The Night the Angels Came

‘Cathy,’ Stella said, looking at me, ‘I think it would be really useful if we could start with you telling us a bit about yourself and your family. Then Patrick,’ she said, looking at him, ‘would you like to go next and tell Cathy about you and Michael?’

Patrick nodded, while I straightened in my chair and tried to gather my thoughts. I don’t like being first to talk at meetings, although I’m a lot better now at speaking in meetings than I used to be when I first began fostering; then I used to be so nervous I became tongue-tied and unable to say what I wanted to. ‘I’ve been a foster carer for nine years,’ I began. ‘I have two children of my own, a boy and a girl, aged eight and four. I was married but unfortunately I’m now separated and have been for nearly two years. My children have grown up with fostering and enjoy having children staying with us. They are very good at helping the child settle in. It’s obviously very strange for the child when they first come to stay and they often talk to Adrian and Paula before they feel comfortable talking to me.’ I hesitated, uncertain of what to say next.

‘Could you tell us what sort of things you do at weekends?’ Jill suggested.

‘Oh yes. Well, we go out quite a lot – to parks, museums and places of interest. Sometimes to the cinema. And we see my parents, my brother and my cousins quite regularly. They all live within an hour’s drive away.’

‘It’s nice to do things as a family,’ Patrick said.

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘We’re a close family and obviously the child we look after is always included as part of our family and in family activities. I make sure all the children have a good Christmas and birthday,’ I continued. ‘And in the summer we try and go on a short holiday, usually to the coast in England.’ Patrick nodded. ‘I encourage the children in their hobbies and interests and I always make sure they are at school on time. If they have any homework I like them to do it before they play or watch television.’ I stopped and racked my brains for what else I should tell him. It was difficult giving a comprehensive thumbnail sketch of our lives in a few minutes.

‘Did you bring some photographs?’ Jill prompted.

‘Oh yes. I nearly forgot.’ I delved into my bag and took out the envelope containing photos that I had hastily robbed from the albums that morning. I passed them to Patrick and we were all quiet for some moments as he looked through them. There were about a dozen, showing my family in various rooms in the house, the garden, and also our cat, Toscha. Had I had more notice I would have put a small album together and labelled the photos.

Patrick smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he said, returning the photos to the envelope and then handing them back to me. ‘You have a lovely family and home. I’m sure if Michael stayed with you he would feel very comfortable.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Can I have a look at the photos?’ Stella asked. I passed the envelope to her. ‘While I look at these,’ she said to Patrick, ‘perhaps you’d like to say a bit about you and Michael?’

Patrick nodded, cleared his throat and shifted slightly in his chair. He looked at me as he spoke. ‘First, Cathy, I would like to thank you for coming here today and considering looking after my son when I am no longer able to. I can tell from the way you talk that you are a caring person and I know if Michael comes to stay with you, you will look after him very well.’ I gave a small smile and swallowed the lump rising in my throat as Patrick continued, so brave yet so very ill. Now he was talking I could see how much effort it took. He had to pause every few words to catch his breath. ‘It will come as no surprise to you to learn I was originally from Ireland,’ he continued with a small smile. ‘I know I haven’t lost my accent, although I’ve been here nearly twenty years. I came here when I was nineteen to work on the railways and liked it so much I stayed.’ Which made Patrick only thirty-nine years old, I realized. ‘Unfortunately I lost both my parents to cancer while I was still a young man. Cathy, you are very lucky to have your parents, and your children, grandparents. Cherish and love them dearly; parents are a very special gift from God.’

‘Yes, I know,’ I said, feeling my eyes mist. Get a grip, I told myself.

‘Despite my deep sadness at losing both my parents so young,’ Patrick continued, ‘I had a good life. I earned a decent wage and went out with the lads – drinking too much and chasing women, as Irish lads do. Then I met Kathleen and she soon became my great love. I gave up chasing other women and we got married and settled down. A year later our darling son, Michael, was born. We were so very happy. Kathleen and I were both only children – unusual for an Irish family – but we both wanted a big family and planned to have at least three children, if not four. Sadly it was not to be. When Michael was one year old Kathleen was diagnosed with cancer of the uterus. She died a year later. She was only twenty-eight.’

He stopped and stared at the floor, obviously remembering bittersweet moments from the past. The room was quiet. Jill and Stella were concentrating on their notepads, pens still, while I looked at the envelope of photographs I still held in my hand. So much loss and sadness in one family, I thought; it was so unfair. But cancer seems to do that: pick on one family and leave others free.

‘Anyway,’ Pat said casually, after a moment. ‘Clearly the good Lord wanted us early.’

I was taken aback and wanted to ask if he really believed that, but it didn’t seem appropriate.

‘To the present,’ Patrick continued evenly. ‘For the last six years, since my dear Kathleen was taken, there’s just been Michael and me. I didn’t bring lots of photos with me, but I do have one of Michael which I carry everywhere. Would you like to see it?’

I nodded. He tucked his hand into his inside jacket pocket and took out a well-used brown leather wallet. I watched, so touched, as Patrick’s emaciated fingers trembled slightly and he fumbled to open the wallet. Carefully sliding out the small photo, about two inches square, he passed it to me.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘What a smart-looking boy!’

Patrick smiled. ‘It’s his most recent school photo.’

Michael sat upright in his school uniform, hair neatly combed, slightly turned towards the camera, with a posed impish grin on his face. There could be no doubt he was Patrick’s son, with his father’s blue eyes, pale complexion and pleasant expression: the likeness was obvious.

‘He looks so much like you,’ I said as I passed the photo to Jill.

Patrick nodded. ‘And he’s got my determination, so don’t stand any nonsense. He knows not to answer back and to show adults respect. His teacher says he’s a good boy.’

‘I’m sure he is a real credit to you,’ I said, touched that Patrick should be concerned that his son’s behaviour didn’t deteriorate even when he was no long able to oversee it.

Jill showed the photograph to Stella and handed it back to Patrick. Patrick then went on to talk a bit about Michael’s routine, foods he liked and disliked, his school and favourite television programmes, all of which I would talk to him about in more detail if Michael came to stay with us. Patrick admitted his son hadn’t really had much time to pursue interests outside the home because of Patrick’s illness and having to help his father, although Michael did attend a lunchtime computer club at school. ‘I’m sure there are a lot of things I should have told you that I’ve missed,’ Patrick wound up, ‘so please ask me whatever you like.’

‘Perhaps I could step in here,’ Stella said. We looked at her. ‘I think the first issue we should address is the matter of Michael’s religion. Patrick and Michael are practising Catholics and Cathy’s family are not. How do you both feel about that?’ She looked at Patrick first.

‘Well, I won’t be asking Cathy to convert,’ he said with a small laugh. ‘But I would like Michael to keep attending Mass on a Sunday morning. If Cathy could take and collect him, friends of mine who also go can look after him while he’s there. I’ve been going to the same church a long time and the priest is aware of my illness, and does what he can to help.’

‘Would this arrangement work?’ Stella asked me.

‘Yes, I don’t see why not,’ I said, although I realized it would curtail us going out for the day each Sunday.

‘If you had something planned on a Sunday,’ Patrick said, as if reading my thoughts, ‘Michael could miss a week or perhaps he could go to the earlier mass at eight a.m.?’

‘Yes, that’s certainly possible,’ I said.

‘Thank you,’ Patrick said. Then quietly, almost as a spoken afterthought, ‘I hope Michael continues to go to church when I’m no longer here, but obviously that will be his decision.’

‘So can we just confirm what we have decided?’ Stella said, pausing from writing on her notepad. ‘Patrick, you don’t have a problem with Cathy not being a Catholic as long as Michael goes to church most Sundays?’

‘That’s right.’ He nodded.

‘And Cathy, you are happy to take Michael to church and collect him, and generally encourage and support Michael’s religion?’

‘Yes, I am.’

Both Jill and Stella made a note. Patrick and I exchanged a small smile as we waited for them to finish writing.

Stella looked up and at me. ‘Now, if this goes ahead, and we all feel it is appropriate for Michael to come to you, I know Patrick would like to visit you with Michael before he begins staying with you. Is that all right with you, Cathy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you, Cathy,’ Patrick said. ‘It will help put my mind at rest if I can picture my son in his new bed at night.’

‘It’ll give you both a chance to meet my children as well,’ I said.

Jill and Stella both wrote again. ‘Now, to the other question Michael has raised with me,’ Stella said: ‘hospital visiting. When Patrick is admitted to hospital or a hospice, will you be able to take Michael to visit him?’

‘Yes, although I do have my own two children to think about and make arrangements for. Would it be every day?’

‘I would like to see Michael every day if possible, preferably after school,’ Patrick confirmed.

‘And at weekends?’ Jill asked.

‘If possible, yes.’

It was obviously a huge undertaking, and while I could see that of course father and son would want to see as much of each other as possible I was wondering about the logistics of the arrangement, and also how Adrian and Paula would feel at being bundled into the car each day after school and driven across town to the hospital instead of going home and relaxing.

‘Were you thinking Cathy would stay for visiting too?’ Jill asked, clearly appreciating my unspoken concerns.

‘Not necessarily,’ Patrick said. ‘Cathy has her own family to look after and Michael is old enough to be left in the hospital with me. It would just need someone to bring and collect him.’