Moving Fostering Memoirs 2-Book Collection

As I crossed over a wide bridge, Phoebe leaned forward, shouting in my ear, ‘If I see any babies there, I’m going to kill them. I’m going to stab them with a knife and twist it ’til they’re dead!’

‘What did I tell you about that, Phoebe? You mustn’t say nasty things, it’s upsetting.’

She spent the rest of the journey repeating ‘It’s upsetting, it’s upsetting,’ over and over again so that by the time I turned into Jenny’s wide, tree-lined road I had counted backwards several times. ‘Here we are,’ I said, forcing joviality as I secured the brake. ‘Out we get.’ Phoebe leapt from the car and spun in circles, her arms flapping up and down in super-fast motion. I wondered what the girls would make of her, and the other foster kids, for that matter. It was an alarming sight, particularly with her blue eyes swivelling in unison.

Rachel, a foster carer who wouldn’t look out of place in a nightclub, pulled up behind my Vauxhall. I first met her two years earlier, on a paediatric first aid course. The moment she appeared in the classroom and took the seat next to mine, I knew we would be friends. Tall and curvy, she wore sparkly eye shadow and bold red lipstick. The curious fusion of glamour and mumsiness conjured an image of a nurturing ‘madame’. It was clear that she had a personality to match her bright wardrobe and soon we were bellowing with laughter.

She was dressed in her customary tight skirt and colourful, silky vest top, a cluster of bracelets jingling as she waved at us before reaching into the back seat of her car to pick up her latest charge. Katy was eight months old and had only been with Rachel for three weeks, but the little one was already attached, crying whenever she left her sight.

Phoebe rushed over and planted her face barely two centimetres from Katy’s.

I followed quickly behind.

‘Be nice, Phoebe,’ I warned.

‘I like your baby, lady …’

Rachel’s brightly made-up face lit up with a wide smile. ‘That’s nice – I expect she likes you too. I’m Rachel, and you must be Phoebe. Rosie’s told me all about you.’ A whizz with young children, Rachel grinned and hunched her shoulders at Phoebe while taking a subtle step backwards to give the baby some breathing space. ‘Shall we go in and you can help me give her a bottle, if you’d like?’

‘I’d rather eat the baby,’ Phoebe said in an earnest voice. ‘Can I bite her? I have sharp teeth – we could see what colour her blood is.’

Rachel looked at me and chuckled. ‘Well, that doesn’t sound too healthy, if you ask me, honey. But tell you what, I have some cakes in this bag – why don’t you carry it in, give it to Jenny? We can eat some of those instead.’

Phoebe shook her head. ‘No, yuck, I only eat porridge or chocolate.’ She turned abruptly, bounding off up the path. The door was eagerly opened by Jenny; despite being in her early 50s the foster carer gave off a youthful aura, with her slim figure and keen, intelligent face.

‘Hello, lovey, so wonderful to meet you! Come in, come in! I’m Jenny. I bet your name’s Phoebe, am I right?’

‘Am I right?’ Phoebe sneered, surprising Jenny by squeezing past so forcibly that the foster carer almost lost her footing.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mouthed as I reached the door, closely followed by Rachel and the baby.

Jenny laughed and hugged me freely. ‘You did warn us,’ she said under her breath, giving my shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

She led us into a large living room, with a double set of large patio doors at one end overlooking a well-maintained, child-friendly garden. A large sofa was placed either side of a long coffee table, with several armchairs dotted around the space as well. On one of the walls was a framed tapestry of a child’s handprint with the words, ‘Quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep, I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep,’ embroidered in the cloth. Her house was immaculate, with a lingering smell of furniture polish, but it was comfortable too, and Jenny was so laid-back that I wasn’t terrified to sit down in case I crumpled the cushions, which was just as well, because Phoebe had already made herself at home. She was jumping up and down on one of the sofas and she still had her shoes on.

‘Get down from there, Phoebe,’ I said, striding forward with my arm outstretched.

‘Come on, let’s get you some colouring out, shall we?’ Jenny chipped in.

Phoebe jumped off the sofa in an instant, skipping off to follow Jenny. Her skills at distraction were impressive and I felt grateful that a battle had been averted.

Jenny returned a few minutes later, having settled Phoebe at a wooden table on the patio, a large assortment of pens and crayons laid out in front of her. She had left the garden doors open just an inch, probably so that we could talk in private.

‘Here he is!’ she cried as a dark-haired little boy walked shyly into the room, a cuddly toy clutched in his hand. He made straight for Jenny, burying his face in her skirt before peering shyly at us from behind her legs.

‘Hello, Billy,’ I said, crouching to greet him. Rachel, with Katy in her arms, waved hello with her free hand.

Billy glanced up at Jenny several times, seeking reassurance. I could almost visualise the thoughts behind those questioning eyes. Were these adults to be trusted or were they like the ones he had known before? Three years old, Billy had been placed with Jenny five months earlier due to severe neglect. The change in him over that period was staggering. She smiled down at him.

‘You remember Rosie, don’t you, sweetie? And that’s Rachel,’ she murmured softly.

‘Wosie and Wakel,’ he lisped sweetly, daring a smile.

‘What have you got there, Billy?’ I asked. He glanced up at Jenny again. On another smile from her he walked over and rested a plump hand on my knee, lifting his cuddly toy until it was a few centimetres from my eyes.

‘Bunny,’ he said. ‘Jenny got him for me.’

I felt a moment’s tightening in my stomach, a longing for the all-encompassing, defining comfort that young children offer.

Jenny grinned, her expression doting. ‘Come on, Billy. Let’s introduce you to Phoebe and you can do some colouring with her.’ I felt a familiar prickle of anxiety as she took Billy’s hand and led him to the table, wondering whether Phoebe could be trusted to be in such close proximity with a little one. So I took a seat in one of the armchairs nearest the garden, close enough to leap up at the first sign of trouble.

While the kettle boiled, Jenny answered the door to Liz, a former primary school head teacher who had made the decision to give up the position she had worked hard to achieve so that she could focus on her ambition of improving the futures of under-privileged children by helping them achieve academically.

Jenny came in with a tray laden with tea, pastries and biscuits. As Rachel reached for her tea, I marvelled at how she found time to match her lipstick with her nail polish. Running my bitten fingernails through my own less than neat hair, I realised I could learn a few lessons from her.

‘So how’s it going?’ Liz murmured, lowering herself onto a bright pink beanbag next to the sofa.

‘Apart from the plate-throwing, kicking, swearing and self-harming, you mean?’ I answered wryly. ‘Couldn’t be better. How about you?’

Liz had recently taken on a 14-year-old girl who had worked her way through four carers in three months. I knew she was reluctant to give up on her but it was clear her extreme behaviour was taking its toll on the family.

Liz dragged her hands down her face and sighed. ‘I had to take her to A&E the other day. She came in around lunchtime, staggering around the house like she’d had a stroke. Her eyes were glazed over and she couldn’t formulate her words, not that she’s that coherent at the best of times. Anyway, doctors couldn’t work out what was wrong with her and gave her a CAT scan. Turns out the girl had inserted a tampon inside herself – soaked in gin.’

‘What?’ we exclaimed in horrified unison. ‘Why?’

Liz rolled her eyes. ‘New craze, apparently. The smell is undetectable that way and they can get away with consuming litres of the stuff, even at school.’

‘No!’ We stared at each other in amazement and I made a mental note to contact Ellie, the glamorous local authority tutor, so that she could add yet another shocker to her list of outrageous facts.

I found myself relaxing into the armchair, the adult contact reviving me. I loved our regular meet-ups. There was a camaraderie among us that reminded me of being back at school, each of us understanding the unique challenges that came with fostering. The gossip and scandal helped me feel less isolated, part of a team, but most valuable of all was the mutual support and kindness. Our backgrounds were quite different: Jenny was the middle-class one and probably the only carer in our group who could still afford to foster if there was no allowance available. Her husband ran some sort of internet trading company based in London, staying in the city and travelling back home for weekends. With both of her own children at university, I got the impression that Jenny would have been lonely, if not for the company of the children she fostered.

Liz had been drawn to fostering after working at an inner-city school where the catchment area took in several housing estates. She had often sent the most deprived children home with a few treats tucked into their book bag but for years had longed to take a more direct role in helping to improve their long-term prospects. Often she would come out with depressing statistics about how children fared once they left the care system, radiating frustration as she told us that 40 per cent of the prison population had spent time in care as children and almost one third of fostered children leave school with no qualifications. Her determination to make a difference was inspiring and I loved her company, but of all the foster carers I knew Rachel was the one I probably felt closest to.

In many ways we mirrored each other in our life experiences. Soon after the birth of her second child Rachel had moved with her husband to the US, returning six months later as a single parent. During one of our coffee mornings she had tearfully confided in me that, while she had found the move to an unfamiliar country difficult, her husband had embraced all that was American, reserving most enthusiasm, it seemed, for its female citizens.

Fostering gave Rachel the opportunity to gain the large, happy family she had always yearned for, as well as helping to distract her from her own angst by turning her focus outwards. The sense of achievement she gained from helping children was gradually boosting her battered self-esteem, but, like me, Rachel was one of those carers who found it difficult to let go and so, for her, fostering was a bit of a roller-coaster ride.

‘Have you heard how Tess and Harry are doing?’ Jenny asked. ‘Can’t be long now until you meet up with them, is it?’

Jenny must have noticed my crestfallen face because she quickly added, ‘Oh dear,’ before I’d even managed to nod my head or gather a response. The trauma of yesterday’s letter had settled into a background ache but still it was hard to ignore and there was a quaver in my voice as I spoke: ‘They’ve decided to make a clean break – I got a letter from the couple yesterday.’

They all listened, Rachel pressing her hands to her heart and shaking her head as my eyes filled up. ‘Ah, but they were so attached to you,’ she said, her dangly earrings trembling in a heartfelt way as if each bead was independently attuned to our conversation.

‘The inevitable happened, then?’ Jenny asked.

What I needed from Jenny and the others at that moment was indignation to match my own, so I took the remark badly.

‘It wasn’t inevitable,’ I said spikily. I wanted to dissect the new parents’ failure to keep their promises of staying in touch and was ready to welcome bitter remarks from all. The more vitriol the better, as far as I was concerned. I was thirsty for it, such was the mood I was in. ‘It didn’t have to be that way – I could have been auntie to them and …’