The Night the Angels Came (7 page)

As I walked and felt the warm sun on my face and smelt the fresh spring air, I could still hear Patrick’s voice – snippets from our conversation. His gentle Irish accent caressed the words and sentences as he spoke, producing a gentle sing-song lilt. I couldn’t imagine him ever shouting or saying harsh things. His was the voice of calm and caring, of someone who empathized and appreciated another person’s point of view. It was also the voice of someone who’d experienced sorrow and had suffered. Yet he’d sounded so well and full of life on the phone it was impossible to believe his future would be any different. I heard again his disappointment when I’d had to bring our conversation to an end. Then I heard Jill’s words of warning: ‘Patrick is likely to be very needy … I wouldn’t want you getting hurt.’ But I wasn’t daft and there was no harm in Patrick and me taking pleasure from each other’s company, was there?

F
riday continued pretty much as planned. I collected Paula from nursery (I wasn’t late), and then two hours later I collected Michael and Adrian from their schools. Both boys were pleased it was Friday and the start of the weekend. I told Michael his father had phoned and would be phoning again in the evening to speak to him. I said how much better he’d sounded, although I didn’t say he was hoping to leave hospital before Monday, as I didn’t want to build up Michael’s hopes if there was a chance he could be disappointed. When we arrived home I showed Michael the swimming shorts I’d bought and he didn’t laugh or cringe, so I assumed I’d made a reasonable choice and he wouldn’t feel embarrassed wearing them. I knew from Adrian how fashion conscious boys can be, even at the age of eight.

Patrick phoned at 5.00 p.m. and chatted to Michael for over half an hour while I made dinner. When Michael finally said goodbye he was a different child to the one who’d spoken on the phone to his father the evening before, when he’d come away depressed, weighed down and anxious he might never seen his father again. Now he was smiling and relaxed, as a child should be, and scampered off to continue playing with Adrian and Paula.

The three children played together before and after dinner, and then when I took Paula upstairs to bed, the boys continued playing downstairs with a construction kit and board games. As there was no need to be up early for school the following day, I let the boys stay up well past their bedtime. Clearly Adrian was enjoying Michael’s company as much as Michael was enjoying his, for while Adrian was very good with Paula and often played with her, it was nice for him to have the companionship of a boy his age with similar interests. It was nearly 10.00 before I finally said it was time for bed and sent them upstairs with the caution that they should be quiet, as Paula was fast asleep. Once they were washed and changed I went up to say goodnight, first to Adrian and then to Michael. Tonight Michael’s prayers were different from those of the night before when he’d been so very worried. Now, he knelt beside his bed and, crossing himself, said simply: ‘Thank you, Lord, for making my daddy better and letting me have fun.’

The following morning we weren’t all up and dressed until nearly 11.00. We had a light breakfast and then I drove to the leisure centre for swimming. It was the same pool Michael used to go to regularly when his father had been well enough to take him and the lady on reception recognized Michael and asked how his father was. ‘Fine,’ Michael said, eager to get into the pool. Then remembering his manners added, ‘Thank you for asking. I’ll tell Dad.’

Once changed we walked through the footbath and then into the pool. Paula and I stayed in the shallow end and swam widths while Adrian and Michael went deeper and practised diving off the edge. They were both reasonably good swimmers but nevertheless I watched them carefully, for I know that when boys get together bravado can sometimes result in safety and wisdom being left behind. Paula could swim but only recently without armbands, so she felt happier staying in the shallow end, where she could put her feet down and touch the bottom if necessary.

We stayed in the water for an hour and a half and then Paula gave a little shiver. ‘Are you getting cold?’ I asked. She nodded and her teeth began to chatter. I helped her climb out, wrapped her in her towel, and then we walked along the side of the pool until we were parallel with the boys in the water. I’m sure they could have stayed in the pool all day but when I called them over they came. I suggested we had lunch in the cafeteria and they admitted they were hungry and scrambled out.

It was about 3.00 p.m. when we arrived home and as it was still a fine day we went into the garden. The boys kicked a ball around while Paula helped me do some gardening. We swept up the fallen leaves from winter, pulled up some weeds, and then I cut the daffodils and tulips, which had finished blooming and were now being replaced by carnations and other late April flowers. The earth smelt fresh and clean. The grass was overdue for its first cut of the year and when Paula joined the boys, who were now playing in the sandpit, I decided to cut it.

Hauling the lawnmower from the shed, I found the oil can and began oiling the moving parts, as I’d seen John do. I then unwound the extension lead, plugged in the external circuit breaker and, warning the children not to come close, began cutting the lawn. Mowing the grass had always been one of John’s jobs (he’d said he liked doing it), but as with the other jobs that had been ‘his’, since he’d left it had become my job. And while I continually surprised myself at just what I could do – including unblocking sinks and drains, minor electrical repairs and, most commonly, repairing broken toys, my self-sufficiency was a double-edged sword. For while I took pride in my achievements, I no longer had anyone with whom to share responsibility or just chat and discuss problems, which I greatly missed, as I’m sure most single parents do.

When I’d finished cutting the grass and Michael saw me cleaning and collapsing the lawnmower, he said admiringly, ‘You’re like my dad: he can do everything too.’

I smiled and said quietly, ‘It’s a case of having to, love.’

Patrick phoned at about 6.00 and Michael chatted happily, telling him all the things he’d done that day. When he’d finished talking to his father he called me to the phone. ‘Dad says can he talk to you if you’re not busy?’

‘Which I’m sure you are,’ Patrick said as I picked up the phone.

I laughed. ‘No, not too busy, more exhausted. We’ve had a fun but tiring day.’

‘Yes, Michael was telling me. Thank you very much. He sounds so happy.’

‘We all enjoyed it,’ I said. ‘Look, Cathy,’ Patrick said, ‘I haven’t said anything to Michael but if my blood test is clear I can come out tomorrow.’

‘Fantastic,’ I said.

‘I don’t want to interfere with your plans but I was thinking of collecting Michael late morning. As soon as I’ve got a time I’ll call you and then come over in a cab. How would that fit in? I don’t want you waiting in if you were going out.’

‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘We’ll be in. I was planning a relaxing day tomorrow and I think Michael has some homework to do. But instead of you taking a cab why don’t I bring Michael home in my car? It’s only a fifteen-minute drive.’

‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ I assured him.

‘Well, if you’re sure that would be a great help. I’ll give you something for petrol.’

‘No, you won’t,’ I said.

‘All right, I’ll buy you flowers instead.’

I laughed. ‘Well, if you insist.’

‘I do. I’ll say goodbye now and let you get on. I’ll phone you in the morning as soon as I’ve got the all-clear.’

‘OK. Take care and see you tomorrow.’

As a foster carer I wouldn’t normally suggest I take a child home unless the social worker had specifically asked me to, but looking after Michael wasn’t a ‘normal’ fostering placement. Michael was in care on a voluntary basis, and with no concerns for his safety there weren’t the same constraints, so there was no reason why I couldn’t help out Patrick by returning Michael home.

After we’d had dinner the four of us watched television together. There was a game show on which Michael liked and watched with his father. When the programme had finished I told Paula to say goodnight and I took her up to bed as Adrian and Michael began a game of Monopoly.

‘Why can’t I play?’ Paula moaned as we went upstairs.

‘It’s well past your bedtime. How about I read you extra stories instead?’ Which seemed to appease Paula. I find parenting is often about compromise.

Paula washed and changed into her nightdress and then I read to her for half an hour. When I returned downstairs the boys, now seasoned property developers, were doing very well in their game of Monopoly. Adrian owned three houses, one on each of three sites, while Michael had concentrated on one site on which he had a hotel. Unfortunately neither of the boys was able to collect the income from their properties, as both were languishing in jail. I sat on the sofa with the newspaper, occasionally glancing up, as the game progressed. Michael came out of jail on the next throw of the dice and Adrian followed two throws later. Adrian then landed on Mayfair but Michael wanted it, as he already owned Park Lane, so he tried to do a deal with Adrian. The air was charged as they bargained, so that I could have believed they were talking about real money rather than paper Monopoly money. It’s always nice to see children enjoying themselves, but Michael’s joy was especially poignant given what was happening in the rest of his life. Michael finally bought Mayfair at an inflated price and the game continued for another two hours, with both boys having to sell property to pay for repairs. Eventually, when it was after 10.00 and there was still no sign of an outright winner, I announced a draw, which allowed both boys to proclaim themselves the winner to whoops of joy.

They were still excited as they ran upstairs to get changed, ready for bed, and I had to remind them to be quiet as Paula was asleep. When I went into Michael’s room to say goodnight he was changed, ready for bed and about to say his prayers before getting in. I waited by the door. He crossed himself, knelt by the bed and put his hands together. ‘Thank you, Lord, for making my daddy better and for all the nice things I’ve done today. I hope you don’t mind me being happy. I still love my daddy but it’s nice to play sometimes.’

I was deeply moved.

The following morning, Sunday, after breakfast I suggested to Michael he did his homework before he started playing. He pulled a face but nevertheless fetched his school bag from where we’d left it in the hall on Friday. He sat at the dining table and got on with it, while Adrian read his school book and I washed Paula’s hair.

When Michael had finished his homework he asked me to check it, which he said his father normally did. He’d had to write a story about a dog’s adventures, based on a Lassie story-book the class had been reading. Michael had written a full page and it was of a good standard; apart from a couple of spelling mistakes the rest was fine. ‘Well done,’ I said. He made the corrections, returned his homework book to his bag, and his bag to the hall, ready for Monday, when he thought I would be taking him to school.

The boys then went into the garden and kicked a football around, while Paula played with the farmyard set and I cleared up in the kitchen, listening out for the phone. Although Patrick had said he didn’t know what time he’d be discharged from hospital he’d seemed to think it would be late morning, so I guessed I’d be taking Michael home before lunch. But as twelve noon came and went and Patrick hadn’t phoned I decided to make some lunch. I was also starting to worry. While logic told me that Patrick’s discharge from hospital had simply been delayed – possibly because of the test results not being back – there was always the nagging doubt that he had had a relapse and was ill again, or worse. So that when the phone finally rang shortly after 1.00 p.m. when we were having lunch I jumped up from the table and ran down the hall to answer it.

‘Hello?’ I gasped, chewing and swallowing.

‘Cathy?’

‘Yes.’ It was Patrick. I breathed a sign of relief. ‘You sound different.’

I swallowed again. ‘Sorry. I was eating.’

‘Oh, I’ve disturbed you.’

‘Don’t worry. How are you?’

‘Good. My blood results have just come back from the lab. They’re fine and the doc says I can go.’

‘Fantastic.’

‘I’m just waiting for some tablets to be made up and then I’ll be on my way.’

‘How are you getting home?’ I asked, for I now realized that while I’d offered to take Michael home, I hadn’t offered to collect Patrick from hospital.

‘My friends Eamon and Colleen are collecting me. I’m going to phone them now.’

‘Good. What time shall I bring Michael home?’

‘I’m not sure how long my meds will be. Shall we say three o’clock, to be on the safe side?’

‘Yes, that’s fine with me.’

Patrick paused thoughtfully before he said, ‘Cathy, do you have my address?’

I laughed. ‘No. Good thinking.’ Because Michael had come to me on Friday as an emergency I hadn’t been given the placement forms I would normally have by the social services, which, with other details, contained the child’s home address. Although Patrick and I had swapped telephone numbers at our first meeting, and I knew the road where he lived from talking to him, I didn’t have the house number.

‘Forty-six Queen’s Road,’ he said, also laughing.

I jotted ‘46’ on the notepad by the phone. ‘See you at three, then.’

‘Thanks, Cathy.’

I do so like being the messenger of good news and as I returned to the dining table to finish my lunch I had a huge grin on my face. The children looked at me expectantly, wondering why I’d fled from the table and then returned grinning inanely.

‘Good news,’ I announced unnecessarily. I looked at Michael. ‘That was your dad on the phone. The doctor has said he is well enough to leave. I am taking you home this afternoon.’

Michael stopped eating and looked at me, his expression pleased but not as happy as I would have anticipated. ‘So I can’t stay and play this afternoon?’ he asked after a moment.

‘Until two forty-five, yes, and then we need to go.’

‘You can come and play again another time,’ Adrian said, seeing Michael’s disappointment.

Michael nodded but was quiet. He put down his sandwich and stopped eating. I could see the conflict of emotions he was experiencing. Of course he wanted to be home with his father – they had a strong bond, and loved each other dearly – but at the same time being with us over the weekend had allowed Michael to let go of his worries and responsibilities and just play as a child should. Despite Patrick’s sensitivity and wish to protect Michael as much as he could, life at home would doubtless be very different from the weekend Michael had spent with us. Yet while I was aware how confusing these conflicting emotions must be for Michael, just as I think Adrian was, there was little I could say to help beyond, ‘Finish your lunch, good boy, and then you’ll have time to play before we go.’