Another Forgotten Child (32 page)

True to his word, Norman arrived at five past four and he stayed for over two hours, talking to Aimee and me about Jason and his family and the plans for Aimee to go to them.

After he’d gone Aimee and I were exhausted and Aimee had gone very quiet. I knew instinctively something was wrong.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A Chance Meeting

‘Are you all right, love?’ I asked.

Aimee didn’t answer. We were sitting side by side on the sofa and I had my arm around her shoulder. She was snuggled into my side and in her hand, resting on her lap, was the photograph Norman had given to her of Jason and his family. It was a nice photograph, taken in the garden of their home last summer, showing Jason, his wife Jenny, their three-year-old daughter Emily, and a pet rabbit. But whereas Aimee had excitedly admired the photograph when Norman had first given it to her, it now lay face down in her lap.

‘There’s a lot to think about and take in, isn’t there?’ I said gently.

Aimee gave a small nod. ‘Yes.’

‘What are you thinking about now?’ I asked softly. ‘I’m thinking Jason and his family sound very nice people.’

‘That’s what Norman said, so I guess I have to believe him.’

‘He wouldn’t have said that if he wasn’t sure,’ I said. ‘He wants what’s best for you. We all do.’

Aimee fell silent and then asked, ‘And you’ll stay with me when I first meet them?’

‘Definitely. You remember Norman explained that Jason, Jenny and Emily will come here to meet us first? Then we’ll go to their house for a short visit. Then we’ll see each other more and more over two weeks, until everyone feels relaxed and happy with each other.’ Although Norman had explained this to Aimee it was a lot for her to remember and understand. ‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured her. ‘I’ve seen children to their permanent families many times before and it always works out fine.’

‘But what if they don’t like me when they meet me?’ Aimee blurted, raising her head to look at me. ‘They might change their minds and say they don’t want me.’

‘No, they won’t,’ I said firmly. ‘Norman will have made sure they’re sincere in wanting to look after you. And of course they’ll like you. I’m sure of it.’ For while I knew that occasionally couples who’d been approved to look after a child permanently did change their minds after meeting the child, which was devastating for the child, I was certain it wouldn’t happen here. Jason and his wife were already foster carers and would therefore have a realistic and sincere expectation of what it was like to look after a child who wasn’t their own. Added to which they were family.

Aimee clearly had many worries about meeting Jason and eventually going to live with him, and I knew her questions and comments would continue until she met him and his family. I’d found in the past that once the child had met their forever family and seen just how nice they were, they felt reassured and most of their worries vanished. The timetable of the introduction would be drawn up at the next permanency planning meeting, when I would get the chance to meet Jason and Jenny. In the meantime I’d have to answer Aimee’s questions and reassure her as best I could, basing my answers on what Norman had told us. I thought it was just as well that Susan had decided to stop the supervised contact: it would be less upsetting for Aimee. The way social care law is written at present, children can see their natural parents right up to the day before they meet their forever family, which is very confusing and upsetting for the child, who has to say goodbye to one set of parents and then hello to the new with no time to adjust.

While I waited to hear when the next permanency planning meeting would be, life continued in its present routine. Without contact Aimee had time to watch television and play games after dinner, when she’d done her homework, which made for a far more relaxing evening. However, each day when I took Aimee to school or collected her in the afternoon I always kept a watchful eye out for Susan. Although I’d informed Norman and the school that Susan had been seeing Aimee at playtime, and I assumed Norman had spoken to Susan about this, I knew from experience that at times like this – when a parent was about to lose a child for good – emotion ran high. Susan had nothing to lose by making trouble or accosting me, and she knew I would be at school at 9 a.m. and 3.30 p.m. However, when Susan found me it wasn’t outside school but in a deserted cul-de-sac on the edge of town.

It was the first day of March, a cold but bright day when the sun was thawing the snow of the week before and turning it to slush. I’d parked my car in a quiet cul-de-sac at the far end of the town to avoid the congestion of the multi-storey car park in the shopping centre. Having got out of the car, I stepped over the slush piled in the kerb, stood on the pavement and pointed the fob at the car. As the locks clicked into place I heard a voice say, ‘Cathy.’

I turned and, squinting into the sunlight, saw Susan walking towards me. I glanced up and down the road but there was no one in sight. I had to pass her to go up to the high road, for behind me was a dead end. Hatchet wasn’t with her, thank goodness, but that was little consolation.

‘Hello, Susan,’ I said evenly, trying to hide my anxiety. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘I saw you drive past. I’m here to see me therapist,’ she volunteered, coming to stand directly in front of me.

‘Well, I hope it all goes OK,’ I said, and went to step past her. She placed a restraining hand on my arm.

‘Can I speak to you?’ she said. ‘I’ve got half an hour before my appointment.’

I assumed it was to complain, at the very least, or to vent her anger and frustration. ‘I’m sorry, I’m in rather a hurry,’ I said, gently releasing my arm. ‘Why don’t you arrange a meeting with Norman as I suggested, and we can all have a chat then?’

‘It’s not about Aimee,’ Susan blurted loudly. ‘It’s about me. I want you to know I’m not as bad as you think I am.’

‘I don’t think you’re bad,’ I said quickly, surprised that Susan cared what I thought of her. ‘I’ve never told Aimee that either – just the opposite, in fact. I’ve always told her you love her but unfortunately you can’t look after her.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Susan said, lowering her voice. ‘Aimee told me and I’m grateful for that. Thank you.’

I thought I must have misheard. Susan thanking me? That couldn’t be right. Not the woman who’d issued so many threats, complaints and allegations that Adrian and his friends had come under suspicion and I’d nearly resigned.

Foster carers often have to make snap decisions about whether they are being told the truth, but it’s usually when the child they are fostering is trying to bend the rules on what they are allowed to do. Now I had to make a snap decision as to whether Susan was sincere in her wish to talk to me or if it was a ploy. For all I knew, her gangster friends might be waiting around the corner to teach me a lesson; anything was possible in the twilight underground drug-fuelled world she inhabited.

‘Can we sit in your car and talk?’ Susan now suggested. ‘It’s cold.’ She had her arms folded across her chest and was shivering. She was wearing the same thin jacket she’d been wearing the last time I’d seen her, outside the school, with T-shirt, threadbare jeans, and plimsolls that were sopping wet. I looked at her. I wasn’t going to risk sitting in my car with her in this deserted road.

‘Shall we go for a coffee?’ I asked after a moment. ‘There’s a place on the high road.’

‘Wouldn’t mind,’ she said, shivering again. ‘But I haven’t got any money.’

‘I’ll pay,’ I said. ‘Come on.’ I stepped past her and began up the road to the busier high road. Susan followed a step or two behind me, treading in the centre of the path to avoid the slush piled on either side. I still wasn’t convinced she only wanted to confide but I’d be safer in the high street. I’d had parents of other children I’d fostered wanting to share some of their life experiences with me, but in those cases I’d established a good working relationship with them, so that confiding seemed to come naturally and I wasn’t worried. That wasn’t so with Susan, but I had a few minutes to spare and the poor woman looked as though she needed a hot drink, so I could hear what she wanted to tell me.

We stood side by side and waited to cross the main road; then Susan followed me into the coffee shop and up to the counter. The girl behind the counter was busy serving a couple in front of us and as we waited I saw Susan eyeing the selection of savouries and cakes displayed beneath the glass-topped counter.

‘Do you want something to eat?’ I asked.

She shrugged.

‘Say if you do and I’ll pay.’

‘Can I have a sausage roll, please, and one of those cakes with the pink icing on top?’ She was like a child asking for a treat and I felt her humiliation.

‘Have whatever you want,’ I replied gently. ‘They do a very good English breakfast here. My son used to have it when we’d been shopping.’ I felt I needed to try to persuade her to eat, as she was so thin and ill-looking.

‘Oh, go on, then,’ she said, with a small nervous laugh. ‘Treat me to a full English breakfast.’ I thought a decent meal was probably a treat for her. I saw the girl behind the counter looking at Susan as she served the couple. Susan looked so wasted that she attracted stares; she wasn’t the type of customer normally found in a nice coffee lounge.

When the assistant had finished serving the couple in front of us we moved along the counter and I ordered the breakfast – egg, bacon, sausage, hash brown, beans, tomatoes and mushrooms – and two mugs of coffee, and then paid. Placing the mugs of coffee on a tray, with the cutlery Susan would need for her breakfast, I carried the tray to a corner table. The breakfast would be cooked fresh and brought to our table when it was ready. I saw the occupants on the other tables glance up and look at Susan as we passed.

Once seated either side of the table, we sipped our coffee. Susan cupped her hands around her mug, drawing its warmth. Gradually her fingers lost their mauve appearance as they began to thaw out.

‘You could do with some gloves in this weather,’ I remarked, as one would tell a child.

Susan nodded but didn’t say anything. Although we were now in this public place and I felt safer, I was still uncertain what exactly she wanted of me.

‘Aimee’s making good progress at school,’ I tried presently. ‘She’s a lot of catching up to do, but I help her with her reading and maths each evening.’

Susan nodded again and then set down her mug. ‘Aimee listens to you,’ she said. ‘She never would to me. I tried to help her but she used to push me away.’

‘I have to be firm sometimes,’ I said. ‘Aimee knows she doesn’t watch television until she has done her homework.’

Susan shrugged. ‘That’s the difference between you and me. You know how to look after kids. I never did. I’m not a bad person, I just can’t look after kids properly. I told the social [services] to take Aimee off me when she was born. But all they did was put her on the [“at risk”] register and send me to parenting classes.’

I stared at Susan in utter amazement. ‘You asked the social services to take Aimee into care when she was born?’ I said. ‘But I thought you’d been battling to keep her?’

‘Yeah. Recently I have, ’cos I grew to love her. But when she was a baby it would have been easier to let her go. I’ve told a few social workers over the years to take her. I couldn’t look after her. But they kept giving me help. I knew it wasn’t going to do any good. I knew where it would lead – same as me older kids. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.’ Susan gave a small nervous laugh and her hand instinctively went to her mouth to cover her missing teeth. ‘They should have taken Aimee when she was born like I told them. Before I loved her and she loved me.’

I shook my head in dismay. I could picture only too well the scenario Susan had just described: the succession of social workers following correct social work practice and trying to keep the family together, even though all the odds were stacked against it succeeding. The Guardian had mentioned the years of support and monitoring, not only for Aimee but for the older children. Eva had also told me that Susan had been badly abused throughout her own childhood and had then run away and got into drugs, although Susan wouldn’t necessarily know I knew.

‘It can’t have been easy for you,’ I said.

‘No, it bloody wasn’t. Not for me or me kids. I did try, a few times, to get off the drugs, but once they get into your brain they screw you up for life – well, they did for me. I’m not going to live to see Aimee become an adult, so it’s best she goes to Jason. But I want to see her regularly while I can. I love her.’

‘I know you do,’ I said gently. ‘I’ve told Aimee that.’

‘Thanks,’ Susan said quietly and took another sip from her coffee. I wasn’t sure if her reference to not living to see Aimee become an adult was a result of a diagnosed medical condition or if she meant that the drugs would eventually kill her, as they did so many. It didn’t seem appropriate to ask. ‘I blame my stepfather for screwing up my life,’ Susan said. ‘And me mum. She knew what was going on. I told her enough times. But she called me a liar and chose him over me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, at a loss to know what to say.

‘Yeah, well,’ Susan said dismissively. ‘Shit happens, doesn’t it? And it happened to me.’

The breakfast arrived and as it was set down on the table in front of her Susan’s face lost its pinched expression and lit up. Seizing the sauce bottle with child-like enthusiasm, she squirted swirls of tomato ketchup all over the food. It was sad and peculiarly touching.

‘Aimee likes tomato sauce too,’ I offered.

‘Tell me about it!’ Susan said, setting down the sauce bottle and picking up her knife and fork. ‘I couldn’t nick enough of the stuff to keep up with her. Whoops – shouldn’t have told you that,’ she said with smile.

I returned her smile and thought that if stealing tomato sauce had been Susan’s only wrongdoing her life would have been very different. She ate ravenously, as though she hadn’t eaten in ages, and very possibly she hadn’t, for a drug habit is expensive and I knew that buying them took precedence over all other needs for an addict, even food. I sipped my coffee as Susan ate and very soon her plate was clear. She set down the knife and fork and drained the last of her coffee.