The Night the Angels Came (27 page)

‘I’m sure he will,’ I said.

I sat on the bed while Michael showed me more of his toys, games and puzzles, obviously already feeling very comfortable in his new home. I admired everything he showed me and stayed positive, but I was acutely aware that the reason Michael was in this splendid room was that he’d lost his own home and father, as I’m sure Michael was aware. Clearly he would have swapped it all in a flash if he could have reversed the situation and had his dad back.

After a while Eamon came up to find us. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, ‘but my brother has to go now. Could Michael come down and say goodbye?’

‘Of course,’ I said, standing. ‘I really think I should be off now too.’

‘Can’t you stay a while longer?’ Eamon asked. ‘Colleen would like to introduce you to some of her family.’

I followed Eamon and Michael downstairs, where Colleen intercepted us, so that as Eamon took Michael to say goodbye to his brother and family, I went with Colleen into the sitting room and the garden to be introduced to her family. Unlike Patrick, Colleen and Eamon came from large families with lots of nieces and nephews, which would be nice for Michael. It become apparent I was well known, for every time Colleen introduced me to one of her family the response was similar: ‘Good to meet you at last, Cathy. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re the foster carer who looked after Michael, aren’t you?’ And they began asking me about fostering.

Presently Eamon appeared with a plate of food for me and my glass of wine, which he’d retrieved from the front room. I thanked him and suddenly realized I was hungry; it was a long time since breakfast. For the next hour or so I mingled with the guests – friends of Patrick’s and close friends and relatives of Colleen and Eamon, all of whom were lovely warm people and had known Patrick. Colleen assured me that Michael was fine and was playing Scalextric in his room with the neighbour’s children, who had just come in. Although it may seem a strange thing to say I felt it had actually turned into a pleasant afternoon. Everyone I met was very, very friendly and we were all there for the same reason – out of love and respect for Patrick.

Eventually three o’clock approached and, while I knew Mum and Dad would collect Adrian from school, I felt it was time to go. I said goodbye to the couple I was talking to and then, leaving my plate and glass in the kitchen, I found Colleen in the garden. I told her I really needed to be going now and she understood.

‘I’ll fetch Michael to say goodbye,’ she said, and we went into the house. I waited in the hall while Colleen went up the first flight of stairs and called Michael. He appeared with Eamon beside him and we made our way to the front door.

‘Thanks again for everything,’ Eamon said, shaking my hand warmly. ‘We won’t say goodbye as we’ll be seeing each other regularly, I hope.’

‘Yes, most definitely,’ I said.

Colleen also thanked me and then kissed my cheek. I hugged and kissed Michael. ‘See you soon,’ I said.

Eamon opened the front door and the three of them came down the front-garden path with me and on to the pavement. ‘See you soon,’ they chorused, as I began walking down the street. I waved, and then before I turned the corner to the road where my car was parked, I looked back. The sun had at last broken through and was shining down on them. Michael stood between Colleen and Eamon and was waving madly. I gave a final wave and then turned the corner; it was time to leave Michael safely with his family and return to mine.

W
e saw Michael regularly – every couple of weeks for the first year, and then as time passed and the boys went to secondary school and then to college less frequently, but we still kept in touch. When the boys were younger Michael slept over at our house sometimes and Adrian slept at Michael’s house. Paula was always pleased to see Michael when he stayed and the boys included her in their games. Sometimes we all went on family outings together: Colleen, Eamon, Michael, Adrian, Paula, me and the child(ren) we were fostering at the time.

Approximately three months after Patrick died I was opening the morning’s mail when a cheque fell out of the envelope I’d just opened. I picked it up and saw it was for £200, made payable to me and drawn on the account of E. Doyle. Puzzled, I read the handwritten note, which I saw was from Colleen:

Needless to say, I was so touched I was in tears by the end of the letter. ‘Thank you, Pat,’ I said out loud. ‘How very kind and thoughtful of you! But then of course you always were.’

When I collected the children from school that afternoon (Paula had left nursery and was now at Adrian’s school) I explained about Patrick’s bequest. They were as touched as I was, and also very excited when, the following Saturday, we went shopping and brought the Scalextric. As Patrick anticipated, it has given my family (and me) many years of enjoyment – we still play with it now sometimes all these years later.

Then one cold evening in late January the following year I was in the sitting room, feeling pretty low. Adrian and Paula were ill in bed with flu, and the child I was fostering was also in bed but had been very naughty during the day and I’d continually had to tell him off. To make matters worse I was trying to make sense of the wad of papers that had arrived that morning from my solicitor in respect of my divorce. There were forms that had to be filled in; a lengthy letter from my solicitor with lots of legal terms; his interim bill, which was a shock; and an affidavit outlining the grounds for my divorce. It was all getting on top of me. Then my phoned bleeped with a text from a friend asking if I’d like to meet up for coffee. I replied:
Yes please!
and pressed send. As I did, a message popped up saying my inbox had 198 read texts and was nearly full. I decided to clear it out in preference to doing the legal paperwork. I began running down the texts quickly, deleting them one at a time, until I got to Patrick’s, when I opened and read each one.

It was strange and very moving seeing his texts, almost as if they’d just been sent, although most were trivial and run-of-the-mill:
C u l8 x
or
Have u had a good day?
or
How are u?
etc. Then I came to the message Pat had sent after he’d made the decision not to see my children again and I’d been forced to acknowledge just how ill he really was; when I’d sat alone in my car crying and the text had come through. It read:
Stars are openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones shines through. Look to the stars Cathy and don’t be sad
. I read it now as I read it then and felt my spirits lift. It was as though I was receiving the message afresh and with it Pat’s philosophy to make the very best of life.

Dumping the legal correspondence from the solicitor to one side, I stood and crossed to the French windows and looked out at the night sky. It was a cold clear night and the stars and moon shone brightly against the inky-black sky. I thought of Michael and all the times we’d stood side by side at what had been his bedroom window and gazed up at the heavens. I remembered the comfort and strength he had drawn from seeing the stars: the little boy who’d firmly believed his daddy was going to join his mummy in heaven. I thought of Michael’s strength and courage, and all my previous worries evaporated as I heard Patrick’s mellow voice with its soft Irish accent saying: ‘Look to the stars, Cathy, and don’t be sad.’

I still have that text. When I bought a new phone I transferred it to the new SIM. If I’m feeling low or need to put things in a better perspective, I go to the window and look at the night sky. The glittering stars are so beautiful that I can believe they are indeed the love of our lost ones shining through. And of course the brightest star of all is without doubt Patrick’s love for Michael and possibly a little for me too.

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

M
any thanks to my editor, Anne; my agent, Andrew Lownie; and Carole and all the team at HarperCollins.

Certain details, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

First published by HarperElement 2011

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© Cathy Glass 2011

Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-0-00-744262-1

EPub Edition © JULY 2011 ISBN: 9780007445691

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

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