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  It was a standard form and began with the children’s and parents’ full names, home address and dates of birth. In the box about other family members it showed that Aneta had a mother and sister living abroad but they weren’t in contact. Filip had no close family members. Ethnicity was given as British, language as English and beside religion it said none. The children’s legal status was an interim care order, and beside school or nursery was written none. Next was the contact arrangements – which I’d already taken from the email – followed by special health concerns: The mother claims that both children suffer from multiple and undiagnosed allergies, which can result in vomiting, diarrhoea, rashes, bruising, difficulty in breathing (so I guessed that was why an inhaler was in their bag of medicines) and seizures – that hadn’t been mentioned before either. I paused, very concerned. I’d need to ask Tess for more details about the seizures, how often they occurred and how long they lasted. I’d also have to let the rest of the family know and check they knew what to do if Kit or Molly did fit. I had a first-aid certificate – all foster carers do – and Lucy had one because she worked in a nursery. However, I knew from experience how frightening it can be to see someone fit, so I needed to have a chat with my family to make sure Paula and Adrian knew what to do too.

  I returned to the form and the entry about the children’s health: Kit sustained a broken arm and has bruising and swelling to his face – which I obviously knew. The next point and those following were more relevant to older children: Behaviour problems? Did the young person drink, smoke or take drugs? No had been entered by each one. Apart from the section on health, the Essential Information Form hadn’t really told me much more than I already knew, largely, I thought, because the social services hadn’t been involved with the family until the start of the week.

  My gaze returned to the comments in respect of the children’s health, particularly about the undiagnosed allergies. These applied to both children. Aneta wouldn’t make all this up, so I wondered if the children could be suffering from a rare genetic condition that hadn’t yet been identified. I knew nothing about the testing that had been done to try to establish what triggered the reactions, only that the cause was ‘undiagnosed’. I then did what many of us do now and consulted to Dr Google. I typed allergic reaction resulting in vomiting, diarrhoea, rashes, bruising, seizures, difficulty in breathing into the search engine. Pages of websites came up. I began reading and soon discovered that there were over eighty allergic reactions that could produce symptoms of fever, nausea, vomiting and skin rashes – indeed, these were the most common reactions to allergens. But I also found that a purple-blue rash like a bruise could appear in a few bad allergic reactions and they were genetic. However, these severe rashes lasted four to six weeks, which wasn’t what Aneta had described at all. She’d said the symptoms came and went quickly. I was about to continue my research when I heard Kit’s plaster cast bang against the cot side, followed by his startled cry. I went straight upstairs. Kit was standing up in his cot, his little face puckered into tears.

  ‘It’s all right, love,’ I said, picking him up and holding him close. ‘There, there,’ I soothed. Molly slept on in her bed close by. It occurred to me that cot bumpers would have cushioned the blow when Kit’s plaster hit the sides, but they were now deemed unsafe as some infants had tragically become entangled in them and suffocated.

  Eventually Kit began to relax against me and his eyes grew heavy and closed. I lay him on his side in the cot and gently rubbed his back. I also had a closer look at his arm in the plaster cast. I could see by the dimmed light that his hand and fingers were a healthy colour and weren’t swollen so I didn’t think it was causing him a problem, apart from being uncomfortable and hitting the cot when he turned over. After about ten minutes of rubbing his back, he appeared to be fully asleep and I crept from the room. I’d just got outside when I heard his startled cry again and went straight back. Not quickly enough. He’d woken Molly. ‘I want my mummy!’ she cried, sitting bolt upright in bed.

  ‘It’s OK, love, you’ll see her soon,’ I said. ‘Lie down and go back to sleep.’

  Molly lay down but didn’t go back to sleep. ‘I want my mummy!’ she cried over and over again.

  I picked up Kit and held him on my lap as I sat on the edge of Molly’s bed and calmed her too. If a child who has been with me for some time wakes at night I go into their room, resettle them and come out, and repeat until they’re asleep. But this was only Kit and Molly’s second night in a strange room and Molly had been sick earlier, so I stayed with them. ‘Do you feel all right?’ I asked her.

  ‘No, I want my mummy,’ she said plaintively.

  ‘I know you do, love, and you’ll see Mummy and Daddy soon. But now I want you to get some sleep.’ I tucked her soft toy in beside her and stayed sitting on the bed, soothing Molly and gently rocking Kit back to sleep.

  Time passed and eventually they both appeared to be asleep. I carefully stood and returned Kit to his cot. He licked his lips, murmured something and turned over but didn’t wake. I waited a few more minutes to make sure neither of them woke, and then crept out. It was now 10.30 p.m.

  Downstairs, I shut down the computer, then stayed in the front room and wrote up my log notes. Ten minutes later Lucy and Paula finished watching their film and came into the front room on their way upstairs to bed. I reminded them to be quiet as Molly and Kit’s bedroom door was open. Telling me I should wake them if I needed help in the night, they kissed me goodnight and went up. I finished writing my log notes, put Sammy to bed, then went upstairs too. I checked on Molly and Kit and they were both fast asleep. I then lay in my bed listening out for them. Around midnight I heard Adrian quietly let himself in and then nothing more until 2 a.m., when Molly and Kit woke. I managed to settle them reasonably quickly without waking the rest of the house and they then slept until 7 a.m. – a huge improvement on the night before. However, as soon as Molly woke she was in tears. ‘I want my mummy,’ she sobbed. ‘When can I see Mummy? I want to go home.’ Seeing his sister so upset made Kit cry. ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ he wailed. So at 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning I had two children on my lap, crying their hearts out for their mother. I felt like a wicked witch.

  When I foster older children, I find it is easier to explain to them why they are in care and when they will see their parents, but at three and a half years of age and eighteen months it was virtually impossible, and I knew from experience it would take time for them to adjust. ‘You’ll see Mummy and Daddy again after two sleeps,’ I said.

  ‘I want to go home,’ Molly cried, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘I know, love. But Tess, your social worker, one of the ladies who brought you here, wants you and Kit to stay here for now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she feels it’s better for you. Mummy and Daddy need some help.’ Which was all I could offer.

  Despite my best efforts to pacify them, their crying woke the others and it wasn’t long before Lucy and Paula appeared in their pyjamas, yawning and their hair all over the place. ‘What’s all this noise?’ Lucy asked, managing a smile.

  Both children stopped crying and looked at the girls, as well they might. Usually well turned out, they looked like they’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, to use my mother’s expression.

  ‘Shall we play?’ Paula asked Molly as Lucy picked up Kit.

  ‘You are treasures,’ I said. ‘If you could just keep them amused while I shower and dress, that would be fantastic.’

  Chapter Seven

  Sick

  It wasn’t an easy weekend. I knew Molly and Kit would be unsettled. Regardless of whatever had happened at home, they missed their parents, especially their mother, who’d been their main care-giver. I was unusually anxious over the weekend, thinking they might suddenly fall ill and fit, so I watched them like a hawk for any symptoms. So too did Adrian, Paula and Lucy once I’d explained the c
hildren’s health concerns on Saturday morning – we were all up early. I went through what they should do if Molly and Kit did fit: don’t panic, call me, place the child on their side to prevent choking and make them as comfortable as possible. Don’t put anything in their mouth during a convulsion. Wipe away saliva from their lips, and note how long the seizure lasts and call an ambulance. I wasn’t planning on leaving the children in their care, but it was important everyone knew what to do. I might be in the bathroom, for example, when it happened.

  Adrian collected his car on Saturday morning and when he returned we all went out the front to admire it, then he drove off to see Kirsty. It was a fine day, so after lunch the girls and I decided to take the children to the park. It was so much easier leaving the house with their help. Lucy got Kit into his shoes and jacket and then pushed him in the stroller, while Paula held Molly’s hand as we walked to our local park. I think there was a novelty for my family in having two little ones living with us, and I hoped it didn’t wear off.

  The park has a children’s play area with swings, slides, rockers, climbing frames and so on. Part of the area is railed off for toddlers and that’s where Molly wanted to go. Even so, she was very cautious and reluctant to have a go on anything, although Kit was willing to try. Lucy helped him onto one of the sprung rockers – it was shaped and painted like a tiger. There were six sprung rockers in the shape of different animals and birds. Molly stood between Paula and me, holding our hands and watching.

  ‘Would you like a go?’ I asked her. She shook her head.

  ‘Let’s try the slide,’ Paula encouraged. It wasn’t steep and children younger than Molly were clambering up and sliding down, but she shook her head again.

  ‘Maybe in a minute,’ I said.

  We continued to watch the other children play and Lucy now helped Kit onto the mini roundabout. He chuckled as she slowly turned it and was enjoying himself, but Molly continued to stand beside us. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked her.

  ‘Mummy wouldn’t like it,’ she said. Paula and I looked at her. ‘It’s got germs.’

  ‘What has?’ I asked.

  ‘Those things.’ She pointed to the play equipment and I exchanged a questioning look with Paula. I’d never brought a child to the park before and had them tell me it had germs!

  ‘I guess they have,’ I said. ‘But a few germs won’t hurt you.’ Or would they? I wondered. With so many undiagnosed allergies, perhaps there was something in the park that could trigger a reaction. Aneta had said it could be something in the air. I immediately grew concerned.

  ‘Did your mother never take you to the park?’ I asked Molly.

  ‘Yes, but Mummy wipes them,’ she said.

  ‘Wipes what?’ Paula asked before I could.

  ‘The bit you hold.’

  ‘OK, I can do that,’ I said, and took a packet of antibacterial wipes from my bag.

  ‘You have to wipe our hands after as well,’ Molly said.

  ‘I will. Now, what would you like to go on first?’

  She pointed to the sprung rocker in the shape of an elephant and we went over. She waited while I wiped the handlebars and then she clambered on. ‘You have to wipe Kit too,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll wipe his hands when he’s finished,’ I said. He was up and down the slide and on and off the equipment, so it was unrealistic to wipe everything he was about to touch and I was sure his mother hadn’t.

  Molly finally started rocking, not enthusiastically, but at least she was occupied and not fretting. We then persuaded her to have a go on the slide and swings. We stayed in the playground for about half an hour and when the children had had enough I wiped their hands with the antibacterial wipes, at the same time checking Kit’s fingers in the plaster cast, which looked all right.

  ‘It’s dirty,’ Molly said, watching me. The white plaster was a bit grubby, which was only to be expected.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be fine,’ I reassured her.

  Now Molly was talking to me more I wondered what she could tell me, if anything, about how Kit sustained his injuries. As we walked slowly home I lightly asked her, ‘How did Kit hurt his arm and face? Do you know?’

  ‘He fell downstairs,’ she said.

  ‘Did you see him fall?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘OK, I was just wondering.’ I was therefore none the wiser. Had she seen him fall downstairs or was it something her mother had told her to say? So many of the children I’d fostered who’d been neglected and abused had been warned by their parents not to talk about it to their foster carer or social worker. I can understand why, as what they say could incriminate them further, but it meant the child carried a burden of lies they struggled with on top of everything else they had to cope with.

  Once home, Lucy changed Kit’s nappy and then the girls kept Molly and Kit amused in the living room while I did some housework, and then later made dinner. With their food diary to hand I noted everything they ate and drank as we went along. I also continued my watchful vigil for any signs of an allergic reaction. It was very worrying to be looking after two children who could fall seriously ill at any moment. I was half expecting to have to visit A&E over the weekend. Aneta had said they could become ill very quickly. They suffered no bad reaction after being in the park, and as each hour and meal passed and the children remained symptom-free I breathed a small sigh of relief.

  After dinner Paula and Lucy read to Molly and Kit while I cleared up. Adrian wasn’t due back until much later. Around 6.30 p.m. we took the children up for their bath and I felt we were starting to establish a routine, which always helps. We covered Kit’s plaster and both girls helped me bathe the children. We put them in the bath together – Molly said that was what her mummy did at home – and I reminded her not to splash Kit’s arm. The bruises and swelling to his face were going down and didn’t look so angry. The only word Kit had said so far was ‘Mummy’, but as we bathed him he said ‘bath’ and ‘water’. The average eighteen-month-old can say around fifty words and doubtless Kit would say more as he felt happier and more relaxed being with us. As we washed the children I checked their skin for any rashes or hives, but they were both clear. Lucy and Paula offered to put the children to bed, so I went downstairs and wrote up my log notes, which included our visit to the park. Then I heard Molly, probably over-tired, begin to cry, so I went up.

  ‘I want my mummy,’ she said. ‘I feel sick.’ I was immediately concerned. Was this due to upset or something I’d given her? ‘Have you got a tummy ache?’ I asked her, checking her skin for a rash – it was clear.

  ‘No, I want my mummy. I feel sick.’

  ‘Shall I get a bucket, Mum?’ Paula asked.

  ‘Yes, please, and a drink of water.’

  ‘You’ll see Mummy and Daddy on Monday,’ I told Molly as Lucy pacified Kit. ‘That’s the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘I want Mummy. I’m sick.’

  Paula appeared with the plastic bucket and a beaker of water. ‘Would you like a drink of water?’

  She nodded. ‘Mummy gives me water when I’m sick.’ Did this sound like an abusive mother, tending to her sick child? I thought not.

  She had a few sips of water, said she felt a bit better and then lay down, snuggling up to her soft toy. ‘When I think about Mummy it makes me feel sick,’ she said.

  ‘I think that’s because you’re getting upset. There is nothing for you to worry about. Mummy and Daddy are fine and you’ll see them on Monday.’ I sat on the edge of her bed with the bucket within reach and gently stroked her forehead.

  Kit dropped off to sleep in his cot and Lucy crept from the room. I told Paula to go and I’d see to Molly. I sat on her bed and stroked her forehead until she finally fell asleep. Relieved, I crept out, returned the bucket downstairs, and then telephoned my mother for a chat as I often did, and always at the weekend if we weren’t
seeing each other. I told her a little about how the children were settling in, that Adrian had a car and I was hoping to see her the following weekend with the children. She told me what she’d been doing. Dad had died the year before and although my mother obviously missed him, as we all did, she had a positive outlook and knew Dad would have wanted her to enjoy the rest of her life and not sit at home and mope. She loved it when we visited and welcomed all the children we fostered into her home and heart.

  That night Molly woke twice, but Kit, exhausted from playing in the park, managed to stay asleep. The first time I resettled Molly without too much trouble, but the second time she said she felt sick and then began to dry retch. I quickly took her from the bedroom to the toilet and held her while she tried to be sick, though nothing came up. As we stood there, I checked her skin for any sign of a rash or hives, but it remained clear.

  ‘It’s because I thought of Mummy,’ she said, straightening.

  ‘Is it, love?’

  I fetched her water, and she had a few sips.

  ‘You are a brave girl,’ I praised her.

  ‘That’s what Mummy says.’

  I smiled and, confident she wasn’t going to be sick, I returned her to bed where I waited until she was asleep again.