The Night the Angels Came (11 page)

‘Dress to impress,’ Patrick said, smiling and placing a bottle of wine and a large box of chocolates in my arms.

‘Thank you very much, but you shouldn’t have done that,’ I said.

‘My pleasure,’ Patrick smiled, and then kissed my cheek.

They came into the hall, where Patrick and Michael both took off the jackets to their suits and Patrick hung them on the hall stand. ‘You won’t mind if I take off my tie?’ he said to me.

‘Of course not.’ Michael had already taken off his and was undoing the top button on his shirt. Patrick did likewise and then tucked the two ties into his jacket pocket.

The children disappeared upstairs to play while Patrick came with me into the kitchen. ‘Mmm, something smells good,’ he said.

‘I hope it’s the dinner,’ I said. ‘Would you like to open the wine while I check the oven? The corkscrew is in that drawer’ – I nodded to a cabinet – ‘and the glasses are in the cupboard above.’

While Patrick opened the drawer and rummaged for the corkscrew I took the oven gloves and opened the oven door. Partially sliding out the roasting tray I began basting the chicken and potatoes as Patrick uncorked the wine behind me. I heard the cork come out of the bottle with a small plop followed by a gentle glug-glug as he poured the wine into the glasses. For a moment I couldn’t see what I was doing for emotion, as my eyes misted and I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. This cosy domestic scene of a man uncorking the wine while I cooked and which had been missing from my life touched a raw nerve. Returning the pan to the oven, I quickly composed myself as Patrick said: ‘A toast.’

I straightened and turned to face him. He handed me a glass of wine and raised his own. ‘Another of my Irish sayings,’ he said. ‘To Cathy:

May joy and peace surround you
Contentment latch your door
And happiness be with you now
And bless you evermore.’

‘Thank you, that’s lovely,’ I said. ‘And you.’

S
unday was a huge success. We ate dinner around the dining table like one big happy family, with the children grouped along one side and Patrick and me on the other. There was lots of talking and laughing as we ate and Patrick was very complimentary about my cooking, which was nice. When I took the pudding – fresh cream chocolate trifle – from the fridge and placed it on the table they clapped and cheered, and I took a small bow. As the weather was good, after we’d eaten we went into the garden for the rest of the afternoon. Patrick and I sat on the garden bench talking while the children played various games and then impressed us with their handstands and cartwheels.

‘Look, Mum!’ Adrian and Paula called.

‘Look, Dad,’ Michael said.

‘Well done! Very daring,’ we praised.

By five o’clock Adrian was saying he was hungry again, so leaving Patrick watching the children in the garden I went into the kitchen and made cheese and ham sandwiches, which we ate on the lawn in the garden with a drink of lemonade like a mini picnic. It was nearly 7.00 p.m. before the air began to chill and we finally put away the garden toys and went indoors. Patrick said they should be going. He offered to do the washing up but I refused. He called for a cab and when it arrived Adrian, Paula and I waved them off at door to shouts of ‘See you soon’. It was a truly lovely day and one I still think of fondly.

The children and I saw Patrick and Michael regularly throughout the following month of May: all together at weekends and just Patrick and me one evening mid-week. Sometimes Patrick came to my house, when Nora or Colleen would babysit Michael, and sometimes I went to his house, when Jenny or Rose sat for me. Patrick and I also went out for a couple of evenings: for a walk by the lake, and to the cinema, where we ate popcorn and chocolates from wrappers that crinkled and we laughed just like children. There was a sense of carefree abandonment when there were just the two of us out alone and we’d left the responsibilities of single parenting behind us for a few hours. Likewise when we were all together we were light-hearted and laughed a lot. We went on family outings, to the park and to the swimming pool, where I went in the water with the children while Patrick watched from the tiered seating at the side, and we all had hot chocolate afterwards.

Patrick and I didn’t talk about his illness when we were together and for my part I rarely thought about it either. Patrick appeared well and although he was still very thin he was eating, so I was expecting him to start gaining weight. Sometimes he became breathless but recovered after a short sit-down. Only once did he mention the hospital – that he’d been to the hospital in the morning for some tests. He told me the doctor had said he was very pleased he was ‘still holding his own’. I smiled and said, ‘Of course you are. You’re doing very well.’ I didn’t hear the limitation of time suggested in the doctor’s comment ‘still holding his own’: the implication that there could be another outcome. To me the doctor’s words simply confirmed Patrick was staying well and would continue to do so indefinitely.

I suppose it was inevitable that at some point John would hear of Patrick’s existence, and although I was doing nothing wrong, when he phoned he tried to make me believe I was. Paula must have said something to her father when he’d taken her and Adrian out on the Sunday after Patrick and Michael had come for dinner. I could picture her innocently mentioning Patrick and Michael and John seizing on her remark and questioning her. The first I knew that Patrick had been spoken of was when I answered the phone on Monday morning – the Monday after John had seen the children.

‘Cathy, it’s John,’ he said tightly. ‘There’s something I need to discuss with you.’ I was surprised to hear his voice, as usually he phoned only at the weekends to speak to the children, so I thought he must want to talk about the divorce. I’d been putting off finding a solicitor and starting the divorce process, although I knew John wanted a divorce so that he could remarry. But it wasn’t the divorce John wanted to discuss, although he did mention it, and indeed he didn’t want to ‘discuss’ anything but accuse me.

‘I understand you’ve moved your boyfriend into the house,’ he began, ‘so you can forget about maintenance or me paying half the mortgage. I’ve spoken to my solicitor and he has advised me that as we’re still technically married you’ve committed adultery, so we’re equally to blame now. I therefore want a divorce on two years’ separation, not my adultery –’

‘John!’ I said, recovering. ‘Patrick is not a boyfriend. He’s a friend, and he never stays the night.’

‘Pull the other one,’ John sneered. ‘He’s there when the children go to bed.’

‘Yes, occasionally he comes here in the evening. But he always goes home before eleven o’clock.’

‘So who’s looking after my children while you two are canoodling on the sofa?’ he said changing tack.

‘They’re in bed, and we don’t canoodle. We talk.’ I was upset, and struggling to defend myself, but I stopped short of telling him Patrick was the father of a child I would be fostering. It was none of his business and he was being so irrational it wouldn’t have made any difference.

‘If you give me any reason to believe my children are being neglected, I’ll apply for custody,’ John said. It was the worst threat he could have issued and he knew it. I felt hot and sick and my heart pounded with fear. John had always been a tower of strength but now he had turned against me I was no match for him.

‘The children are fine,’ I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. ‘You know I always put them first. If you really don’t want Patrick to come to the house then he won’t until everything is sorted out. I’ll find a solicitor tomorrow and make an appointment to start the divorce process.’ Which seemed to placate him.

‘So I can tell my solicitor he can expect to hear from your solicitor soon? And the divorce will be by mutual consent not my adultery?’

‘Yes,’ I said quietly.

‘Good. I’ll phone at the weekend to speak to the children. Goodbye.’ And he hung up.

I stayed where I was on the sofa in the sitting room and slowly replaced the handset. My heart was pounding and tears stung the back of my eyes. It wasn’t only the injustice of John’s false accusations – that I was neglecting the children and ‘canoodling’ with Patrick – that had upset me, but the manner in which he’d spoken to me. I knew I couldn’t put off finding a solicitor any longer, for to do so would antagonize him further and he would seize on everything I did or didn’t do to make life difficult. As I sat on the sofa staring unseeing across the room I finally had to admit my marriage was over and the loving person I thought I’d be with for life had gone for good.

On a lighter note it wasn’t only John Paula had mentioned Patrick to. The next time my parents visited Mum and I were in the kitchen preparing dinner when Mum sidled up to me and asked conspiratorially, ‘So who’s this Patrick Paula’s told us about?’

I smiled. Mum wanted nothing more than for me to have a ‘companion’, as she put it. ‘He’s a friend,’ I said, slightly defensively, but then realized I could say more. ‘He’s a widower, the father of the boy I fostered for a weekend last month.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she said, her eyes lighting up and doubtless marrying me off on the spot. ‘When can we meet him?’

‘Not for a long while. When my divorce is through.’

‘So why were you fostering his son?’ she asked after a moment, pausing from chopping the carrots.

‘Patrick has been ill. He was taken into hospital and there was no one else to look after Michael.’

‘How sad. That was very nice of you, though, dear,’ which is what Mum says whenever I tell her about a child I’ve looked after – although it’s my parents who deserve the praise for unreservedly welcoming every child I foster into their home and hearts.

I didn’t hear from Jill or Stella during May. I wasn’t surprised. There was no need for them to contact me, as I wasn’t fostering Michael. What was unusual, though, was that as a foster carer I was left without a child to look after for a whole month. There is always a shortage of foster carers and beds are not usually left empty for long, so that as one child leaves another arrives. However, I was still technically on ‘standby’ to look after Michael so, although Patrick was well, the bed had to be kept free. Assuming Patrick continued to make the progress he had been making, I knew I would soon be taken off standby so that I could foster another child.

It was the first Sunday in June and Adrian and Paula were out with their father for the day. The weather was fantastic, with the sun shining in a cloudless blue sky and a gentle warm breeze stirring the leaves on the trees. I was in the back garden, pulling up some weeds, breathing in the smell of the grass I had just cut and feeling life was pretty good, when the phone rang indoors. I straightened and, brushing the dirt from my hands, left my shoes at the French windows and went into the sitting room, where I answered the phone.

‘Mrs Glass?’ a male voice asked.

‘Yes. Speaking.’

‘It’s the duty social worker. I understand you are the foster carer for Michael Byrne?’

‘Yes, but he’s not here now. He went back to his father,’ I said, wondering why the duty social worker was phoning me. The ‘out of hours’ duty social workers are often supplied by agencies who do not always have access to the latest information.

There was a short pause before he asked, ‘When was Michael with you?’

‘Last month. He came for a weekend. Why?’

Ignoring my question he said: ‘You are listed as the foster carer for Michael on an “as and when” basis.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Can you collect him now? He’s been taken to St Mary’s hospital with his father.’

Finally I realized why the duty social worker was phoning me. ‘Michael’s father is ill?’

‘Yes. I understand he collapsed on his way home from church. A passer-by called an ambulance and Michael went with his father in the ambulance. How long will it take you to get there?’

‘I’ll leave straight away. I can be there in twenty minutes.’

‘I’ll phone the hospital and tell them you’re on your way. It’s St Mary’s.’

‘Yes. Tell Michael I’ll be with him soon.’

Q
uickly closing the French windows in the sitting room, I flew round to the kitchen and locked the back door. I then tore down the hall, pushed my feet into my shoes and, grabbing my handbag, rushed out the front door. My heart was thumping and my thoughts were racing. Patrick, who’d sounded so well when I’d spoken to him on the phone the evening before, was now in hospital and poor little Michael, who’d seen his father collapse, was waiting for me. How ill was Patrick? The duty social worker hadn’t said, but I reassured myself that like the last time Patrick had collapsed it was probably as a result of a low blood-cell count and a blood transfusion would see him well again.

Fortunately the traffic was light on Sunday and I pulled into the hospital car park fifteen minutes later. I then wasted five minutes trying to find an empty space to park and another couple of minutes buying a ticket and placing it on the dashboard of my car. I hurried across the car park and entered the hospital through the revolving doors of the main entrance. I didn’t know where Patrick and Michael were, but given Patrick had been admitted as an emergency A & E (Accident and Emergency) seemed the best bet, and I followed the sign to A & E to my right. I’d been to A & E some years before when a child I was fostering had an asthma attack, but the building had been modernized since then and as I now entered it I saw the layout had completely changed. It took me a moment to spot the reception/admission desk set back in an alcove.

I hurried over. Two women in white uniforms sat behind computer screens at the desk. Neither looked up as I approached and then waited by the desk. There was no one waiting to be seen in front of me, although there were a dozen or so people in the seated area behind me. In my anxious state – worried about Patrick and Michael – I was short on patience.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, more loudly than I should have done. Both women looked up. ‘I received a phone call from the duty social worker a short while ago. Patrick Byrne has been admitted and I’m here to collect his son, Michael.’

‘And you are?’ the receptionist directly in front of me asked haughtily, clearly put out by my intrusion. The other receptionist returned to her computer.

‘Cathy Glass. I’m Michael’s foster carer. Someone here should be expecting me.’

She looked at her computer screen as she typed. ‘Patrick Byrne?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘B-y-r-n-e?’ she confirmed, spelling out his surname. ‘Yes.’

She typed some more and then picked up her phone and pressed for an extension. ‘Hi. It’s Anna on reception here,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a Mrs Glass with me. She’s come to collect Michael Byrne.’ She paused and waited. I waited too, watching her and willing whoever was on the other end to hurry up. A minute passed and then the receptionist said into the phone, ‘OK, thanks. I’ll send her through now.’

Replacing the receiver, she looked at me. ‘Go through those double doors over there.’ I looked to where she was pointing on the far side of the waiting area. ‘Then go straight and first right.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and immediately headed off in the direction she’d pointed to.

On the other side of the double doors was a corridor with consultation rooms on both sides. I turned right as directed and into another shorter corridor, which opened out into a large square treatment area. A nurse’s station was in the centre and curtained cubicles lined three walls. Nurses bustled in and out of the cubicles, while another was standing with a doctor poring over a patient’s notes. I looked around, but there was no sign of Michael. I quickly crossed to the nurse’s station and then waited for the nurse to finish on the phone.

‘Michael Byrne?’ I asked as the nurse finished the call. ‘I’m Cathy Glass, his foster carer.’

She nodded, stood, and then came out from behind the nurse’s station. ‘Come with me. He’s keeping his father company. In fact he wouldn’t leave his side.’ She gave a small smile and led the way to the corner cubicle, where she pulled back the curtain far enough for us to enter.

As I stepped into the cubicle my eyes went straight to the bed and my heart clenched. Propped on two white pillows, with an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose, lay Patrick; his eyes were closed and his skin was a sickly grey. A drip had been inserted in the back of his left hand, and wires came from pads stuck to his chest, which led to a heart monitor on a trolley beside the bed. On the other side of the bed, with his chair as close to the bedhead as he could get it, sat Michael. Seeing him hunched slightly forward, looking so lost and afraid, I was reminded of the time I’d collected him from the head’s office when Patrick had collapsed before.

Michael looked at me, stood, and then rushing over, fell into my arms, sobbing.

I held him close, his head resting against my chest, his arms wrapped around my waist. ‘It’s all right, love,’ I gently soothed. ‘It’s OK now.’

As I held and comforted Michael I looked at Patrick. His eyes were still closed, so I wasn’t sure if he was asleep or unconscious. His shirt had been removed to allow the stick-on pads for the heart monitor to be placed on his chest and his bare chest rose and fell in laboured breath.

‘How is he?’ I asked the nurse, as Michael still clung to me. ‘Comfortable. We’ve given him something for the pain. He’ll sleep for a while.’

‘And his blood-cell count?’ I asked. ‘Are you going to give him a blood transfusion? That’s what he had last time.’ For I’d noticed that the bag on the drip stand contained clear fluid, not blood.

‘We’re running tests,’ the nurse said. ‘We’ll notify his social worker and family when we know more.’

I realized she was politely telling me that as I wasn’t a relative confidentiality forbade her from discussing Patrick’s medical condition with me.

‘Patrick doesn’t have family apart from Michael and a distant aunt,’ I said, unsure if they knew.

She nodded. ‘We have Mr and Mrs Doyle listed as next of kin. Colleen has been informed that Patrick has been admitted to hospital and she is bringing his night things later.’

‘So Patrick has to stay in just for tonight?’ I asked, wanting to know as much as possible so that I could reassure Michael.

‘We’ll know more tomorrow when the test results are back,’ she said a little stiffly, and held the curtain open for Michael and me to leave.

I looked again at Patrick. The jacket to his suit was draped over the back of the chair on which Michael had sat. There was a dusty scuff mark on the jacket sleeve, presumably from where he’d collapsed on the pavement. It seemed ridiculous that I should notice that when Patrick was so ill, but he was always so smartly dressed that the mark seemed to undermine his pride and dignity.

‘Do you want to kiss your dad goodbye before we go?’ I asked Michael, who still had his arms around my waist, holding tight.

I felt his arms loosen and he slowly raised his tear-stained face and nodded. Together we took the few steps to the bed and I stood beside Michael as he bent forward and kissed his dad on the forehead. ‘Get better soon, Dad,’ Michael said quietly. ‘I’ll say my prayers very well tonight, I promise. I’m sorry I didn’t say them properly in church but I’ll make up for it tonight.’ I felt a lump rise in my throat and my eyes mist.

Michael gave his dad another kiss, but Patrick didn’t stir. His eyes remained closed and his mouth stayed slightly open under the transparent oxygen mask. As Michael stepped away from the bed, I went forward. Leaning over, I kissed Patrick’s forehead. His skin felt unnaturally cool and damp. ‘Get better soon,’ I whispered close to his ear. ‘I’ll take good care of Michael, so don’t worry.’ Straightening, I took Michael’s hand and led him away from the bed, past the nurse and out of the cubicle.

I could hardly see for the tears welling in my eyes as I crossed the treatment area with Michael beside me, holding my hand. Michael was quietly sniffing back tears and I saw a nurse we passed glance in our direction. I knew I had to be strong for Michael, but with no idea how ill Patrick was it was difficult to know what to say to reassure him.

‘Daddy’s being well looked after,’ I finally said, giving Michael’s hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘I’ll phone Colleen later and find out more.’

We went down the corridor, through the A & E waiting area and then out of the main doors. We crossed the car park in silence, but before we got in the car Michael paused and looked at me, his face pained. ‘I should have said my prayers better in church,’ he said, his face creasing, as though he was responsible for his father collapsing.

I stopped and, placing my hands on his shoulder, gently turned him towards me. ‘Michael, love, there is no way that not saying your prayers led to this. The God you believe in is good and kind. He wouldn’t punish a young boy by making his father ill because he didn’t say his prayers properly.’

Michael gave a small shrug and climbed into the back of the car. I got into the driver’s seat. I would reinforce what I’d said to Michael later – that there was no link between his lack of devotion in church and his father collapsing – for I knew how guilt could fester in a young mind without the objective reasoning that comes with adulthood. The other thought I had as I started the car and drove slowly across the car park was that none of the staff in the hospital had asked to see my ID. I’d walked in and declared I was Cathy Glass and had been allowed to take away a small child who wasn’t mine without anyone asking me to verify who I was. As a foster carer I’m obliged to carry ID whenever I am working with or responsible for children; the card was in my handbag. And while Michael had recognized me in the cubicle – presumably if he hadn’t the nurse wouldn’t have let him go with me – it would have been reassuring if someone – the receptionist or the nurse – had asked to see my ID when I’d first arrived or before I’d left.

Michael sat quietly in the rear of the car as I pulled out of the car park and joined the main road. I realized he hadn’t any of his belongings with him and while I could have found a change of clothes for him at home I didn’t have his school things for tomorrow. I knew Nora, his neighbour, had a key to Patrick’s house and although his house was a couple of miles in the opposite direction to mine I had plenty of time before Adrian and Paula returned home to go there and pick up what Michael needed. Having met Nora and Jack previously at Patrick’s, I felt reasonably comfortable about arriving unexpectedly and asking for their help.

‘Michael, are you all right, love?’ I asked, glancing at him in the interior mirror. He nodded. ‘Do you know if Nora is likely to be at home? I was thinking of stopping by and getting some of your things for tonight and tomorrow.’

‘She should be. Dad said we were going there for dinner after church.’

‘Oh, I see. I wonder if anyone at the hospital phoned Nora to tell her what happened?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Michael said.

Ten minutes later I pulled up outside Michael’s house, aware that I might have to break the news that Patrick had collapsed to Nora and Jack. It is often said by those who work in fostering that when you foster it isn’t just the child you look after and become involved with but the whole family. This is very true and often, as with Michael, the child’s social network spreads outside the family and includes family friends and neighbours.

Someone in Nora and Jack’s house must have seen us arrive, for as Michael and I got out of the car the front door to the house opened and Jack appeared on the doorstep.

‘Dad’s in hospital, Uncle Jack,’ Michael cried, leaving my side and rushing up their front path. Although Michael wasn’t related to Jack, like many young children, he referred to his father’s friends as Uncle and Aunt.

‘I know, lad,’ Jack said. ‘Your Auntie Colleen phoned a few minutes ago.’ Then looking at me, ‘How’s Pat doing? We’ll go and see him later.’

I had followed Michael up the path and Jack was now ushering me inside. ‘The nurse didn’t say much,’ I said. ‘Only that they’ve done some tests and would know more when the results come back in the morning. Dad was asleep, wasn’t he?’ I added positively, smiling at Michael.

Nora appeared in the hall, wearing an apron, ‘Hello, lovey,’ she said to Michael, spreading her arms wide for a hug. Michael went up and gave her a big hug, as he had done with Jack.

‘I was expecting the two of them for dinner,’ Nora said to me. ‘Then Colleen phoned to say Patrick was in hospital and you were on your way to collect Michael. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea?’

I appreciated Nora’s hospitality and didn’t want to appear rude, but I was mindful of the time. I didn’t know how long it would take to sort out Michael’s belongings and sometimes Adrian and Paula were returned home early.

‘That’s kind of you,’ I said, ‘but I really came to collect some of Michael things and then I need to be getting home.’

‘Of course,’ Nora said, not the least bit offended. ‘Jack, watch the dinner, please, while I take Cathy and Michael next door.’

Jack headed down the hall towards the kitchen while Nora took off her apron and then unhooked a set of keys from the key rack on the wall by the front door. I thanked Nora, and Michael and I followed her out of the door, down her front-garden path and then up the garden path next door to Patrick’s and Michael’s house. Nora unlocked the front door, and then led the way in.

It was strange going into Patrick’s house without him being there. Previously when I’d visited – in the evenings – the house had always felt warm and inviting; now it was unnaturally quiet and there was an emptiness, a hollowness, as though the house had been abandoned. The Sunday newspaper lay folded on the hall table as if Patrick was about to return and pick it up. Patrick and Michael’s slippers, which they always wore in the house, were paired in the hall, and Michael automatically kicked off his shoes and pushed his feet into his slippers before going upstairs.

‘I know what I need to pack,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘We’ll be up in a minute to help,’ Nora called after him. ‘I’ll find you a case for your things.’