Angels in Our Hearts: A moving collection of true fostering stories

With breakfast on the table, the three older children take their places; Jamie, unsurprisingly, the first to sit down.

‘Come on, Charlie. Breakfast time,’ I say.

Knowing how desperate Charlie was to eat yesterday, I can hardly believe that he rejects the invitation with barely a glance, continuing to play with Phoebe’s toys.

‘Come on, honey.’ I slip my hands under his arms and try to lift him to his feet, but he arches his back then suddenly plays dead, taking advantage of my surprise by wriggling free. I lunge for him a couple of times but he dodges me, screeching in triumph. I suppose I should feel encouraged, knowing that he would only strop if feeling safe and secure. Part of me feels pleased. The rest of me is weary.

‘Guess what I’ve got over here,’ Jamie says, his tone enticing.

Charlie’s head shoots around, so I go and take my place at the table, leaving my son to work the magic therapy that seems to come so easily to children.

‘I think Charlie’s going to like this, Mum,’ Jamie says, lowering his voice theatrically.

It’s one of his strengths, the art of persuasion. I’m convinced that my son has the makings of a future MP. The beginning of a smile touches Charlie’s lips and he crawls slowly to the table, kneeling up when he reaches Jamie’s chair.

‘Me see?’

Jamie shakes his head. ‘Sit up first, then I’ll show you.’ I could have hugged him.

Charlie performs a convoluted roll onto his tummy then rises on all fours, drawing the whole process out as long as he can. Standing, he plants such a small part of his bottom on the chair that he has to grip hold of the edge of the table for balance. He looks at me, a glint of defiance still lurking in his eyes. I lean back in my chair and stretch, heading off a battle of wills by looking casual and faking a yawn.

‘Me see now?’

‘OK,’ Jamie announces, strumming a drum beat on the table. ‘Are you ready? Ta-da!’ he shouts, producing a banana.

Expecting Charlie’s face to fall with disappointment I prepare to grab him before he slips off his seat, but I’m surprised to find that his eyes widen in amazement.

‘S’dat?’ he asks, pointing.

‘It’s a banana, of course. That’s so obvious,’ Phoebe says, tutting and rolling her eyes.

Jamie peels the fruit, looking at me.

‘Can he have some, Mum?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Charlie sticks his finger into the fruit and it breaks in half. He picks it up and turns it over several times in his hands, looking at it with the same interest that he showed in the toothbrush. Emily, realising the significance, cocks her head on her shoulder, her eyes brimming with tears.

‘Ah, bless him, Mum,’ she says quietly, looking towards me. ‘I don’t think he’s ever seen a banana before.’

Since Charlie had been removed from home suddenly, contact with his mother is arranged at the earliest opportunity. Tracy Smith was offered a session at 9 a.m. but she declined, pronouncing early mornings ‘difficult’. And so at a few minutes before 11 a.m. on Monday morning I walk into the contact centre with Charlie pottering along behind, so close that the soles of my feet brush his little legs with every stride. Knowing how much reassurance Charlie craves, I desperately hope that the meeting will go well.

The receptionist smiles a welcome and tells me that Tracy is waiting for us in the Oak suite, one of the contact rooms. I tense as we pass through a large waiting area; liaising with birth parents can be tricky. Emotions, understandably, run high and sometimes foster carers bear the brunt of it.

We pass a thin woman in her early thirties sitting on a dark-blue sofa. My attention is drawn to her because she’s wearing flip-flops, even though it’s November. She stares blankly at the wall ahead and I can’t help but notice that her eyes are glazed over with the vacant look of a toddler watching television on a loop.

Scanning the wall opposite, I can’t work out what she’s so transfixed by. It’s bare, barring a few scratches in the paintwork and other, more dubious-looking splotches. It looks like someone has been preparing to redecorate. Apart from traces of old Blu-tack, there’s no sign of the posters that usually feature in contact centres – ‘Are You Claiming All You’re Entitled to?’ or ‘Domestic Violence Is a Crime, Report It.’

As we near the Oak suite, Charlie runs two or three feet ahead, enticed by the sight of unfamiliar toys. I find myself absent-mindedly imagining the posters that might feature in less impoverished areas, perhaps ‘Trouble Finding Suitable Stables? Have You Considered Pony Sharing?’ or ‘Inheritance Tax a Burden? Call Us for Independent Financial Advice’. It’s only when I catch up with Charlie and see that no one else is in the playroom that I stop mid-step, some inbuilt facial-recognition program finally kicking into gear. Charlie’s already mounting a rather sickly looking rocking horse and so I leave him where he is, walking backwards from the room so that I can still keep my eye on him but check out the woman on the sofa. There’s definitely a family resemblance.

‘Excuse me,’ I call out, hovering midway between the playroom and the waiting area. ‘Are you Charlie’s mother?’

There’s a prolonged pause before she turns around, as if she’s a news reporter communicating via a temperamental satellite link. Eventually she nods and stands, unsmiling, staring as she walks towards me with the same unswerving attention that she gave the blank wall. She carefully negotiates every step and as she approaches I realise why she looks like she’s being operated by remote control; she smells strongly of alcohol and cigarettes. Her pale blonde hair is greasy and so is her face, like she’s coated in some sort of filmy substance. She’s wearing a short denim skirt and her thin legs, not surprisingly considering the weather, are mottled by the cold.

My hand flickers at my side as she nears, as I wonder whether to offer a handshake. Tracy resolves my indecision by walking past me, straight into the playroom.

‘There you are, Charlie. Wha’d’ya go walking right past me for?’

Charlie swings around to the door, slipping off the horse and landing awkwardly on his bottom. He whimpers and cradles his head but it’s me he looks to for reassurance, even though his mother is standing closer to him. Already we share an unspoken understanding. After such a short time I am his ‘safe base’, his source of protection and comfort; yet another serious cause for concern. I smile with a sympathetic glance but don’t do anything more; experience has taught me that nothing winds mothers up more ferociously than taking over and playing mum in their presence.

It’s only then that Tracy acknowledges me, giving a curt nod.

‘I’m Rosie,’ I say, smiling, willing her to scoop Charlie up.

She doesn’t. Bending over, she knocks his shoulder with the back of her hand. Accidentally? With affection? It’s difficult to tell, but what’s obvious is that Charlie’s now hyper-alert; if he were a kitten his back would be arched, his fur up on end. His bottom lip quivers. The sympathy I feel for him swells to fill up my chest and I feel irritated with myself for ever feeling any for her.

Rotating on his bottom, Charlie follows her around the room with his eyes. Instead of sitting beside him on the floor as I had hoped, she sits on one of the straight-backed chairs at the rear of the room and reaches into her handbag for her phone.

Charlie continues to study her, his brow furrowed. Is he looking for clues as to her mood? I wonder. There are a hundred questions in that little stare, one of which is perhaps, ‘Why?’ Tracy’s bland expression must signal safety on this occasion because he potters over to her, resting a small but slightly hesitant hand on her knee.

‘I’ve ’at to get two buses to get here, and they haven’t given me no fare money yet,’ she moans, lips tight with bitterness.

I hesitate, not sure how to respond. Does she expect me to commiserate?

‘How tiring,’ I manage to say, couching my words in an overly polite tone.

Take a look at your son, I want to say. He looks so alone. I find myself eager for contact to come to an end so I can draw him into a cuddle. It won’t be the same, it won’t mean as much, but it might go some way towards soothing that furrowed brow. Does she not know that it’s her job to show him how lovable he is?

Before I became a foster carer I’d never considered that the ability to accept love was a skill that needed to be learned. I’d imagined that every child exits the womb with an innate capacity to be cherished. Tracy, surly and hostile, yet curiously frail, looks like she’s never had an affectionate cuddle in her life. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that she can’t pass a gift on to her son that she herself was never given in the first place. Remembering how ferociously Charlie clung to me as I put him to bed last night I can’t help but feel terribly sad, knowing that he had to come to a stranger to get some affection.

Out of nowhere Charlie lunges at Tracy, scratching her face. She gasps and clamps her hand to her cheek, the other bunching into a fist.

‘You f*cking bully!’ she screams, looking ready to shake him. Her eyes dart from him to me, weighing up whether she can get away with giving him a quick slap. ‘See what he did to me?’

It was glaringly obvious that Charlie lashed out in desperation for some sort of attention. Negative or not, anything was better than indifference.

‘He’s a little animal. Like yer f*cking dad, you are.’

He learned at your feet, I feel tempted to say. Instead I stay silent, making a conscious effort to loosen my tightened jaw. Since fostering I’ve battled to master my renegade expressions, but by the look of suspicion on Tracy’s face my success is questionable.

The awkward moment passes when her mobile goes off.

‘Hello,’ she says, brushing Charlie aside and resting her crusted feet on a large yellow tipper truck. For the next half an hour she receives a number of different calls while I play with her son, each conversation peppered with swear words. I like to think I’m not a prude – actually, remembering some of the conversations I’ve had with the likes of Amy and other teens, I know I’m not – but I can’t help bristling at the vulgarity of this woman. The most attention Charlie gets from her is when she hangs up on someone called Dwayne and holds up her phone to take a picture of him.

‘Photos aren’t allowed during contact, I’m afraid,’ I tell her.

Tracy’s face reddens as she rises and, sensing an ill wind, I steer Charlie towards a wooden garage and a box of cars, hoping he’ll become absorbed. Her feet slap slap towards me and she stops barely a foot away.