A Baby’s Cry Page 6

  I was used to children coming into foster care with information about their background arriving piecemeal, so their sad stories slowly came together like pieces in a jigsaw. But that wouldn’t happen with Harrison. He was like a baby abandoned at a railway station with a note from his mother asking for him to be looked after, and I wondered what effect not knowing his origins would have on him as he grew older. Unless, of course, his adoptive parents didn’t tell him he was adopted, in which case if he ever found out by accident he would be devastated.

  Chapter Eight

  Stranger at the Door

  ‘Oh, isn’t he gorgeous?’ Cheryl, the social worker, enthused as I opened the front door with Harrison in my arms the following day. I’d just fed and changed him, so he was wide awake and contented. ‘The nurses at the hospital said he was a lovely baby but this is my first chance to see him.’

  Cheryl and I shook hands and I led the way down the hall and into the sitting room. I hadn’t met Cheryl before; she was of medium height and build and I guessed in her mid-thirties. She was dressed smartly in black trousers and a white blouse. I’d no idea how long she’d been qualified as a social worker, nor how much experience she had, but she seemed very pleasant.

  ‘Can I get you a tea or coffee?’ I asked as we entered the sitting room. ‘Or a cold drink?’

  ‘A coffee would be lovely – thank you. I’ve come straight from a meeting and I’m gasping.’

  ‘Would you like something to eat as well? I offered. ‘I can soon make you a sandwich.’ I’d had social workers arrive before having not had time to eat or even drink.

  ‘That’s kind of you, but a coffee will be lovely. I’ll pick up something to eat on the way back to the office. I’ve another meeting at two o’clock. Can I hold him?’ Cheryl asked, sitting on the sofa and looking longingly at Harrison in my arms.

  ‘Of course.’ I laid Harrison in her arms and went into the kitchen to make coffee. I could hear Cheryl talking to Harrison as Jill had done, only without all the funny noises: ‘Aren’t you a cute baby? Are you being a good boy? You certainly look very healthy’ and so on.

  ‘He’s doing very well,’ I said as I returned with Cheryl’s coffee and a plate of biscuits, which I placed on the coffee table within her reach. ‘The health visitor came yesterday,’ I continued, updating her. ‘She weighed and measured him and checked his hearing and sight; everything is fine. She’s given me his red book and I’ll be taking him to the clinic next week for weighing. She said she’d send you a copy of all her notes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cheryl said. ‘Shall I put Harrison in his bouncing cradle while we talk and I have my coffee?’

  ‘I usually put him in his pram for a sleep about now,’ I said. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Go ahead. Don’t let me disrupt your routine.’

  I carefully lifted Harrison from Cheryl’s arms and carried him down the hall, where I settled him into his pram, before returning to the sitting room. Cheryl had taken a wad of forms – the paperwork I needed – from her briefcase and now handed them to me.

  ‘I think everything is there,’ she said. ‘Although I’m afraid the information form doesn’t tell you any more than you already know.’

  I nodded and, sitting in the armchair, I looked through the paperwork as Cheryl sipped her coffee and ate a biscuit. The forms I needed were all here, although as Cheryl had already said there was nothing new to be learned from them. The essential information forms and placement forms, which usually contain background information and contact details of the child’s natural family, were largely unfilled in. However, the last sheet – the medical consent form – contained a nearly illegible signature beginning with R, which I assumed to be Rihanna’s signature. I needed this signed form in case I had to seek medical treatment for Harrison, including vaccinations. But it seemed strange to see Rihanna’s signature on the form, given that she had severed all contact with Harrison.

  ‘So you’re still in contact with Harrison’s mother?’ I asked.

  ‘Only through her solicitor now,’ Cheryl clarified. ‘She gives Rihanna any forms that need singing.” I nodded. ‘You understand why there is so little information in this case and why strict confidentiality has to be respected?’ Cheryl now asked.

  I hesitated. ‘I only know what Jill has told me: that Harrison’s birth has to be kept a secret. I don’t know the reason. Were you aware that Rihanna sent a case of clothes for Harrison, together with a letter addressed to the foster carer?’

  ‘No.’

  Reaching over I took my fostering folder from the bookshelf and slid out Rihanna’s letter, which I passed to Cheryl. While she read the letter I went down the hall and checked on Harrison in his pram; he was fast asleep. I returned to the sitting room and Cheryl handed me back the letter, with a small sigh.

  ‘This is one of the saddest cases I’ve ever come across,’ she said. ‘As you realize from this letter, Rihanna wanted to keep her baby but couldn’t – for reasons I am not allowed to go into.’

  ‘Is she being forced into giving up her child?’ I asked, worried. ‘Her letter seems to suggest she could be. Jill thought so too.’

  ‘Only by circumstances,’ Cheryl said. She paused, as though collecting her thoughts, and I knew she was about to tell me what she could of Harrison’s background. ‘Rihanna first came to the attention of the social services four months ago,’ Cheryl began. ‘The duty social worker took a call from her on a private number late one evening. Rihanna was in a bad way, sobbing hysterically on the phone and saying she had done something terrible. She sounded desperate and the duty social was very concerned. He spent a long time talking to her and tried to persuade her to tell him where she was or come into the offices the following day, when she could be helped. But just as he thought he was getting through to her she severed the call. Then two days later Rihanna phoned the social services again during the day and I took the call. She was still very distressed but seemed to be more open to what I was saying – perhaps because I was a woman. After much persuading she finally agreed to meet me. She said she couldn’t come to the offices in case she was seen but agreed to meet me in a coffee shop out of town.’

  Cheryl paused to take a sip of her coffee and I sat, very quiet and still, waiting for her to continue.

  ‘Rihanna was not what I expected,’ Cheryl said. ‘She is a mature woman with a successful career and a very responsible job. She is normally level-headed but because of the circumstances she found herself in she was very distressed and couldn’t think straight. She was five months pregnant at the time, so it was too late for a termination and I doubt she could have gone through with that anyway. She said she wanted her baby adopted and agreed to cooperate with the social services as long as I was the only social worker she had to deal with. I had to explain there was certain information I would have to share with my manager – in the strictest confidence – and Rihanna accepted this. When she told me her situation I completely understood why she was so distressed and the strict rules she had put in place to protect her identity. Her fears for her safety are very real.’

  ‘But are they really?’ I asked, seizing the opportunity as Cheryl paused to finish her coffee. ‘I appreciate you can’t divulge the details but I find it incredible that a woman’s life can be in danger because she has a baby, in this country in this day and age.’

  Cheryl put down her coffee cup and met my gaze, her expression very serious. ‘So did I to begin with, but once Rihanna had told me her full story I believed her. Her fears are real.’ She paused, her gaze flickering around the room before returning to me. ‘Cathy, I’m sure no one knows where Harrison is, and I’ve gone to great lengths to protect Rihanna’s identity, but if you do see anyone acting suspiciously in the street outside your house you must call me immediately. And if anyone you don’t know comes to the door and asks about Harrison or his mother, you need to phone the police.’

  I looked at her, shocked. ‘But you said no one knew he wa
s here,’ I said, a cold shiver running up my spine.

  ‘That’s right, and it should stay that way. I just want you to be aware.’

  My unease grew. ‘I have two young children,’ I said. ‘I’m not putting them in danger by looking after Harrison, am I?’

  ‘No. If Harrison’s whereabouts were to become known, which is highly unlikely, we’d move him straightaway. But I’m sure it won’t come to that.’

  I wasn’t so sure. I knew of cases where the foster carer’s address had been accidentally divulged to abusive and violent parents and the child had been moved immediately – to protect the child and also the foster family. Although in this case I didn’t know where the threat would come from because Rihanna certainly wasn’t an abusive parent; and Cheryl wasn’t going to tell me, as she’d changed the subject.

  ‘I met Rihanna a number of times during her pregnancy,’ Cheryl said. ‘I made sure she had her health-care check-ups and I’ll make sure she has her postpartum check-up too.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, trying to get my thoughts back on track. ‘The health visitor was worried about that. She was also concerned that Rihanna had been missed off the computer system and wasn’t receiving the support she needs.’

  ‘I’ll phone the health visitor and tell her I’m taking care of it,’ Cheryl said. I nodded. ‘As you know, Harrison will be adopted,’ Cheryl continued, ‘and we’re already pursuing that. We have plenty of approved prospective adoptive parents who have applied. He’ll be an easy baby to place.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, surprised that the adoption process was moving so quickly. ‘I’m taking plenty of photographs of Harrison, and I’m also beginning a Life Story book for the adoptive parents. Wouldn’t Rihanna like a few photos too? She might feel differently now.’

  Cheryl shook her head. ‘I’ve spoken to her solicitor and she says Rihanna is still of the same mind and feels she couldn’t cope with reminders.’

  ‘Is she living alone?’ I asked, worried for her.

  ‘I believe so. As I said, Cathy, this is one of the saddest cases I’ve ever had to deal with. Rihanna is a lovely lady who would make a wonderful mother. It’s such a pity she won’t have that chance. I …’ Her voice trailed off and she stared thoughtfully across the room as though she had been about to say more but had stopped herself. ‘Anyway,’ she said after a moment, checking her watch. ‘If that’s everything, I’d better be going. I’ve another meeting soon. Thanks for the coffee and biscuits, and thanks for looking after Harrison. I’ll phone Rihanna’s solicitor when I get back to the office and tell her that he is doing well.’

  ‘Will you also tell her solicitor I am carrying out Rihanna’s wishes and dressing Harrison in the clothes she bought for him?’ I said. ‘They fit perfectly and he looks very smart. The soft toys Rihanna bought are at the foot of his cot, and his cot is close to my bed so that I can hear him as soon as he wakes at night. Please ask the solicitor to tell Rihanna, Harrison is a very good baby and rarely cries. He’s a delight to look after.’ I stopped as a lump rose in my throat.

  ‘I will, Cathy,’ Cheryl said. ‘I’ll tell her solicitor and she’ll pass it on to Rihanna. I know Rihanna would want me to thank you for looking after Harrison.’

  ‘There’s no need to thank me. I just wish things could be different for her.’

  ‘So do I, Cathy; so do I.’

  After I’d seen Cheryl out I pushed Harrison in the pram to the local shops for some groceries I needed. It was a beautiful summer’s afternoon and a joy to walk in the warm air with the birds singing and gardens awash with colourful flowers. My thoughts went to Rihanna, as they often did when there was just Harrison and me, and I was sorry she would never be able to experience the simple pleasure of pushing her baby in his pram on a beautiful summer’s day; or later, when he was a toddler, of taking him to the park, or seeing him open his presents on his birthday and at Christmas. All these occasions create the precious memories we, as parents, have of our children and carry in our hearts forever. Well, at least the adoptive parents, whoever they may be, will be able to enjoy Harrison, I told myself. But whether Rihanna would ever be able to truly forget her son as she’d told Cheryl she was trying to do I doubted. Learn to live without him as the bereaved have to do, maybe, but not forget him. I was sure that would be impossible, just as I never forgot any of the children I’d fostered, even those who’d only stayed for a few days.

  When I returned home I put away the groceries and it was time to collect Adrian and Paula from school. I was pleased it was Friday, which meant a break from the school routine, and my parents were visiting on Sunday, when they would see Harrison for the first time. Although Harrison wasn’t my baby my maternal instinct had resurfaced and I felt very proud and protective of him, which was just as well as he kept me up all Friday night for no obvious reason, so that by Saturday morning, far from feeling relaxed at the start of the weekend, I was exhausted from lack of sleep. Adrian and Paula had been woken by Harrison’s cries in the night too, when I’d paced my bedroom with Harrison in my arms trying to settle him, so they were tired and irritable, and bickered at the breakfast table. Then to make matters worse I got the shock of my life when I answered the front door to find a man I didn’t know asking me if I had a baby in the house!

  Chapter Nine

  Section 20

  ‘A baby? Here?’ I said. ‘No, you’ve made a mistake.’ Then Harrison let out a cry from his pram behind me in the hall. ‘Well maybe – sort of. Why?’ I asked, my heart starting to pound.

  The man in his thirties looked at me oddly, which was hardly surprising considering I didn’t appear to know if I owned a baby or not. ‘It’s just that I found this on the pavement outside your house,’ he said. ‘I thought it might be yours.’ He held up a yellow toy duck, which I recognized as Paula’s. She’d put it in Harrison’s pram the day before and it must have fallen out.

  ‘Oh yes, thank you,’ I said, smiling. I felt utterly relieved and a complete idiot. ‘That’s kind of you. I’m looking after a baby temporarily,’ I added, not sure if this made it look better or worse. ‘Thank you so much,’ I flustered.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said. He handed me the soft toy, which was only a little dusty from a night on the pavement. ‘I’ve got kids of my own, so I know how precious these toys can be.’

  ‘Thanks again,’ I said gratefully, closing the front door. But I knew that I needed to remember that, although I would be following Cheryl’s advice to be vigilant, not every stranger who came to my house or I passed in the street posed a threat; otherwise I would soon become paranoid.

  Harrison was restless for the whole of Saturday morning for no obvious reason, as babies can be unsettled sometimes. I fed and changed him, winded him, and tried sitting him in the bouncing cradle, laying him in his pram and walking the house with him in my arms, but he refused to settle. Then I remembered that, following my mother’s advice, when Adrian and Paula had been unsettled as babies I’d put their pram in the garden – not so that I couldn’t hear them cry but because fresh air seemed to settle a fractious baby. I returned Harrison to his pram and then pushed it through the sitting room and out through the open French windows, and parked it on the patio. Almost immediately he stopped crying, placated by the new stimuli from being outside: the sights, sounds and smells of the garden and the feel of the fresh air on his face. I raised the pram hood so that the sun wasn’t directly on him and, while Adrian and Paula played further down the garden, I went indoors and cleared away the breakfast things, which were still on the table at 11.00 a.m. With the windows and French doors open I could hear Harrison if he woke and cried, and Adrian and Paula would also tell me if he woke. But when Harrison did eventually wake he didn’t cry but was content to lie in his pram and be entertained by all the different sensations from being outside. It was a good piece of advice from my mother and I know many mothers today do similar.

  After lunch we went to our local park. It was a pleasant afternoon and I was looking forwa
rd to visiting the park more often when Adrian and Paula broke up from school for the summer holidays in two weeks’ time.

  That night Harrison woke at 2.00 a.m. and then again at 5.30. He settled straightaway after each feed so that I had two three-hour slots of sleep, which was fine for me. I went back to bed at 6.00 and dozed off. When I woke it was nearly nine o’clock and it was to the harmonious sounds of Harrison gurgling contentedly in his cot and Paula and Adrian playing in their bedrooms. All three children kept themselves amused while I showered and dressed. Sundays in our house, as in many households, are more leisurely than weekdays, so we didn’t have breakfast until nearly ten o’clock, with Adrian and Paula still in their nightwear. After breakfast the children washed and dressed while I fed and changed Harrison, and by 12.30 p.m. we were all ready for my parents, who were coming for dinner.

  Harrison was in the bouncing cradle at one end of the kitchen, watching me prepare the vegetables for later, while Adrian and Paula were in the front room, looking out of the window for their nana and grandpa, who were due any time. Whenever my parents visited Adrian and Paula would go into the front room and look out for them and then call me as soon as they saw their car pull up. They had been in the front room for about ten minutes when Adrian called, ‘Mum!’ But I instinctively knew his call wasn’t because Nana and Grandpa had arrived: I heard excitement in his voice but also anxiety.

  ‘Yes?’ I called back from the kitchen, pausing from preparing the vegetables. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Someone’s watching the house.’