Where Has Mummy Gone? Page 4

  ‘I’ll help Melody at home,’ I said. ‘I have three secondary-school-aged children of my own and they have homework to do most nights.’

  ‘Excellent.’ I guessed Mrs Farnham to be in her late thirties, and her warm, child-friendly manner was combined with a quiet efficiency. Clearly the children in the school were her priority, but I sensed she could be firm when necessary, as any good teacher needs to be. ‘Melody is in Miss Langford’s class,’ she said. ‘She’ll introduce herself to you at the end of school. You’ll be collecting Melody?’

  ‘Yes, and bringing her in.’

  ‘Good. We gave her a school uniform from our quality seconds when she first started.’

  ‘She hasn’t brought it with her, or anything else,’ I said, ‘so I’ll buy her a new school uniform today if possible.’

  ‘Yes, of course. We stock most items here. Aren’t you lucky?’ she said, looking at Melody, who managed a subdued nod. ‘In fact, why don’t I ask our welfare lady, Mrs Holby, to sort out Melody’s uniform now so we can have a chat? Do you remember Mrs Holby?’ she asked Melody. ‘She gave you a uniform when you first arrived.’

  Melody nodded uncertainly.

  ‘I’ll take you to her now and then you can come back here in your new uniform to say goodbye to Cathy.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That is helpful. I’d like her to have a spare set of the uniform and the PE kit. Also, if your school has its own logoed book bag and PE bag, I’d like her to have those and anything else she needs.’

  ‘You’ve done this before,’ Mrs Farnham said with a smile as she stood.

  ‘Quite a few times,’ I admitted.

  Melody looked a bit apprehensive as she left with Mrs Farnham. Unused to school and certainly never having had a complete new school uniform before, I guessed she was a bit overwhelmed, but Mrs Farnham was lovely. I sat back in the chair as the distant sounds of children laughing and shouting in the playground drifted in and occasional footsteps passed outside the door. A few minutes later Mrs Farnham returned. ‘Mrs Holby will bring Melody back here once they’ve finished, then you can settle up the bill at the office on the way out.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So how has Melody been with you?’ she asked, returning to her chair. ‘We hardly know her, we’ve seen so little of her.’

  ‘We had a good first night, although she’s worrying about her mother, but that’s natural. Once she’s seen her tonight at contact I think she will be reassured.’

  ‘I raised concerns about Melody with the social services halfway through last term,’ Mrs Farnham said. ‘On the few occasions she was in school, she arrived late, unwashed and hungry. Miss Langford, her class teacher, went to the address her mother gave us, but a man answered the door and said he’d never heard of her. It was one of those big Victorian houses in Station Road converted into small flats.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. The social worker had a problem getting to see her too.’

  Mrs Farnham nodded. ‘We met Melody’s mother in September when she first brought Melody to school, but that was the only time. Melody appears to have had very little schooling or parenting. Why wasn’t she taken into care sooner?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly, but they moved around a lot, which means they could have evaded the social services.’

  ‘Melody will be staying with you now?’ Mrs Farnham asked.

  ‘Yes, until the final court hearing when the judge will make a decision on where she should live permanently.’

  ‘We’ll obviously do all we can to help her catch up with her schoolwork. We tested her when she first arrived last September and her results showed she was working at reception level, so about four years behind what she should be.’

  ‘Oh dear. That is a long way behind.’

  ‘We’ll test her again, but I doubt she’s improved much because she’s hardly been in school. Have you met her mother?’

  ‘Not yet. I should this evening at contact.’

  ‘She’s got a reputation for being very volatile. Other parents have seen her outside the school causing a scene. On one occasion, when she was rushing Melody to school late, she attacked a driver who didn’t immediately stop to let her cross the road. She swore at him and kicked his car. He called the police, but she’d disappeared by the time they arrived. Another time – I think it was in October – she screamed at a parent because her daughter wouldn’t play with Melody.’

  ‘Does Melody have any friends?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really. She wasn’t in school often enough to make friends. Also, when she did come she was grubby and had head lice, so the other children didn’t want to play with her. Hopefully that will change now. She looks so much cleaner already.’

  ‘I gave her a good bath last night and treated her hair.’

  ‘It shows,’ Mrs Farnham said. ‘There’s a couple of other children in the school I have concerns about who could do with a good wash. And if head lice aren’t treated, they quickly spread through the class.’

  A bell suddenly rang outside, signalling the start of school. At the same time a knock sounded on the door. ‘Come in!’ Mrs Farnham called. Melody came in dressed in a new school uniform, followed by a woman I took to be the welfare assistant, Mrs Holby. ‘Don’t you look smart!’ Mrs Farnham exclaimed. Melody smiled proudly.

  ‘I’ll buy her some school shoes today,’ I said, glancing at the torn plastic trainers, which seemed even more noticeable now.

  ‘She’ll need some plimsolls for PE too,’ Mrs Farnham said. ‘We don’t stock them here.’

  ‘This is Mrs Holby, our lovely welfare assistant,’ she said, introducing her to me. ‘It’s time for lessons, so if you would like to go with her to the office, I’ll take Melody to her class.’

  ‘Thanks again,’ I said, standing. I said goodbye to Melody, told her to have a good day and that I’d meet her in the playground at the end of school. She went with Mrs Farnham while I accompanied Mrs Holby to the office, where I settled the bill for the uniform. She also gave me a school prospectus, which included term dates, and a form for my contact details, which I filled in there. I thanked Mrs Holby again and made my way out of the school. The playground was empty now, with all the children in their classrooms for the start of lessons. Outside the gates a few parents stood chatting in a small group.

  Mrs Farnham had said that Melody’s mother, Amanda, had a reputation for being volatile and aggressive. Aware she would know it was highly likely that I had brought Melody to school, I kept a watchful eye out as I made my way to my car. I’d had impromptu meetings before with the parents of children I’d fostered. Sometimes they were friendly and just wanted a glimpse of – or a few words with – their child, but at other times they’d vented their anger at me for having their child taken into care. I didn’t know what Amanda looked like, but I couldn’t see anyone watching or following me and I made it safely to my car. As it happened, it was later that day that Amanda found the opportunity to turn her anger on me.

  Chapter Five

  Amanda

  I drove straight from Melody’s school into town, where I bought her a set of casual clothes, underwear, tights, socks, pyjamas, some posters for her bedroom and a pair of school shoes. The shoes size was a guesstimate; I knew the size of her trainers and went up one size. I could change them if necessary. If by Saturday none of Melody’s belongings had arrived from home, I’d take her shopping to choose more clothes, including a warm winter coat – she was wearing one from my spares today. It’s preferable for a child in care to have at least some of their clothes from home, as they are comfortingly familiar, but from what her social worker Neave had said it wasn’t likely, so we couldn’t wait for them indefinitely.

  When I arrived home there was a message from Jill on my answerphone asking how Melody had been on her first night. I returned her call and updated her, including that Melody was missing her mother, but had slept well, had eaten a good dinner and breakfast and was now in school. Jill said she’d let Neave k
now and to phone her if there were any problems. I had a late lunch, filled the washing machine, cleared up the kitchen, which I hadn’t had time to do after breakfast, then Blu-Tacked Melody’s posters to her bedroom wall. Downstairs again, I made a cottage pie for dinner and then it was time to collect Melody from school. I placed a note prominently on the side in the kitchen:

  Dear Adrian, Lucy and Paula, hope you’ve had a good day. Would someone please put the cottage pie that is in the fridge in the oven at 5 p.m. at 180°C and keep an eye on it? I should be back from contact at 6 p.m. See you later. Love Mum xx.

  I had told them at breakfast I was going to contact, but I was pretty certain no one had been awake enough to hear me.

  The bag containing Melody’s shoes was ready in the hall to take with me. She would try them on in the car and, if they fitted, wear them for contact so she looked smart. I liked the children I fostered to look well turned out when they saw their parents, as it was a special occasion, just like when we visited my parents. I then remembered the stay-fresh plastic box containing the rice pudding in the fridge. I hesitated. Melody hadn’t mentioned it again and it seemed rather an odd thing to take to contact, but on the other hand she had wanted to give it to her mother, so I took it with me.

  I drove to the school and parked in the same side road I had that morning and then waited in the playground with the other parents and carers for school to end. It was a cold, bright day with the low, wintry sun giving little warmth, but it was a pleasant change from the previous days of overcast grey skies. The bell rang from inside the building, signalling the end of school, and a few minutes later the classes began to file out one at a time, led by their teacher. I looked at the sea of faces – I hadn’t met Melody’s teacher yet so didn’t know who I was looking for. Melody must have spotted me, because suddenly through the milling crowd of children she appeared, coming towards me with her teacher.

  ‘Hello, I’m Miss Langford, Melody’s class teacher,’ she said with a warm smile.

  ‘Cathy Glass, Melody’s foster carer.’

  ‘The Deputy said you’d be here to collect her. So pleased to meet you. Our class’s teaching assistant, Miss May, has been working with Melody today. She’s done some nice work and there is a reading book and some literacy homework in Melody’s book bag. We like the children to read a little every evening. Miss May had to leave early today but is looking forward to meeting you tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Young and fashionably dressed, Miss Langford came across as a very enthusiastic teacher.

  ‘Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help Melody,’ she said. ‘She’s a lovely child. A delight to teach.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, although I was pretty certain she said this about all the children she taught.

  I usually ask to meet privately with the teacher of a new child I’m fostering to learn more about how they are doing in school, but as Melody hadn’t been in school long and I’d had a good chat with the Deputy this morning, I didn’t think I could learn much more.

  ‘They have swimming on Monday afternoons,’ she added. ‘One-piece swimming costume, please, black or navy, and a regulation white swimming hat.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll make sure she has it.’ I made a mental note to buy those too on Saturday.

  ‘So have a good evening then,’ Miss Langford said. ‘Melody tells me she is seeing her mother.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. We’re going there now.’

  ‘Did you remember the rice pudding?’ Melody now asked.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ I said, pleased I’d included it. Miss Langford looked at me, puzzled. ‘I made rice pudding yesterday evening,’ I explained. ‘Melody said her mother would like some.’

  ‘Mmm, that sounds nice,’ she enthused with a big smile and smacking her lips. ‘I love homemade rice pudding.’

  ‘Well, the next time I make it I’ll bring some in for you too,’ I joked.

  She laughed and we said goodbye.

  I opened Melody’s car door, gave her the new shoes and then waited on the pavement as she tried them on. They fitted, just. ‘Can’t I have trainers?’ she asked.

  ‘Not for school, but we can buy you some for casual wear at the weekend.’

  ‘OK. They’re nice,’ she said. ‘What shall I do with my old trainers?’

  ‘Put them in the bag your shoes were in for now.’ As worn out as they were, I’d be keeping them, together with the clothes Melody had been wearing when she’d arrived. They were the property of her mother and would be offered back to her. If she told her social worker she didn’t want them then I could dispose of them, but not until then. Sometimes all parents have left of their children are photographs, their old clothes and toys, and faded memories.

  I checked Melody’s seatbelt was fastened and gave her the box of rice pudding to hold. Then, with her looking very smart in her new school uniform, shoes and coat from my spares, I began the drive to the Family Centre, chatting to her as we went.

  ‘How was school?’ I asked. ‘Miss Langford said you’d done some nice work today.’

  ‘I played with someone in the playground.’

  ‘Great. You’ll soon make friends.’

  ‘That’s what Miss May said.’

  ‘You like Miss May?’

  ‘Yes. She helps me with my work. There’s me and two boys sit with her and she helps us do what the teacher says. Cathy, why don’t I know as much as the kids on the other tables? You know, the ones that don’t sit with Miss May.’

  I glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. Children intuit that they are behind their peers. ‘Because you haven’t been in school much,’ I replied honestly.

  ‘Is that why kids go to school? So they know lots of stuff and are clever?’ Her question was another indication of just how little schooling she’d had; children of her age usually know why they go to school.

  ‘Yes, and also to make friends and join in activities.’

  ‘I guess I should have gone to school more, but my mum needed me at home.’

  I didn’t want to demonize her mother, but she had a lot to answer for. ‘Your mum is doing fine, so don’t worry,’ I reassured her. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon catch up with your schoolwork, and I’ll help you at home.’

  ‘I hope my mum is OK,’ she said, fretting again. ‘I kept thinking about her at school and I told Miss May. She said my mummy was grown up and would know how to look after herself and I shouldn’t worry.’ Thank you, Miss May, I thought.

  ‘That’s right. I’ll be meeting Miss May tomorrow,’ I said. ‘What else did you do at school?’ But Melody didn’t answer and was clearly worrying about her mother again. ‘We’ll soon be at the Family Centre,’ I told her. There was no reply.

  Five minutes later I parked in one of the bays outside the Family Centre and cut the engine. I’d already explained to Melody what to expect: that there were six rooms in the centre, so other children in care would be seeing their parents too, and a lady called a contact supervisor would be in the room with them making notes. The parent(s) often find this more intrusive than the child(ren), for they know why the contact supervisor is there: to observe them with their child and write a report on each session. These reports go to the social worker and ultimately form part of the judge’s decision on whether their child will be allowed home. I sympathize. I think it’s an awful position for a parent to be in, but there is little alternative if contact needs to be supervised. Some contact supervisors handle it better than others and are able to do their job while putting the family at ease.

  ‘Is Mummy here?’ Melody asked anxiously as I opened her car door to let her out.

  ‘Hopefully,’ I said. It was exactly four o’clock and parents usually arrived early.

  She clambered out, clutching the box of rice pudding, and we went up the path to the security-locked main door where I pressed the buzzer. The closed-circuit television camera overhead allowed anyone in the office to see who was at the door.
After a few moments the door clicked open and we went in. I said hello to the receptionist sitting at her computer behind a low security screen on our right. I knew her from previous visits with other children I’d fostered. I gave Melody’s name. ‘Is her mother, Amanda, here yet?’ I asked.

  She glanced at her list. ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Mummy’s not here!’ Melody cried.

  ‘I am sure she will be soon,’ I said. ‘I’ll sign us in and then we can sit in the waiting room – there are toys and books in there.’

  ‘Why isn’t she here?’ Melody lamented as I entered our names in the Visitors’ Book.

  ‘I don’t know, love. Come on through here.’

  ‘I bet she got lost. Mum often gets lost when we have to go somewhere new. She needs me to show her.’

  ‘Your social worker will have told her how to get here,’ I said. ‘Try not to worry.’ The waiting room was empty and we sat on the cushioned bench.

  ‘What if Mum hasn’t got the money to come here on the bus?’ Melody asked.

  ‘Neave, your social worker, will have checked she has enough money.’ Parents of children in care are given all the help they need to get to contact, including bus or taxi fares when appropriate.

  ‘Mum’s not good without me,’ Melody said again.

  I thought she was worrying about her mother far more than most children I’d fostered, and I was hoping that when she saw her she would be reassured that she was coping. I was also hoping Amanda wouldn’t be much longer. Her lateness, which was making Melody even more anxious, would be noted by the contact supervisor, who would now be waiting in the allocated room. I knew from experience that we wouldn’t be allowed to wait indefinitely and at some point the manager of the Family Centre would make the decision to cancel the contact and I would return home with Melody. It’s devastating for the child, but not as bad as waiting until the bitter end and having to accept the parent hasn’t come to see them. The child’s feelings of rejection at not being able to live with their parents are compounded and they feel even more unloved. Parents of children in care have to make contact a priority, which I’d have thought was obvious, but isn’t always, especially if the parents are struggling with drink and drug misuse or have mental health issues.