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Chapter Two

False Sense of Security

J
ack had been with us for three months when I started to feel sick. Not sick as in having eaten something which had disagreed with me, but a vague and persistent nausea which was worse first thing in the morning. Hardly daring to hope, and without John knowing, I bought a pregnancy testing kit and only told John when I had the result.

‘Amazing! Fantastic! Yippee!’ John cried. Usually he had a better command of the English language; indeed he has a degree. ‘Let’s celebrate! Tonight! Fetch Jack and we’ll go out for a meal. No, on second thoughts, you sit down and put your feet up and I’ll go up and get Jack.’

I laughed as John tore up the stairs to retrieve Jack from the all-consuming rapping music that accompanied him whenever he was in his bedroom. An hour later the three of us were seated at a corner table in our favourite Italian restaurant in town, with John proposing a toast. ‘To Cathy: well done and congratulations. And to Jack, for doing so well at school.’

I smiled at Jack as we raised our champagne glasses. Jack’s glass was only a quarter full, which at his age seemed appropriate – a few mouthfuls wasn’t going to hurt him and it was important he felt included.

‘I’m expecting a baby,’ I said quietly to Jack, who hadn’t the least idea why John had knocked on his bedroom door and, unable to contain his excitement, told him to get changed into his good gear as we were all going out to celebrate.

Jack smiled, a bit embarrassed, and took a sip from his glass. ‘What’s champagne made from?’ he said, grimacing at the taste.

‘Grapes, the same as wine,’ John said. ‘But it’s a particular type of grape, and the fermentation process is different.’

‘Not keen,’ Jack said. ‘Can I have a bottle of beer instead?’

‘No,’ John and I chorused. ‘You’re too young,’ I added. ‘Have your Coke if you don’t like the champagne.’

Looking after Jack was all about making compromises, and John and I made decisions about what Jack could or could not do based on common sense. We’d had no training on how to deal with teenagers and, without the experience of having had our own teenagers, we relied on what we thought was appropriate for a lad of fifteen. So if Jack went out with his mates in the evening he had to be in at 9.00 p.m. on a school night and 10.00 p.m. on a Friday or Saturday. Jack had been used to hanging out with his mates a lot, and John and I had reduced it to twice a week, as he had important school exams at the end of the year. We had insisted Jack told us where he was going and gave us a contact number if he was at a friend’s house. Jack hadn’t bucked against our ‘rules’ and indeed had seemed to respond positively to the boundaries we had put in place, understanding they were for his well-being.

Susan’s assertion that Jack would not give us any trouble had proved true. Apart from having to persuade him to shower each day rather than the once a week he was used to, we’d had little in the way of opposition. Because Jack was fifteen, John and I treated him as another adult in many respects, rather than a child in need of a mummy and daddy, and our confidence had grown from the positive results. Jack had easily fitted into our household, and his school work had improved dramatically. We only saw Jack’s social worker once (when he had brought Jack to us), and since then he’d phoned once to ask if Jack was OK. Jack was going to live with his dad, Sam, as soon as his dad had found somewhere suitable for the two of them to live. Jack had left his mother and her new partner after escalating rows, which had culminated in Jack’s stepfather punching Jack and Jack appearing at school the following day with a broken nose. We had met Sam briefly when he had come to the house shortly after Jack had moved in. Sam, a carpenter by trade, clearly thought a lot of his son, and had confided in John that he wished he’d taken Jack with him when he had left his mother. He now lived in a bed-sit and was looking forward to making a home for him and his son as soon as he found a two-bedroom flat at a rent he could afford.

‘I think my mum might be pregnant,’ Jack said towards the end of the celebratory meal. ‘The last time I saw her she was fat.’

I looked at him. ‘Oh yes? And how do you feel about your mum having a baby?’

Jack shrugged. ‘Not fussed. I guess I’ll visit her when I’m at my dad’s.’ Understandably Jack was hurt that his mother had chosen a partner who had abused him, and Jack blamed her for not stepping in and protecting him. He had seen her only a couple of times since he’d left.

‘You’ll probably all get along a lot better once you’re living at your dad’s and just visiting your mum.’ I said.

‘I guess,’ he said. ‘It’s up to her. She’s the adult. I think she should make the first move.’

John and I exchanged a knowing glance. Jack was an intelligent and sensitive lad, and it was a great pity his mother hadn’t given more thought to her son’s feelings when he had been at home.

‘Adults make mistakes too,’ I said smiling at Jack. ‘And sometimes it can take a while before they realise it.’

Jack moved in with his dad five months later, when I was seven and a half months pregnant. We met Jack’s social worker for the second time when he collected Jack to take him to his father’s. We had offered to take Jack but apparently the social worker had to move the child when he or she was officially in care. As we said goodbye to Jack, we wished him luck, and told him we had enjoyed having him stay, and to keep up with his school work.

‘Thanks for everything.’ Jack said with a small wave. ‘You’re both pretty cool as parents,’ which we took as a compliment. We had enjoyed looking after Jack and the experience had given us confidence in our ability to foster.

It was strange suddenly having the house to ourselves again, but also something of a relief, if I was honest. I was feeling quite tired towards the end of the pregnancy, and not having Jack meant that I could relax more in the evenings and weekends. It also meant that I didn’t have to be up at 7.00 a.m. during the week to get Jack off to school. We told the social services that we wouldn’t foster again until after I’d had the baby, and John and I then concentrated on us, and making sure we had everything ready for the big day. At nine months and five days’ gestation I went into labour and gave birth to a baby boy, 8lbs 3ozs – Adrian.

Our lives obviously changed with the arrival of the baby, although not as dramatically as it does for some couples when the woman has only recently given up work and suddenly has to adjust to being at home and looking after the baby. I had already given up work nearly a year before and had been looking after Jack. And although the needs of a baby are obviously very different from those of a fourteen-year-old, I was already in the caring/mothering role. In short, John and I took to parenthood like ducks to water. Life was running pretty smoothly, and we were feeling rather smug that we had adapted so easily. Perhaps we were too smug, because had we been struggling in our roles as new parents, we wouldn’t have entertained fostering another child again so quickly.

Adrian was only four months old when I answered the phone one morning to a social worker, Ruth.

‘I understand you have room for a teenager?’ she asked. I was on the sofa in the lounge, breastfeeding Adrian, and was balancing Adrian against me with one hand and the phone against my ear with the other.

‘Er, yes, well, no, not really,’ I said, taken completely by surprise. ‘I mean we do foster, but we’ve taken a break because I’ve had a baby.’

‘But you haven’t any foster children at present?’ Ruth asked.

‘Well, no.’

‘Good, so you could take Dawn. She’s thirteen, and at the teenage unit. I need to move her quickly. She’s too young to be at the unit, and she’s got herself into a bit of trouble.’ I didn’t know what to say. ‘Can I bring her to you this evening?’ Ruth asked.

I still didn’t know what to say. ‘I’ll have to speak to my husband first. We hadn’t planned …’

‘Could you phone him now, please, and I’ll phone you back in half an hour. It is important I get things moving.’

I could hear the urgency in Ruth’s voice and, ignoring her abruptness agreed to phone John – part of me was already caught up in the urgency of Ruth’s request.

John was in his office and surprised to hear from me. He was doubly surprised when I told him the nature of Ruth’s phone call.

‘It’s up to you,’ he said. ‘You’re the one who will have do most of the looking after during the week. Won’t it be too much for you with the baby as well?’

Lulled into a false sense of security by our experience of caring for Jack, I said, ‘No, I don’t think so. After all, she’ll be in school most of the week. I think we should.’

Chapter Three

Stranger in the Room

D
awn arrived with Ruth, her social worker, that evening at seven o’clock. John answered the door and showed them through to the lounge, where I was again feeding Adrian. Adrian was a big baby and seemed to be continually hungry – I spent most of the day in a state of undress.

‘Hi,’ I said to Dawn and Ruth, glancing up. ‘Don’t mind me. Do sit down.’

They both threw me a brief smile and sat on the sofa. Dawn was small for her age, slightly built, with fair, chin-length hair. She had grey-blue eyes and a light skin, and her features were pleasantly open, although she looked rather pale. She wore jeans and a black leather jacket, zipped up to the neck. It was the middle of February and cold outside, and although the heating was up high for Adrian she didn’t take off her jacket. Indeed she pulled her jacket further around her and gave a little shiver.

‘Would you like a hot drink?’ I offered.

‘No, thanks,’ she said politely.

‘Ruth, would you?’

‘No, I need to be off soon.’ Ruth was in her mid-forties, a large lady in a large pair of black trousers and beige jumper. She had slipped off her coat as she had entered the room and draped it over the sofa. We all looked at each other for a moment in uncomfortable silence. I had the feeling that Ruth and Dawn had had a disagreement before coming in: they sat at either end of the sofa, turned away from each other, and didn’t make eye contact.

‘How are you?’ I asked Dawn, breaking the silence. ‘How’s school?’

‘OK,’ she said convivially, throwing me another smile.

‘It would be if she went to school,’ Ruth said sharply. I glanced at John, and we both looked at Ruth. ‘Dawn hasn’t been attending school,’ Ruth said bluntly. ‘She seems to think it is a part-time occupation, and that she can just pop in when she feels like it. Her non-attendance has got her mother in a lot of trouble, hasn’t it, Dawn?’

Ruth now turned to look at Dawn for the first time, although her look was more of a glare. John and I looked at Dawn too.

‘I don’t like school,’ Dawn said flatly.

‘Why?’ I asked, feeling that her social worker could have been a bit more sympathetic, and aware that there were a number of reasons which could turn a child against school – for example bullying.

‘I don’t like the teachers,’ Dawn said. ‘And they don’t like me.’

Ruth sighed. ‘Oh, come off it, Dawn, they’ve bent over backwards to accommodate you. I don’t see how they could have done any more. You’re not the only child in that school, although from the way you behave clearly you think you are.’

Dawn shrugged dismissively, and I knew that my initial surmise that they had had an argument (presumably about school) was true.

‘Jack, the boy who stayed with us before, had problems with school,’ I said positively. ‘But he’s fine now. Perhaps I can help sort out your problems at school, Dawn?’

Ruth snorted. ‘Perhaps. Dawn’s mother certainly couldn’t.’

Dawn didn’t say anything and I felt sorry for her – Ruth was being so brusque in her manner, and Dawn seemed so small and almost fragile beside her. And I wondered what exactly had been going on at school to make Dawn so against it. Ruth glanced at her watch.

‘I’m going to set up a meeting with Dawn’s mother,’ Ruth said in a hurry. ‘And we’ll draw up a contract of good behaviour at the same time. We use contracts with teenagers so that all parties have an understanding of the expectations. It has no legal binding but a moral one. Hopefully Dawn will stick to it.’

Dawn looked up at me and smiled.

‘I’m sure she will,’ I said. ‘Is this contract a new idea? We didn’t have one with Jack.’

‘Yes, very new. It’s been tried by other social services, so we thought we’d give it a go.’ I nodded. ‘Dawn is an only child,’ Ruth continued, clearly wanting to say what she had to, and then leave. ‘She has been living partly with her mum and partly with her dad. And, as I said on the phone, Dawn has been in the teenage unit since she came into care three days ago, but she’s too young – it was only an emergency measure.’ Ruth glanced at her watch again. ‘OK, well, I’ll leave you to it then. Dawn’s bag is in the hall. There isn’t much. I’ll ask her mother for some more of her clothes when I set up the meeting.’ She stood.

John stood as well, ready to see Ruth out, as I winded Adrian. Ruth hesitated and glanced down at Dawn. ‘Is there anything you want to ask while I’m here,’ she said almost as an afterthought.

‘What time do I have to be in?’ Dawn said and looked at me. Ruth looked at me too.

‘You are thirteen, so I wouldn’t want you out on the streets after dark,’ I said. ‘I’m sure your mother wouldn’t want it either.’ John nodded.

Ruth looked pointedly at Dawn who lowered her eyes. ‘No,’ Ruth said. ‘I agree. But that doesn’t stop Dawn. When she sets her mind on doing something she does it regardless. Her mother isn’t able to control her, and that’s one of the reasons she’s in care – lack of parental control. So we’ll put coming in times in the contract, Dawn.’

Dawn shrugged, and that was it from Ruth. She called a brief goodbye to Dawn and me as she left the room with John. A few seconds later we heard John say goodbye, and the front door close. I continued massaging Adrian’s back and he obligingly let out a loud burp. Dawn laughed. Leaving the sofa, she came over and knelt beside my armchair for a closer look at Adrian.

John stuck his head round the lounge door. ‘I’m going to make a pot of tea. Does anyone want one?’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘And your dinner is in the oven.’

‘Yes, please, John.’ Dawn said, and began cooing at Adrian. Now that Ruth had left, Dawn was quickly thawing. ‘What a lovely baby,’ she said. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Adrian.’

‘That’s a nice name. How old is he?’

‘Four months.’

‘He’s so lovely. Aren’t you, Adrian? Aren’t you a lovely baby?’ Adrian was holding Dawn’s forefinger and waving it to and fro. ‘Look! He’s smiling at me,’ Dawn cried in delight. ‘I like babies. I’d like one of my own.’

‘They’re hard work,’ I said, feeling a bit overwhelmed (as Adrian must have been) by all this sudden and close attention.

‘But once you get them in a routine, it gets easier, doesn’t it?’ she asked.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I laughed. ‘I haven’t done that yet.’

‘My dad and his girlfriend have a baby but they won’t let me play with her. I think dad’s girlfriend is jealous. She’s only six years older than me and she says I don’t know how to hold a baby. But they won’t show me how to hold a baby, so how am I supposed to know?’ I looked at Dawn as she continued cooing at Adrian, besotted with him. I knew what was coming next.

‘Can I hold Adrian, please?’ Dawn said. ‘I’ll be very careful. You can show me how to hold him. Please.’ She quickly manoeuvred herself to sit cross-legged on the floor, and cradled her arms ready to receive him. I slipped from the chair and, squatting down beside her, carefully placed Adrian in her arms. While she rocked him and then began kissing his forehead, I supported his head, aware that my precious son was in the arms of a thirteen-year-old who had just walked through the door and whom I knew virtually nothing about.

‘What’s your name?’ Dawn suddenly asked, glancing up at me.

‘Cathy. Didn’t Ruth tell you?’

‘No. She was too busy nagging me. John told me his name at the front door but I didn’t know yours.’ Even then, with my lack of fostering experience, I thought it was pretty bad of the social worker to leave a child with someone whose name she didn’t even know. And while I knew Dawn’s first name I realised that I didn’t know her surname, date of birth or any details, other than those Ruth had just told me. At least Jack’s social worker had written the basic details on a sheet of paper.

‘What’s your surname, Dawn?’ I asked.

‘Jennings.’

I nodded. ‘And when’s your birthday?’

‘January the sixth.’

‘So you’re only just thirteen?’

‘Yes.’

Dawn’s rocking of Adrian had increased, and I was becoming concerned that it was a little too boisterous – more like a child playing with a doll than the careful soothing required for a fragile little being. ‘Very gently,’ I said, still supporting Adrian’s head and placing my free hand on her arm. ‘Babies’ backs aren’t very strong at this age.’ Fortunately at that moment John rescued Adrian by coming into the lounge carrying a tray containing his dinner and three mugs of tea, giving me an excuse to retrieve Adrian from Dawn’s arms.

‘Help yourself to a mug,’ I said. ‘Do you want something to eat?’

‘Only a biscuit. I had dinner at the teenage unit.’

John was about to go into the kitchen again to fetch the biscuits, but I said, ‘You have your dinner. Dawn and I can get the biscuits.’

‘Do you want me to carry Adrian?’ Dawn asked, immediately standing beside me and stretching out her arms ready to receive Adrian.

‘No thanks, love, I can manage. You can carry the biscuit tin.’ I led the way into the kitchen and pointed out the biscuit tin on the shelf. Dawn looked around the kitchen before taking down the tin. ‘You’ve got a nice place here. It looks new.’

I smiled. ‘John and I have been doing up the house. We’ve more or less finished now. I’ll show you your room later. I hope you like it.’

‘I’m sure I will. That teenage unit was horrible. There were three of us crammed in one room, and the other two were up all night. I couldn’t sleep. And when I stay at Mum or Dad’s I don’t really have a room of my own. Their flats are too small.’

‘So where did you sleep and keep all your belongings?’ I asked surprised and again feeling sorry for Dawn.

‘On the sofa. I haven’t got much stuff. I’ve got a few clothes at both flats, and there’s some in my bag.’

‘All right, love. We’ll take your bag up to your room later and sort out your things.’

Dawn and I returned to the lounge, where we chatted with John as he ate his dinner and Dawn ate most of the contents of the biscuit tin. I thought that in future I would make sure she ate proper meals, for I now wondered if she had had dinner at the teenage unit. She was slightly built and couldn’t afford to skip meals and then make up for it with biscuits. I sat with Adrian in my lap; he was contentedly gurgling, occasionally yawning and waving his arms. Dawn appeared to have lost her immediate interest in Adrian and had returned to sit on the sofa. John and I asked her about school, which according to her she did attend, but not regularly. I asked her if she found the work difficult or had problems with friends, but she said, ‘No, not really.’ So John and I assumed her non-attendance was more due to a lack of routine and parental guidance than school itself. From what Dawn said she appeared to have been shunted back and forth between her mum’s flat and her dad and his girlfriend’s, with neither parent actually taking charge of her or assuming responsibility. It seemed that she had fallen between the two of them and had just been left to get on with it, with both parents being too busy with their own lives and relationships to give Dawn the time and attention she needed.

I told Dawn that I would take her to school the following day in the car, and after that she could go on the bus as she had been doing, if she wanted to. The secondary school she went to, St James’s, was only a fifteen-minute bus journey away on the edge of the town. But I wanted to make myself known at the school and find out what I needed to do to help Dawn. I had done the same at Jack’s school with very positive results. Dawn accepted my suggestion quite affably, as indeed she accepted all our suggestions, including her bedtime, arrangements for seeing her friends (at their house or ours, not on the street), and that homework took priority over television. She appeared to be a good-humoured and sensible girl, who was immediately likeable and clearly wanted to get along with us and fit into our routine.

As 8.30 p.m. approached, the time we had said was a reasonable one for her to get ready for bed, Dawn stood, without being asked, and said, ‘I’ll say goodnight now, then.’

I was pleasantly surprised, as was John. Jack had needed reminders all the time he had been with us – to switch off his music or television, or stop whatever he was doing and get ready for bed.

‘I’m sure you two would like some time alone now,’ Dawn added, and I guessed that had probably come from staying with her dad and his girlfriend.

‘OK, love,’ I said, also standing. ‘I’ll come up and show you where everything is.’

‘Thanks, Cathy. Goodnight, John. Can I give you a kiss?’

John looked momentarily surprised but quickly recovered. ‘Yes, of course.’ Dawn went over and kissed John on top of the head. ‘’Night,’ he said.

I lay Adrian in John’s arms – they always spent time together in the evening once we had eaten – and went with Dawn into the hall. I picked up her one piece of luggage, a zip-up weekend holdall, and then led the way upstairs and to the second bedroom. I had given the room a good clean after Jack’s departure and it had stood empty since.

‘This is lovely,’ Dawn said looking round her bedroom.

‘I’m glad you like it. You’ll feel more at home when you have your things around you.’ John and I had kept the colours in the room neutral when we had decorated so that it would suit a boy or a girl. Adrian was still sleeping in his cot in our bedroom, but the third bedroom was ready for him as soon we felt he was old enough.

I placed Dawn’s bag on the bed and unzipped it. ‘You can hang your clothes in the wardrobe,’ I said. ‘And there are shelves for your books and CDs.’

It didn’t take long to unpack and Dawn didn’t need the wardrobe or shelving. The holdall contained a pair of jeans, a jumper, three pairs of pants, a pair of pyjamas and a wash bag.

‘What have you been wearing since you came into care?’ I asked, looking in horror at her few clothes.

‘This,’ she said, referring to what she wore.

‘And where’s your school uniform?’

‘I’ve got a skirt at Mum’s and a jumper at Dad’s. I never had a PE kit. They go on at me at school because I’m not in uniform.’ I wondered if this was one of the reasons Dawn was so against school – not wearing a uniform would get her into trouble with the staff and also single her out from her friends.