Moving Fostering Memoirs 2-Book Collection

Flitting in and out of the space, she arranged soft toys on every available surface. Twisting a set of lights around the struts at the foot of the bed, she announced a sudden brainwave. ‘I still have my old stick-arounds, pink butterflies and stuff. We could decorate the walls to make it look more girlie in here.’

‘Lovely idea,’ I said as she rushed past me en route to her own bedroom. I was grateful that she and Jamie remained as committed to fostering as I was. In any fostering family, birth children sometimes get overlooked. Foster children can demand a high level of attention but Emily and Jamie never seemed to resent having to share my time – they just seemed to want to make life better for whoever stayed with us, particularly the most troubled youngsters. I regularly reminded them that by being friendly and welcoming, they helped to do just that.

‘Did they say how long she’d be staying?’ Emily asked, breathlessly separating sticky butterflies from the dusty packet she had retrieved from her room.

I pictured my scribbled notes and shook my head. Actually I knew very little about Phoebe and certainly had no idea how long the placement would last, but that was often the way. When children arrive as an emergency, the on-call foster carer is obliged to keep them for 72 hours, but as I had a vacancy it made sense for Phoebe to stay with us for as long as necessary.

As I was a short-term foster carer, the placement could last anything from one night to four or five years. The aim of short-term or ‘task-based’ fostering is to support the child through the uncertain stage when their birth family is being assessed by the local authority; if a Care Order is secured through the courts, the child needs to be primed for permanency with long-term carers.

With the room ready, Emily followed me downstairs and into the living room. I sank into the sofa and she flopped beside me. ‘I wish they’d hurry up,’ she said, laying her head on my shoulder.

My whirlwind son, Jamie, was far less effusive in his excitement. ‘Why couldn’t it have been a boy?’ he asked from his position on the two-seater sofa, though he still tapped out a rhythm on the window sill with restless fingers, eager to catch a first sight of his new housemate. ‘Girls are boring.’

I smiled to myself. While Emily was a sensitive soul, contemplative and always receptive to the feelings of others, my son says what he sees. ‘You know where you are with Jamie,’ was a comment made by several of his teachers. I presume it was a compliment.

‘Right, so we all remember the safe caring rules, don’t we?’

Jamie clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Oh, heck, here we go,’ he groaned. ‘We’re not stupid, Mum!’

‘It’s important that we protect ourselves, Jamie, as well as Phoebe.’ I knew that they both tired of being reminded to stay out of all bedrooms except their own and to avoid physical ‘horseplay’ with the foster children but it was so easy to forget, especially once the children have settled and everyone adjusts to the new dynamics of having an extra person around.

An exhilarated excitement buzzed through my veins, as it did at the beginning of every placement. Everything to come would be new and mysterious, offering our family a whole new set of challenges. Before the year was out we would encounter an extreme range of disturbing behaviours and Phoebe would be one of the most extraordinary, heartbreaking placements we had ever taken on.

But in the companionable peace of our cosy living room, I had no sense of the enormity of what we were about to face.

Chapter 3 (#u8b0fe4c2-ebf3-57a7-9780-4f35f93aafa6)

It was Jamie who first spotted something was amiss.

He was standing excitedly at the window to watch for her arrival, and I could tell by the quiver in his voice that the young girl walking up the path wasn’t at all what he was expecting.

‘Mum, she’s … er, Phoebe’s here.’

With the sound of my own heartbeat rushing in my ears I reached the door as the bell rang, giving me just enough time to smooth down my unruly, unwashed hair. ‘Hello, Phoebe,’ I said, the friendly smile on my face stiffening as I caught sight of the 120 centimetres of disgruntlement standing on the doorstep. One glance told me that the description ‘warm and friendly’ might have been a tad overgenerous.

‘Hello, Phoebe,’ she mimicked with a sneer before barging past me into the hall.

‘Goodness, well, come in,’ I said, with false brightness. All of the children I have looked after have exhibited some level of ‘challenging’ behaviour but on first arriving in a new placement, most were withdrawn; only once they felt safe enough to test the boundaries did the difficult behaviour begin to emerge, signalling the end of the honeymoon period.

It was the first sign that Phoebe would turn everything I thought I knew about childcare completely on its head.

Lenke, Phoebe’s social worker, hovered on the path. She was a rotund, bosomy woman, and I groaned inwardly as I stepped aside and welcomed her in. The previous year the Hungarian social worker had been responsible for a child I had accepted for a fortnight’s respite and though I’d got on fine with her, I formed the strong impression that her heart really wasn’t in the job. Besides a laissez-faire attitude, she didn’t seem to have a clue what she was doing.

Whatever I had asked for, whether it was GP details or a contact schedule, a blank expression would cross her face, followed by a futile search through the dog-eared contents of her overlarge leather bag. A sketchy command of the English language on top of her air of disinterest was one complication too many and in short, communication had been a trifle frustrating.

A loud chanting from the living room quickened my step along the hall.

‘Jamie, Jamie, Jamie! Wet willy, wet willy!’

‘Lovely it is to see you again, Rosie,’ Lenke said breezily to my back, as though the walls of the hallway were not vibrating with the sound of piercing screeches coming from the living room.

The first thing I noticed when I stood in the doorway was the horrified expression on my son’s face. He was arching over the back of the sofa, fending Phoebe off with his arms as she fought to stick her wet finger in his ear.

‘Stop that please, Phoebe,’ I said, my voice sharp. Clearly there was to be no honeymoon period in this placement and the sooner she learnt who was in charge, the better.

‘Stop that please, Phoebe,’ she mimicked again. Although she was using a high-pitched, scornful tone, I could tell immediately that she was well-spoken, each word precisely clipped. Thankfully my own tone had an effect. Although she fixed me with a brazen look she stopped what she was doing and began staring at me with a nasty, twisted smile on her face.

‘I’m going to my room,’ Jamie wheezed. He passed me with his head bent over so I couldn’t see his expression but the slope of his shoulders told me how he was feeling. Despite his protestations about wanting a boy, I knew he had been looking forward to meeting Phoebe.

‘OK, Jamie, that’s fine,’ I said, my voice tight as a sudden guilt clawed at my throat. What had I taken on here?

‘I’m going too.’ Phoebe flipped over the sofa and charged across the room but I stepped backwards to fill the doorway by stretching out my arms.

‘No.’ I summoned my most commanding tone. ‘We don’t go into each other’s rooms. Now go and sit down. I’ll show you around the house later, if you sit nicely while I talk to Lenke.’

‘Sit nicely while I talk to Lenke,’ she repeated, spinning around and returning to the sofa. Lenke walked past and I gestured for her to take a seat. The social worker headed for the opposite end of the sofa, hardly looking at Phoebe, who sat with her legs sprawled, glaring at me. Her hair was brown and frizzy-looking. The style was boyish, cut short to make the wiry texture more manageable, I imagined. Her eyes were appealing, light brown in colour, but seemed to swivel, giving her a slightly deranged look, and she was scarily thin, so much so that the skin across her cheekbones had a translucent quality.

‘How about we find some colouring for you to do, Phoebe?’ I said, crossing the room. ‘Emily, would you mind fetching the pens and some paper? Phoebe can sit at the table while Lenke and I chat through some of the boring details.’

Emily was watching Phoebe, intrigued. ‘Sure,’ she answered, giving me a sidelong glance. ‘Come on, Phoebe.’

‘Come on, Phoebe,’ she chorused. Emily giggled in response and out of nowhere I remembered reading A Series of Unfortunate Events to her when she was younger. One of the characters in the book, the headmaster, mocked everything the Baudelaire children said. His outlandishly rude character had captured Emily’s imagination at the time and she found it hilarious. I wondered if she was thinking the same as me.

‘Would you like tea, coffee?’

‘No, it is fine.’ Lenke waved her hand and pulled her substantial coat a little tighter around herself. She looked distinctly uncomfortable. The social worker wants this over with, I realised, as I sat next to her on the sofa.

‘So,’ I said in hushed tones once Phoebe was settled at the dining table. Our house is open-plan so even though I could still see her, she was out of earshot. ‘What’s the story with Phoebe?’

‘Oh,’ Lenke waved her hand dismissively. ‘Phoebe, she has a touch of, er, what you say?’

I shook my head.

‘Er,’ she hesitated then reached into her bag, pulling out her diary and flicking through it as if the word she was looking for would miraculously leap from the page. ‘I do not have the, what is it, the papers yet. It was all such an emergency. But it is, er, I think you say autism?’

‘Autism?’ I said, louder than intended. Phoebe inclined her head, staring at me with a strange grin on her face and then, without warning, she threw her head back and began barking. ‘That wasn’t mentioned by the agency,’ I said over the din. Of course, autism would explain her erratic behaviour. The mimicking, screeching and barking made much more sense now.

‘Well, it’s how you say, erm, mildly, not much autistic.’

‘Really?’ In the background I could see Phoebe flapping her arms in front of herself like a demented penguin. That could never be described as mild, I thought drily, not in any language. Emily was watching the antics of the new arrival, her eyes wide with fascination.

‘Why was she taken into police protection?’

Lenke watched my lips avidly. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I said …’ I raised my voice again to compete with the animal noises coming from across the room. Phoebe fixed me with another icy stare. ‘Why has she been removed?’

‘Er, she is, erm, telling one of her teachers today that her mum hurt her arm. She twist it behind her back, so she say.’