I looked at Lucy and for the first time since she’d arrived I caught a glimpse of the anger she must have been feeling about everything she’d been through, and then it was replaced with sadness.
‘No, it certainly wasn’t nice,’ I said. ‘Adults should never hit a child, not even if they are naughty, which I can’t imagine you were.’ As well as being concerned by what Lucy had just told me about her father, I was also puzzled, as it didn’t tie up with what I’d read in the referral. ‘Lucy,’ I said, ‘I might be wrong, but I didn’t think you ever saw your father?’
She gave a small shrug and looked away. ‘The social worker told me he was my stepfather, but I always had to call him Dad.’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘His name was Dave?’
‘Yes. I lived with him for a long time.’
‘You did,’ I said, recalling this from the referral. ‘Did you ever tell anyone Dave was hitting you?’
‘I told Mum,’ Lucy said in a small, tight voice. ‘But she didn’t believe me. He never hit me when she was there.’
‘He doesn’t sound like a nice person,’ I said. ‘Not like a father should be.’ This may sound obvious, but it wasn’t necessarily to Lucy, whose only experience of a father, as far as I knew, had been Dave.
‘He was all I had,’ Lucy said softly. ‘He was the only one around when my mum wasn’t there and my aunts left. So I tried not to upset him.’
‘Your aunts?’ I asked, again puzzled.
‘Dad’s girlfriends,’ Lucy clarified. ‘I had to call them Aunt. Dave said it was polite, because they looked after me sometimes.’
Not very polite of him to be hitting a young child, I thought.
‘So where was your mother when these aunts were living with you and Dave?’ I asked, trying to fill in some of the blanks and get a better understanding of Lucy’s past.
‘Mum used to go out and not come back for a long time. She wasn’t there much. I don’t see her often now.’ I knew this from the referral, but hearing it on a child’s lips made it all the more immediate and upsetting.
‘Did you tell the social worker about Dave, and the aunts, and your mum not being there?’ I now asked, wondering why Lucy hadn’t been brought into long-term care sooner.
Lucy paused and I saw some of the anger flash across her eyes again, before it was replaced by hurt. ‘It wouldn’t have done any good,’ she said despondently. ‘He was nice when anyone came.’ Then she quickly changed the subject and said: ‘Is it all right if I go to my room until Paula’s finished on the phone?’
‘Yes, of course, love. You don’t have to ask. This is your home. Do as you wish.’
Leaving the table, Lucy went upstairs. I felt so sorry for her. What an appalling, disruptive past she’d had, with her mother in and out of her life, Lucy in and out of care and a string of unrelated strangers looking after her. How much of what Lucy had told me was known to the social services I couldn’t gauge from the referral, but with Lucy upstairs and Adrian and Paula still in the living room talking to their father, I took the opportunity to add what Lucy had said to my log notes. I’d already begun Lucy’s folder with the referral and now I added what Lucy had told me about her stepfather. Sadly, from my past fostering experience, I knew that more disclosures were likely to follow and that they could get worse. Only when a child feels settled and secure do they find the courage to reveal what has happened to them, and often it’s shocking.
On Sunday afternoon we went for a short walk to our local park, taking some bread to feed the ducks. We weren’t out for long as it began to rain, which quickly turned the snow to slush. I was pleased the children had made the most of playing in the snow earlier, for if the rain continued the snow would be gone by morning. I now knew from Lucy that her school opened at 8.00 a.m., so on the way home from the park I told the girls that the following morning I planned to take Lucy to school first and then take Paula afterwards. Lucy said there was no need for me to take her as she could go on the bus, but I said she could go by bus the following week, once she was more familiar with the area and I’d shown her the route, and as long as her social worker agreed. For this week, I’d feel happier if I took and collected her in the car. I explained that it would also give me the opportunity to introduce myself at her school’s office, check that they had my contact details and hopefully make an appointment to see her teacher.
‘Why do you want to see my teacher?’ Lucy asked, a little suspiciously, as she squished through the puddles of melting snow.
‘To say hello and ask how I can help you with your school work. Is that OK?’
‘Sure,’ she said easily. ‘It’s just that no one ever did that before.’
Well, they should have done, I thought.
I made roast chicken for dinner that evening, with roast potatoes, peas and carrots, having checked with Lucy first that she liked these foods. However, I was quickly realizing that Lucy liking a food didn’t mean she would eat it. At dinner she managed a few carefully chewed mouthfuls of chicken, one roast potato and a spoonful of peas; not enough to feed a gnat, as my mother would have said. I saw Paula and Adrian glance at Lucy’s plate as she set down her cutlery, having left more than she’d eaten, but they didn’t say anything and neither did I. Once the rest of us had finished, I simply asked Lucy if she’d had enough and when she nodded I took her plate away, hoping that when she felt more settled her appetite would grow. Toscha ate the chicken. Lucy didn’t want any pudding, but did have a few grapes.
That evening I made sure all three school uniforms were laid out ready for the following morning, and then began the bath and bedtime routine. When it was Lucy’s turn to go up, she said she didn’t need a bath as she’d had one the night before. I said that we usually had a bath or a shower every day, but then she said she was too tired.
‘Even for a quick shower?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said.
So I gave her the benefit of the doubt and didn’t insist. So often in parenting we have to decide which issues to focus on and which we can reasonably let go. While good hygiene is important, as long as Lucy had a bath or shower the following day then little harm would be done. When she’d been with us longer, she’d fall into our routine of bathing or showering each day, just as she would take on other aspects of our family life and routines.
As I went to bed that night I was feeling quite positive. The weekend had gone far better than I’d expected, considering that on Friday evening, only forty-eight hours previously, Lucy had been shut in her bedroom at her previous foster carers’ house, refusing to come out or even talk to anyone. Now, here she was, just two days later, talking and playing and making herself at home. I should have realized, with all my years of fostering, that this was the ‘honeymoon’ period, as we refer to it, and Lucy’s behaviour would deteriorate.
The following morning I arrived at Lucy’s school at 8.25 a.m. and parked in one of the visitor’s bays. I knew I was short of time: Paula’s school started at 8.55 and I had a return journey of twenty minutes. We’d left home later than I’d planned, as Lucy had forgotten one of her school books and we’d had to return to collect it.
‘Reception is over there,’ Lucy said helpfully, as we climbed out of the car and I pressed the key fob.
I hurried across the car park, a child on each side of me. Most of the other children arriving were without parents or carers, coming to school alone or with friends. I wondered if Lucy felt embarrassed having me here. ‘I’ll drop you off at the gates tomorrow,’ I said, reassuring her. ‘I’m just coming in for today.’
She nodded, but didn’t say anything.
Inside the building, I introduced myself to the receptionist while Lucy and Paula sat on the chairs in the waiting area. I find that receptions in large secondary schools can sometimes be impersonal compared to those of smaller primary schools, where friendly office staff know all the children by name and welcome visitors. Having introduced myself, I explained that I was Lucy’s new foster carer and asked the receptionist if my contact details were on file. She checked and found they weren’t, so I gave her my address and telephone number, which she wrote on a piece of paper.
‘Is this Lucy’s permanent address?’ she asked, glancing up.
‘Yes, for the year.’
She made another note, although I couldn’t see what it was.
‘Also,’ I said, ‘I’d like to make an appointment to see Lucy’s teacher, Miss Connor, please.’
‘You’ll need to arrange that with Miss Connor herself,’ she replied – not terribly helpful.
‘How do I do that?’
‘Phone the school at lunchtime; she won’t be teaching then.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, and turned to the girls. They stood ready to leave.
‘Have a good day then, love,’ I said to Lucy, as she swung her school bag over her shoulder.
She gave a small nod. ‘Bye, Paula, see you later.’
‘Bye,’ Paula said, with a little wave.
We watched Lucy go through the swing doors that led into the main body of the school, and then Paula and I left the building and hurried to the car. Fortunately, most of the traffic was going in the opposite direction, so I arrived at Paula’s school just as the bell was going. I gave her a big kiss, said a quick goodbye and drove home. I hadn’t been in long when the phone rang and it was Jill, my support social worker, from the agency I fostered for.
‘Well done,’ she said, as soon as I answered. ‘Pat tells me you performed a miracle and Lucy is with you now.’
‘She is,’ I said, appreciating the praise. ‘I’ve just returned from taking her to school.’
‘Excellent. So how’s she doing? Settling in?’
‘Yes, she’s doing fine.’
‘Has Lucy’s social worker, Stevie, been in touch yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘She’ll be phoning you later to arrange a visit, and I need to see you and Lucy too. Can I come after school tomorrow?’
‘Yes, half past four would be good. Give us a chance to have a drink and a snack first.’ Both the child’s social worker and the carer’s support social worker have to visit as soon as possible after a child has moved in.
‘I’ll see you at half past four then,’ Jill confirmed. ‘Do you have any immediate concerns about Lucy?’
‘Only her eating,’ I said. ‘But I’ll discuss that with you tomorrow.’
‘All right. See you tomorrow. And well done.’
‘Thank you.’
I was smiling as I put down the phone. We all like praise – a verbal pat on the back – and foster carers are no exception. I really appreciated Jill’s words, her recognition that I had done well to persuade Lucy to move in without a big scene, and I continued the day with renewed energy – even while doing the housework.
An hour later the landline rang again.
‘Hello, it’s Lucy’s social worker, Stevie. I need to see Lucy, but my diary’s full until Friday, so I’ll come then at half past three.’
‘Can we make it a bit later?’ I said. ‘We won’t be home from school then. Half past four would be better.’
I thought I heard a small sigh before she said: ‘Very well. See you at half past four.’ And with no goodbye, she hung up.
I excused Stevie’s brusqueness on the grounds that, like most social workers, she undoubtedly carried a huge workload and did a very difficult job.
It was only as twelve noon approached that I realized I hadn’t thought to ask the school’s receptionist what time the school broke for lunch – the time I was supposed to phone Lucy’s teacher – so I took a chance and telephoned at 12.30. I gave my name and said that I would like to speak to Miss Connor.
‘She’s at lunch,’ the receptionist said.
‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘I was asked to telephone at lunchtime to speak to her.’
‘Hold the line and I’ll see if she’s in the staff room.’
The line went quiet and then a series of clicks followed before a male voice said: ‘Hello, staff room.’
‘Is it possible to speak to Miss Connor, please?’ I asked, in my best speaking voice.
‘Should be,’ he said, sounding friendly and jovial. ‘I’ll ask her.’ I heard him call across the staff room: ‘Miss Connor, are you free?’
‘Yes, she is,’ he said. ‘She’s on her way.’
A moment later a young woman’s voice answered. ‘Hello?’
I gave my name again and said that I was Lucy’s new foster carer and that I thought it would be a good idea if we could meet soon.
‘Yes, absolutely, the sooner the better,’ Miss Connor said enthusiastically. ‘I’m pleased you’ve phoned. I knew Lucy was having to move again. I could see you after school this afternoon, if that suits you?’
‘Yes, please. Although I’ll have my younger daughter with me.’
‘No problem. Come to my classroom when you arrive. It’s E1; reception will direct you. I’ll keep Lucy with me at the end of school.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll look forward to meeting you.’
‘And you.’
Miss Connor came across as a very pleasant, well-organized and approachable lady. I was looking forward to meeting her and having the opportunity to discuss Lucy’s progress and what help she might need with her learning.
That afternoon disappeared in a trip to the local shops for groceries, and then it was time to collect Paula. Paula knew she had to come out quickly this week and not lag behind chatting to her friends, as we would be collecting Lucy from school. Adrian had a front-door key and would let himself in as usual.
Paula came out on time and I drove to Lucy’s school. The reception area was busy with other parents and it was a couple of minutes before I was seen. I explained that I had an appointment with Miss Connor and asked for directions to her classroom.
‘E1 is through the swing doors, then turn right, down the corridor, up the staircase on your left, and Miss Connor’s room is on your left,’ the receptionist said.
I thanked her. ‘Did you get all that?’ I joked to Paula, as we went through the swing doors.
Paula grinned and pulled a face. But finding Miss Connor’s classroom wasn’t as complicated as it had sounded, and a couple of minutes later we were at the top of the stairs, standing outside classroom E1. Through the glass in the door I could see Lucy sitting at one of the tables near the front of the room, but there was no sign of her teacher. I knocked on the door and we went in.
Lucy looked up and smiled. ‘That’s my teacher, over there,’ she said, pointing to the young woman working on the wall display at the rear of the classroom.
Miss Connor stopped what she was doing and came over. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she said pleasantly.
‘And you,’ I said, shaking her hand.
‘I thought the girls could wait in here while we have a chat,’ Miss Connor said. ‘We can use the English office next door.’
‘You’ll be all right in here, won’t you?’ I said to Paula. ‘I’ll be in the room next door.’
Paula nodded and, dropping my hand, went over and sat beside Lucy.
‘Come and fetch us if you need us,’ Miss Connor said to the girls, as we left.
‘Yes, Miss,’ Lucy said respectfully.
The door to the next room was labelled English Office, E2. ‘We call it “The Cupboard”,’ Miss Connor said, as she opened the door and we went in. I could see why.
It was a small room that clearly doubled as the English department’s stock cupboard as well as their office, and it was full. A small steel-framed table and three matching chairs stood in the centre of the room and the walls were lined with cupboards and shelves full of sets of English books. There was just enough room to draw out a chair either side of the table.
‘I’m Lucy’s English teacher as well as her form teacher,’ Miss Connor explained as we sat down.
‘Thank you for seeing me so quickly,’ I said. ‘I know Lucy’s behind with her learning and I want to help her all I can.’
‘That’s great. Why did she have to move?’ Miss Connor asked.
It was a question I’d been expecting and I explained that living with Pat and Terry had only been a temporary arrangement.
‘She’s had so many moves,’ Miss Connor said. ‘Will she be staying with you permanently now?’
It was another question I’d been expecting. ‘Lucy will live with me until the final court hearing,’ I said. ‘Then the judge will make a decision on where she should live permanently. The whole process usually takes about a year.’
‘But it’s not likely Lucy will return to live with her mother, is it?’ Miss Connor asked, concerned. ‘I didn’t think she ever saw her mother.’ As her teacher, she would have some knowledge of Lucy’s background from the school’s records.
‘Lucy doesn’t see her mother often,’ I said. ‘And she’d have to complete a successful parenting assessment to convince the authorities that she is capable of looking after Lucy.’
‘And if the judge decides Lucy shouldn’t go to live with her mother, she’ll stay with you?’
For those who don’t know the workings of the social-care system, a child staying with their present foster carer often seems the most obvious solution.
‘If the judge decides Lucy can’t live with her mother, then the social services will try to find a relative to look after her,’ I explained. ‘That’s always considered the next best option. If there is no suitable relative then the social services will find Lucy a long-term foster family to match her cultural needs. As you know, she’s dual heritage – her father is Thai.’
There was a pause when Miss Connor looked concerned. ‘And Lucy knows all this?’
‘Yes. I’ve explained it to her and so has her social worker.’
‘Poor kid. How very unsettling. It makes you grateful for your own family.’
‘It does,’ I said. Then steering Miss Connor back on track, I said, ‘But while Lucy’s with me I want to do my very best for her, and I hope to make a big difference in a year.’
‘Yes, of course. Absolutely. We must do our best for Lucy. I’ll start by telling you where she is with her learning.’