A Baby’s Cry Read online

  ‘OK,’ Adrian said quickly, clearly feeling this was obvious, while Paula said: ‘Ellen in my class has a baby sister and her mother told her babies don’t bounce. That seems a silly thing to say because of course babies don’t bounce. They’re not balls.’

  ‘It’s a saying,’ I said. ‘To try and explain that babies are fragile and need to be treated very gently.’

  ‘I’ll tell Ellen,’ Paula said. ‘She didn’t understand either.’

  ‘Well, she’s daft,’ Adrian said, unable to resist a dig at his sister.

  ‘No she’s not,’ Paula retaliated. ‘She’s my friend. You’re daft.’ Whereupon Adrian stuck out his tongue at Paula.

  ‘Enough,’ I said. ‘Are you helping me or not?’ I’d found since Paula had started school that the gap between their ages seemed to have narrowed and sometimes Adrian delighted in winding up his sister – just as many siblings do.

  ‘Helping,’ they chorused.

  ‘Good.’

  With the cot made up and in place a little way from my bed we returned to the spare bedroom, where I left Adrian and Paula, now friends again, to finish unpacking the bags and packages while I took the three-in-one pram downstairs, a section at a time. It was a pram, pushchair and car seat all in one. I set up the pram in the hall and another wave of nostalgia washed over me as I remembered how proud I’d felt pushing Adrian and Paula in the pram to the local shops and park. The pram base unclipped to allow the pushchair, which was also the car seat, to be fitted, and I guessed I’d be using the car seat first when I collected Harrison from the hospital. I returned upstairs, where Adrian and Paula had finished unpacking all the items.

  ‘Well done,’ I said. ‘That’s a big help.’

  They watched as I stood the baby bath to one side – I’d take it into the bathroom when needed – and then I set the changing mat on the bed and arranged disposable nappies, lotions, creams and nappy bags on the bedside cabinet. Now I was organized I was starting to feel more confident that I would remember what to do. As Jill had said: you simply feed one end and change the other – repeatedly, as I remembered.

  Once we’d finished unpacking, the children played outside while I cleared up the discarded packaging and then, downstairs, distributed it between the various recycling boxes and the dustbin. I hadn’t heard from Jill since her phone call earlier and I wasn’t really expecting to until the following day, when she’d said she’d phone once she’d spoken to Cheryl, the social worker, with the arrangements for collecting Harrison and I hoped some more background information. Apart from knowing Harrison’s first name, that I was to collect him tomorrow afternoon and that his mother wasn’t drink or drug dependent, I knew nothing at all about Harrison. Although it wasn’t unusual for there to be a lack of information if a foster child arrived as an emergency, this placement wasn’t an emergency. Jill had said that the social services had known about the mother for months, so I really couldn’t understand why arrangements had been left until the last minute and no information was available. Usually when a placement is planned (as this one should have been) before the child arrives I receive essential information on the child, which includes relevant medical and social history; the background to the case; and the child’s routine – although, as Harrison was a newborn baby it would be largely up to me to establish his routine. I assumed Jill would bring the necessary forms with her when she visited the following day.

  That night Paula was very excited at the prospect of Harrison’s arrival, and after I’d read her a bedtime story she told me all the things she was going to do for him: help feed him; change and wind him; play with him; push the pram when we took him to the park to feed the ducks and so on. Clearly Harrison was going to be very well looked after and also very busy; I knew I would be busy too – especially with contact. When a young baby is brought into foster care there is usually a high level of contact initially, when the parents see their baby with a supervisor present, usually for a couple of hours each day, six or even seven days a week. This is to allow the parents to bond with their baby and vice versa, and also so that a parenting assessment can be completed as part of the legal process that will be running in the background. But a high level of contact has its down side, for if the court decides not to return the baby to live with its parents and instead places the child for adoption, then clearly the bond that has been created between the parents and the baby has to be (painfully) broken. However, the alternative – if there is no contact – is that a baby could be returned to parents without an attachment, which can have a huge negative impact on their future together and particularly for the child. I was, therefore, anticipating taking Harrison to and from supervised contact at the family centre every day.

  So that when Jill phoned the following morning and said there wouldn’t be any contact at all I was shocked and confused.

  Chapter Three

  Alone in the World

  ‘What, none?’ I asked in amazement. ‘No contact at all?’

  ‘No,’ Jill confirmed, but she didn’t give a reason.

  ‘What about Harrison’s father? Grandparents? Aunts? Uncles? There must be someone who wants to see him, surely?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ Jill said; then, after a pause: ‘Look, Cathy, I’ve just spoken to Cheryl and she’s given me a little background information but it is highly confidential, and of a very delicate nature. I think it would be better if I saw you in person to tell you what I know.’

  ‘All right,’ I agreed reluctantly, for I was now intrigued and would have preferred to know straightaway.

  ‘But I’m afraid it won’t be today,’ Jill continued. ‘An emergency has arisen with a new carer – their child’s gone missing – and I need to talk to the police. Can I come tomorrow morning, say ten-thirty?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be here.’

  ‘Good. Now to the arrangements for this afternoon. Cheryl has asked that you collect Harrison at one o’clock from the maternity ward at the City Hospital. The nurses will be expecting you, so go straight up to the ward. And don’t forget your ID; they’ll ask for it.’ Jill was referring to my fostering ID card, which carers are expected to carry with them when on fostering business.

  ‘I’ll remember,’ I confirmed.

  ‘If you need me, phone my mobile – I’ll leave it on silent – but I’m not expecting a problem.’

  ‘Will I be meeting Harrison’s mother at the hospital?’ I asked. This was now starting to worry me.

  ‘I think you might,’ Jill said. ‘She will be discharged at the same time as her baby. But Cheryl has assured me that Harrison’s mother is very pleasant and won’t give you any trouble. And it will be reassuring for her to meet you – to see who is looking after Harrison.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ I said, confused, for this didn’t sound like an abusive or negligent mother. ‘And Harrison’s mother doesn’t want any contact with her baby after today?’ I queried again.

  ‘No. I’ll explain tomorrow. Oh, yes, and Cathy, Harrison has dual heritage. Mum is British Asian, I’m not sure about Dad, but there are no cultural or religious needs, so just look after Harrison as you would any baby.’

  ‘Yes, Jill. All right.’

  It was now 10.30 a.m. and my nervous anticipation was starting to build. I would leave the house in two hours – at 12.30 p.m. – to arrive at the hospital for 1.00. I went upstairs to the spare bedroom and double-checked I had everything I needed. I decided to make up a bag of essential items to take with me to the hospital. Although the hospital was only a twenty-minute drive away I wouldn’t know when Harrison had last been fed or changed, so it made sense to be prepared. Taking a couple of nappies, nappy bags and a packet of baby wipes I went downstairs and found a small holdall in the cupboard under the stairs. Tucking these items into the holdall I went through to the kitchen and took a carton of ready-made formula from the cupboard – I’d bought a few cartons for emergency use, as they could be used at room temperature anywhere. The powder formula was in the cu
pboard and the bottles I’d sterilized that morning were in the sterilizing unit, ready. I remembered I’d fed Adrian and Paula more or less ‘on demand’ rather than following a strict feeding routine, and I anticipated doing the same with Harry, although of course it would be formula not breast milk.

  I placed the carton of milk and a sterilized bottle into a clean plastic bag and put them in the holdall. I then went into the hall and placed the holdall on top of the carry car seat, which I’d previously detached from the pram. I’d no idea what Harry had in the way of clothes; I assumed not much. Children coming into care usually come from impoverished backgrounds, so when I’d been shopping the day before I’d bought some first-size sleepsuits and also a pram blanket. Although it was summer and Harry would be nestled in the ‘cosy’ in the car seat, he would be leaving a very warm hospital ward, so I put the blanket in the holdall.

  Having checked that I had everything I needed for Harry’s journey home, I busied myself with housework, while keeping a watchful eye on the time. My thoughts repeatedly flashed to Harrison and his mother, and I wondered what she was doing now. Feeding or changing Harrison? Sitting by his crib gazing at her baby as he slept, as I had done with Adrian and Paula? Or perhaps she was holding Harrison and making the most of their time together before she had to say goodbye? What she could be thinking as she prepared to part from her baby I couldn’t begin to imagine.

  Shortly after twelve noon I brought in the washing from the line, put out our cat, Toscha, for a run and locked the back door. With my pulse quickening from anticipation and anxiety I went down the hall, picked up my handbag, the holdall and the baby seat, and went out the front door. Having placed the bags and car seat in the rear of the car, I climbed into the car and started the engine. I pulled off the drive, steeling myself for what I was about to do.

  In the ten years I’d been fostering I’d met many parents of children in care but never a mother whose baby I was about to take away. Usually an optimist and able to find something positive in any situation I was now struggling as I visualized going on to the hospital ward. What was I going to say to the mother, whose name I didn’t even know? The congratulations we normally give to new parents – What a beautiful baby, you must be very proud – certainly wouldn’t be appropriate. Nor could I rely on the reassurance I usually offer the distraught parents of children who’ve just been taken into care – that they will see their children again soon at contact – for there was no contact and Harrison’s mother wouldn’t be seeing her son again soon. And supposing Harrison’s father was there? Jill hadn’t mentioned that possibility and I hadn’t thought to ask her. Supposing Harrison’s father was there and was upset and angry? I hoped there wouldn’t be an ugly scene. There were so many unknowns in this case it was very worrying, and without doubt taking baby Harrison from his parents was the most upsetting thing I’d ever been asked to do.

  It was 12.50 as I parked in the hospital car park, and then fed the meter. I placed the ticket on my dashboard and leaving the holdall on the back seat I took out my handbag and the carry car seat and crossed the car park. It was a lovely summer’s day in early July, a day that would normally lighten my spirits whatever mood I was in, but not now. As I entered the main doors of the hospital I felt my stomach churn. I just wanted to get this awful deed over and done with and go home and look after Harrison.

  Inside the hospital I followed the signs to the maternity ward – up a flight of stairs and along a corridor, where I turned right. I now stood outside the security-locked doors to the ward. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves I delved in my handbag for my ID card and then pressed the security buzzer. My heart was beating fast and I felt hot as my fingers clenched around the handle of the baby seat I was carrying.

  Presently a voice came through the intercom grid: ‘Maternity.’

  ‘Hello,’ I said, speaking into the grid. ‘It’s Cathy Glass. I’m a foster carer. I’ve come to collect Harrison.’

  It went quiet for a moment and I thought she’d gone away. Then as I was about to press the button again her voice said: ‘Come through,’ and the door clicked open.

  I went in and then down a short corridor, which opened on to the ward. It was a long traditional-style ward with a row of beds either side, each one separated by a curtain and bedside cabinet. Beside each bed was a hospital crib with a baby. I glanced anxiously around and then a nurse came over.

  ‘Mrs Glass?’

  ‘Yes.’ I showed her my ID card.

  She nodded. ‘You’ve come for Harrison.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This way.’

  My mouth went dry as I followed the nurse down the centre of the ward. Other mothers were resting on their beds or standing by the cribs tending to their babies; some glanced up as we passed. The ward was very warm and surprisingly quiet, with only one baby crying. There was a joyous atmosphere, with baby congratulation cards strung over bed heads, although I imagined this was in contrast to how Harrison’s mother must be feeling.

  ‘He’s over here, so we can keep an eye on him,’ the nurse said, leading me to the last bed on the right, which was closest to the nurses’ station.

  The curtain was pulled back and my eyes went first to the crib containing Harrison and then to the empty bed beside it. ‘Is Harrison’s mother here?’ I asked.

  ‘No. She left half an hour ago, as soon as she was discharged.’

  A mixture of relief and disappointment flooded through me. Relief that what could have been a very awkward and upsetting meeting had been avoided, but disappointment that I hadn’t had the opportunity to reassure her I would take good care of her baby. And I guess I’d been curious too, for I knew so little about Harrison’s mother or background.

  ‘He’s a lovely little chap,’ the nurse said, standing by the crib and gazing down at him. ‘Feeding and sleeping just as a baby should.’

  My heart melted as I joined the nurse beside the crib and looked down at Harrison. He was swaddled in a white blanket with just his little face visible from beneath a small white hat. His tiny features were perfect and his light brown skin was flawless. His eyes were closed but one little fist was pressed to his chin as though he was deep in thought.

  ‘He’s a beautiful baby,’ I said. ‘Absolutely beautiful. He looks very healthy. How much does he weigh?’

  ‘He was seven pounds two ounces at birth,’ the nurse said. ‘That’s three thousand two hundred and thirty-one grams. The social worker phoned and said to tell you she will bring the paperwork when she visits you later in the week.’ I nodded and gazed down again at Harrison as the nurse continued: ‘And the health visitor will see you in the next few days and bring Harrison’s red book.’ (The red book is a record of the baby’s health and development and is known as the red book simply because the book is bound in red.)

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes, and Mum has left some things for Harrison,’ the nurse said, pointing to a grey trolley case standing on the floor by the bed. ‘Rihanna wasn’t sure what you would need.’

  ‘Rihanna is Harrison’s mother’s name?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, she’s a lovely lady. Why isn’t she keeping her baby?’ The nurse looked at me as though she thought I would know, while I was surprised she didn’t know.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘I haven’t any details. I don’t even know Harrison’s surname.’

  ‘It’s Smith,’ the nurse said. ‘Which I understand is his father’s surname.’

  ‘Was the father here?’

  ‘Oh no,’ the nurse said, again surprised I didn’t know. ‘Rihanna wouldn’t allow any visitors.’

  I looked at her, even more puzzled and intrigued, as a woman in a bed behind us called ‘Nurse!’ The nurse turned and said, ‘I’ll be with you in a minute, Mrs Wilson.’ Then to me: ‘Well, good luck. Do you need any help getting to the car?’

  ‘No. I’ll be fine.’

  The nurse watched me as I set the carry car seat and my handbag on the floor an
d turned to the crib. ‘When was he last fed?’ I asked as I leant forward, ready to pick up Harrison.

  ‘Rihanna fed and changed him before she left, so he’ll be fine for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. I gently tucked my hands under Harrison’s tiny form and picked him up. ‘Is this blanket his?’ I asked, for it was similar to those the other babies had on their cots.

  ‘Yes. Mum brought it in, and the clothes he’s wearing.’ I saw Harrison was dressed in a light blue sleepsuit similar to the ones I’d bought from Mothercare.

  I lowered Harrison carefully into the carry car seat as the nurse left to attend to the other mother. His little face puckered at being moved but he didn’t wake or cry. He was so cute, my heart melted. I gently fastened the safety harness and then tucked the blanket loosely over him. His little fist came up to his chin but he obligingly stayed asleep.

  Straightening, I looped my handbag over my shoulder, took the handle of the trolley case in one hand and the carry car seat in the other, and began slowly down the ward towards the exit. A few mothers looked up as I passed; it must have seemed strange for them to see me arrive alone and then leave with a baby. I wondered if Rihanna had spoken to any of the other mothers on the ward; I’d made lasting friendships when I’d been in hospital having Adrian and Paula, but somehow I didn’t think that would be so for Rihanna. The nurse had said Rihanna had refused to allow visitors, and the secrecy surrounding her and Harrison led me to believe that for whatever reason Rihanna was very alone in the world, as indeed was her son.

  I left the building and carefully made my way across the hospital car park, all the while glancing at Harrison, whose little eyes were screwed shut against the light.

  ‘We’ll be home soon,’ I whispered as we arrived at the car.