A Baby’s Cry

As well as making a Life Story book all foster carers have to keep a daily record of the foster child’s development and general well-being, which is filed at the social services when the child leaves the foster carer. Jill, as my support social worker, always checked this record when she visited; it was a fostering procedural requirement. I had already started a folder on Harrison the evening before and with him now sitting contentedly in his bouncing cradle I updated the record, making a note of his feeds during the night and that he had settled easily after feeding. I had put the letter from his mother in the folder and once I’d finished writing I placed the folder on the coffee table, ready for Jill’s arrival at 10.30 – in half an hour. I was looking forward to Jill coming so that I could show her Harrison, of whom I was very proud, and also to hear what she had to tell me about Harrison’s background and his mother. Never before had I fostered a child who had so much mystery surrounding him.

‘Where is the little fellow?’ Jill said, bustling past me as soon as I opened the front door, clearly more eager to see Harrison than me.

‘In the sitting room,’ I said, closing the door. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yes please.’ She disappeared into the sitting room. There was a short pause before I heard her exclaim: ‘Oh! What a lovely baby! What a darling! He’s awake. Isn’t he alert?’

‘Yes,’ I called back, going into the kitchen to make coffee.

‘He looks older than a newborn, doesn’t he?’ Jill called.

‘Yes. I think it’s all that hair,’ I returned. ‘Are you having milk and sugar in your coffee today?’ I was aware Jill’s answer would depend on whether she was on a diet or not.

‘Just milk, please.’ So I thought she was.

‘Biscuits?’

‘Oh, go on then.’

I arranged the two mugs of coffee and a plate of biscuits on the tray and carried them through to the sitting room. Jill was kneeling in front of Harrison in his bouncing cradle, making all sorts of silly noises that adults manage to produce for babies. Harrison didn’t seem to mind and was keeping Jill amused by appearing to smile at her and cutely wrinkling his little nose as he did for us.

‘I’ll put your coffee on the table,’ I said to Jill.

‘Who’s a beautiful boy, then?’ Jill replied, massaging Harrison’s little foot through the sleepsuit. ‘Are you being a good boy for Cathy? Are you eating and sleeping well?’

‘Yes, he is,’ I answered, taking my coffee to the armchair. ‘He woke at two and six but went straight off to sleep again.’

‘What a good boy! Coochicoo. Who’s a sweetie-pie? Would you like a cuddle?’

‘I’m sure he would,’ I said.

Jill carefully lifted Harrison out of the bouncing cradle and then sat on the sofa with him cradled in her arms, grinning and talking to him. Clearly I was superfluous to needs and could have just easily got on with the housework. However, I appreciated the fascination a newborn baby held for Jill who, like most adults with the chance to see and hold one, found a tiny baby irresistible and was mesmerized by the incredible miracle of new life – so small but perfect in every way.

‘I’ll put your coffee within reach,’ I said after a while, standing and moving the coffee table closer to the sofa.

‘Thanks,’ Jill said, and then she cooed and cuddled Harrison again, pausing briefly to sip her coffee.

‘I didn’t see Harrison’s mother at the hospital yesterday,’ I said after a moment. ‘She’d left before I arrived.’

‘Yes, Cheryl told me,’ Jill said, glancing up. ‘Pity you didn’t get the chance to meet her. Apparently she’s a lovely lady. Sad, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. She sent a case of new clothes for Harrison and there was a letter for me in the case.’ I took the letter from the folder and passed it to Jill. With Harrison cradled in her left arm Jill held the letter out to the right and read it. Then she handed it back to me with a small sigh.

‘I’m doing as she asked,’ I said, returning the letter to the folder. ‘It’s the least I can do. The soft toys are in Harrison’s cot and he’s wearing one of the sleepsuits she bought.’

‘Good,’ Jill said, briefly glancing at me before returning her attention to Harrison.

‘I’m guessing Harrison isn’t in care because of concerns that Mum could abuse or neglect him?’ I persisted.

‘That’s right,’ Jill said, looking at Harrison.

‘And I’m guessing Harrison’s mother isn’t a teenager either?’

‘No.’ Jill paused, and finally gave me her full attention. ‘Cathy, Harrison is in care under a Section 20 – a Voluntary Care Order. It was his mother’s decision to place him in care and she’s been working with the social services. She has Harrison’s best interests at heart and has requested that he be adopted. Cathy, what I’m going to tell you is highly confidential and I know you will respect that. Cheryl knows the full story and may share some more information with you tomorrow, but for now I need to tell you that Harrison’s existence is a complete secret and has to remain so.’

I frowned, puzzled. ‘What do you mean a complete secret? Surely that’s impossible?’

‘His birth will be registered by his mother in the normal way; it has to be by law. He will be known as Harrison Smith until he is adopted, when he will have the surname of his adoptive parents. Apart from his mother no one knows his true identity. His mother checked in and out of the hospital using the surname Smith. Rihanna agreed to cooperate with the social services only under the strictest confidentiality. If his birth were to be known it could have dire consequences.’

Jill stopped and I looked at her while I tried to make sense of what she was saying. I understood Section 20 of the Children’s Act: it makes provision for parents voluntarily to place their child (or children) in foster care if there is a good reason. Harrison’s mother wanting her son to be adopted would be a good enough reason. There are no court proceedings with a Section 20 and the parent(s) retains legal responsibility for the child, although the child lives with a foster carer. I understood this much; it was the rest I didn’t understand.

‘Why?’ I asked at length. ‘Why all the secrecy?’

‘Harrison’s parents are not married and cannot marry. Their relationship should never have happened.’

‘But Jill!’ I exclaimed. ‘We live in the twenty-first century. I still don’t understand. Lots of couples have babies without being married; some single women do too. And even if Harrison was a result of an affair I still don’t see why all this secrecy and fuss.’ I stopped and looked at Jill.

‘Think about it. What reason can you think of for keeping it a secret?’

I continued to look at Jill, and the answer slowly dawned. ‘One or both of the parents is a well-known public figure?’

Jill nodded. ‘That was the conclusion my manager and I came to. And we guess it’s Harrison’s father who is famous – otherwise his mother would probably have booked into a private clinic to have her baby rather than an NHS hospital. If Cheryl does know the true identity of the father she won’t be sharing it with us, and we don’t need to know – it doesn’t affect your care of Harrison. Both parents are healthy, as is Harrison: that’s all we need to know.’

I nodded but my imagination was working overtime. A famous father – who could it be? A footballer? A film star or pop idol? A Member of Parliament? The Prime Minister? An archbishop? Royalty? There was no limit to my imagination and scenes from the historical novels I’d read flashed through my mind. I could be looking after a baby whose existence could alter the course of history!

‘So I’m fostering a little superstar?’ I said with a smile.

‘Pretend you don’t know that,’ Jill said. ‘If the press got wind of it they’d investigate until they found out.’

‘I’ll be careful,’ I said. ‘As far as everyone is concerned he’s just Harrison Smith, the baby I’m fostering.’ I paused thoughtfully, remembering Rihanna’s letter. I looked at Jill. I was worried. ‘I think Harrison’s mother could have been put under pressure to give up her baby,’ I said. ‘She clearly wanted to keep him. She says in her letter she cried continuously and prayed for a solution that would allow her to keep him.’

‘Yes,’ Jill said. ‘It sounds that way, but that’s for Cheryl and the social services to look into. Show Cheryl that letter when she visits tomorrow, although I’m sure she’s aware of how Mum feels.’

I nodded. ‘I wonder if there is any way Rihanna could keep Harrison, with support?’

‘No,’ Jill said emphatically. ‘Cheryl is very clear about that. It’s out of the question. She’s not allowed to.’

‘Not allowed to?’

‘They are Cheryl’s words, not mine. You know as much as I do now. As I say, it’s possible Cheryl may tell you more tomorrow, but I doubt it. If she does, tell me.’

I nodded. Harrison had fallen asleep in Jill’s arms and she seemed content to leave him there while we talked. One of his little fists was resting on his chin as it did sometimes, giving him the appearance of being deep in thought, and I thought if he knew the mystery surrounding his birth he’d have a lot to think about.

We both finished our coffee and the biscuits and Jill asked to see my log notes. I lifted Harrison out of her arms and laid him, still asleep, in his pram in the hall. Returning to the sitting room, I gave Jill my folder and she read and signed the daily log. She asked if I had everything I needed to look after Harrison and I said I did; then, once we’d finished, she stood to leave. We went down the hall, past the pram where Harrison was still sleeping peacefully, and we both looked in.

‘You know, Jill,’ I said, ‘despite all the precautions that are being taken to protect Harrison’s true identity, it could still slip out. These things do have a habit of becoming known.’

Jill turned from the pram and looked at me, her expression deathly serious. ‘It can’t,’ she said bluntly. ‘Cheryl said that if it ever became known that Rihanna had had this baby and who the father was, she’d have to go into hiding. Her life would be in danger. I know it sounds incredible but we don’t know all the details. Cheryl is adamant that Rihanna’s worries are real and have to be acted on.’