Where Has Mummy Gone?: A young girl and a mother who no longer knows her

I never sleep well when there is a new child in the house. I’m half listening out in case they wake, frightened, not knowing where they are and in need of reassurance. But despite my restlessness and looking in on Melody three times, she slept very well, and I had to wake her at 7 a.m. to get ready for school.

‘Not going,’ she said as I opened her bedroom curtains to let in some light. ‘I need to go home and get my mum up.’

‘Melody, your mother will be able to get herself up, love. You’ll see her later at the Family Centre. Now get dressed, please. I want to go into school early today so I can buy you a new school uniform.’ She reluctantly clambered out of bed. ‘You can wear these for now,’ I said, handing her the fresh clothes I’d taken from my store.

‘Not more clean clothes!’ she sighed. ‘You must like washing.’

I smiled. She could be so quaint and old-fashioned with her remarks – an old head on young shoulders – but then of course she’d had to grow up quickly and take care of herself, living with her mother.

‘The washing machine does it,’ I said.

‘My mum and me had to go to the launderette.’

‘Yes, many people do that.’ I left her to get dressed.

Melody wasn’t used to a routine or having to leave the house on time to go to school, because she’d hardly ever gone to school, so I had to chivvy her along. She didn’t even know the name of her school, let alone where it was. I explained it was on the other side of town – about a thirty-minute drive in the traffic. Adrian, Lucy and Paula were of an age where they went to school by themselves, meeting friends along the way. Melody saw them briefly at breakfast and passed them on the landing and in the hall as we all got ready to leave. We left first, calling ‘goodbye’ and ‘see you later’ as we went.

‘What’s the time?’ Melody asked, bleary-eyed despite a wash, as we stepped outside into the cold morning air.

‘Eight o’clock. I can teach you the time if you like.’

‘Why?’

‘So you’re not late.’

Having never had to be anywhere regularly, punctuality must have been a bit of an alien concept to her. She shrugged and climbed into the back of the car, and I showed her how to fasten her seatbelt, closed her car door and got into the driver’s seat.

‘My mum knows the time,’ Melody said as I pulled away.

‘Good. Adults usually do.’

‘She’s still late, though, and misses things. It takes ages for her to wake and get up.’ Which was doubtless a result of her substance misuse.

‘What time we got to be in school?’ Melody asked after a moment.

‘School starts at eight-fifty, but it’s good to be there at least five minutes early. Today I’m hoping to arrive by eight-thirty so we can sort out your uniform.’

‘My mum went to the school a few times,’ she said as I drove.

‘Good.’

‘What time am I seeing her?’

‘Four o’clock until five-thirty,’ I said, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘That’s an hour and a half. School ends at three-twenty, so I’ll collect you and drive straight to the Family Centre.’ I’d checked the location of the school and knew where it was in relation to the Family Centre. ‘Morning playtime will be around eleven o’clock and you’ll have lunch between about twelve and one o’clock,’ I added, trying to give her a sense of the day. Time is a difficult concept for children, but by Melody’s age most children are able to read the time.

‘So am I having my dinner at school like I did when I was with my mum?’ she asked.

‘Yes, you have school dinners,’ I confirmed.

‘I like school dinners, they’re free.’

While Melody had been living with her mother she was on benefits and would have been entitled to free school meals. Now she was in care I would pay for her school dinners and any other expenses; for example, her school uniform, outings, clubs, hobbies and so on – that’s what the fostering allowance is for.

I arrived at the school just before 8.30 a.m. and parked in a side road.

‘Why are we stopping here?’ Melody asked, peering through her side window.

‘That’s your school there,’ I said, pointing to the building on our left. It was a two-storey brick building surrounded by a tall wire-netting fence but it was clearly visible from the road.

‘Oh yeah, I remember now,’ she said.

‘Melody, when was the last time you were here?’ I asked, turning slightly in my seat to look at her.

‘I dunno.’ She shrugged.

I got out, went round to the pavement and opened her door, which was child-locked. She clambered out and we made our way towards the main entrance. As we entered the playground we passed some children playing and others were slowly joining them.

‘I remember coming here before Christmas,’ Melody said. ‘They had a Christmas tree.’

‘Was that the last time you were here?’ It was the third week in January now.

‘Think so,’ she replied. ‘It’s all a bit of a haze.’

We went through the main door into the reception area. Behind a low counter on my right was a small open-plan office where two ladies worked at desks. One came over and I introduced myself, explaining I was Melody’s foster carer.

‘News to me,’ she said. ‘Let me try to get hold of Mrs Farnham, our deputy head, she might know what’s going on.’ She turned her back and picked up a phone on the desk behind her. I threw Melody a reassuring smile. It wasn’t the best start to the school day. Usually when I take a child into school the staff know the child well and are genuinely pleased to see them. This school secretary appeared very distant and not to have recognized Melody, or been aware she was in foster care. That relied on the social worker notifying the school. Melody looked around at the walls displaying the children’s artwork as we waited.

‘Yes, they’re here now,’ I heard the secretary say on the phone. Then, ‘All right. I’ll tell her.’ She set down the phone and returned to the counter. ‘Mrs Farnham is coming down now to see you. Take a seat.’ She nodded to the row of four chairs against the far wall. Melody and I sat down as another parent came in to talk to the secretary.

A couple of minutes later the door to our right, which led from the school, opened and a woman came through it and walked straight to us.

‘Nice to see you again, Melody,’ she said with a very welcoming smile. Then to me, ‘I’m Mrs Farnham, the Deputy Head.’

‘Cathy Glass, Melody’s foster carer,’ I said, standing.

‘Lovely to meet you. Melody’s social worker phoned me late yesterday afternoon, so I haven’t had a chance to update the staff. Shall we go somewhere more private to talk? The Head’s office is free – I’m covering for her this week.’

I was relieved that someone knew what was going on. Melody and I followed Mrs Farnham through the door, up a short flight of stairs and into a large comfortable office overlooking the playground. The room was carpeted, with framed prints on the walls, a desk and filing cabinets at one end and a small sofa and two easy chairs at the other.

‘Do sit down,’ she said. Melody and I settled on the sofa as Mrs Farnham took one of the easy chairs. ‘How are you?’ she asked Melody, who was eyeing her cautiously. ‘We haven’t seen much of you in school.’ Which I thought was a tactful way of putting it. It is a legal requirement in the UK, as it is in most countries, that all children receive an education, and if they don’t the parent(s) can be prosecuted.

‘I’m all right,’ Melody said quietly, a little overawed at being in the Head’s office.

‘Melody tells me she thinks the last time she was in school was before Christmas,’ I said.

‘She’s right. I looked it up. Seventeenth of December, so exactly a month ago.’

‘She’ll be coming in every day from now on,’ I said.