like him: he had inherited none of Scott’s characteristics at all. Reece was short and stocky with pale skin, brown hair and eyes and the unusual front teeth, like the other siblings I had met, and like Tracey. Scott, on the other hand, was tall, very thin, with fair hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones and a sharp chiselled face, and perfectly normal front teeth. Had you asked me if they were father and son, I would have said no.

I fastened Reece’s seatbelt while Scott stood to one side, and Tracey went over to have a go at the social workers.

‘Say goodbye,’ I said to Reece.

‘Dad! Dad!’ he yelled. Scott put his head into the car. ‘Can I have a kiss?’

Scott kissed his cheek. ‘Bye, son. See you Friday. I’ll try and remember your Nintendo.’ I assumed Tracey had forgotten it. Scott lightly cuffed Reece’s shoulder. ‘Be good,’ he said, and stood back. I hesitated. Reece was ready to go now, but he hadn’t said goodbye to his mother. I looked over to where Tracey was. She was still shouting at the social workers about Susie’s care, or what she perceived as lack of it, so I closed the car door.

‘Bye,’ I said to Scott. ‘See you Friday.’ I got in and started the engine. I then drove from the car park with Reece waving to his mum who was oblivious and embroiled in her battle of words.

Although Reece wasn’t as hysterical as he had been on Wednesday, he was still pretty hyped up. Some of it was from the excitement of seeing his dad, and some of it was just general hyperactivity, with him making lots of loud and unrelated noises.

But my thoughts were elsewhere as I drove; I was occupied with Tracey’s accusation that I had hit Reece. I was really hurt that she could even begin to think that I would harm him when I was investing so much in looking after her son and trying to improve his future. And apart from my hurt feelings, her accusation could have far-reaching implications. The social workers would be noting it in their report and it was possible
that Jamey Hogg, when he returned, or Mary, the team manager, might feel it needed further investigation. At least 40 per cent of foster carers have accusations made against them at some point in their career, and an investigation into such a claim is a lengthy and in-depth process. If it is felt there is cause for concern, then the foster child is removed from the carer until the investigation is complete. Very very rarely does the investigation find actual abuse by a foster carer towards the child, but the investigation has to run its course. And while I was aware that such an investigation was necessary to ensure the safety of the child, I was also aware that in the vast majority of cases, as tonight, there were no grounds for the accusation, which was that of a distraught mother trying to get her own back on the ‘system’ she felt was against her.

By the time we arrived home Reece was a little calmer, but it still took me a long while to get him ready for bed. As he changed into his pyjamas I stole a look at his legs and could see no sign of a bruise or anything that resembled one. Being light skinned, he had quite a few freckles but that was all.

Reece was finally asleep at 9.30. I went downstairs to the living room and wrote up my log notes, including details of Tracey’s accusation, and that I had found no sign of any bruise. Presumably the supervising social workers hadn’t either when Tracey had examined him.

As there was nothing I could do until the social worker returned from leave, we continued as we had been doing. The weekday routine I had started remained more or less the same, with Reece and I spending part of each day ‘playing schools’ and then going out to the park or shops, for a walk and occasionally for a special treat like the cinema and ice-skating.

We met up with Marie and Susie on the last Sunday in February, and the two children spent an hour, well wrapped up from the cold, playing in the park before we all adjourned to the park’s café for hot drinks and a light lunch. Marie was lovely and very good company. She was younger than me and had been fostering for five years. She had no children of her own and told me that she had decided to foster because she herself had been in care as a teenager when her father had been killed in a road accident and her mother had suffered a nervous breakdown as a result. Like me, she was waiting for Jamey Hogg to return, for although Susie was attending school, there were a lot of other issues which Marie wanted to raise with Jamey as soon as possible, including what Susie was now telling her about her stepfather. Marie didn’t go into the details; she knew, as I did, that such details were confidential and were not discussed even between foster carers.