Copyright

Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2017

FIRST EDITION

© Cathy Glass 2017

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover photograph © Iwona Podlasińska/Arcangel Images (boy, posed by a model)

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Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008252007

Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008252021

Version: 2020-01-28

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter One: A Bad Start

Chapter Two: Max

Chapter Three: Amazed

Chapter Four: A Healthy Appetite?

Chapter Five: Restless Night

Chapter Six: Hostile

Chapter Seven: Joining In

Chapter Eight: Tears

Chapter Nine: Act of Defiance

Chapter Ten: An Ally

Chapter Eleven: Stressed

Chapter Twelve: Vulnerable

Chapter Thirteen: Dan

Chapter Fourteen: First Review

Chapter Fifteen: Meetings

Chapter Sixteen: Strange, the Way Things Turn Out

Chapter Seventeen: Abused Child

Chapter Eighteen: Reporting Concerns

Chapter Nineteen: When Will I See Mummy Again?

Chapter Twenty: Comfort Eating

Chapter Twenty-One: Unexpected Turn of Events

Chapter Twenty-Two: Sea Otters Hold Hands

Chapter Twenty-Three: Very Poorly

Chapter Twenty-Four: Tell Max I Love Him

Chapter Twenty-Five: Bittersweet

Chapter Twenty-Six: Tragedy

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Cruel to be Kind

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About the Publisher

Acknowledgements

A big thank you to my family; my editors, Carolyn and Holly; my literary agent, Andrew; my UK publishers HarperCollins, and my overseas publishers who are now too numerous to list by name. Last, but definitely not least, a big thank you to my readers for your unfailing support and kind words. They are much appreciated.

Prologue

Since I began writing my fostering memoirs ten years ago, the number of children in care in the UK has risen to an all-time high of 70,000. Children come into care for many reasons, including physical, emotional and sexual abuse, neglect or a crisis in the family where there is no one to look after them. It is always very sad when a family is separated, and of course the child suffers. This is the story of one of those children: Max.

Chapter One

A Bad Start

‘His mother is in hospital having two toes amputated and there have been complications.’

‘Oh dear. I am sorry,’ I said.

‘Max is going to be very upset when I tell him he won’t be going home,’ Jo, Max’s social worker, continued. ‘It will be the first time he’s been in foster care, although his family are known to the social services. I’m anticipating collecting him at the end of school and then bringing him straight to you, so I’m afraid he’ll just have what he stands up in.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of spare clothes.’ I already knew that Max was six years old.

‘Good. Hopefully I’ll be able to get some of his belongings tomorrow. I’m going to see his mother, Caz, this evening after I’ve brought Max to you. She wants him to visit her in hospital.’

‘This evening?’ I asked, aware that it would be late and Max would already be very unsettled.

‘Yes.’

‘And you want him to go to school tomorrow?’ I needed to know so I could make arrangements to take him.

‘I don’t see why not. I’ll let you know the name and address of his school and the other information you’ll need when I see you later.’

‘OK. Thank you.’

We said goodbye.

It was now 2 p.m. and I went straight upstairs. I’d been fostering long enough to have accumulated spare clothes for emergency use for children of most ages. Sometimes I had plenty of notice when a child was being brought into care and could prepare for their needs, even meet the child if it was a planned move, but many children just arrived – as Max was going to – with very little notice.

I went first to the airing cupboard where I took out a fresh set of towels, and then continued into my bedroom and to the ottoman where I kept the spare clothes. Lifting the lid, I rummaged through until I found pyjamas, socks and pants for a six-year-old. I didn’t have any spare school uniforms so I’d have to wash and dry what Max was wearing. From a drawer in my room I also took out a child’s toothbrush and hairbrush. I put the towel and toothbrush in the bathroom, ready for later, and then carried the clothes into what would shortly be Max’s bedroom. I’d already thoroughly cleaned and vacuumed it and put on fresh bed linen after the last child had gone. Since Alex (whose story I tell in Nobody’s Son) had left two weeks previously, I’d looked after a child on respite for ten days who’d now returned to live with his carer.

Satisfied I was as prepared as I could be at such short notice, I returned downstairs to telephone Jill, my supervising social worker from Homefinders, the agency I fostered for. Jill’s role was to supervise, monitor and support me in fostering so that the child received the best possible care. She had telephoned me an hour before to say that Max was being brought into care and to ask if I could look after him. Although she’d asked me, it is generally assumed that a foster carer will accept the child referred to them. It’s not a pick-and-choose situation. The child coming into care needs a home, so unless there is a very good reason why a carer can’t take a particular child then they are expected to do so. From the little I knew, I was happy to accept Max and had no reservations. Jill had given me a brief outline of his home situation and why he was now coming into care. Although Max hadn’t been in care before, his family had come to the attention of the social services when some support had been put in, and now, while Max’s mother was in hospital, his three teenage sisters were supposed to be looking after him, but last night they’d gone out partying instead. A neighbour had alerted the social services when Max had knocked at her door asking for dinner and she’d taken him in. I also knew from Jill that Max was being brought into care under Section 20 (of the Children’s Act), also known as Accommodated. This is when parents ‘agree’ to place their child in care voluntarily, rather than going to court and risking a care order, which would mean they would lose their parental rights. Around 30 per cent of children who come into care are placed under Section 20. Jill had said she was hoping to be with me when Max arrived, and I now phoned her to let her know the time.

‘OK, see you later,’ she said.

I began a quick tidy-up of the living room and also took food from the freezer for dinner later. I knew from experience that when a child first arrived with their social worker there was a lot to get through, and also Jo was expecting me to take Max to visit his mother in hospital, so time would be short.

Adrian, my seven-year-old son, would be pleased to have another boy staying with us, I mused as I worked, although in truth he and my three-year-old daughter, Paula, usually got along with any child we looked after. They’d grown up with fostering, so having someone else living with us was the norm. Also the norm, although it saddens me to say so, was that I was now a single parent, as my husband, John, had left us eighteen months before. I’d taken a short break immediately after he’d gone and then a few months later, with the children’s agreement, I’d resumed fostering. I enjoyed fostering – caring for and helping the children while they were with me. It gave another dimension to my life and the small payment I received, together with the part-time work I did from home, paid the bills. At present Adrian was at school and Paula was playing at a friend’s house. I would collect her on the way to meet Adrian from school.

I’m always a bit anxious just before a new child arrives, wondering how they will settle and if they will like my family and me, but once they’re here I’m so busy that there isn’t time to worry. I just concentrate on looking after them and meeting their needs to the best of my ability. This afternoon, however, ten minutes before I was due to leave to collect Adrian and Paula, my anxiety level rose to a new height. The phone rang and I answered it in the hall, expecting Jill or Jo with some more news about Max or a last-minute change of plan, which happens a lot in fostering. However, a rather gruff woman’s voice I didn’t recognize demanded, ‘Is that Cathy Glass?’

‘Yes,’ I said tentatively. ‘Who’s calling?’

‘Max’s mum, Caz. I’m warning you, lay one finger on my boy and you’ll be sorry. Do you understand? I might be in hospital but his dad isn’t, and he don’t stand any nonsense.’

Chapter Two

Max

My heart began to race and my mouth had gone dry. ‘Of course I’ll take good care of Max,’ I reassured his mother, ignoring her slight, and trying to keep my voice even. I appreciated that parents who’ve just had their children taken into care are often angry and upset, but threatening me before I’d even met the child was a first. However, as worrying as this was, of more concern was how his mother, Caz, had got my number. ‘Who gave you my telephone number?’ I asked.

‘His social worker. Our solicitor told her she had to give it to us, as he’s in care voluntarily, or I wouldn’t have agreed to him going.’ Sometimes the parents of children in care under a Section 20 are given the contact details of the carer, but usually the carer is asked first, and it’s in cases where there is no animosity and the parents are working with the social workers and the foster carer in the best interests of the child. I didn’t dare ask if she had my address too.

‘Make sure you give Max what he wants to eat,’ she continued in the same confrontational tone. ‘I’ll be asking him when I see him what he’s had, so it better be good. No cheap rubbish.’

‘I always give the children good food, and a balanced diet,’ I said. ‘When they first arrive I ask them what they like and dislike.’

‘Max likes everything and plenty of it, so give him whatever he wants. I’ve told Jo, the social worker, I’ll want to see him every evening. You gonna be bringing him?’

‘I expect it will be me,’ I said. ‘I’m seeing Jo later when she brings Max to me, so she’ll tell me about the contact arrangements then.’ For even when a child is in care voluntarily it’s usual to have a timetable of contact.

‘I’ve told her,’ she said. Then, ‘You haven’t got any dogs, have you? Max don’t like dogs. He’s been scared of ’em since he got bit.’

‘No, we just have a cat, Toscha.’

‘That don’t bite, does it?’

‘No, she’s very placid.’ And long-suffering, I thought but didn’t say.

‘Make sure you look after him proper. Understand? When I see him I’ll ask him how you’ve been treating him.’

‘He’ll be well cared for,’ I said evenly. ‘Now I’m going to have to go to collect my children. Thank you for phoning.’

‘If those stupid girls had done what they were supposed to, none of this would have happened. Silly bitches,’ she fumed.

I assumed she meant her teenage daughters. I didn’t comment but rounded off the conversation as politely as I could. ‘I hope you feel better soon.’

‘What do you care?’ she snapped, and the phone went dead.

I left the house to collect Paula and Adrian, agitated, worried, and annoyed with Jo for giving Max’s mother my telephone number without mentioning it to me or advising her on when to use it. Telephone contact between the child and their family is often part of the contact arrangements, but it has to be regulated or it can become a nuisance for the foster family, and upsetting for the child when they are trying to settle in. It’s certainly not supposed to be used to harass and threaten the carer. I’d raise it with Jill and Jo when I saw them later, out of earshot of Max. The poor child, I thought. It’s so important for any child coming into care to see their parents getting along with the foster carer and working together with them – it helps the child come to terms with what has happened.

This certainly wasn’t the best start. There is so much more to fostering than just looking after the child, which is often the easiest and most pleasant part. However, I consoled myself that Caz was angry that her child was coming into care, and hopefully things would settle and improve as time went on. I had no idea how long Max would be staying with me, but that’s often the case in fostering. Perhaps it would just be for the time his mother was in hospital, although the social services would need to be certain he would be well cared for and safe before they returned him home.

Half an hour later I’d collected Paula from her friend’s house and Adrian from school, and as we walked home I was telling them about Max. It was the beginning of July and the day had turned very warm, so I was carrying their jerseys as well as Adrian’s school bag; he had his games kit to carry.

‘Max is a nice name,’ Paula said, giving a little skip and already excited at the prospect of a new playmate.

‘Yes, it is,’ I agreed.

‘Can we play in the garden when Max arrives while you and the social worker talk?’ Adrian asked, aware that the adults did a lot of talking when a child was first placed.

‘Yes, if Max wants to,’ I said. ‘But remember, he might be shy and uncertain to begin with. He’ll be missing his family and everything will be new and strange to him.’ However, if Max did want to go into the garden to play with Adrian and Paula while the social worker and I talked, it would make discussing his situation considerably easier. She would need to share information about Max, his family and home life with me and it’s not usually appropriate to do so in front of the child, so if Max could be entertained in the garden, so much the better.

‘He could have an ice cream if he’s upset,’ Adrian suggested cannily.

‘And me,’ Paula said. ‘It’s not fair if just Max has an ice cream. Adrian and me should have one too.’

‘I think that’s what Adrian meant, isn’t it?’ I said, throwing him a knowing smile.

‘Doh!’ he said to Paula. ‘As if Mum would just give Max an ice cream and leave us out.’ There was ice cream and similar sweet desserts in the freezer, but generally I liked the children to have dinner first.

‘Yippee! We’re going to have fun and an ice cream,’ Paula said, delighted. Dropping my hand, she began hopscotching along the pavement.

I hoped that some of their enthusiasm for having Max to stay would help him. I’d found in the past that often the child I was fostering bonded with my children first before me, and once a child starts playing, their anxiety begins to lift. Although, of course, I guessed that Max, like most of the children I’d fostered, was going to be upset to begin with at being separated from his family and having to live with strangers, albeit well-meaning ones. I was expecting tears and sleepless nights at the start. But usually by the end of the first week, when the child is more familiar with their foster family and the new routine and is seeing their parents regularly at contact, they are less anxious.

Once we were home I made the children a cold drink and a snack and then I went with them into the garden to unlock the shed where I kept the outdoor toys. It’s part of every foster carer’s safer caring policy that sheds and similar outbuildings are kept locked. We took out a selection of toys for them to play with, including Adrian’s bicycle, the spare bike for Max, Paula’s tricycle, the doll’s pram, skateboard and a football. The mini goalposts were still up at the end of the garden and the covered sandpit sat closer to the house. Adrian immediately began practising goal shots while Paula rode her tricycle. I returned indoors to prepare dinner so we could eat as soon as Jo and Jill had left. They were expected around five o’clock and from experience I was anticipating them staying for at least an hour, possibly much longer, when placing a child.

I could see the children from the kitchen window and as I worked, I glanced up regularly to make sure they were all right. My thoughts went repeatedly to poor little Max who at this moment was being told by his social worker that he wouldn’t be going home. What a dreadful shock – to go to school in the morning as normal and then not be allowed home at night. My heart went out to him. How was he coping?

About half an hour later, hot from playing, Adrian and Paula came in and sat in the cool living room where Toscha, our cat, was already spread out on the floor by the toy box. I’d put some games and toys in there in case Max didn’t want to go outside. Most children can’t resist toys, and Adrian and Paula began doing some puzzles. After about ten minutes, just as I’d finished preparing the dinner for later, the doorbell rang and it was Jill. She greeted me with a warm smile and, ‘Hi, Cathy, how are you?’

‘We’re good, thank you. Would you like a drink?’

‘A glass of water, please.’

I asked her to come with me into the kitchen, as I needed to tell her something. She called hi to Adrian and Paula as she passed the living-room door and once in the kitchen I quickly told her of the phone call I’d received from Max’s mother.

‘That’s not on,’ she said. ‘I’ll raise it with Jo. She should have asked you or me first before she gave out your details. She’ll need to speak to his mother and explain that’s not acceptable. Are you all right taking Max to the hospital to visit her?’ Foster carers are expected to transport the child or children they look after to and from contact.

‘Yes, although I’ll have to take Adrian and Paula with me. I can’t leave them with a sitter every time. Do we know how long Max will be seeing his mother for each evening? Visiting is two till eight.’

‘I don’t know yet. We’ll raise it with Jo, and also find out if you have to stay on the ward with him. There’s a café in the hospital with a children’s play area. It would be better if you could wait there.’

‘Yes, thanks. That would be useful. I doubt if there’d be time for me to come home.’

I handed her the glass of water and we went into the living room and settled on the sofa and chair. Jill asked Adrian and Paula how they were.

‘Very well, thank you,’ Adrian said politely. Paula went into shy mode and came over and sat on my lap, even though she knew Jill from previous visits.

‘Are you looking forward to meeting Max?’ Jill asked, making conversation and trying to put them at ease.

Paula managed a small nod, while Adrian said a rather formal, ‘Yes, thank you.’

Jill smiled. ‘It’s a lovely day,’ she said, glancing towards the garden.

‘They’re hoping Max will want to play outside,’ I said. The patio doors were slightly open and through them came the warm air and the sounds of summer.

‘I’m sure he will,’ Jill said. ‘You’ve got a nice big garden to run and play in.’

A few minutes later the doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be Jo with Max,’ I said, lifting Paula from my lap and standing. Toscha also looked up.

Paula slipped her hand into mine and came with me, while Adrian stayed with Jill. I opened the front door with a warm, welcoming smile. ‘Hello, I’m Cathy.’

‘Hello, Cathy, I’m Jo, and this is Max.’

My gaze went to the child standing beside Jo and I had to hide my shock. Dressed in a light blue shirt and navy trousers from his school uniform, he was sweating profusely. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead and ran down his face. His hair glistened and his shirt was wringing wet. He had one hand resting on the wall to support himself, as an elderly person might, and he was struggling to catch his breath. Yes, it was a warm day, but that didn’t account for Max’s obvious distress. What was responsible – and what no one had thought to mention – was that Max was dreadfully overweight.

‘He needs to sit down,’ Jo said, coming in. ‘He’s got an inhaler in here somewhere.’ She began undoing the school bag she was holding as Max took hold of the doorframe and heaved himself over the doorstep into the hall.

‘Sit down here, love, until you get your breath,’ I said, directing him to the chair we kept in the hall by the telephone.

He dropped into it as Jo took his inhaler from his school bag, shook it and passed it to him. ‘Do you know how to use it?’ she asked.

Max nodded, gave it another shake, put it to his mouth, took a deep breath, held it and then exhaled. Jo looked as worried as I was.

‘I didn’t know he had an inhaler,’ I said to her. The foster carer should be told of any medical conditions during the first phone call about the child.

‘I didn’t know either until I collected him,’ Jo said, clearly stressed. Max took a second breath from his pump.

‘Has he got asthma then?’ I asked. Clearly I needed to know so I could be prepared.

‘I’m assuming so. I’ll find out when I see Caz later.’

Max had administered the second pump and now returned the inhaler to Jo. ‘It’s just two pumps?’ she asked him.

‘Yes,’ he said, his voice husky.

Jill appeared at the end of the hall. ‘Is everything all right?’ I could tell from the look on her face that she hadn’t been informed of Max’s asthma or obesity either. Paula had taken a few steps back and was looking at Max from a short distance, very concerned. In addition to the drama of him needing his asthma pump and Jo’s and my concern, this clearly wasn’t the child Paula had been expecting. He wasn’t simply chubby or what one would describe as a bit overweight; my guess was that he was at least twice the size he should have been, overfed to the point where it was obviously affecting his health and quality of life.

‘Shall we go into the living room?’ I suggested to Max now his breathing had settled. ‘I’ll fetch you a drink.’

The poor child heaved himself off the chair and not so much walked as waddled down the hall towards Jill. I always try not to judge, but seeing him in so much obvious discomfort, I thought that, assuming he didn’t have a medical condition, whoever had allowed him to get into this state, presumably his mother, was as guilty of child abuse as if he’d been beaten. This hadn’t happened overnight; it had taken years of over-eating – probably all his life – for him to get like this.

Chapter Three

Amazed

I saw Adrian do a double take as Max entered the living room, but to his credit he quickly recovered and said a welcoming, ‘Hi, I’m Adrian.’

Max nodded and lumbered over to the sofa where he heaved himself onto the seat and sat back. Jo sat beside him as Jill took one of the easy chairs. ‘What would you like to drink?’ I asked Max.

‘Cola,’ he said in a husky voice.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t got any of that,’ I said. Like many parents and carers, aware of how bad sweet fizzy drinks were for children’s teeth I limited them to special occasions. ‘You could have water, fruit juice, milk or squash,’ I offered.

‘Juice,’ he said.

‘Jo, what would you like?’ I asked.

‘A black coffee, please.’

Paula came with me to make the drinks and was clearly worried. As soon as we were out of earshot she said quietly to me, ‘What’s the matter with Max?’

‘He got a bit out of breath. He’ll be all right soon when he’s sat quietly and had a drink.’ But I knew that wasn’t the only reason for Paula’s question. It was impossible even for a young child (who are generally very accepting of differences) not to notice Max’s size.

‘Will he be able to play with us?’ she asked as I made Jo’s coffee.

‘Yes, of course, love.’

‘How will he ride the bike we got out for him?’

‘We’ll find some games he can play,’ I said positively. ‘Now, come on, stop worrying. We’ll take him his drink.’

I poured Max’s juice and carried it with Jo’s coffee into the living room where Jo and Jill were chatting lightly to Max, trying to put him at ease. Adrian was on the floor by the toy box, stroking Toscha. Paula went over and joined him. I gave Jo and Max their drinks and sat in another easy chair. Then a horrendous thought occurred to me. I looked at Jo. ‘Animal fur doesn’t affect Max’s breathing, does it?’ It is for reasons like this that any medical condition should be discussed with the foster carer at the time of the referral, not once the child has arrived. Children with allergies to animal fur generally have to be placed in foster families where there are no pets.

‘Not as far as I know,’ Jo said, taking a grateful sip of her coffee. ‘But I wasn’t aware he had asthma or was using an inhaler until today. I’ll ask his mother when I see her this evening.’ Then, looking at Max: ‘You have a cat at home, don’t you?’

‘Two,’ Max said. ‘Tiger and Smokey.’

‘Those are nice names,’ I said, relieved.

‘And they don’t make your breathing bad?’ Jill asked him.

‘No,’ Max said.

‘Best keep an eye on it, though,’ Jill said. Then to Jo: ‘Will he be having a medical?’

‘That’s something else I’ll need to discuss with his mother,’ she replied, setting her cup in its saucer. When a child first comes into care they usually have a medical. If the child is in care under a Section 20 then the parent’s permission is sought. ‘Caz told me he’d had some teeth out earlier this year,’ she added, ‘but I don’t know of any other medical conditions.’

Max had already finished his drink, having swallowed it straight down. ‘Would you like another drink?’ I asked him, as he was clearly thirsty. He nodded. ‘What would you like?’

‘Juice.’

I took his glass and went into the kitchen where I poured another glass of juice, aware that even pure juice has a high calorie content from the fructose sugar. Not a good idea for a child who is already badly overweight. Returning to the living room I passed the glass to Max and he drank down half of it in one go and then sat with the glass resting on his stomach.

‘Here’s the paperwork you need,’ Jo said, handing me the essential information and placement forms.

‘Thank you.’

‘Could you send a copy to the agency too,’ Jill said. ‘So we have it on file.’ This was normal practice.

‘Yes, of course,’ Jo said. ‘Sorry, I should have realized. It’s been a busy day.’ She took a notepad from her bag and made a note.

‘It’s a nice house, isn’t it?’ Jill said encouragingly to Max. He nodded.

‘I’ll show you around later,’ I said.

‘I’m hoping to send some of his belongings over tomorrow,’ Jo now said. ‘One of his sisters might be able to drop them off. She passes by the end of your road most days on her way to college.’

I looked at Jill. ‘I think we’ll need to discuss that,’ Jill said, nodding pointedly towards Max. For clearly discussing any issue in respect of Max’s family was going to be difficult in front of him. There was an awkward silence.

‘Now Max has recovered, perhaps he’d like to go in the garden with Adrian and Paula?’ I suggested. ‘There are some toys out there and a bench in the shade of the tree,’ I said to him.

‘That sounds nice,’ Jo said, appreciating my suggestion. ‘Let’s take a look, shall we?’ She set her cup and saucer on the coffee table and stood. Max, who’d been leaning right back into the sofa, began struggling to get off, shuffling forward but finding it difficult. Jo instinctively offered her hand and helped him off, as one would an elderly person. It was pathetically sad and another indication of just how being badly overweight was blighting his life. Most children would have leapt off the sofa and been down the garden in an instant.

I looked at Max as he waddled towards the patio doors. Of average height for a six-year-old, he had short brown hair, a pleasant face, round and open, and seemed quite placid in nature. I wondered how he coped with the inevitable name-calling in the school playground. My heart went out to him. Children can be cruel and anyone who deviates from the norm can easily become the object of bullying.

Just outside my patio doors there is one small step that leads onto the patio. It’s not high and is easily navigated by even small children, but Max now held onto the edge of the door to support himself as if worried he might lose his balance and topple. He carefully turned sideways and tentatively lowered one foot and then the other, as a toddler might. Outside, we all crossed the patio and went onto the lawn where the toys were.

‘What would you like to play?’ Adrian asked sensitively. ‘It’s a bit hot for football.’ Indeed, Max was perspiring again, although the sun was starting to lose its strength.

‘I’ll watch while you play,’ Max said quietly. ‘Like I do at school.’ I could have wept. The thought of the poor child having to sit and watch while his friends played instead of joining in touched me. Whether his non-participation was from not being able to run and keep up, discomfort if he tried or a fear of being laughed at I didn’t know – possibly a little of each – but it was desperately sad.

Adrian and Paula were looking a little awkward, not sure what to do for the best. ‘You can play,’ I said to them. ‘Max can join in if he wishes or sit on the bench. It’s up to him.’

‘I’ll sit,’ he said, and lumbered towards the bench in the shade. Toscha had followed us out of the house and strolled over to join him.

‘I’ll sit with you,’ Paula said to Max, suddenly losing her shyness. I think she felt sorry for him.

‘So will I,’ Adrian said. I saw Jill smile.

Max heaved himself onto the bench and Adrian sat on one side and Paula the other. Toscha sprawled at their feet.

‘I’ll leave the patio door open so you can come in when you want,’ I said for Max’s benefit. Jo, Jill and I then returned to the living room.

I was now expecting Jo to start talking about Max’s obesity, including details of the diet he must surely be following and any appointments at the health clinic. But, draining the last of her coffee, she opened her notepad and said to Jill, ‘What was the issue with Max’s sister bringing his clothes here?’

‘Cathy received a rather unpleasant telephone call from Max’s mother earlier this afternoon,’ Jill said evenly. ‘She wasn’t aware her contact details had been given to the family. We usually ask our carers first.’

Jo raised her eyebrows. ‘His mother wanted the phone number of where Max would be staying and I didn’t see a problem in giving it to her. He is in care voluntarily.’ It sounded as though it was me who had the problem.

‘It was quite a threatening call,’ I said. ‘Caz told me to give Max whatever he wanted or I’d have his father to answer to.’

Jo nodded dispassionately and made a note. ‘I’ll mention it to her when I see her later.’

‘Does the family have Cathy’s address too?’ Jill asked.

‘I’m not sure. I might have mentioned it but I think I just told her the area. She was quite insistent on a number of points before she agreed to Max going into care.’

‘Given the nature of the phone call this afternoon, if she doesn’t already have the address perhaps we could withhold it for now?’ Jill suggested diplomatically. ‘We can always review that later.’

‘All right,’ Jo said, and made another note.

I was grateful for Jill’s support. I felt that Jo, like many social workers, didn’t fully appreciate how worrying it could be for a carer to have an irate parent phoning or turning up on their doorstep. Social workers don’t have this worry, as the families they deal with don’t know their home address. While it’s often appropriate for the parents of a child in care to have the foster carer’s contact details, it didn’t hurt to err on the side of caution to keep everyone safe.

Jill took a pad and pen from her bag. ‘What are the contact arrangements?’ she now asked.

‘Caz wants to see Max every evening while she’s in hospital, as she has been doing. His sisters have been taking him, but I assume Cathy will be taking him now?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Perhaps his sisters could take his bag to the hospital and Cathy could collect it from there?’ Jill suggested.

‘That would be good,’ I added.

‘I’ll mention it tonight,’ Jo said, making another note. ‘Hopefully they can arrange it for tomorrow. It’s too late this evening. They’ll be on their way to the hospital now – they use the bus.’

‘How long will Max see his mother for each evening?’ Jill asked.

I picked up my fostering folder and pen so I had them ready to write down the contact arrangements. I start a new folder for each child.

‘Caz said they have been visiting between five-thirty and seven, so I think keep to that.’

‘Is that all right with you?’ Jill asked me.

‘I’ll have to give the children their dinner before we go or it will be late by the time we get home,’ I said, thinking aloud.

‘OK,’ Jill said. ‘See how it goes. Max may be tired after an hour. It’s a long time for a child to be on a ward. Do you want Cathy to stay on the ward with Max? She’ll have Adrian and Paula with her, so it would be better if they could go and wait in the play area by the café.’ A good support social worker is invaluable in clarifying arrangements and making sure they are practical for the carer.

‘That should be all right,’ Jo said. ‘It’s not supervised contact. But please be on hand in case Max wants to leave early.’

I wrote the times of contact on a sheet of paper in my folder. ‘Will this start tomorrow?’ I asked, mindful of the time. ‘It’s already five-thirty now.’

Jo glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Caz was expecting him this evening, but I take your point. I’m not going to be finished here for a while.’

‘Perhaps Max could phone and speak to his mother this evening?’ Jill suggested.

Jo nodded. ‘I’ll speak to Caz once I get there.’

‘Will Max be seeing his mother at the weekend too?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ Jo said, as if it was taken as read. All very well, but that would mean any of our outings at the weekend, including visits to my parents, would need to be curtailed so we were back in time to take Max to the hospital. However, I knew this wasn’t negotiable, as contact arrangements take priority over the carer’s arrangements. Foster carers get used to fitting in.

‘Will you be applying for a Full Care Order?’ Jill now asked.

‘Not at this stage,’ Jo said. ‘As long as I have Caz’s cooperation, there shouldn’t be any need to. She’s cooperated in the past.’

‘What have been the concerns?’ Jill asked, meaning why were the social services already involved with Max’s family.

‘They’ve been mainly around the girls. They weren’t going to school and two of them have been in trouble with the police. Caz was finding it a struggle to cope. She has various health issues, including type 2 diabetes and a heart condition, so we put in some support.’

‘Is Max’s weight due to a medical condition?’ Jill asked.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Jo said lightly. ‘His mother and sisters are all a bit chubby like Max. They like their food.’

I looked at her, amazed.

Chapter Four

A Healthy Appetite?

In my view, there is a big difference between being ‘a bit chubby’ or carrying a few extra pounds and being clinically obese. Jo carried a few extra pounds, as did Jill and I, and many other adults of our age. Aware of this and the need not to add more extra pounds, and hoping to lose a few, I limited the amount of sweet foods I ate, as I know Jill did too. I was astounded that Jo could dismiss Max’s size as ‘chubby’ and liking his food. Most of us like our food, but with so many enticing choices and food so easily available, we often have to moderate our intake for the sake of our health. However, it didn’t seem appropriate to raise the issue now, as Jo had dismissed it, so other than asking her if Max was following a diet – he wasn’t – I didn’t say anything further on the matter at this stage. There was a lot to get through and Jo was going to the hospital after she left us.

‘I’m anticipating Max will remain in care while his mother is in hospital,’ Jo continued, ‘and possibly for a while after she returns home, until she is able to cope again. But she’s not being discharged yet. She had toes amputated two weeks ago and her foot isn’t healing as it should. She can’t manage on crutches yet. When I saw her yesterday her blood pressure was up, so she won’t be discharged until that is under control again.’

Jill and I both nodded. ‘Is the children’s father living at home?’ Jill now asked.

‘Yes, although he doesn’t have much involvement in the day-to-day running of the home or looking after the children. That falls to Caz. Max’s sisters are older and reasonably self-sufficient, but obviously he needs looking after at his age.’

‘Does Max have any allergies?’ Jill asked, going through a mental checklist of issues that the carer needs to know.

‘Not as far as I’m aware, but I’ll check with Caz this evening,’ Jo said, and made a note.

‘Is Max up to date with his dental and optician check-ups?’ Jill asked. Again, another standard question. If the child isn’t up to date with these check-ups then the carer will usually book the necessary appointments and take the child to them.

‘Dentist, I would think so,’ Jo said, ‘as Max had some teeth out not so long ago, but I’ll ask Caz about the opticians.’ She made another note. ‘Now, school,’ she said, moving on. ‘The details are on the essential information form. His school is about a ten-minute drive from here. Max usually goes to breakfast club and Caz wants that to continue. She says he has a bowl of cereal before he leaves in the morning and then has a proper breakfast at school. It’s already paid for, as are his school dinners, as the family are in receipt of benefits. Max has been staying at after-school club until around four-fifteen, but that’s flexible. One of his sisters has been taking him to school and collecting him, but I’m assuming you’ll do that now?’

‘Yes,’ I said. That Max went to breakfast club and after-school club would help me enormously, for it meant I could take him to school first and then go on with Adrian and Paula. Then, at the end of the day, I’d do the reverse. The logistics of the school run are sometimes very difficult and I could find myself having to be in two places at the same time.

‘His sisters went to the same school as Max,’ Jo continued. ‘Although there’s a big age gap, some of the staff taught the girls so they know the family. Max is doing well at school and likes to read. His teacher, Mrs Marshall, is very nice and was a big help earlier when I had to tell Max he wouldn’t be going home.’

‘I’ll introduce myself tomorrow,’ I said.

Jo then went quickly through the essential information forms to see if there was anything she’d missed. I followed in my copy; I’d look at it again later in more detail. The box for information on cultural and religious needs showed that Max was British and nominally Church of England, and in the box for details of any challenging behaviour the word None had been written. Coming to the end of the form, Jo told Jill she’d make sure she was sent a copy and then passed me the placement agreement form to sign. This contained the consent I needed to legally look after the child and required my signature to say I would foster the child in accordance with the foster-carer agreement and fostering regulations.

‘I’ll put copies of this in the post to you both,’ Jo said as I handed it back. ‘I think that’s everything.’ She looked again at the clock. ‘Let’s show Max around and then I’ll be off.’ It’s usual for the social worker to see the foster carer’s home when the child is placed, and specifically the child’s bedroom.

I went into the garden and to the children. Max and Adrian were still sitting on the bench beneath the tree, talking quietly. Paula was now on the grass, stroking Toscha. ‘All right, love?’ I said to Max. ‘Jo is going soon so we’ll show you around the house before she leaves. You two can stay here if you want, as you know what the house looks like.’ Adrian obliged me with a smile.

Max heaved himself off the bench and plodded towards me. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said.

‘We’ll have dinner just as soon as Jo has gone, all right, love?’

He nodded. ‘Paula said we could have an ice cream.’

‘Yes, after dinner.’ It was a bit close to dinner now to have it before, I thought.

‘I like ice cream,’ Max said.

‘So do Adrian and Paula.’ I offered him my hand, as I would any young child, for comfort and reassurance, and he took it. Because of Max’s size it was easy to forget he was only six. Rotund, he looked more like a portly little gentleman – Dickens’s Mr Pickwick – rather than a small child. I could picture him in a waistcoat with a pocket watch.

Max also used my hand for a degree of support. I felt his weight, a pull, as we trod over the lawn towards the patio, then even more so as he hauled himself up the step. Taking hold of the edge of the patio door with one hand, he kept a grip on me with the other and levered himself into the living room with a small sigh, then dropped my hand.

‘How are you doing?’ Jo asked him.

‘OK,’ he said.

‘It’s a nice big garden, isn’t it?’ Jill said brightly.

Max nodded dispassionately, for of course the appeal of a garden to a child is that they can run and play in it, but Max’s running and playing was so severely compromised that the garden would probably be just another hurdle to overcome, rather than a means of having fun.

‘Cathy is going to show us around the house now, and then I’m going to see your mother at the hospital,’ Jo said. ‘As it’s getting late I’ll suggest to your mum she speaks to you on the phone tonight, rather than you visiting her. Is that OK?’

I was expecting a reaction – ‘I want to see my mummy’ or similar – as was Jill from the way she was looking at Max. But he just nodded stoically, apparently as accepting of this as he appeared to be of most things.

Jo and Jill now stood and I began the tour. ‘This is the living room,’ I said, addressing Max. ‘We use this room the most and often sit in here in the evenings to play games or watch some television.’ He nodded and I led the way out of the living room and into the kitchen-cum-diner, where I explained that this was where we usually ate.

‘Something smells good,’ Jill said, sniffing the air.

‘Dinner, I hope,’ I said. ‘It’s a chicken casserole. Do you like casserole?’ I asked Max.

His eyes lit up, and with the most enthusiasm I’d seen since he’d arrived, he said, ‘I love casserole.’

‘Good.’ I smiled at him. I showed them out of the kitchen, down the hall and into the front room. ‘This is a sort of quiet room,’ I said. ‘If you want to sit quietly to read or think, or just be by yourself.’ It contained a table and chairs, the computer, sound system, bookshelves and a small cabinet with a lockable drawer, where I kept important paperwork.

There wasn’t much more to say about this room, so I led the way upstairs to Max’s room – clean and fresh but sparse, without any personal belongings. ‘It will look better once you have some of your things in here,’ I said encouragingly to him.

He looked at me, puzzled. ‘How will I get my things?’ he asked sensibly.

‘I’m going to ask your sisters to pack a bag for you and take it to the hospital tomorrow evening,’ Jo explained. ‘Is there anything in particular you want from home?’

Max looked thoughtful.

‘Like your favourite teddy bear or toy?’ Jill suggested.

‘Buzz Lightyear,’ Max said, referring to the toy from the movie Toy Story. ‘He’s on my bed.’

‘I’ll tell them,’ Jo said.

‘And my clothes. I haven’t got any pyjamas.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Jo said.

‘I’ve got pyjamas you can wear tonight,’ I reassured him, although I knew the ones I’d taken out, which now sat neatly folded at the foot of his bed, would be far too small. I’d quietly change them later without a fuss.

Jo glanced out of the bedroom window and admired the view. This bedroom overlooked the rear garden, as did Adrian’s room next door. I then pointed out the wardrobe and drawers to Max, where he would keep his belongings, and the pinboard on the wall for his drawings. He appeared to be a sensible child, so this would be the type of thing he might be wondering. There were already some posters on the walls and I told him we could change them or add to them. ‘Perhaps some pictures of Toy Story?’ I suggested.

He managed a small, brave smile, bless him. I appreciated there was so much for him to take in – a new home with everything different from what he was used to, and new people with different ways of doing things.

I showed them around the rest of the upstairs: Adrian’s room, the toilet, Paula’s room, the bathroom and finally my bedroom. ‘This is where I sleep,’ I told Max. ‘If you wake in the night and want me, just call out and I’ll be straight round. All right?’

He nodded, and we returned downstairs. Jo went briefly into the living room to fetch her bag and then joined us in the hall to say goodbye. ‘His inhaler is in his school bag,’ she reminded me. Then to Jill and me, ‘I’ll phone about the issues we discussed.’

‘Thanks,’ Jill said.

Jo said goodbye to Max and left. Jill, Max and I returned down the hall and Jill went into the garden to say goodbye to Adrian and Paula, while Max flopped onto the sofa. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said again, this time with a little groan.

‘So am I,’ I said. ‘We’ll eat as soon as Jill has gone.’ It was nearly six-thirty, later than we usually ate, and I knew Adrian and Paula would be hungry too.

Jill came in from the garden. ‘Well, have a good evening then,’ she said to Max. He stayed on the sofa while I saw Jill to the front door. ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow to see what sort of night you’ve had,’ she said. ‘If you need to speak to someone tonight, phone our out-of-hours number.’ I doubted I would with Max, but it was reassuring to know that twenty-four-hour support was always available from the agency if necessary.

Having said goodbye to Jill, I returned to the living room to check on Max, and as soon as he saw me he told me again that he was hungry. ‘We’ll have dinner now,’ I said. ‘While I dish it up, would you like to go into the garden and tell Adrian and Paula dinner is ready?’ I could have called them myself through the open patio doors, but I find that if a child is involved in the routine of the house, they feel included and settle more quickly.

Max was happy to oblige and hauled himself off the sofa, while I went into the kitchen. Taking the oven gloves from their hook, I opened the oven door and carefully lifted out the piping-hot casserole. I set it on the work surface and began dishing it onto four plates. The children appeared and I asked them to wash their hands at the sink before dinner. I finished dishing up and returned the rest of the casserole to the oven, then went to the table and suggested to Max that he might like to sit next to Adrian. We tend to keep the same places at the meal table. ‘I’m hungry, Mum,’ Adrian said as they sat down, rubbing his tummy theatrically.

‘So am I,’ Max agreed, copying him with a rub of his tum.

I carefully carried the plates of food in from the kitchen and set them in front of each child. I added a basket containing chunks of warm baguette to the centre of the table and told them to help themselves. By the time I’d sat down with my plate Max had taken three large chunks of bread, which he propped on the side of his plate. ‘There’s plenty,’ I said, for I wondered if he thought I might run out. I’d fostered children before who’d been so underfed at home that they grabbed and hoarded food whenever the opportunity arose, although I didn’t think this was true in Max’s case – it seemed to be more habit.

We all began eating and for a while all that could be heard was the chink of cutlery on china as three hungry children ate. When a child first arrives mealtimes can sometimes be awkward for them. Eating is an intimate and social occasion, with unspoken but assumed rules that can differ from household to household. I didn’t even know if Max ate at a table at home; many children don’t. And sitting close to people you’ve only just met can be embarrassing and make you feel self-conscious. I’d looked after children who felt so uncomfortable to begin with that they ate next to nothing for the first few days, and it’s very worrying. Max showed no sign of being self-conscious, though, and ate confidently and heartily, mopping up the last of the gravy with another chunk of bread he took from the basket. Adrian finished at the same time and asked if there were seconds. He knew there would be.

‘Yes, of course,’ I said. I stood and picked up his plate. ‘Max, would you like a second helping too?’

‘Yes, please,’ he said, and passed me his plate. Paula and I were still finishing ours.

I carried the plates to the kitchen, dished up seconds and also cut up some more bread, which I placed in the basket.

‘Thank you,’ Max said as I set his plate in front of him. He took some more bread, as did Adrian, and we all continued eating.

Paula is a bit of a slow eater and was still working on her first helping as both the boys came to the end of their second. Adrian sat back with a sigh of contentment and, patting his stomach, said, ‘I’m stuffed.’

‘Full,’ I corrected.

Max was looking at me expectantly. ‘Is there any more?’ he asked.

‘There is a little. But leave some room for the ice cream you wanted.’

‘I’ve always got room for ice cream,’ he said, with a small smile. It was a passing reference to him being overweight, but I didn’t comment. I checked with Paula that she didn’t want any more and then with mixed feelings spooned the last of the casserole onto Max’s plate.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He began eating with the same urgency as he had the first serving, although I couldn’t see how he could still be hungry.

Feeding one’s family is laden with emotion unconnected with the food itself. As well as providing sustenance, cooking is a labour of love, and while I was pleased Max was enjoying the meal I’d made, I wondered how much of a disservice I was doing him by allowing him a third helping and all that bread, given his obesity. Wouldn’t it have been kinder – and better for his long-term health – to refuse him a third helping and limit the amount of bread he’d eaten? But as this was his first meal with us I didn’t think it appropriate to do so now, as it would have drawn attention to his need to diet. Similarly, when Max finished his main course and asked if it was time for the ice cream now, I said yes and dished it up. Two scoops for each child, but I didn’t offer second helpings.

By the time we’d finished eating it was after seven o’clock and time for Paula’s bed. I usually took the children up to bed in age-ascending order, so Paula, the youngest, would go first, then Max and Adrian. I explained to Max it was Paula’s bedtime and asked him what he usually did at home in the evening before bed. I try to follow the routine the child has been used to at home as much as possible to minimize the disruption. Max said he read his book and it was in his school bag.

‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Adrian enjoys reading too. Perhaps you’d both like to sit in the living room and read while I take Paula up?’

Both boys fetched their school bags from the hall, sat side by side on the sofa and took out their reading books.

‘What are you reading?’ Adrian asked Max, interested.

‘James and the Giant Peach,’ Max said, showing him the front cover of the children’s classic. It was quite advanced for the average six-year-old; Adrian, older, had read it earlier in the year.

‘Are you enjoying the book?’ I asked Max.

‘Yes. I like Roald Dahl.’

‘So do I,’ Adrian said, turning to him enthusiastically. ‘James’s aunts, Spiker and Sponge, were horrible to him,’ he added, referring to James and the Giant Peach. ‘I’m glad he got away from them.’

Max agreed.

‘Have you read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?’ Adrian asked.

‘Not yet, but I’ve read George’s Marvellous Medicine, and The Twits.’

‘The Twits is so funny,’ Adrian laughed. And so they began a discussion about Roald Dahl books.

They paused to say goodnight to Paula and we left them sitting on the sofa, discussing books and with the still-warm evening air drifting in through the open patio doors. I was pleased Max liked reading. I try to interest all the children I foster in books – with varying degrees of success – but Max was one of the few children who’d arrived with a passion for them. It was only later I discovered that there was another, more disturbing reason for him wanting to escape into books.

Chapter Five

Restless Night

While I was upstairs helping Paula get ready for bed I left her in the bathroom brushing her teeth for a few minutes and went into my bedroom to find some more pyjamas for Max. I took all the large sizes of pyjamas from the ottoman, holding them up as I went to see if they would fit him. Usually I’m quite good at judging a child’s size, but in Max’s case I had absolutely no idea. The ones that had 8–9 years old on the label seemed too long in the leg but not wide enough around the middle. The next size up, 10–11, seemed ridiculously big for a six-year-old, and 12–13 was gigantic. I couldn’t decide, so I carried them all into Max’s room for him to try on at bedtime, and removed the pair I’d previously put out.

Paula, having finished in the bathroom, was ready for a bedtime story and I went with her to her bedroom, where she chose a book from her bookshelf before climbing into bed with a yawn. I lay beside her, my arm around her shoulders and my head propped on the headboard as I read the story she’d chosen. When I’d finished she snuggled down beside me, ready for our usual cuddle and chat – part of her bedtime routine – before she went to sleep. Unsurprisingly, tonight she wanted to talk about Max.

‘How long will Max stay with us?’ she asked, kissing my cheek.

‘I don’t know yet, love. Until his mother is well enough to look after him again.’

‘Does he miss his mummy?’

‘I should think so, but he’ll see her tomorrow at the hospital.’

‘He’s not crying like some children do.’

‘No, he’s been very brave, but I expect he’s thinking lots about her and his family.’

‘I’d cry if I couldn’t live with you,’ Paula said, snuggling closer.

‘But that’s not going to happen, is it?’ I reminded her. ‘If I had to go into hospital, Nana and Grandpa would come and look after you and Adrian. You know that.’ Since my husband had left, comments and questions like this came up from time to time – from Paula and Adrian. Understandably they both felt a degree of insecurity with just one parent at home, and I always reassured them as best I could.

‘Do you think Max eats too much?’ Paula now asked with the candidness of a young child.

‘Possibly.’

‘He’s very big, isn’t he? I don’t mean tall like big boys – his body is very round.’

‘I know, but you wouldn’t ever say that to him, would you?’ I hoped that Adrian at his age had developed the necessary self-regulatory skills to stop him saying hurtful truths, but at Paula’s age children are still highly impulsive and simply say what comes into their head without considering the consequences. Paula shook her head.

‘Good. Because I’m sure Max knows he’s overweight and he’d be very upset if you said anything.’

‘Are you going to stop him eating so much?’ she now asked.

‘I might, we’ll see how it goes.’

‘I hope you do, then he can ride the bike.’

‘OK, love,’ I said, drawing the conversation to a close. ‘We’ll see. But in the meantime you can play other games with Max. Try to look beyond his size to the person within. I think he’s a lovely boy, kind and gentle.’

‘Yes, so do I,’ Paula agreed. ‘I promise I won’t look at his big tummy but inside him.’

‘Good girl.’

I kissed her goodnight and came out of her room, leaving her bedroom door slightly open so that I could hear her if she called out. Downstairs, both boys were still on the sofa, now talking about football and with their books open on their laps. I wasn’t sure if they’d done much reading, but it didn’t matter. They were getting along well and Max seemed relaxed. I was also pleased he hadn’t needed his inhaler since he’d first arrived and his voice sounded far less husky. I hadn’t heard from Jo about phoning his mother that evening, and as it was now getting late I rather assumed she wouldn’t be in touch, as Caz was seeing him the following evening.

‘Max, I think it’s time for you to go to bed,’ I said. ‘What time do you normally go to bed at home?’

He shrugged. ‘Any time, really. I go to my room and lie on my bed and read. Sometimes I fall asleep with my clothes on.’ This didn’t sound like a very good bedtime routine.

‘When do you have your bath or shower?’ I asked.

He shrugged again. ‘When the bathroom is free. Sometimes I have a bath at the weekend.’

‘So the last time you had a bath was last weekend?’ It was Wednesday now.

‘Maybe, or the weekend before. I can’t remember.’

‘OK. Don’t worry. Would you like a quick bath now?’

He nodded.

I always encourage the children I foster to bath or shower every day, as good personal hygiene is obviously important, especially in the warm weather when we all sweat more. However, I’d never insist on it on their first night after the trauma of coming into care. Arriving at a stranger’s house and having to take off all their clothes for a bath or shower could seem like another form of abuse for an already abused child, and so often carers don’t know all the child’s history. Max was happy to have a bath though, and I went upstairs with him to run it. I asked him if he usually had help with his bathing and he said he didn’t, so I said I’d wait just outside the bathroom door while he had his bath and he should call if he needed me. I’d never leave a six-year-old completely unattended in the bath (or shower) in case they slipped and fell, but I always try to give the child age-appropriate privacy. I heard the water splash as he washed himself and after a few minutes I called out, ‘Are you OK, Max?’

‘Yes,’ he returned. Then, a few moments later, ‘I’ve finished.’ It was a quick bath, but it would do for tonight.

‘Good boy. Can you get out now and dry yourself?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Then put the towel around you. I’ve put pyjamas in your bedroom for you to try on.’

A few minutes later he appeared cloaked in the towel and we went to his bedroom, where I told him to choose the pyjamas that fitted best while I put his school clothes in the wash so they were ready for tomorrow. Leaving him in his room trying on the pyjamas, I returned to the bathroom, gathered up his clothes and took them downstairs, where I set them to wash and dry in the machine. I looked in on Adrian in the living room, who was now reading, and I then returned upstairs. Max was still in his bedroom and I knocked on the partially open door. ‘Have you got some pyjamas on?’

‘Yes, but they’re very long.’

The door opened and Max stood in front of me looking slightly comical with his hands and feet enveloped by the pyjamas. However, while the sleeves and legs were far too long, the set he’d chosen fitted around his middle. They were the largest pair, age 12–13 years, and another indication of just how overweight Max was. Clothes designed for a child twice his age fitted.

‘Let’s roll up the sleeves and legs for tonight,’ I said, going into his room. ‘I’ll take them up properly tomorrow.’

‘Mum cuts them off,’ he said. He held out one arm for me to roll up and then the other. I did the same with his pyjama legs.

I could imagine it must be virtually impossible to buy clothes off the rail that would fit him, and his mother would doubtless have to adapt all his clothes. I returned to the bathroom with Max so he could brush his teeth, then I called down to Adrian that the bathroom was free. I would try to establish a better routine tomorrow that allowed time for the boys to do any homework they might have. However, I thought Adrian might have to take his with us to the hospital to do there, as we were going to be very short of time on school days. Thankfully this evening, apart from reading, which most school-age children are expected to do every day, neither Adrian nor Max had any homework.

On the first night I always ask the child I’m looking after how they like to sleep: if they like the curtains open or closed, their light on or off, and the bedroom door open or shut. These small details, which we do automatically for ourselves and our children, help the child to settle in a strange room. Max wanted his curtains slightly parted as many children do. He was happy to sleep with the light off and said he had his door closed at home so he didn’t get woken by the noise his sisters made.

‘It’s quiet at night in our house,’ I reassured him. ‘Adrian and Paula will be asleep too, and when I come up to bed I’m very quiet, so I won’t wake you.’

‘I wish I had Buzz,’ Max said as he climbed into bed, referring to his favourite toy.

‘Jo is going to ask your sisters to pack it, so you should have it tomorrow night,’ I reminded him. Then I had a thought. ‘Just a moment. Stay there.’

I left his room and went round the landing and knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Adrian, could Max borrow your Buzz Lightyear? Just for tonight.’ Like many children, he had a collection of Toy Story toys.

‘Yes,’ he called. ‘It’s in the cupboard in my room.’

‘Thank you.’

I went into Adrian’s room and to the small built-in cupboard, which contained many of his toys. Buzz sat next to Woody on one of the shelves and I carefully lifted him down. I carried him into Max’s room and his eyes lit up. ‘Buzz!’

‘Adrian said you can borrow his for tonight. Where would you like him to sit?’

‘Just here,’ Max said, patting a place on the bed beside him.

I positioned the toy as Max wanted and then asked him if he needed anything else. He shook his head.

‘Goodnight then, love. Sleep well. Would you like a goodnight kiss?’ I always ask the child – for while a kiss is a sign of affection, it’s also an invasion of their personal space and can make them feel uncomfortable – apart from babies and toddlers, whom I kiss and cuddle spontaneously and often.

‘Don’t mind,’ Max said.

‘Does your mum kiss you goodnight?’ I asked.

‘No. She watches television when I’m in bed.’

‘OK. Night, love.’ I kissed his forehead, and reminding him again to call me if he needed me in the night, I came out, drawing his door to behind me.

Adrian had finished in the bathroom now and was in bed, waiting for me to say goodnight. I lay beside him and we had our usual hug and chat, which tonight was mainly about school and the long summer holidays that would start at the end of the month. A quarter of an hour later I kissed him goodnight and left him to go to sleep. I checked on Max and Paula, who were both fast asleep, and went downstairs where I tidied up. Then, with a cup of tea and my fostering folder, I sat on the sofa in the living room and began writing up my log notes. Foster carers are required to keep a daily record of the child or children they are looking after, which includes appointments, the child’s health and wellbeing, education, significant events and any disclosures the child may make about their past. When the child leaves this record is placed on file at the social services. As I worked the phone suddenly rang and I quickly snatched it up, hoping it hadn’t woken the children. It was nine forty-five, rather late for a friend to be phoning for a chat, as most of my friends had young children.

‘It’s Caz, Max’s mother,’ she said, clearly annoyed. ‘I thought Max was supposed to phone me.’

‘I’m sorry. I was under the impression Jo was going to phone me with the arrangements after she’d spoken to you.’

‘And she didn’t?’

‘No. I expect something came up and it slipped her mind.’ I heard her tut. ‘Max is fine,’ I reassured her. ‘He ate a good dinner, had a bath and is now in bed asleep.’

‘So I can’t speak to him if he’s asleep.’

‘I’d rather not wake him, if you don’t mind. I’m sorry. It was getting late and with school tomorrow I thought he should go to bed.’ In fairness to Caz, she had a right to be annoyed; she’d been expecting Max to phone her and due to a breakdown in communication, he hadn’t. I was now expecting a rant, but she said, ‘OK. Tell him I phoned. Goodbye.’ And the line went dead.

A little unsettled and concerned that we hadn’t got off to the best start – again – I picked up my pen and finished writing my log notes. Then I read the essential information forms, noting where Max’s school was. A little before ten-thirty I returned the folder to the locked drawer in the front room, put Toscha to bed and went up myself. I checked on the children, who were all asleep, and then washed and changed and got into bed, leaving my bedroom door open so I could hear the children if they woke.

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 needing reassurance. With Max there was the added worry that he might need his inhaler in the night. He hadn’t needed it all evening so I was hopeful he’d have a good night. I’m a light sleeper and would hear him if he was restless. His inhaler was in his school bag in the hall and I could easily pop down and get it if it was needed. Jo was going to find out more about Max’s condition and the directions his mother had been given regarding when the inhaler was to be used. If his mother had stayed on the line a little longer and had been less hostile, I could have discussed it with her. In the meantime I would use my judgement and common sense. All foster carers have first-aid training and I’d fostered children before who’d arrived with inhalers.

During the night I was repeatedly woken by Max, not because he was frightened or needed his inhaler, but because of his snoring. I’d never heard a child snore so loudly. In the still of the night, with the bedroom doors open, it echoed along the landing, creating a rhythm of its own. Beginning with some snorts and grunts, it rose with each breath to a crescendo, and then there was a short silence before it began again. I was so concerned he would wake Adrian and Paula that I closed their bedroom doors. Each time I went into Max’s room he was flat on his back, fast asleep, mouth open and snoring heavily through his nose, although his chest sounded clear. He wasn’t too hot and the room was well ventilated, so there was nothing I could do. If I tried to move him onto his side, which might have helped, I ran the risk of waking him with a start. I knew that snoring could be linked to a number of medical conditions and I would raise it with Jo when we next spoke.

At six o’clock, with very little sleep, I was out of bed earlier than usual to begin our new school routine. I showered and dressed, brewed coffee, fed Toscha and let her out for a run. Then at seven o’clock I returned upstairs to wake the children.

‘Did you hear Max snoring?’ Adrian asked me as soon as he was awake. His room was right next door to Max’s.

‘Yes. I hoped you hadn’t been disturbed,’ I said, concerned.

‘It’s OK. I wondered what it was to begin with, but when I realized it was Max snoring I went back to sleep.’

‘Good.’

Paula didn’t appear to have heard anything, and when I asked Max if he’d slept well, he said, ‘Yes. It’s quiet in this house, like you said.’ Not for me, I thought.

‘Do you know you snore?’ I asked him lightly as I placed his freshly laundered clothes on his bed.

‘Yes. My sisters say they need earplugs.’

I smiled and left it at that. There was nothing Max could do about his snoring, and I didn’t want him to feel embarrassed by it. I asked him if he needed any help dressing, although I was pretty sure he didn’t, as he seemed to have good self-care skills. However, children can panic in an unfamiliar setting if they are asked to do something they are not capable of. It’s a horrible feeling and one I can remember from being a small child at school. I’d been asked by my teacher to deliver a message to a teacher in another classroom. This was a responsibility coveted by the class and I felt proud to have been chosen. But once outside the classroom I realized I didn’t know where the other teacher’s room was and I panicked. Instead of going back into the classroom and asking where I had to go (and feeling a bit of a fool), I began wandering around the two-storey building, hoping I would stumble across the correct classroom. I didn’t, and I must have been gone for a long time, for eventually two other children from my class were sent to find me, and they then helped me deliver the message. Of course I felt silly and self-conscious when I returned to the classroom, as everyone knew I’d got lost. With this in mind, I never assume a child can do something or knows something, even if it is obvious, until I am certain they are up to the task. We all acquire skills at different rates and it’s crushing to have one’s lack of knowledge highlighted through failure.

As it was, Max confirmed he didn’t need help dressing, so I told him to come down to breakfast as soon as he was ready. That he was in the habit of having two breakfasts – one at home and then another at school – was of concern to me, but I wasn’t about to start changing his routine straight away. Of further concern was the amount of sugar Max had on his cereal. Slightly disappointed that I didn’t have chocolate pops, as he usually had at home, he chose wheat flakes, drowned them in milk and then began ladling on the sugar, heaped teaspoon after heaped teaspoon. Adrian and Paula watched, wide-eyed.

‘I think that’s enough sugar now, love,’ I said after the fourth or fifth teaspoonful, and sliding the sugar out of reach.

Max grinned. ‘My mum says I’ve got a sweet tooth.’

You won’t have any teeth at all if you eat that much sugar, I thought, but didn’t say.

Adrian and Paula had a bowl of wheat flakes too, with half a teaspoonful of sugar on each.

‘Do you have another breakfast at school?’ Max asked Adrian as we ate.

‘No,’ Adrian replied. ‘We take a piece of fruit and a drink to have at morning break, and then at lunch I have school dinner.’

‘Do you have to take in a piece of fruit?’ I asked Max. I knew that many primary schools did this now.

‘Some kids do, but I don’t,’ he said. ‘I hate fruit.’

‘What? All of it?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘What about bananas?’ Adrian asked.

Max shook his head. ‘Grapes are OK sometimes, but that’s all,’ he said. I could guess why he liked grapes – they’re often very sweet.

‘What’s your favourite food?’ Adrian asked.

Max thought for a moment. ‘Chocolate cake with chocolate ice cream,’ he said, smacking his lips. ‘Yummy.’

‘That’s mine too,’ Adrian agreed, although I couldn’t remember him ever having both in the same dish.

‘I like chocolate cake and ice cream,’ Paula said, not wanting to be left out of the conversation.

‘What food do you hate the most?’ Adrian now asked Max.

‘Cabbage, carrots, broccoli, cauliflower,’ Max reeled off. ‘And tomatoes and the green stuff they give us at school. I leave it. What food do you hate?’

‘Brussels,’ Adrian said without hesitation.

And so the discussion about food continued as we ate and it was very insightful. By the end of breakfast I knew that Max actively avoided all vegetables and fruit apart from grapes, loved all things sweet, and that at home they lived off fast food and takeaways because his mother couldn’t stand for long on her bad legs to cook, and his dad said cooking was women’s work.

‘Don’t your sisters cook?’ I asked casually as I cleared away the dishes.

‘No,’ Max said, leaving the table. ‘Dad says they’re too fucking lazy.’

Adrian paused and looked at me, aware this wasn’t a word we used.

‘I think I get the picture,’ I said to Max. ‘I’m so pleased you don’t swear.’

‘I get clouted at home if I do,’ he said. ‘But my dad can swear.’

‘That’s the problem with grown-ups,’ Adrian commiserated. ‘They can do things children can’t, like stay up late and drive cars.’

‘I know,’ Max agreed. And the two boys went upstairs to brush their teeth and get ready for school, continuing their discussion on the numerous advantages of being an adult compared to being a child.

Chapter Six

Hostile

I pulled up outside Max’s school at 8.15 a.m. and parked in the road. I always introduce myself at reception on the first day, check that the school has my contact details and if possible arrange to meet with the child’s form teacher. Not wishing to leave Adrian and Paula alone in the car, I brought them in with me. I went up to reception, where I gave the school secretary my name and said I was Max’s foster carer.

‘Really?’ she said. ‘I haven’t been given your details.’ Which was often the case. She suggested Max went through to join breakfast club while I completed the paperwork, as breakfast finished at 8.30. I told Max I’d collect him from after-school club and wished him a good day, and then the three of us said goodbye to him. With his school bag over his shoulder and dressed in just trousers and shirt, as the weather was still good, he waddled off down the corridor towards the dining room.

Adrian and Paula now sat on the chairs in the reception area, looking at the children’s artwork displayed on the walls, while I filled in the forms with my contact details. Adrian and Paula had come in with me before when I’d taken a new child to school, so they knew they had to sit quietly while I completed the necessary paperwork. Once finished I handed the forms back to the receptionist and asked her where I should collect Max from the after-school club.

‘It’s held in the hall,’ she said, pointing towards the corridor behind me. I then asked if I could make an appointment to see Mrs Marshall, Max’s teacher.

‘Now? I think she’s busy.’

‘No, I have to take my children to school. Can we make it another time?’

‘I’ll ask her when she’s free and either she or I will phone you.’

‘Thank you.’

Adrian, Paula and I returned to the car. I retraced the route, passed the end of my road and drove on to Adrian’s school. Paula’s nursery was on the same site and she attended five mornings a week. Having seen them both in, I returned home. I’d only been in a few minutes when the telephone began to ring. It was Jo and I could tell immediately she was stressed, and it was only 9.30 a.m.

‘You didn’t phone Max’s mother last night,’ she said. ‘She’s been on the phone and she’s very upset.’ My heart sank.

‘I’m sorry. I did apologize to her. I must have misunderstood the arrangements. I was waiting to hear from you. I hadn’t realized we were supposed to phone her.’

‘I thought you didn’t want her to phone you,’ Jo said, misinterpreting. ‘Well, never mind. As long as it doesn’t happen again. You know what time you have to take Max to the hospital tonight?’

‘Yes. Five-thirty.’

‘His sisters will pack his bag and take it with them. I told them to bring his toy. Caz said she doesn’t want you waiting on the ward, so you can go and do something and then return to collect Max around seven.’

‘All right.’

‘Don’t be late, will you? She’s not happy with you or me right now.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Caz has given permission for Max to have a medical, so I’ll set it in motion. You should receive an appointment letter in the post in a couple of weeks.’

‘OK.’

‘I asked Caz about allergies and she said she thought Max might have some but didn’t know what they were. Sometimes he comes out in a rash, so just keep an eye on him.’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘She said to tell you to make sure he has his inhaler with him at school for his asthma.’

‘Yes. It’s in his school bag. He didn’t need it again last night. It’s blue – a reliever inhaler – so I’m assuming he just has it when he needs it.’

‘I’ll need to set up a review if he’s with you for more than a few weeks,’ Jo continued in a rush. ‘I’ll let you know. As I thought, Max has seen the dentist recently. He had to have some teeth out. Caz said he hasn’t been to an optician but there’s nothing wrong with his eyesight and he doesn’t wear glasses. The paediatrician will give him an eyesight test as part of his medical, so if there are any concerns he can see an optician after.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘So I don’t need to make an appointment for him to see either a dentist or an optician?’ I wanted to clarify this to avoid any more misunderstandings. When a child comes into care under a court order the foster carer usually arranges both check-ups straight away and in time for their first review.

‘Not at present,’ Jo confirmed. ‘So what sort of night did he have? I can’t be long, as I’m due in a meeting now.’

‘Max slept well, although he snores very loudly. It could be connected to his asthma, although his chest sounded clear. Has Caz mentioned it? There may be other reasons for it.’

‘Like what? She hasn’t said anything.’

‘Enlarged tonsils and adenoids can cause snoring in children.’

‘I’m sure she would have said when I asked her about Max’s health, but I’ll ask her when I see her. And you can raise it with the paediatrician when he has his medical.’

‘Yes.’

‘I think that’s everything.’

‘I found some pyjamas for Max to wear last night, but they were for age twelve to thirteen,’ I said.

‘He should have his own things by tonight,’ Jo replied, missing the point. ‘Make sure you’re at the hospital for five-thirty. Speak soon.’ And with a brief goodbye she was gone.

Twenty minutes later Jill telephoned to ask how Max’s first night had been. I told her, and then about Caz’s and Jo’s phone calls and the misunderstanding over telephone contact. It’s important for a foster carer to keep their support social worker up to date even on relatively minor issues, as they have a habit of escalating, and a missed contact – even phone contact – was certainly not a minor issue.

‘Well, you apologized,’ Jill said. ‘Max is seeing his mother tonight, so hopefully that will make up for it. To be honest, my understanding was the same as yours: that Jo was going to speak to his mother first and then phone you.’

‘Thank you, Jill,’ I said, and felt slightly exonerated. I found Jill very easy to talk to and, as an experienced social worker, greatly valued her opinion and advice. ‘On another matter, I am concerned about Max’s weight,’ I said. ‘I haven’t weighed him but you’ve seen him – he is badly overweight. Last night the only pyjamas that would fit him were for age twelve to thirteen. They were too long in the arms and legs but fitted around his middle.’

‘Yes, he’s certainly a big boy. What has Jo said?’

‘Nothing. I appreciate he may not be with me for very long, but I feel I should do something to help him. His mother knows he has a sweet tooth, so I was thinking of limiting the sweet things he eats. And trying to get him to eat some fruit and vegetables, which he tells me he hates. I think it would be wrong of me to do nothing while he’s with me.’

‘I can’t see any harm in limiting his sweet foods as long as you do it subtly, which I am sure you will do,’ Jill said. ‘The whole area of obesity is a minefield, not just in respect of childhood obesity but adults too. In one camp there is the “big is beautiful” and “it’s the person I am” argument, while all the medical evidence is now pointing to obesity doing as much damage to our health as smoking. We had some foster carers a couple of years ago who were both badly overweight,’ she continued. ‘They kept piling on the pounds until it was mentioned at their annual review in the context of it not setting a good example to the children they fostered. They took offence and left the agency. Although I heard later that when they applied to foster for the local authority they took the same view and refused them. I know you need a lot of willpower to lose weight, but as professionals working with children we have a duty to set an example by eating healthily and not smoking. But obviously don’t make an issue of it.’

‘I won’t. Thank you.’ I felt Jill spoke a lot of good sense.

‘And Max went into school happily this morning?’ she now asked.

‘Yes. He likes school and reading. He seems to be taking being in care in his stride. He’s a sweet child.’

‘He’s very likeable, rather a character. And you’re OK to take him to the hospital tonight?’

‘Yes. Jo has confirmed I can wait in the café.’

‘Good. It will be nice for you to finally meet his mother. It should help your relationship with her.’

‘I do hope so.’

‘I’ll be in touch then. You know where we are if you need us.’

‘Thank you.’

We said goodbye and within five minutes the phone had rung again. This time it was the secretary from Max’s school to say that Mrs Marshall could see me the following day at the start of her lunch break at 12.15 p.m. I thanked her, confirmed I’d be there and made a mental note to ask a friend to collect Paula from nursery, which ended at noon.

The afternoon disappeared. After Paula and I had eaten lunch, she amused herself while I cleared up and then prepared dinner. Although the logistics of the afternoon school run – collecting Adrian and then Max, fitting in dinner and then going to the hospital for contact – were manageable, I knew there wouldn’t be a minute to spare. At 3.30 Paula and I were in the playground again to collect Adrian. Max didn’t have to be collected until around 4.15, so we had time to pop home for a quick drink and to freshen up before leaving again.

Adrian and Paula came with me into the school and to the hall where Max’s after-school club was held. He saw us as we entered and immediately stood and came over. I explained to the person in charge who I was and showed her my ID, which all foster carers now carry. She’d been informed that I would be collecting Max and, thanking her, we left.

On the way home in the car I asked Max if he’d had a good day as I always ask the children at the end of school. Max said he had, adding that he liked school and school dinners, particularly the sticky toffee pudding and custard they’d had today, of which he’d had second helpings.

Once home, the children washed while I put the finishing touches to dinner. There was just enough time for us to eat before we had to leave again at five o’clock to go to the hospital. I was pretty paranoid about being late after all the warnings from Jo and had one eye on the clock the whole time, but despite meeting traffic in the town we arrived at the hospital with ten minutes to spare. I knew the name of the ward and Max knew where it was from his previous visits. Using the handrail, Max hauled himself up the two flights of stairs and we went into the ward.

It was a typical National Health Service six-bed ward, with three beds on each side, separated by a bedside cabinet, chair and curtains, none of which were closed at present. Everyone had visitors, and even if one group of visitors hadn’t looked over as we walked in I still would have guessed which was Caz’s bed. At the far end of the ward on the left, three teenage girls were grouped around a bed, one sitting in the chair and the other two leaning against the bed. All were badly overweight.

‘Hi, Max,’ one of the girls called. ‘Come here.’

He waddled down the ward and I told Adrian and Paula to wait just inside the door while I said hello to Max’s family. They knew we were going to go to the café afterwards.

I went up to the bed as Max was giving his mother a kiss on her offered cheek. His sisters stared at me, looking me up and down, curious as to who was looking after their brother. I smiled. ‘Hello, I’m Cathy. Nice to meet you all.’ Then to Caz, ‘How are you?’

She was propped on three pillows, the covers raised off her legs and feet by a curved blanket support. She completely ignored me and made a point of concentrating on offering Max a sweet from one of the many packets open on the bed. I’d experienced parents of children I’d fostered blanking me, or even being rude and aggressive, because they were angry at having their children taken into care. Clearly Caz was still angry with me. Apparently, so too were her daughters.

‘Mum doesn’t want to talk to you,’ the girl leaning against the right side of the bed said to me.

The girl on the other side nodded. ‘You should go,’ she said rudely.

I looked at Caz, who kept her gaze down and was helping Max choose another sweet. ‘I’ll come back at seven o’clock then,’ I said positively. ‘I’ll be in the café and play area if you need me.’

‘Why should we need you?’ the girl to the right said.

‘In case Max wants to leave early,’ I replied politely.

‘He won’t,’ Caz said, still not looking at me.

I nodded, forced a smile and walked away to the sound of them whispering and laughing, probably about me.

Hiding my discomposure, I went to Adrian and Paula and we left the ward. I was hurt by Caz and her daughters’ open hostility and rudeness. It wouldn’t help Max either, witnessing that. Children in care often struggle with divided loyalties: wanting to like and get on with their foster family, while loving their own family. It can be very confusing and it helps the child enormously if they see everyone getting along. But clearly that wasn’t going to happen yet.

We went up another flight of stairs to the play area and café, which were adjacent to each other. Children of various ages were already there. Adrian and Paula went over to play, while I sat at one of the tables and watched them, then after a while they came over and I bought us all a drink. I wondered if Max was thirsty, but I didn’t think going back to the ward to ask if he wanted a drink would be welcomed by his mother right now. Adrian set about doing his homework while I read Paula a story, then she returned to play with another similar-aged child in the play area.

So the time gradually passed. Adrian completed his homework and Paula was happy to play. Just before seven o’clock I said it was time to go and we packed away. Paula called goodbye to the new friend she’d made and we returned to the ward. Again I told Adrian and Paula to wait just inside the door while I went over to Caz. There was only one of her daughters there now, the youngest, sitting in the chair by the bed and yawning while absently flicking through a glossy teenage magazine. She looked bored stiff. Max was leaning against the bed but straightened when he saw me. ‘Are we going?’ he asked brightly.

‘Yes. It’s seven o’clock. Have you had a nice time?’

‘Of course he’s had a nice time,’ Caz snapped. I hadn’t intended any harm by the comment. I always ask a child if they’ve had a nice time if they’ve been somewhere.

‘Good. How are you doing?’ I tried again with Caz.

‘She’s had her toes off,’ her daughter said, stifling another yawn.

‘And it bleedin’ hurts,’ Caz said forcefully to her.

‘I’m sure it does,’ I sympathized. I would have liked to engage Caz in a proper conversation, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen, and Max seemed ready to leave.

‘My bag is under the bed,’ he said, struggling to bend down to retrieve it. I helped him pull the large zipper holdall from beneath the bed. ‘They remembered Buzz, so Adrian can have his back,’ he added.

‘Who’s Adrian?’ Caz said, suddenly turning to me.

‘My son. He’s waiting over there by the door with my daughter.’ She looked over and then returned her attention to her daughter. ‘Any good celeb gossip in there?’ she asked her, referring to the magazine.

‘Nah,’ she said, flicking the page and just looking at the pictures.

‘We’ll be off then,’ I said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

Caz turned to Max. ‘Give us a kiss then.’ She offered her cheek and he dutifully kissed it. ‘And your sister.’ His sister didn’t move, so Max squeezed around the bed to where she sat and she lowered her cheek, just enough for him to kiss it, while keeping her gaze on the magazine.

‘Goodbye,’ I said to them both, raising another smile. ‘Take care.’

But they kept their eyes down and Caz reached for the bag of sweets.

I picked up the holdall and we crossed to where Adrian and Paula were waiting and left. Some children become very distressed after separating from their parents at the end of contact, but Max seemed to deal with it in his usual pragmatic, matter-of-fact manner. He plodded along the corridor, then, taking the handrail, carefully manoeuvred himself down the stairs. By the time we were outside he was telling me he was hungry and asking if there would be time to have a snack before bed. I said there would be. We’d had an early dinner so it was reasonable for us to have a drink and a snack before bed. I asked Max if he’d been thirsty while he’d been on the ward, as he could take a bottle of water in with him next time. He said it was OK, as his sister had got him a bottle of cola. Then as I drove he asked if he could read in bed as he did at home.

‘Yes, of course, love. Once you’ve had your bath and are in your pyjamas. I’m pleased you like reading, it’s a nice way to end the day.’

It was 7.30 p.m. when we arrived home and the air was still warm, so the children ate the cheese on toast and cherry tomatoes I made for them sitting on the patio, while I took Max’s bag upstairs to unpack. All children in care feel more at home once they have some of their belongings around them, and I always make it a priority to unpack. It would also mean that Max would have fresh clothes for tomorrow without me running the washer-dryer tonight. I set the bag on the floor and unzipped it. I found Buzz and sat him on the bed where Max liked him and returned Adrian’s Buzz to his room. I began unpacking Max’s clothes, folding and hanging them in the drawers and wardrobe. As I did I noticed that all the labels showed they were for age 12 or older, as the pyjamas he’d worn the night before had, and of course they’d all been shortened in the arms and legs. However, while his school uniform had been neatly turned up and hemmed, as had the one he’d arrived in, his casual clothes were either rolled up or fastened with a safety pin. His pyjamas had been cut to length and were now fraying badly at the raw edges. I wondered why Caz hadn’t bothered to take up all his clothes properly, as it looked so much better and stopped the hem from fraying. There wasn’t much in the holdall, and I was aware that some parents of children in care purposely didn’t send many of their child’s belongings to the foster carer, in the hope that the child would soon be home. Having unpacked Max’s bag, I stowed it on top of his wardrobe. I went downstairs to start bringing the children up to bed and for a moment I thought Max had eaten the cherry tomatoes I’d put on his plate, but then Adrian said, ‘Max didn’t want his tomatoes, so I had them.’

‘OK, love, but that won’t do Max any good, will it?’ I said lightly.

‘I hate tomatoes,’ Max said.

‘They may not like you either,’ Adrian quipped, and both boys laughed.

I took Paula up to bed first, then Max and Adrian, and by a quarter to nine all three children were in bed. Paula was fast asleep and the boys were reading. Downstairs I took the opportunity to check a few details in the essential information forms, the first being the names of Max’s sisters. If I was going to meet them every evening, it would help to know their names and give me a better chance of establishing a relationship with them. I flicked through the sheets and found the page I wanted. They were called Kelly, Paris and Summer, aged seventeen, fifteen and thirteen respectively. Then I turned the page to the section that covered the reason Max was in care: he’d been left alone in the house while his mother was in hospital having her toes amputated. She had type 2 diabetes, and the primary cause of this condition was obesity. I struggled to understand why, having suffered so much, Caz appeared to be inflicting the same fate on her children, for clearly if something didn’t change Kelly, Paris, Summer and Max were all going to suffer as their mother was.

Chapter Seven

Joining In

Max was already snoring loudly when I went up to bed, so I shut all the children’s bedroom doors, including his. Usually – unless a child specifically asks to have their door completely closed – I leave it ajar so I can hear them in the night if they are out of bed or upset, but I didn’t want Adrian being woken up again, and Max had slept well the night before. Knowing him a little better now, I felt sure he would call out if he needed me. I left my door open though, and Max’s snoring rumbled on in the distance all night, like a storm advancing and retreating. I would mention the snoring to the paediatrician when I took him for his medical.

The following morning we fell into our school routine and all three children were pleased it was Friday. Over breakfast (when I limited Max to one spoonful of sugar on his cereal) they talked about making a camp in the garden at the weekend. I thought this was a good idea, as it was a game Max could easily join in with. The weather was settled so I suggested we put up the tent on Saturday morning. It was a small one that the children sometimes used for playing.

‘Why not tonight?’ Adrian asked excitedly. Then remembering, ‘Oh yes, there won’t be time. We have to go to the hospital.’

‘I don’t mind if we don’t go,’ Max said, also delighted at the prospect of playing in a tent.

‘Your mother will mind,’ I said. ‘We can put up the tent first thing on Saturday morning, even before breakfast. And you’ll have all weekend to play in it.’

Max nodded, then looked thoughtful. ‘I think I’d rather have my breakfast first,’ he said.

‘OK, love,’ I smiled.

Sometimes I saw my parents at the weekend, but I’d purposely kept this weekend free to allow Max time to settle in. And, of course, we’d still be visiting the hospital on Saturday and Sunday from five-thirty till seven o’clock, but it wouldn’t be such a rush without school.

I’d arranged for Paula to be collected from nursery by a friend of mine who had a similar-aged child at the same nursery so that I could meet Mrs Marshall; we’d helped each other out in the past. Paula was looking forward to going to her friend’s house to play and I anticipated collecting her around one o’clock. I told Max I would be going to his school to meet his teacher and to hear how well he was doing in case he saw me in the building and worried about why I was there.

At 11.30 a.m., having prepared the dinner for that evening, I changed out of my jeans and T-shirt and into a pair of smarter cotton summer trousers and a short-sleeved blouse, then drove to Max’s school, arriving at 12.10 p.m. The receptionist remembered why I was there and asked me to sign the visitor’s book and then wait in reception for Mrs Marshall. At exactly 12.15 a lady approached with a friendly, ‘Hello, Cathy Glass?’

‘Yes.’ I stood.

‘Daisy Marshall. Lovely to meet you.’

‘And you.’ We shook hands. Dressed practically in a pleated blue summer dress, and with short, neatly layered grey hair, I guessed her to be in her late fifties.

‘Let’s go to my classroom to talk,’ she said. ‘There’s no one in there.’

‘Thank you for making the time to see me,’ I said as we went. ‘I know how busy you must be.’

‘Not at all. I’m pleased you’ve come into school. I like to meet the foster carer as soon as possible if a child moves home. We don’t have many children in care – last year one of our older children lived with a foster carer, but an aunt has him now.’ With 70,000 children in care in the UK, most schools have experience of pupils living with a foster carer. ‘How is Max settling in?’ she asked.

‘Very well indeed.’

‘He’s a lovely boy, I’ve got a lot of time for him.’ Mrs Marshall opened the door to her classroom and we went in.

‘You’ve been busy,’ I said admiringly. The classroom was festooned with the children’s work. Every wall was covered with paintings, drawings, pie charts, essays, poems and so on. Handmade bunting hung from the ceiling showing the different flags from around the world, and a magnificent model of a Roman village stood in one corner. There was also a nature table, the like of which I hadn’t seen since my own school days.

‘Yes, the children keep me on my toes, but I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ she said with a smile. ‘Take a seat.’ She drew out two of the children’s chairs from beneath a table and we sat either side.

I’d taken an immediate liking to Mrs Marshall; she came across as a kind and caring person as well as a dedicated teacher. She was straightforward in her manner and I sensed she could be firm with her class when necessary.

‘Max is a lovely child and a pleasure to teach,’ she began. ‘He’s interested in learning and will join in and ask pertinent questions in class discussion. He’s well above average in his learning, especially literacy. He loves reading. It’s a form of escapism for him, as indeed it is for many people. Although now, sadly, watching television has largely replaced reading in many homes.’ I nodded. ‘However, I do feel sad when I see him sitting all by himself in the playground with a book instead of joining in with the other children. Of course, Max can’t run and play like others his age because of the thing we’re not allowed to talk about.’

I held her gaze. ‘His weight?’ I asked quietly.

‘Exactly. It’s a taboo subject with his mother, and apparently it’s not politically correct to raise it with his social worker, although obviously she must be aware of the problem. Max struggles. If he had a learning disability, he’d receive all the help he needs, but obesity isn’t being properly acknowledged and dealt with.’

‘I know it limits what he can do,’ I agreed. ‘How does he manage in PE lessons?’

‘He changes into his kit and joins in as best he can. He would rather sit and read a book, but it’s important he has some exercise, just as it is for all the children. I know he feels self-conscious and I never suggest he tries something of which he is not capable. We have another obese child in the class, although she’s not as overweight as Max, and she’s on a diet and losing weight. Her mother wants her to exercise more, but I’m always sensitive to her and Max’s limitations. By the way, Max’s PE kit could do with a wash. I’ll remind him to take it home with him tonight.’

‘Yes, please do. I usually take the children’s PE kits home every week to wash them. He hasn’t come with a spare.’

‘They can be bought here from reception.’

‘I’ll get an extra set on the way out.’

‘I’ll leave you to shorten it this time, save me a job,’ Mrs Marshall said with a smile. I looked at her questioningly. ‘You’ve probably noticed how the clothes that fit Max are for much older children. His mother rolls up the sleeves and trouser legs to make them fit, or fastens them with a safety pin. It’s not nice for Max. The trousers unroll and he trips over them. Other kids notice. So I’ve been turning up his school uniform.’

‘That’s very kind of you, and also explains something,’ I said. ‘When I unpacked his bag last night I wondered why his school uniform was neatly turned and hemmed but his other clothes weren’t.’

‘It helps his mother, although I’m not sure she’s noticed. The poor woman has so many health issues of her own to deal with. Have you met her?’

‘Yes, briefly last night when I took Max to the hospital to see her.’

‘She was supposed to be out of hospital by now, but I understand her foot is taking longer to heal than anticipated.’

‘Yes. The care plan is that Max will stay with me until she is home and sufficiently recovered to look after him.’ She nodded. ‘Max has an inhaler, but doesn’t seem to need it much,’ I said. ‘Does he have asthma?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Mrs Marshall said. ‘Max gets out of breath after exertion, but I think that’s because of his weight. His mother has been committed to him having an inhaler for a long time and it seems the doctor has finally agreed. Many children in the school have inhalers now. Personally I think they’re over-prescribed. One of my children had asthma – he still does – so I know the signs and symptoms. Max has used his inhaler once since he got it and that was after his sister, Summer, made him rush in, as she was going to be late for her school. He was out of breath but more panting rather than wheezing, which is what you hear when a child has asthma. But obviously I’m no doctor and we have to let him use it if necessary.’

‘He’s used it once with me, when he first arrived,’ I said. ‘He’ll be having a medical before too long, so I’ll raise it with the paediatrician.’

‘I’d be interested to know what they say. And also what is said about his weight and going on a diet. Caz says it’s their genes, and it’s true they are all chronically overweight apart from the father. But when you hear what they eat, coupled with an inactive lifestyle, it’s hardly surprising. As part of our “staying healthy” project in school all the children kept a food diary for a week and it was quite an eye-opener.’

‘I’m limiting the amount of sweet foods Max has,’ I said.

‘Good. But we can’t do that here in school unless we have the parent’s permission and the child is following a special diet. We have a child with a nut allergy, another who has gluten intolerance, and the girl I mentioned earlier in the class who is trying to lose weight has a diet plan. The kitchen staff are aware of what these children can and can’t have, but they can’t stop a child having a second helping of pudding unless they’re told to do so. And the puddings here are delicious.’ She licked her lips.

‘So I understand,’ I said with a smile. ‘Max said it was sticky toffee pudding yesterday.’

‘It was tasty.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘I wish I could do more for Max. He’s bright and has huge potential but isn’t given the support he could be at home. There are no books in his house and reading isn’t encouraged, so he borrows books from the school library and reads them in his bedroom. He has a lot to contend with. He’d love a proper relationship with his father, but he has little time for him and refers to him as “Mistake”. There’s a gap of seven years between Summer and Max, and according to Caz, Max was a mistake. But it’s not fair to make the child aware of it, and in some ways he is very different to them.’ Mrs Marshall paused and a smile crossed her face. ‘He reminds me of Matilda in the Roald Dahl children’s story. Do you know it?’ I nodded. ‘Matilda is bright and loves reading and learning just like Max, but her parents don’t and are so wound up in their own lives that they don’t recognize her worth. Eventually she is saved by her teacher, Miss Honey. Perhaps you will be Max’s Miss Honey?’

I returned her smile. ‘I will certainly do my best while he is with me.’

‘I know you will. And if Max ever mentions being bullied let me know straight away, please. We have a strict anti-bullying policy in this school and we keep a close eye on our most vulnerable children, but we can’t monitor them every second, especially in the school playground. I have a quiet chat with Max every so often, but I’m not sure he would tell me if someone was being unkind to him.’

‘I’ll keep a lookout for it,’ I said. ‘Thank you for all you are doing for Max.’

‘It’s a pleasure. Pop in any time if you have any concerns. Academically, Max is doing very well.’

We said goodbye and I left the classroom and went to reception, where I bought a spare PE T-shirt and shorts for Max – size age 12. I returned to my car and collected Paula from my friend’s house. She’d given Paula lunch, so, thanking her, I then took the opportunity while I had the time to pop into town to buy Max the Toy Story posters I’d promised him for his bedroom wall. I also bought a poster each for Adrian and Paula so they wouldn’t feel left out, although they already had plenty on their bedroom walls, built up over the years. From town I drove straight to Adrian’s school, collected him, then we returned home briefly for a drink before leaving again to collect Max.

Max came out of school carrying his PE kit for washing and a school bag weighed down with books. ‘That looks heavy,’ I said, taking the bag from him to carry.

‘Mrs Marshall always gives me extra books to read over the weekend so I don’t run out,’ he said.

‘Great. Although you are going to spend some time playing as well. We’re going to put up the tent,’ I reminded him. Having heard what Mrs Marshall had said about Max’s social isolation and using books as a means of escape, both at home and in the playground, I thought it was even more important that he spent some time playing and interacting with Adrian and Paula. Reading is a lovely pastime, but children need to play with other children to develop their social skills, and hopefully have fun.

Once home I showed Max the posters I’d bought and he was delighted with them. Adrian and Paula liked theirs too. I said I’d put them up later after we returned from the hospital, as there wasn’t time before. I served the meal I’d previously prepared and as soon as we’d finished we set off for the hospital and arrived just before 5.30 p.m. As with the evening before, I left Adrian and Paula to wait just inside the ward while I saw Max to his mother. Had Caz and her daughters been more friendly I would have introduced Adrian and Paula to them. Parents of children in care often like to meet the carer’s family, but Caz and her daughters didn’t want anything to do with me, so I doubted they’d be interested in meeting my family. Caz was propped on the pillows as she had been the night before and her daughters were draped around her bed, popping sweets from the various bags open on the bed. They all looked bored stiff.

‘Hello,’ I said brightly as Max joined the throng.

‘Kiss,’ Caz said, pointing to her cheek. He went up and kissed her cheek, then, helping himself to a sweet, joined his sisters in lolling against the bed. I wondered what he would find to do for an hour and a half apart from eat sweets, and it crossed my mind that perhaps he should bring in a book to read. It was a long time for a young child to spend on a hospital ward, even if it was with his family.

No one had responded to my hello so I said a general, ‘Have a nice time, see you later.’

‘Bye, Cathy,’ Max said. I smiled and left.

Following the same routine as the evening before, Adrian, Paula and I went up to the café and children’s play area, where Adrian completed some of his homework – the rest could be done over the weekend – and I read to Paula, and then they both spent some time playing. There was another boy Adrian’s age there and they had a few games of draughts. At seven o’clock we packed away and returned to the ward. Again, Caz’s youngest daughter, Summer, was the only one still there, sitting in the chair, staring into space and twiddling her hair. For whatever reason, clearly the older two girls could go but Summer had to stay.

I smiled politely at them both, remembered not to ask Max if he’d had a nice time and said, ‘OK? Ready to go then?’

‘Bye, Mum,’ Max said. ‘See you tomorrow.’ Kissing her cheek, he left her bed.

‘See you tomorrow,’ I said. Caz nodded and Summer just stared at me.

The ward was hot and stuffy and Max yawned repeatedly on the way out of the building, but once outside in the fresh air he perked up. ‘Have we got time to put up my posters tonight?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And tomorrow we’re going to play in the tent?’

‘We are.’

‘I’m hungry. Can I have a snack when we get home?’

‘Yes.’

And his face lit up at the prospect of eating, the thought of food giving him as much – if not more – pleasure as his posters or playing in a tent, which I thought, for a child of his age, was sad.

That night, as Max climbed into bed, with the Toy Story posters on his bedroom walls and Buzz Lightyear sitting on the bed, he said wistfully, ‘I wish I was Andy, then all the toys could be my friends.’ For anyone who doesn’t know the film Toy Story, it is a computer-animated adventure story where the toys owned by six-year-old Andy come to life and have amazing adventures.

‘It’s a nice idea,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘I don’t really have friends at school.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘Mrs Marshall said what a lovely boy you are.’ I’d already told Max in the car coming home from school that she’d said he was doing very well in lessons.

‘If my toys were alive, I could play games with them. I don’t play with anyone at school.’

‘Why is that?’ I asked gently. I was pretty sure I knew the reason, as Mrs Marshall had, but I wanted to hear what Max had to say.

‘The kids play running games and I can’t keep up with them,’ he explained. ‘They don’t want me to play with them, really.’

‘How do you know that?’ I asked, inching the conversation towards the possibility of Max being bullied. ‘Do they say something?’

He shrugged. ‘Not really. They’re not allowed to. It’s the way they look at each other. I can tell from their faces they don’t want me in their team.’

‘I understand,’ I said. It wasn’t overt bullying but the result was the same, and clearly you can’t force children to play with a particular child. In PE Mrs Marshall was in control and included and encouraged Max to participate, as she did the other overweight child in the class. The playground was very different and a free-for-all.

‘I can’t run like they can,’ Max added quietly, picking up Buzz Lightyear for comfort. ‘I’m very slow and I can’t keep up. I get hot and out of breath and go red in the face.’

I nodded sympathetically. ‘But perhaps you could join in with their games in a way that doesn’t involve you running fast.’

‘Like what?’ he asked. ‘All their games involve running.’ Which was probably true, as children of this age are usually very active, especially after having to sit quietly during lessons.

‘Well, let me see,’ I said, thinking. ‘What about this for an idea? If they play football you could offer to be the goalkeeper, or the linesman, or referee. You wouldn’t need to run much in those positions.’

‘That’s true,’ he said, ‘but they play a lot of tag and other chasing games like stuck in the mud and shipwrecked.’

‘OK. So you could be “home” or the “safe place”?’ This was the person or place the child being chased could go to so they couldn’t be caught.

Max looked thoughtful. ‘That might work.’

‘Have a think about it and I’m sure you can come up with ways of joining in. You read a lot of books and have a good imagination.’ He nodded. Max hadn’t mentioned his actual weight as being the problem. He hadn’t said, ‘I’m fat and I can’t run fast enough.’ His concern had been about joining in and I thought it best to deal with that issue. If he began talking about his weight and the need to lose some then I would do all I could to help him. But of course losing the weight would be a long-term goal and would require encouragement, willpower and the full commitment of his mother.

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