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 2018

FIRST EDITION

Text © Cathy Glass 2018

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Cover photograph © Kristina Dominianni/Arcangel Images (posed by a model)

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Source ISBN: 9780008305468

Ebook Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008305475

Version 2018-07-31

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Chapter One: Familiar?

Chapter Two: Safe and Happy

Chapter Three: Mummy Needs Me

Chapter Four: School

Chapter Five: Amanda

Chapter Six: The Way Home?

Chapter Seven: Lost

Chapter Eight: Difficult

Chapter Nine: When Can I See Mummy?

Chapter Ten: Snow Angel

Chapter Eleven: Review

Chapter Twelve: Four Sleeps

Chapter Thirteen: Heartbreaking

Chapter Fourteen: Precious Freedom

Chapter Fifteen: Staying Positive

Chapter Sixteen: Amanda – a Mother

Chapter Seventeen: Not Thursday

Chapter Eighteen: Developments

Chapter Nineteen: Caught His Plane

Chapter Twenty: A Timely Reminder

Chapter Twenty-One: Match

Chapter Twenty-Two: Coping?

Chapter Twenty-Three: Robbed of Dignity

Chapter Twenty-Four: True Heroes

Chapter Twenty-Five: Introductions

Chapter Twenty-Six: Overtired and Emotional

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Lucky to Have Her

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Family

Suggested topics for reading-group discussion

Cathy Glass

If you loved this book …

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

Praise for Cathy Glass

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.

Chapter One

Familiar?

I was sure I’d heard it all before …

The child I was being asked to foster had been badly neglected for years by her single mother, who was an intravenous drug user and alcohol dependent. The social services were going to court later that morning to bring the child into care. Melody was eight years of age and had been sleeping on an old stained mattress on the floor of a damp, cold basement flat with her mother, and they were about to be evicted. She hadn’t been attending school, and despite the social services putting in support, there was never any food in the cupboards and she and her mother were often hungry, cold and dirty.

‘She is also very angry,’ Jill, my supervising social worker from the agency I fostered for, continued over the phone. The referral from the social services had come through her.

‘The mother is angry?’ I asked.

‘Yes, and Melody – her child – is too. She tried to kick and thump the social worker when she visited yesterday and threw something at her when she began talking to her mother. The social worker will take a police officer with her when she removes Melody, assuming the care order is granted.’

‘Is there any doubt?’

‘There shouldn’t be, but you never can tell. It will depend on the judge. The case is in court shortly, so it’s likely to be early afternoon before they are with you.’

‘All right.’ Forcibly removing a child from their home wasn’t a good start, but if the parent wasn’t cooperating there was no alternative. The mother had been given plenty of opportunities to sort out her life and parent her daughter properly but had repeatedly failed.

‘Amanda, the mother, can’t control Melody,’ Jill said. ‘She’s failed to put in place any boundaries and Melody can easily become angry. One social worker described her as feral.’

One of the reasons I had been asked to foster Melody was because I had years of fostering experience, much of it working with children with challenging behaviour, and I knew why Melody was angry. Even though she had been living in appalling conditions and had not been looked after, she was being taken away from the mother she knew and loved.

‘She’s very loyal and protective of her mother,’ Jill continued, ‘and won’t hear any criticism of her. They both hate social workers. Melody does as she likes and is very much the one in control.’ Again, this wasn’t unusual for a child who’d had to raise herself.

‘And her father?’ I asked. Knowledge of the family helps the foster carer.

‘They don’t live together. It’s unclear if Melody sees him at all. He’s also an intravenous drug user. Both parents have served prison sentences for drug dealing.’ Which again I’d heard before. ‘Melody has four older half-siblings, different fathers. All those children were taken into care and then adopted years ago.’

‘Why leave it so long to bring Melody into care?’ I asked, almost sure of the answer.

‘Her mother, Amanda, is very good at evading the social services,’ Jill said. ‘She has been moving flats regularly and doesn’t answer the door when a social worker visits, or she gets someone else to say they don’t live there. The social worker only got access yesterday because the main door was open. It’s a multiple-occupancy house and their room is in the basement. The room was freezing, and Melody and her mother were watching television in bed with their coats on.’

‘Dear me,’ I sighed.

‘Amanda has been funding her drug habit from prostitution. If she’s brought the clients back to her room, there is a possibility Melody has witnessed her mother with them, and might even have been sexually abused herself. So be vigilant for any disclosures she may make. Oh yes, and she has nits,’ Jill added. This was common for children coming into care.

‘I assume Melody won’t be returning home?’

‘Highly unlikely. The social services intend to apply for a Full Care Order, so she will remain in care.’ Sad though this was, in cases like these there really was no alternative. It was too early to say if Melody would have the chance of being adopted, but aged eight and with behavioural problems it was unlikely.

‘So, Cathy,’ Jill said, rounding off, ‘that’s it really. Neave, the social worker, will phone once she’s left court, then she and a colleague will take a police officer to collect Melody from home and come to you. I’ll try to be with you when she is placed.’

‘Thank you.’ Jill, as my supervising social worker, offered support and made sure I had all the information I needed and the correct placement forms were signed when a child was placed.

‘See you later then,’ she said, and we said goodbye.

Yes, it was a depressingly familiar story, which I was sure I’d heard before about many children brought into care. As it turned out, I couldn’t have been more wrong. There was another side to Melody’s story, which at this point no one knew.

Chapter Two

Safe and Happy

Even after many years of fostering I’m still slightly anxious before a new child arrives, wondering if they will like us and what I will be able to do to help them. Now I had the added concern of Melody’s angry and challenging behaviour. But by lunchtime I’d given her bedroom a final check, cleaned, hoovered and tidied all the communal areas in the house (I might not have another chance for a while), then I tried to concentrate on the part-time administration work I did mainly from home. As a single parent – my husband having run off with another woman some years before – the admin work plus the small allowance I received from fostering helped to make ends meet. I’d have fostered anyway, even without the allowance. I enjoyed it, and it had become a way of life.

My three children – Adrian, aged sixteen, Lucy, fourteen, and Paula, twelve – were at school, so they’d have a surprise when they arrived home to find Melody here, although it wouldn’t be a huge one. Adrian and Paula had grown up with fostering and knew children could arrive at very short notice. Lucy had been in foster care herself before I’d adopted her, so was only too familiar with the way the system worked. (I tell Lucy’s story in my book Will You Love Me?)

I had a sandwich lunch as I worked and it was nearly two o’clock before the front doorbell rang, signalling Melody’s arrival. I felt my pulse step up a beat as I left the paperwork on the table in the front room and went to answer the door. A female social worker I took to be Neave stood on one side of Melody and a male social worker was on the other, as if escorting her.

‘Hello, you must be Melody,’ I said with a smile. ‘Come in. I’m Cathy.’

Melody glared at me but didn’t move. ‘This is the foster carer I told you about,’ Neave said, and touched Melody’s arm to encourage her to move forward.

‘Get your hands off me!’ Melody snapped, angrily shrugging her off, but she did come in.

‘I’m Neave, and this is my colleague Jim,’ Neave said as they too came in.

Jim shook my hand. I guessed both social workers were in their early forties, and were dressed smartly in dark colours, having come straight from court.

‘Shall I take your coats?’ I offered, but Neave was already halfway down the hall, looking to see which room she should go in. ‘Straight ahead!’ I called. Jim took off his coat and also his shoes, which he paired with ours beneath the hall stand.

‘Would you like to take off your coat and shoes?’ I asked Melody, who was still standing beside us and hadn’t followed her social worker into the living room. She looked at me as though I was completely barmy, probably having never taken off her shoes and coat as part of the routine for entering her home. ‘We usually do,’ I added.

Melody was of average height and build, but her pale skin was grubby. There were dark rings under her eyes from lack of sleep and her brown, shoulder-length hair was unwashed and matted. I already knew she had nits and I would treat those later. Her zip-up anorak was filthy, a long rip down one sleeve showed the white lining and the zipper was undone and hanging off. Beneath her jacket she was wearing a badly stained jumper and short skirt. The skirt and ankle socks she wore were more suitable for summer than winter; her legs must have been freezing. Her filthy plastic trainers had holes in the ends where her toes poked through. Not for the first time since I’d started fostering, I felt greatly saddened that in our reasonably affluent society a child could still appear in this state.

‘Are you going to take off your coat and shoes?’ Jim now asked.

‘No!’ Melody said, and headed down the hall.

‘That told us,’ I said quietly to Jim. He smiled. Foster carers and social workers have to maintain a sense of humour in order to survive the suffering and sadness we see each day. I’d ease Melody into our way of doing things as we went along.

‘Would anyone like a drink?’ I asked as Jim and I entered the living room.

‘Coffee, please,’ Neave said from the sofa. ‘Milk, no sugar.’

‘And for me too, please, if it’s not too much trouble,’ Jim added.

‘And what about you?’ I asked Melody, who’d sat next to Neave.

‘No. I don’t want anything from you.’ She scowled.

‘OK, maybe later. There’s a box of games you might like to look at,’ I said, pointing to the toy box of age-appropriate games I’d put out ready. ‘There’s some children’s books on the shelves,’ I added.

‘Not looking,’ she said. Folding her arms defiantly across her chest, she glared at Neave. ‘I want to go home. Take me back, now!’

‘You know I can’t do that,’ Neave said. ‘I explained in the car what was happening.’

‘I don’t care what you said. It’s not your decision. It’s up to me and I want to go home!’

‘That’s not possible,’ Neave said evenly. ‘You’re staying with Cathy and her family for now, and she is going to look after you very well. You’ll do lots of nice things and you’ll see your mother soon.’

‘I want to see Mum now!’ Melody’s anger flared and for a moment I thought she was going to hit Neave. Neave thought so too, for she moved further up the sofa. ‘My mum needs me!’ Melody said with slightly less aggression. Many children come into care believing that their parents won’t be able to manage without them, and part of my role is to take away the inappropriate responsibility they’ve had at home and encourage them to be children.

I made my way towards the kitchen to make the coffee but as I left the living room the front doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be Jill,’ I said, and went to answer it.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘I’ve come straight from placing another child. Are they here?’

‘Yes, just arrived. They’re in the living room. I’m about to make coffee. Would you like one?’

‘Oh yes, please,’ she said gratefully. ‘Have you got a biscuit too? I haven’t had time for lunch.’

‘I could make you a sandwich?’ I offered.

‘No, a biscuit is fine.’

Jill went into the living room and introduced herself, while I set about making the coffee. I could hear Jill talking to Melody in a reassuring voice, telling her she would be happy with me, that I’d look after her and there was nothing for her to worry about. Jill was a highly experienced social worker and I greatly valued her input, support and advice.

I took the tray carrying the drinks and a plate of biscuits into the living room and set it on the coffee table. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?’ I asked Melody as I handed out the mugs of coffee.

‘No, but I’ll have a biscuit.’ Standing, she grabbed a handful of biscuits and returned to the sofa to eat them.

‘Are you hungry?’ Neave asked her as they quickly vanished.

‘No,’ she snarled.

‘I’ll make her something to keep her going until dinner once we’ve finished,’ I reassured Neave.

I passed the plate of biscuits to the adults and then put the empty plate on the tray. For a few moments there was quiet as they sipped their coffee and ate the biscuits. I thought Jill wasn’t the only one who hadn’t had time for lunch. Neave set her half-empty mug on the coffee table and took a wodge of papers from her briefcase. When a child is placed there are formalities that need to be completed, and Neave handed Jill and me a copy each of the Essential Information Form Part 1. This contained the basic information I needed about the child I was fostering, and I began to look through it, as did Jill, while Neave finished her coffee. Much of the information I already knew from Jill. It included Melody’s full name, most recent home address, date of birth and her parents’ names, and in the box for other family members was printed Four half-siblings, all adopted, but not their names. Melody’s ethnicity was given as white British and her first language English. The box for religion showed None, and her legal status showed Interim Care Order. There were no special dietary requirements and Melody had no known allergies. Her school’s name and address were shown with a comment in the box saying she’d only been there since September. It was January now, so she’d joined four months previously.

‘Melody changed school last term then?’ I asked Neave.

‘Yes, with the most recent move,’ she replied. ‘She’s had a lot of changes of school, with long gaps in between when she didn’t attend at all. Now she’s in care she’ll have more stability in her life. She’s very behind with her school work.’

‘I hate school. I’m not going,’ Melody said, her face setting.

‘All children have to go to school,’ Jill said gently.

‘I don’t!’ Melody snapped.

‘You do, love,’ I said. ‘All the children in this house go to school and tomorrow we’ll buy you a nice new school uniform.’ Not a bribe, but an incentive.

‘I was going to mention her clothing,’ Neave said. ‘I’m afraid she just has what she is wearing. Her mother said she has other clothes, but they needed washing.’

‘Not a problem,’ I said. ‘We’ll use my emergency supply until we can go shopping and buy her new clothes. The school usually sells the uniform, so we can get that tomorrow morning when we go in.’

‘That’ll be nice, won’t it?’ Jill said encouragingly, turning to Melody. ‘Lots of new clothes.’

Melody scowled, but not quite so forcibly. All children like new things, especially when they haven’t had any before.

Jill and I returned to the Essential Information Form. The next line was about special educational needs – Melody requires classroom support was printed in the box. The next question asked if the child had any challenging behaviour and printed in the box was Melody has challenging behaviour. She can be angry. The next box about contact arrangements was empty.

‘Contact?’ Jill queried.

‘I’ll confirm the contact arrangements when I’ve spoken to the Family Centre to check availability,’ Neave said. ‘Melody will have supervised contact with her mother at the Family Centre – I’m anticipating on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, four till five-thirty. You’ll be able to take and collect her?’ Neave asked me. It’s expected that foster carers take children to and from contact, school and any appointments they may have.

‘Yes,’ I said, and made a note of the days and times in my diary.

‘I want to see my mum now!’ Melody demanded, having finished the biscuits.

‘You’ve just seen her,’ Neave said, ‘and you’ll see her again tomorrow – Wednesday.’

‘That’s not long,’ Jill said positively.

‘I want to see my mum at home!’

‘The Family Centre is like a home,’ I said. ‘It’s got sofas to sit on and lots of games to play with. I’ve taken children before and they always have a good time.’

Melody threw me a withering look and I returned my attention to the form, as did Jill.

‘Sibling contact with her half-brothers and sisters?’ Jill asked Neave.

‘No, there is no contact.’

‘And the care plan is long-term foster care then?’ Jill said.

‘Yes,’ Neave confirmed.

We had come to the end of the form and I placed my copy in my fostering folder.

‘I’ll need to arrange a LAC review,’ Neave now said. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I have the details.’ LAC stands for ‘Looked After Child’, and all children in care have regular reviews to make sure everything is being done as it should to help them. The first review is usually held within the first four weeks of a child coming into care.

Toscha, our very old, docile and lovable cat sauntered out from behind the sofa where she’d been sleeping next to the radiator.

‘A cat!’ Melody cried in horror.

‘Don’t you like cats?’ Jim asked her.

‘No, they’re horrible. They have fleas that bite you.’ She began scratching her legs and I saw she had a lot of old insect bites.

‘Toscha doesn’t have fleas,’ I said.

‘My mum says all cats have fleas.’

‘I treat Toscha with flea drops so she doesn’t ever get them,’ I explained.

‘Do you have cats at home?’ Jill asked.

‘They come in when we open the door.’

‘There’s always a lot of stray cats around the entrance to the house and inside the communal hallway,’ Neave said. ‘I don’t expect anyone treats them.’

‘Try not to scratch,’ I said. ‘You’ll make them worse. I’ll put some antiseptic ointment on after your bath tonight.’

‘I don’t have baths,’ Melody said firmly. ‘It’s too cold.’ I’d heard similar before from other children I’d fostered who’d come from homes where they couldn’t afford heating and hot water.

‘It’s warm here,’ I reassured her. ‘The central heating is always on in winter and there’s plenty of hot water.’

Melody looked bewildered.

‘It’s bound to seem a bit strange at first,’ Jill said, ‘but Cathy is here to look after you. If you need anything or have any questions, ask her or one of her children. You’ll meet them later.’ Jill knew, as I did, that despite Melody’s bravado, as an eight-year-old child away from her mother, she must be feeling pretty scared and anxious.

‘Shall we look round the house now?’ Neave said to Jim. ‘Then we need to get back to the office.’

It’s usual for the foster carer to show the social worker and child around when they first arrive, so we all stood. I began with the room we were in, which looked out over the garden. ‘As you can see, we have some swings at the bottom of the garden,’ I said to Melody. ‘And there are bikes and other outdoor play things in the shed. You can play out there when the weather is good.’

‘And there are parks close by,’ Jill told her. ‘Cathy takes all the children she fosters to the park and other nice places, like the zoo and activity centres.’

Melody looked at us blankly. Giving her a reassuring smile, I led the way out of the living room and into our kitchen-cum-dining room. ‘This is where we eat,’ I said, pointing to the table. Toscha had followed us out and I saw Melody eyeing her carefully as she wandered over to her empty food bowl in a recess of the kitchen. ‘It’s not her dinner time yet,’ I said to Melody, trying to put her at ease.

‘Cats are always hungry,’ Jim added.

Melody looked suspiciously at Toscha and gave her leg another good scratch. ‘Honestly, love, she hasn’t got fleas,’ I said. I then led the way down the hall and into the front room. ‘This is a quiet room, if anyone wants to be alone,’ I explained. It held the computer, sound system, shelves of books, a cabinet with a lockable drawer where I kept important documents, and a small table and four chairs. It was sometimes used for homework and studying, and if anyone wanted their own space.

‘Thank you,’ Neave said and we headed out.

We went upstairs, where I suggested we look at Melody’s room first. ‘It’s not my room,’ she said grumpily.

‘It’ll feel more comfortable once you have your things in here,’ I said as we entered. I told all the children this when I showed them round, for while the room was clean and tidy with a wardrobe, shelves, drawers and freshly laundered bed linen, it lacked any personalization that makes a room feel lived in and homely. Then I realized my mistake. Melody hadn’t come with any possessions. ‘Will her mother be sending some of her belongings?’ I now asked Neave and Jim.

‘There isn’t much,’ Neave replied. ‘They moved around so often that what they did have got ditched or left behind along the way. I’ll ask Amanda tomorrow.’

‘Have you got a special doll or teddy bear you would like from home?’ Jill asked Melody. A treasured item such as this helps a child to settle. Most children would have at least one favourite toy, but Melody just shrugged.

‘Perhaps one you sleep with?’ I suggested.

‘No, I sleep with my mum,’ she said. That Melody didn’t have one special toy was another indication of the very basic existence she’d lived with her mother. ‘I’ve got a ball,’ she added as an afterthought.

‘Would you like me to ask your mother for it?’ Neave asked her.

‘Don’t know where it is,’ she said disinterestedly, so I changed my approach.

‘You can choose some posters to put on the walls of your bedroom when we go shopping at the weekend,’ I said brightly. ‘And I’m sure I have a spare teddy bear here if you’d like one to keep you company.’ I always have a few handy.

‘Don’t mind,’ she said, which I took as a yes.

I showed them where the toilet and bathroom were, and then led them in and out of my children’s bedrooms, mentioning as we went that all our bedrooms, including Melody’s, were private, and that we didn’t go into each other’s rooms unless we were asked to, and we always knocked first.

‘That’s the same in a lot of homes,’ Jill told Melody, who was looking rather nonplussed. Having spent most of her life living in a single room with her mother in multi-occupancy houses, this was probably all very new to her.

Lastly, I opened the door to my bedroom so they could see in. ‘This is where I sleep,’ I told Melody. ‘If you need me during the night, call out and I’ll come to you.’

‘Do you leave a nightlight on in the landing?’ Neave asked.

‘Yes, and there’s a dimmer switch in Melody’s bedroom so we can set it to low if she wants a light on at night.’

We returned downstairs, where Neave confirmed she’d ask Melody’s mother to take any toys and clothes of Melody’s to contact tomorrow so they could be passed on to me, then she and Jim said goodbye and I saw them out. Jill stayed for another five minutes to make sure Melody had settled and then left. As soon as the front door closed, Melody asked, ‘When can I go home?’

‘What did Neave tell you?’ I asked gently.

‘That I had to live with you for now.’

‘That’s right. Try not to worry, you’ll see your mother tomorrow and again on Friday. Then every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. That’s three times a week.’ But what Neave wouldn’t have told Melody at this stage – and neither would I – was that, as it was likely she would be remaining in long-term care, the level of contact would gradually be reduced. Then at the end of the year when the final court hearing had been heard and the judge confirmed the social services’ care plan, Melody would probably see her mother only a couple of times a year for a few hours. Sad though this was, it was done to allow the child to bond with their carer and have a chance of a better life in the future. I should probably also say that when children come out of care at eighteen they invariably go back to their birth families – not always, but often.

‘I want to go home. My mum needs me,’ Melody said.

‘I understand, but try not to worry. Your mother is an adult and can look after herself, and Neave will make sure she’s all right.’

‘No, she won’t,’ Melody said.

Best keep Melody occupied, I thought. ‘Adrian, Lucy and Paula will be home from school in about half an hour,’ I said. ‘So we have time to treat your hair and give you a bath before I have to start making dinner.’

‘Treat my hair?’ she queried.

‘Yes, with nit lotion.’ I always kept a bottle in the bathroom cabinet, as so many children who come into care have head lice.

‘How do you know I have nits?’ Melody asked, seeming surprised I knew. ‘My mum said if I didn’t scratch no one would know.’

‘Your social worker told me,’ I said. ‘It must be very uncomfortable for you.’

‘It bleeding well is,’ she said, and jabbing both hands into her matted hair, she gave her scalp a good scratch. ‘Aah, that feels so much better!’ she sighed, relieved.

‘Good, but we don’t swear. Come on, let’s get the nit lotion on and you won’t have to scratch.’

‘Is not swearing another of your rules?’ she asked as she followed me upstairs. ‘Like knocking on bedroom doors.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

‘Do you have many rules here?’

‘No, just a few to keep everyone safe and happy.’

‘I’ll tell my mum. She needs rules to make me safe and happy, then she can have me back.’

I smiled sadly, for of course it was far too late for that. Amanda had had her chance, and Melody wouldn’t be going back.

Chapter Three

Mummy Needs Me

‘I can smell nit lotion!’ my daughter Lucy cried from the hall as she let herself in the front door.

‘We’re in here!’ I called. I was in the kitchen peeling vegetables for dinner, and Melody was sitting at the table colouring in while the head-lice lotion took effect. I’d given her a bath – her first in months, she told me – and she was now dressed in clean clothes from the spares I kept. The lotion had a dreadfully pungent smell and needed to be left on for an hour, but I knew from using it on other children that it was very effective.

‘This is Melody,’ I said, introducing her to Lucy.

‘Hi, how are you? Don’t look so grumpy, you’ll be fine here.’ Having been neglected herself before coming to me as a foster child, Lucy could relate in a special way to the children we fostered. She had an easy manner with them and most of the children formed an attachment to her before they did me.

‘I’m not grumpy,’ Melody said. ‘I don’t like this stuff on my hair. My mum never put it on.’

‘That’s why you had head lice. That will kill the little buggers.’

‘Lucy,’ I admonished, ‘I’ve just told Melody not to swear.’

‘Ooops,’ Lucy said, and theatrically clamped her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry.’ And for the first time I saw Melody smile. ‘Nice picture,’ Lucy said, going over and admiring Melody’s colouring in. Then to me she added, ‘I’m going to my room now, Mum.’

‘Fine, love. Did you have a good day at school?’

‘I guess.’

‘I want to go with you,’ Melody said, clearly finding Lucy’s company far more interesting than mine.

‘Not until the lotion is washed off. It’ll make my room smell.’

I glanced at the clock. ‘Only fifteen more minutes,’ I said.

‘That’s not fair,’ Melody moaned. ‘I want to go with you now.’

‘I’m flattered,’ Lucy said. ‘But you can’t until you’ve had your hair washed. See you later.’ Throwing her a smile, she left the room.

When I think back to how Lucy was when she first arrived, I feel so proud of all she’s achieved. I’m proud of Adrian and Paula too, of course, but Lucy had a shocking start to life and could so easily have gone off the rails. She had a lot of catching up to do, but she didn’t let her past hold her back. Her self-confidence has developed immeasurably; she is happy, has a good circle of friends, eats well and is achieving at school. I couldn’t love her more if she’d been born to me, and I feel very lucky that I have three wonderful children and am allowed to foster more.

No sooner had Lucy disappeared upstairs than Paula came home. She had a different nature to Lucy and was quieter, more placid and could easily let things worry her.

‘Hi, Paula,’ I called. ‘Come and meet Melody.’

‘Hello,’ Paula said, coming in.

‘Are you Lucy’s sister?’ Melody asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You got any more sisters?’

‘No.’ Paula smiled.

‘Good day?’ I asked her as I always ask my children when they first come home.

‘Yes, but I’ve got tons of homework. I’m going to start it now before dinner.’

‘OK, love. I’m nearly finished here, then I’ll wash Melody’s hair, so we’ll eat around six o’clock.’

Paula poured herself a glass of water and, giving Melody a small smile, left.

‘Where’s she gone?’ Melody asked.

‘In the front room to start her homework,’ I said.

‘Can I go?’

‘No, she needs quiet to concentrate. You will see her at dinner when we’ll all eat together.’ I put the chicken casserole in the oven. ‘Now, let’s wash your hair, then you can see Lucy.’

Melody didn’t object, probably because she knew she’d only spend time with Lucy once her hair was washed. We went to the bathroom where I thoroughly washed her hair. As I was rinsing it I heard my son Adrian arrive home. ‘Hi, Mum!’ he called from the hall. At sixteen, he was now six feet tall, although of course to me he’d always be my little boy.

‘I’m in the bathroom, washing Melody’s hair!’ I called down.

‘OK. I’ll say hi to her later.’ I heard him go through to the kitchen. When he came home from school he always fixed himself a drink and a snack to see him through to dinner.

‘You got any more kids?’ Melody asked, head over the bath as I continued to rinse her hair.

‘No, that’s it. Just the four of you.’

‘I’m not your kid,’ came her sharp retort.

‘OK, but while you’re living with me I’ll look after you as if you are.’ There was no reply.

With her hair thoroughly washed, rinsed and nit-free, I towel dried it and then brushed out the knots. She complained throughout that I was pulling, although I was as gentle as I could be. I then dried it with the hair dryer and it shone. It looked quite a few shades lighter now all the grease and grime had been removed. I don’t think it could have been washed for many months.

‘Can I go into Lucy’s room?’ Melody asked as soon as I’d finished.

‘Yes, but don’t forget to knock on her door first.’

She dashed around the landing and banged hard on Lucy’s door – not so much a knock, more a hammering.

‘Hell! Open the door. Don’t break it down!’ Lucy’s voice came from inside.

‘Can I come in?’ Melody yelled.

‘Yes! If you’ve had your hair washed.’

‘I have!’

She disappeared into Lucy’s room and that was the last I saw of her until I called everyone for dinner. Lucy knew that while Melody was with her she should leave her bedroom door open as part of our safer-caring policy, and to call me if there was a problem. All foster carers have a safer-caring policy and follow similar guidelines to keep all family members feeling safe. One of them is not to leave a foster child in a room with someone with the door closed. Leaving the door open means I and others can hear what is going on, and the child can come out easily whenever they want. There’s no knowing what a closed door might mean to an abused child, and Adrian knew that any girl we fostered wasn’t to go into his room at all, for his own protection. Sadly, many foster families have unfounded allegations made against them and they are very difficult to disprove.

Once dinner was ready I called everyone to the table and showed Melody where to sit. For us, it was a lively, chatty occasion as usual, when we shared our news as we ate. It’s often the only time we all sit down together during the week and it’s a pleasant focal point for us. Indeed, foster carers are expected to eat at least one meal a day together, as it bonds the family. At weekends we sometimes had breakfast together too. But Melody stared at us overawed as she ate.

Like many children who come from disadvantaged backgrounds, she wasn’t used to sitting at a table or using a knife and fork, having relied largely on snacks. She struggled to use the cutlery I’d set, so I quietly slipped her a dessertspoon to help with the casserole. She ate ravenously, all the while keeping a watchful eye on us. I’d seen the same vigilant awareness – a heightened state of alert – before in children I’d fostered who’d had to fend for themselves. They constantly watch those around them for any sign of danger. Children who’ve been nurtured and protected don’t do this, as experience has taught them that those they know can be trusted. It would take time for Melody to trust us.

I served rice pudding for dessert. It was a winter favourite of ours and despite Melody’s initial reluctance to try it, saying it looked like sick, she ate it all, and then asked for seconds. ‘Can I take some for my mum?’ she said as she finished the second bowl. ‘I think she’d like it.’ My heart went out to her.

‘Yes, I’ll put some in a plastic box and we can take it to contact tomorrow.’

‘Will it be cold?’ she asked.

‘Yes, but she can warm it up at the Family Centre. There’s a kitchen there with a cooker and a microwave.’

‘I’ll take her some of that casserole too,’ Melody added.

‘I’m afraid that’s all gone. Next time I make it I’ll do extra so she can have some. But please don’t worry about your mum. I’m sure she’ll have something to eat.’

Melody looked at me as if she was about to say something but changed her mind. Hopefully when she saw her mother she’d be reassured that she was managing without her.

After dinner, which I thought had gone well, Adrian, Paula and Lucy helped me clear the table, then disappeared off to do their homework. I was assuming that once Melody started going to school regularly she too would have some homework, but there wasn’t even a school bag tonight. I suggested we play a game together and I opened the toy cupboard in the kitchen-diner, but she said she wanted to watch television like she did at home with her mother. In the living room I switched the television channel to one with an age-appropriate programme, told her I’d be in the kitchen if she needed me and, taking the remote with me (so she couldn’t change channels to something less appropriate), set about doing the washing up. If my children have homework then they are excused from washing the dinner things.

First nights can be very difficult for a new child. Apart from suddenly finding themselves in a strange home and living with people they’ve only just met, the carer’s routine is likely to be very different from any the child has been used to. At 7.30, when the television programme Melody was watching had ended, I told her it was bedtime, which didn’t go down well. ‘What’s the time?’ she demanded, unable to read the time for herself.

‘Half past seven. Plenty late enough. You have school tomorrow.’ Indeed, it was only because she’d already had her bath and hair wash that she’d stayed up this late. Tomorrow she’d be going up around seven o’clock so that she was in bed and hopefully settled by eight o’clock. Children of her age need nine to eleven hours sleep a night.

‘At home I stay up with my mum. We go to sleep together. Sometimes she’s asleep before me.’

‘Is she?’ I asked lightly. ‘What do you do when she’s asleep?’ Clearly Melody wouldn’t be supervised if her mother was asleep.

‘Watch television. You can see the television from our mattress on the floor.’ She stopped, having realized she’d probably said too much. ‘Don’t tell the social worker I told you that.’

‘I think she already knows,’ I said. ‘Now, come on up to bed.’ I stood and began towards the living-room door. ‘You can say goodnight to Lucy, Adrian and Paula. They’re in their bedrooms.’

This seemed to clinch it and without further protest Melody came upstairs with me. I took her to the bathroom first, where I supervised her brushing her teeth with the new toothbrush and paste I’d provided. Like all foster carers, I keep spares of essential items. We went along the landing where Melody knocked first on Lucy’s bedroom door. ‘I’m going to bed!’ she called.

Lucy came out to say goodnight and gave Melody a big hug, which was nice. Then we went to Paula’s room. She too came out and said, ‘Goodnight. See you tomorrow.’ Then Adrian came to his door. ‘Goodnight. I hope you’ll be happy here,’ he said. Melody hadn’t seen much of him, only at dinner. He had exams in the spring, so it was important he studied. She’d see more of him at the weekend.

She used the toilet, then we went into her bedroom. I’d found a new teddy bear that Adrian had won at a fair and didn’t want, so I’d propped it on her bed. I asked her if she wanted her curtains open or closed at night and she said a little open. It’s details like this that help a child settle in a strange room, so I drew the curtains, leaving a gap in the middle. As I turned I saw she was about to climb into bed with her clothes on.

‘Melody, there are some pyjamas for you, love.’ I picked them up from where I’d left them on her bed. ‘You can wear these until we have time to buy you some new ones. They’re clean.’ I’d taken them from my selection of spares and was pretty sure they were the right size, as she was average build for an eight-year-old.

She paused and looked a bit confused. ‘I keep my clothes on at night at home because it’s so bleeding cold.’

‘Well, it’s not cold here, love, and remember we don’t swear.’

‘OK. It’s all so different here.’

‘I know, you’ll soon get used to it.’ But I was saddened to hear yet another example of the impoverished life Melody and her mother had led. No one should have to keep their clothes on to keep them warm at night.

I always give the child I’m fostering privacy whenever possible. Melody was of an age when she could dress and undress herself, so I waited on the landing while she changed into her pyjamas, as I had done when she’d had a bath. Once she was ready I went into her bedroom, thinking how nice it would be for her to climb into a comfortable, warm bed rather than the old mattress on a cold floor she’d been used to, but she didn’t get in. ‘I can’t go to bed here,’ she said anxiously. ‘My mum needs me.’

‘You’ll see her tomorrow,’ I reassured her. ‘Please try not to worry. She’ll be fine. I expect she’ll be going to bed soon too.’ Clearly I didn’t know what Melody’s mother was doing, but it wouldn’t help Melody to keep fretting about her.

‘She’s no good by herself,’ Melody said, still not getting in. ‘She needs me to tell her what to do.’

‘Melody, love, I know you’re missing your mother and she will be missing you, but she’s an adult. She can take care of herself.’

‘No, you don’t understand,’ Melody blurted, her anger and concern rising. ‘She forgets things. I have to be there to tell her what she needs and where things are.’

I paused. ‘Is that when she’s been drinking or taking drugs?’ I asked gently. Aware that her mother had a history of drug and alcohol abuse, this seemed the most likely explanation. Of course she would be ‘forgetful’ if she was under the influence of a substance.

‘Sometimes, but not always,’ Melody replied and then stopped, again realizing she’d probably said too much. Many children I’ve fostered have been warned by their parents not to disclose their home life to their foster carer or social worker. It can be very confusing for the child. Before saying anything, they have to sift through all the information they carry and work out what they can or can’t say. ‘Mum can remember some things, but other times she needs my help,’ Melody said carefully, and then she teared up.

‘Oh, love, don’t upset yourself. Come here.’ I put my arms around her and she allowed me to hold her close. ‘I do understand how you feel, honestly I do. I’ve looked after children before who’ve felt just as you do. They worry about their parents, and that they won’t be able to cope without them. Then, when they start seeing them regularly at contact, they find they’re managing fine without them. Your mother will be missing you, but believe me she can look after herself.’

How those words would come back to haunt me.

Chapter Four

School

Melody finally went to sleep shortly before nine o’clock, cuddling the teddy bear I’d given to her and with me sitting on her bed, stroking her forehead. Bless her. I felt so sorry for her. I was sure she was a good kid who was badly missing her mother. Yes, she was feisty, streetwise, could become angry at times and would need firm boundaries, but I felt positive that once she’d settled I could help her to a better life, which is what fostering is all about. Because it was unlikely Melody could return to her mother, the social services would try to find a suitable relative to look after her as the first option. They are called kinship carers and are considered the next best option if a child can’t be looked after by their own parents. If there wasn’t a suitable relative then she would be matched with a long-term foster carer, and if that happened it was possible I might be considered, but that was all in the future.

Once I was sure Melody was in a deep sleep, I moved quietly away from her bed and, turning the light down low, came out of her bedroom. I left the door ajar so I could easily hear her if she was restless in the night. I checked that Paula, Lucy and Adrian were taking turns in the bathroom. Even at their ages they still needed the occasional reminder to make sure they were in bed at a reasonable time. Some evenings, as with this evening, they were mostly in their bedrooms, doing their homework or relaxing, but at other times, especially at the weekends, they would all be downstairs in the living room, talking, playing a board game or watching television. I felt it was easier for a new child to relax and settle in if my family carried on as normal. I’d see them later before they went to bed, but now I went downstairs to write up my log notes.

All foster carers in the UK are required to keep a daily record of the child or children they are looking after. This includes appointments, the child’s health and wellbeing, education, significant events and any disclosures the child may make about their past. As well as charting the child’s progress, it can act as an aide-mémoire for the foster carer if asked about a specific day. When the child leaves, this record is placed on file at the social services. I wrote objectively and, where appropriate, verbatim about Melody’s arrival and her first day with us – about a page, which I secured in my fostering folder and returned to the lockable drawer in the front room.

I checked on Melody – she was fast asleep – and then as Adrian, Lucy and Paula came downstairs I spent some time talking to them before they went to bed. By 10.30 p.m. everyone was asleep and I put Toscha in her bed for the night and went up myself, again checking on Melody before I got into bed.

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

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

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

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

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

‘The washing machine does it,’ I said.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Why?’

‘So you’re not late.’

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

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

‘Good. Adults usually do.’

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

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

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

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

‘Good.’

‘What time am I seeing her?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh yeah, I remember now,’ she said.

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

‘I dunno.’ She shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Melody gave a small sigh and Mrs Farnham threw me a knowing look. ‘Melody joined our school in September, having moved into the area during the summer holidays, but she only ever attended a couple of days a week during the whole of the autumn term. Melody has a lot of catching up to do,’ Mrs Farnham added, as much for Melody’s benefit as mine. ‘She’ll have classroom support from a lovely teaching assistant, Miss May.’

‘I’ll help Melody at home,’ I said. ‘I have three secondary-school-aged children of my own and they have homework to do most nights.’

‘Excellent.’ I guessed Mrs Farnham to be in her late thirties, and her warm, child-friendly manner was combined with a quiet efficiency. Clearly the children in the school were her priority, but I sensed she could be firm when necessary, as any good teacher needs to be. ‘Melody is in Miss Langford’s class,’ she said. ‘She’ll introduce herself to you at the end of school. You’ll be collecting Melody?’

‘Yes, and bringing her in.’

‘Good. We gave her a school uniform from our quality seconds when she first started.’

‘She hasn’t brought it with her, or anything else,’ I said, ‘so I’ll buy her a new school uniform today if possible.’

‘Yes, of course. We stock most items here. Aren’t you lucky?’ she said, looking at Melody, who managed a subdued nod. ‘In fact, why don’t I ask our welfare lady, Mrs Holby, to sort out Melody’s uniform now so we can have a chat? Do you remember Mrs Holby?’ she asked Melody. ‘She gave you a uniform when you first arrived.’

Melody nodded uncertainly.

‘I’ll take you to her now and then you can come back here in your new uniform to say goodbye to Cathy.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That is helpful. I’d like her to have a spare set of the uniform and the PE kit. Also, if your school has its own logoed book bag and PE bag, I’d like her to have those and anything else she needs.’

‘You’ve done this before,’ Mrs Farnham said with a smile as she stood.

‘Quite a few times,’ I admitted.

Melody looked a bit apprehensive as she left with Mrs Farnham. Unused to school and certainly never having had a complete new school uniform before, I guessed she was a bit overwhelmed, but Mrs Farnham was lovely. I sat back in the chair as the distant sounds of children laughing and shouting in the playground drifted in and occasional footsteps passed outside the door. A few minutes later Mrs Farnham returned. ‘Mrs Holby will bring Melody back here once they’ve finished, then you can settle up the bill at the office on the way out.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So how has Melody been with you?’ she asked, returning to her chair. ‘We hardly know her, we’ve seen so little of her.’

‘We had a good first night, although she’s worrying about her mother, but that’s natural. Once she’s seen her tonight at contact I think she will be reassured.’

‘I raised concerns about Melody with the social services halfway through last term,’ Mrs Farnham said. ‘On the few occasions she was in school, she arrived late, unwashed and hungry. Miss Langford, her class teacher, went to the address her mother gave us, but a man answered the door and said he’d never heard of her. It was one of those big Victorian houses in Station Road converted into small flats.’

‘Yes, that’s it. The social worker had a problem getting to see her too.’

Mrs Farnham nodded. ‘We met Melody’s mother in September when she first brought Melody to school, but that was the only time. Melody appears to have had very little schooling or parenting. Why wasn’t she taken into care sooner?’

‘I’m not sure exactly, but they moved around a lot, which means they could have evaded the social services.’

‘Melody will be staying with you now?’ Mrs Farnham asked.

‘Yes, until the final court hearing when the judge will make a decision on where she should live permanently.’

‘We’ll obviously do all we can to help her catch up with her schoolwork. We tested her when she first arrived last September and her results showed she was working at reception level, so about four years behind what she should be.’

‘Oh dear. That is a long way behind.’

‘We’ll test her again, but I doubt she’s improved much because she’s hardly been in school. Have you met her mother?’

‘Not yet. I should this evening at contact.’

‘She’s got a reputation for being very volatile. Other parents have seen her outside the school causing a scene. On one occasion, when she was rushing Melody to school late, she attacked a driver who didn’t immediately stop to let her cross the road. She swore at him and kicked his car. He called the police, but she’d disappeared by the time they arrived. Another time – I think it was in October – she screamed at a parent because her daughter wouldn’t play with Melody.’

‘Does Melody have any friends?’ I asked.

‘Not really. She wasn’t in school often enough to make friends. Also, when she did come she was grubby and had head lice, so the other children didn’t want to play with her. Hopefully that will change now. She looks so much cleaner already.’

‘I gave her a good bath last night and treated her hair.’

‘It shows,’ Mrs Farnham said. ‘There’s a couple of other children in the school I have concerns about who could do with a good wash. And if head lice aren’t treated, they quickly spread through the class.’

A bell suddenly rang outside, signalling the start of school. At the same time a knock sounded on the door. ‘Come in!’ Mrs Farnham called. Melody came in dressed in a new school uniform, followed by a woman I took to be the welfare assistant, Mrs Holby. ‘Don’t you look smart!’ Mrs Farnham exclaimed. Melody smiled proudly.

‘I’ll buy her some school shoes today,’ I said, glancing at the torn plastic trainers, which seemed even more noticeable now.

‘She’ll need some plimsolls for PE too,’ Mrs Farnham said. ‘We don’t stock them here.’

‘This is Mrs Holby, our lovely welfare assistant,’ she said, introducing her to me. ‘It’s time for lessons, so if you would like to go with her to the office, I’ll take Melody to her class.’

‘Thanks again,’ I said, standing. I said goodbye to Melody, told her to have a good day and that I’d meet her in the playground at the end of school. She went with Mrs Farnham while I accompanied Mrs Holby to the office, where I settled the bill for the uniform. She also gave me a school prospectus, which included term dates, and a form for my contact details, which I filled in there. I thanked Mrs Holby again and made my way out of the school. The playground was empty now, with all the children in their classrooms for the start of lessons. Outside the gates a few parents stood chatting in a small group.

Mrs Farnham had said that Melody’s mother, Amanda, had a reputation for being volatile and aggressive. Aware she would know it was highly likely that I had brought Melody to school, I kept a watchful eye out as I made my way to my car. I’d had impromptu meetings before with the parents of children I’d fostered. Sometimes they were friendly and just wanted a glimpse of – or a few words with – their child, but at other times they’d vented their anger at me for having their child taken into care. I didn’t know what Amanda looked like, but I couldn’t see anyone watching or following me and I made it safely to my car. As it happened, it was later that day that Amanda found the opportunity to turn her anger on me.

Chapter Five

Amanda

I drove straight from Melody’s school into town, where I bought her a set of casual clothes, underwear, tights, socks, pyjamas, some posters for her bedroom and a pair of school shoes. The shoes size was a guesstimate; I knew the size of her trainers and went up one size. I could change them if necessary. If by Saturday none of Melody’s belongings had arrived from home, I’d take her shopping to choose more clothes, including a warm winter coat – she was wearing one from my spares today. It’s preferable for a child in care to have at least some of their clothes from home, as they are comfortingly familiar, but from what her social worker Neave had said it wasn’t likely, so we couldn’t wait for them indefinitely.

When I arrived home there was a message from Jill on my answerphone asking how Melody had been on her first night. I returned her call and updated her, including that Melody was missing her mother, but had slept well, had eaten a good dinner and breakfast and was now in school. Jill said she’d let Neave know and to phone her if there were any problems. I had a late lunch, filled the washing machine, cleared up the kitchen, which I hadn’t had time to do after breakfast, then Blu-Tacked Melody’s posters to her bedroom wall. Downstairs again, I made a cottage pie for dinner and then it was time to collect Melody from school. I placed a note prominently on the side in the kitchen:

Dear Adrian, Lucy and Paula, hope you’ve had a good day. Would someone please put the cottage pie that is in the fridge in the oven at 5 p.m. at 180°C and keep an eye on it? I should be back from contact at 6 p.m. See you later. Love Mum xx.

I had told them at breakfast I was going to contact, but I was pretty certain no one had been awake enough to hear me.

The bag containing Melody’s shoes was ready in the hall to take with me. She would try them on in the car and, if they fitted, wear them for contact so she looked smart. I liked the children I fostered to look well turned out when they saw their parents, as it was a special occasion, just like when we visited my parents. I then remembered the stay-fresh plastic box containing the rice pudding in the fridge. I hesitated. Melody hadn’t mentioned it again and it seemed rather an odd thing to take to contact, but on the other hand she had wanted to give it to her mother, so I took it with me.

I drove to the school and parked in the same side road I had that morning and then waited in the playground with the other parents and carers for school to end. It was a cold, bright day with the low, wintry sun giving little warmth, but it was a pleasant change from the previous days of overcast grey skies. The bell rang from inside the building, signalling the end of school, and a few minutes later the classes began to file out one at a time, led by their teacher. I looked at the sea of faces – I hadn’t met Melody’s teacher yet so didn’t know who I was looking for. Melody must have spotted me, because suddenly through the milling crowd of children she appeared, coming towards me with her teacher.

‘Hello, I’m Miss Langford, Melody’s class teacher,’ she said with a warm smile.

‘Cathy Glass, Melody’s foster carer.’

‘The Deputy said you’d be here to collect her. So pleased to meet you. Our class’s teaching assistant, Miss May, has been working with Melody today. She’s done some nice work and there is a reading book and some literacy homework in Melody’s book bag. We like the children to read a little every evening. Miss May had to leave early today but is looking forward to meeting you tomorrow.’

‘Thank you.’

Young and fashionably dressed, Miss Langford came across as a very enthusiastic teacher.

‘Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help Melody,’ she said. ‘She’s a lovely child. A delight to teach.’

‘Excellent,’ I said, although I was pretty certain she said this about all the children she taught.

I usually ask to meet privately with the teacher of a new child I’m fostering to learn more about how they are doing in school, but as Melody hadn’t been in school long and I’d had a good chat with the Deputy this morning, I didn’t think I could learn much more.

‘They have swimming on Monday afternoons,’ she added. ‘One-piece swimming costume, please, black or navy, and a regulation white swimming hat.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll make sure she has it.’ I made a mental note to buy those too on Saturday.

‘So have a good evening then,’ Miss Langford said. ‘Melody tells me she is seeing her mother.’

‘Yes, that’s right. We’re going there now.’

‘Did you remember the rice pudding?’ Melody now asked.

‘Yes, I did,’ I said, pleased I’d included it. Miss Langford looked at me, puzzled. ‘I made rice pudding yesterday evening,’ I explained. ‘Melody said her mother would like some.’

‘Mmm, that sounds nice,’ she enthused with a big smile and smacking her lips. ‘I love homemade rice pudding.’

‘Well, the next time I make it I’ll bring some in for you too,’ I joked.

She laughed and we said goodbye.

I opened Melody’s car door, gave her the new shoes and then waited on the pavement as she tried them on. They fitted, just. ‘Can’t I have trainers?’ she asked.

‘Not for school, but we can buy you some for casual wear at the weekend.’

‘OK. They’re nice,’ she said. ‘What shall I do with my old trainers?’

‘Put them in the bag your shoes were in for now.’ As worn out as they were, I’d be keeping them, together with the clothes Melody had been wearing when she’d arrived. They were the property of her mother and would be offered back to her. If she told her social worker she didn’t want them then I could dispose of them, but not until then. Sometimes all parents have left of their children are photographs, their old clothes and toys, and faded memories.

I checked Melody’s seatbelt was fastened and gave her the box of rice pudding to hold. Then, with her looking very smart in her new school uniform, shoes and coat from my spares, I began the drive to the Family Centre, chatting to her as we went.

‘How was school?’ I asked. ‘Miss Langford said you’d done some nice work today.’

‘I played with someone in the playground.’

‘Great. You’ll soon make friends.’

‘That’s what Miss May said.’

‘You like Miss May?’

‘Yes. She helps me with my work. There’s me and two boys sit with her and she helps us do what the teacher says. Cathy, why don’t I know as much as the kids on the other tables? You know, the ones that don’t sit with Miss May.’

I glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. Children intuit that they are behind their peers. ‘Because you haven’t been in school much,’ I replied honestly.

‘Is that why kids go to school? So they know lots of stuff and are clever?’ Her question was another indication of just how little schooling she’d had; children of her age usually know why they go to school.

‘Yes, and also to make friends and join in activities.’

‘I guess I should have gone to school more, but my mum needed me at home.’

I didn’t want to demonize her mother, but she had a lot to answer for. ‘Your mum is doing fine, so don’t worry,’ I reassured her. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon catch up with your schoolwork, and I’ll help you at home.’

‘I hope my mum is OK,’ she said, fretting again. ‘I kept thinking about her at school and I told Miss May. She said my mummy was grown up and would know how to look after herself and I shouldn’t worry.’ Thank you, Miss May, I thought.

‘That’s right. I’ll be meeting Miss May tomorrow,’ I said. ‘What else did you do at school?’ But Melody didn’t answer and was clearly worrying about her mother again. ‘We’ll soon be at the Family Centre,’ I told her. There was no reply.

Five minutes later I parked in one of the bays outside the Family Centre and cut the engine. I’d already explained to Melody what to expect: that there were six rooms in the centre, so other children in care would be seeing their parents too, and a lady called a contact supervisor would be in the room with them making notes. The parent(s) often find this more intrusive than the child(ren), for they know why the contact supervisor is there: to observe them with their child and write a report on each session. These reports go to the social worker and ultimately form part of the judge’s decision on whether their child will be allowed home. I sympathize. I think it’s an awful position for a parent to be in, but there is little alternative if contact needs to be supervised. Some contact supervisors handle it better than others and are able to do their job while putting the family at ease.

‘Is Mummy here?’ Melody asked anxiously as I opened her car door to let her out.

‘Hopefully,’ I said. It was exactly four o’clock and parents usually arrived early.

She clambered out, clutching the box of rice pudding, and we went up the path to the security-locked main door where I pressed the buzzer. The closed-circuit television camera overhead allowed anyone in the office to see who was at the door. After a few moments the door clicked open and we went in. I said hello to the receptionist sitting at her computer behind a low security screen on our right. I knew her from previous visits with other children I’d fostered. I gave Melody’s name. ‘Is her mother, Amanda, here yet?’ I asked.

She glanced at her list. ‘No, not yet.’

‘Mummy’s not here!’ Melody cried.

‘I am sure she will be soon,’ I said. ‘I’ll sign us in and then we can sit in the waiting room – there are toys and books in there.’

‘Why isn’t she here?’ Melody lamented as I entered our names in the Visitors’ Book.

‘I don’t know, love. Come on through here.’

‘I bet she got lost. Mum often gets lost when we have to go somewhere new. She needs me to show her.’

‘Your social worker will have told her how to get here,’ I said. ‘Try not to worry.’ The waiting room was empty and we sat on the cushioned bench.

‘What if Mum hasn’t got the money to come here on the bus?’ Melody asked.

‘Neave, your social worker, will have checked she has enough money.’ Parents of children in care are given all the help they need to get to contact, including bus or taxi fares when appropriate.

‘Mum’s not good without me,’ Melody said again.

I thought she was worrying about her mother far more than most children I’d fostered, and I was hoping that when she saw her she would be reassured that she was coping. I was also hoping Amanda wouldn’t be much longer. Her lateness, which was making Melody even more anxious, would be noted by the contact supervisor, who would now be waiting in the allocated room. I knew from experience that we wouldn’t be allowed to wait indefinitely and at some point the manager of the Family Centre would make the decision to cancel the contact and I would return home with Melody. It’s devastating for the child, but not as bad as waiting until the bitter end and having to accept the parent hasn’t come to see them. The child’s feelings of rejection at not being able to live with their parents are compounded and they feel even more unloved. Parents of children in care have to make contact a priority, which I’d have thought was obvious, but isn’t always, especially if the parents are struggling with drink and drug misuse or have mental health issues.

The minutes ticked by. I tried to distract Melody with books and games, but she just sat there clutching the box of rice pudding, listening for any sign of her mother, and asking me every few minutes what time it was. We heard the security buzzer on the main door go a few times, but it wasn’t her mother. Melody wrung her hands and worried something bad had happened to her. Then at 4.30 p.m. the centre’s manager came in and said that they’d tried to phone Amanda but there was no reply, and they’d give her until 4.45 and then they’d cancel it, unless she phoned to say she was on her way. This was more generous than usual and it was because it was the first contact. Usually if a parent doesn’t phone to say they’ve been delayed then only thirty minutes are allowed.

‘Where’s my mum got to?’ Melody asked me again after the manger had left. ‘Something really, really bad must have happened to her, I know. She needs me, it’s my fault.’ Her bottom lip trembled and her eyes filled.

‘It’s not your fault, love,’ I said, putting my arm around her shoulders. I wondered if Amanda had any idea of the pain she was causing her child.

Five minutes later we heard the security buzzer sound again and the main door open and close, followed by a thick, chesty cough.

‘That’s my mum!’ Melody cried, jumping up from her seat. ‘She’s here. Mummy!’ She ran out of the waiting room. I quickly followed her down the short corridor and into reception, where a woman I assumed to be Amanda was giving her name to the receptionist. ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ Melody cried and rushed to her.

Amanda turned and for a second seemed to look confused, as if she wasn’t sure where she was and who was calling her, then, recognizing her daughter, she opened her arms to receive her.

‘Mummy, where’ve you been? You’re late. I was going to have to go home without seeing you!’ Melody cried.

‘Over my dead body!’ Amanda snapped in a threatening tone.

Deathly pale, with a heavily lined face and sunken cheeks, Amanda was stick thin and her jeans and jumper hung on her skeletal frame. Her hair was falling out and her scalp was visible in round bald patches. She looked haggard and aged well beyond her forty-two years. If ever there was an advertisement to deter people from drink and drug abuse, it was her. I’d seen it before in the parents of children I’d fostered and would sadly see it again. She lisped as she spoke and as I went closer I saw her two front teeth were missing.

‘Hello Amanda, I’m Cathy, Melody’s foster carer,’ I said positively. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

She’d let go of her daughter and was now trying to understand what the receptionist was telling her, which was to sign the Visitors’ Book.

‘The Visitors’ Book is here,’ I said, trying to be helpful and pointing to it.

‘Come on, Mummy, you have to write your name,’ Melody said. Taking her hand, she led her mother to the book and then gave her the pen beside it to sign. I exchanged a glance with the receptionist, who was looking at her, concerned. Amanda wouldn’t be the first parent to arrive at contact under the influence of drink or drugs, although I couldn’t smell alcohol and she seemed confused rather than high or drunk. I watched as she made an illegible scrawl in the book, then, setting down the pen, she turned to her daughter.

‘Where do we go?’ she asked her.

‘You’re in Yellow Room,’ the receptionist said. ‘The manager is coming now to show you.’ It’s usual on the parent’s first visit for the manager to show the parent and child around so they know where the toilets, kitchen and rooms are. Six rooms lead off a central play area where the larger toys are kept, and each room takes its name from the colour it is painted.

‘How are you?’ I asked Amanda, trying to strike up conversation. It’s important for the child to see their carer and parent(s) getting along. Amanda looked at me, puzzled, as if she’d forgotten who I was, and I was about to remind her when the manager appeared. It was now time for me to go, as contact had started and this was Amanda’s time with her daughter.

‘When will contact end?’ I asked the manager, as we were starting late

‘Five forty-five,’ she said.

‘See you later then,’ I said to Amanda and Melody. There was no reply. I signed out, and as I left they were following the manager down the corridor and into the hub of the building.

It was dark outside now in winter, and cold. I pulled my coat closer around me and returned to my car. I usually try to put the time when a child is with their parent(s) to good use, either by doing some essential grocery shopping or by catching up on some paperwork in a local café, but now I sat in the car thinking about Amanda. I was starting to see why Melody was so worried about her. She appeared incredibly fragile and vulnerable and clearly needed Melody’s help – as she’d been telling me. The social services had been aware of the family for a while and support had been put in, so I assumed Neave knew of Amanda’s dependency on Melody. But now, having met Amanda, I wondered how the two of them had coped at all. Far from fearing Amanda at that point, I felt sorry for her. No one starts their life wanting to make a complete mess of it and lose their children and die prematurely, which surely must be Amanda’s fate.

Chapter Six

The Way Home?

Normally when I collect a child from the Family Centre at the end of contact I sign the Visitors’ Book and go through to whichever room they are in, while the parent(s) make the most of their last few minutes with their child. But now as I stepped into reception I saw that Amanda and Melody were already there, together with the manager and another woman I took to be the contact supervisor. For a moment I assumed they’d just finished contact punctually, but then I saw their expressions and knew something was wrong.

‘That’s her,’ Amanda said accusingly, jabbing her finger towards me.

‘We’ve got a few problems we need to clear up,’ the manager said, taking a step forward.

‘You bet we have!’ Amanda snarled. I could see she was chomping at the bit to get at me.

‘Amanda is very concerned about Melody’s clothes,’ the manager said evenly.

‘What about her clothes?’ I asked, immediately anxious. ‘She’s wearing her school uniform.’

‘I told you, Mum,’ Melody said, looking embarrassed.

‘Where are the clothes my daughter had on when she was taken off me yesterday?’ Amanda snapped at me, her eyes blazing. ‘You’ve stolen them.’

It was ludicrous, but they were all waiting for an answer.

‘They’re in the wash,’ I said.

‘How can I be sure she’s telling the truth?’ Amanda turned to the manager. ‘And what about her trainers?’ she demanded.

‘They’re in the car,’ I said.

‘And her hair!’ Amanda said, nudging the manager. ‘Tell her.’

‘Amanda was worried about what you put on her daughter’s hair.’

‘It’s poison,’ Amanda snapped, glaring at me.

‘Do you mean the head lice lotion?’ I asked. ‘If so, it’s a standard preparation I bought from the chemist to kill head lice. Apart from that, and shampoo and water, she’s had nothing else on her hair.’

‘She hasn’t got head lice!’ Amanda growled.

‘We couldn’t find any,’ the contact supervisor agreed.

‘No, because I treated her hair and killed them.’ I couldn’t believe how ridiculous this was, although they were all looking at me doubtfully. ‘Ask her social worker,’ I added. ‘Neave was aware that Melody had head lice.’

‘I told you I kept itching,’ Melody said to her mother.

‘And where’s her jacket?’ Amanda now demanded.

‘At home,’ I said. ‘It was badly torn, but I can return it to you if you like. The one she is wearing is a spare I had. I was going to buy her a new winter coat at the weekend. Don’t you want me to do that?’

Amanda fell silent and I struggled to hide my annoyance. The manager should have defused this situation, not turned it into a drama.

‘You mentioned her dinner?’ the supervisor now prompted Amanda.

‘What about her dinner?’ I asked. There was silence.

‘Can’t remember,’ Amanda said, and the contact supervisor had the good sense not to remind her.

‘Is that all?’ I asked curtly.

The manager nodded.

‘Say goodbye to your mother then,’ I said to Melody, who should never have heard all of this.

I was now expecting a long emotional goodbye, but Amanda suddenly said she had to go to the toilet, and shouting, ‘Bye!’ she rushed off down the corridor. I said a cool goodbye to the manager and contact supervisor and left with Melody. I was seething inside, more so with the manager and the contact supervisor than I was with Amanda. She was angry and irrational from losing her child and I was an easy target, but the manager and contact supervisor should have known better and calmed her anger instead of pandering to it and making an issue out of everything she’d complained about. Foster carers don’t expect gratitude, but a bit of moral support wouldn’t go amiss. In bending over backwards to accommodate the parents’ wishes, the staff involved in contact sometimes ingratiate themselves with the parents at the carer’s expense.

Melody didn’t say anything until we were in the car. Then, before I started the engine, she said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Cathy.’

I turned in my seat to look at her. ‘What for, love?’

‘Mum being horrible to you. She’s like that with lots of people. She did it at school.’

‘You don’t have to apologize,’ I said. ‘It’s not your fault. Your mum is upset because you are in care. It will get easier for her each time she sees you at contact as she gets used to it. Did you have a nice time?’

‘I think so. I gave her the rice pudding.’

‘Good.’ I’d noticed Melody wasn’t carrying the stay-fresh box. ‘Did she like it?’

‘She hasn’t eaten it yet. She’s going to take it home and have it for her dinner. There’s nothing else there.’ Hearing that, all my anger evaporated and my heart went out to Amanda again. The picture of that fragile, emaciated woman, aged beyond recognition, who’d lost all her children into care, sitting alone in her cold, damp flat eating rice pudding moved and worried me. I’d telephone Jill in the morning and make sure Neave was aware of just how needy Amanda was, for when a child is taken into care the social services have a duty to help the parents where possible.

When I dished up the cottage pie that evening I set aside a portion with vegetables and gravy for Amanda. Once it had cooled, I’d put it in the freezer to take with us to contact on Friday. Melody had said there was a microwave and kettle in their flat but no cooker or hob, and I knew there was a microwave at the Family Centre. Despite Amanda’s rudeness, the woman needed help.

After dinner I left the washing up for later, and as Adrian, Lucy and Paula disappeared off to do their homework I told Melody to fetch her book bag from where she’d left it in the hall. We then sat together at the table and I helped her with her homework – reading, and spellings to learn. She needed a lot of help, but unlike some children I’d fostered who’d come from homes where education wasn’t a priority, she had the right attitude and wanted to learn. ‘Mum says you can get a good job and earn lots of money if you go to school and pass your exams.’ Which was ironic considering her mother hadn’t been sending Melody to school, but I didn’t comment.

After Melody had finished her homework I began her bath and bedtime routine, finishing with a bedtime story. She was in bed in her new pyjamas at eight o’clock. I find bedtime, when the child is tired, is when they can start fretting and worrying. Far from being reassured by seeing her mother at contact, Melody was even more anxious, as indeed I was. Now I’d met Amanda I had a better understanding and appreciation of Melody’s concerns.

‘Melody, I don’t want you to worry about your mother,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to telephone Jill – you met her – who will speak to Neave and make sure your mother is OK.’

‘Mummy is never OK,’ Melody lamented. ‘She’s getting worse. She forgets to eat, get up and get dressed or go where she has to. That’s why she was so late.’

‘Is she still drinking alcohol or taking drugs?’ I asked her gently. ‘You know what I mean by drugs?’

‘Yes. I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her do it for a bit. The man upstairs calls her nuts, and says she’s done her head in with the stuff she put in her arm, but she can’t help it.’

‘No, all right.’ I looked at her thoughtfully. Neave had said that Amanda had been funding her drug habit from prostitution and had asked if I could find out if she’d brought clients back to their flat, which opened up the possibility that Melody had witnessed her mother with a man or, heaven forbid, had been sexually abused herself. Foster carers can’t afford to be squeamish or delicate about these matters and now seemed like a good time to ask. ‘Melody, do you know where your mummy got her money from?’

She nodded. ‘Benefits. I know because I had to help her get the money out of her bank so we could go shopping for food and pay the bills. Also she had some friends who gave her money.’

‘Did you meet any of her friends?’

She shook her head.

‘Were they women friends, do you know, or men?’

‘Men. She always said “he”.’

‘Did she ever bring her friends home to your flat?’

‘No. She always went out to meet them. She wasn’t gone long and I had to stay in the room with the door locked. On the way home she bought me a chocolate bar if she remembered. Most of our money went to the man who owned the places we lived in. Mum said we were ripped off.’

‘I understand. So Mummy never brought her men friends back to the places you lived in?’

‘No.’ Which was a relief.

‘Do you know about the private parts of our body?’ I asked, taking the opportunity to raise the matter. ‘Did your mummy ever tell you?’

‘No, but I saw it on television. In the morning there are programmes on for schools and I learnt about how babies are made, and our private parts that only we can touch.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘So what would you do if someone tried to touch your private parts? Do you know?’

‘Scream and run away and tell an adult I trust straight away. That’s what they tell the kids at school. It was in a programme called Staying Safe.’

‘Excellent. And no one has tried to touch your private parts?’

‘No! I’d kick him in the balls if he tried.’

I nodded, although I was pretty sure that hadn’t been the exact wording used in a programme for school children! I was relieved that Melody didn’t appear to have been sexually abused, and I would let Neave know. However, Melody should never have been left repeatedly alone in a flat while Amanda met her clients – she had placed them both in danger: Melody, a young child all by herself, and Amanda working the streets. The majority of prostitutes who work the streets alone do so to fund a drug habit, and they are regularly found abused and beaten.

Once Melody was asleep I spent time with Paula, Lucy and Adrian and then I wrote up my log notes, including the conversation I’d had with Melody. After that I printed Melody’s name and class in indelible ink in all her school uniform items as the school requested, and at eleven o’clock I fell into bed. I slept well, as did Melody, and the following morning we continued the routine that would see us through the school weeks for however long Melody was with us. I woke everyone, made breakfast for Melody, Paula and myself while Adrian and Lucy – that much older – prepared whatever they fancied. Then, once ready, Melody and I left first, calling goodbye as we went.

When I returned home after taking Melody to school I telephoned Jill to update her. As my supervising social worker she was my first point of contact and we were on the phone for nearly an hour. I told her about the complaints Amanda had made about me at contact and she agreed they were irrational and felt they wouldn’t go any further. I told her what Melody had said about her mother being very forgetful and gave her examples of how she relied heavily on Melody. I said that according to Melody her mother had never brought her clients home and it seemed she hadn’t been sexually abused. Jill said she’d pass all this on to Neave. I said Melody was eating and sleeping well, was in a full school uniform (which is considered important) and was generally settling in well, apart from worrying about her mother.

‘That’s only to be expected,’ Jill said.

‘Yes, except having now met Amanda I can see why Melody is so anxious. Amanda is very needy and appears to have relied on Melody far more than I’ve seen in a parent before. She’s very forgetful and I noticed a vagueness about her, like she zones out.’

‘Drugs?’

‘I don’t know. Melody says she’s stopped using, but perhaps she’s started again.’

‘I’ll tell Neave. She can run a drugs test if necessary,’ Jill said, and winding up the conversation, we said goodbye.

I made a coffee and then returned to the phone and made appointments for Melody to have a check-up at the dentist and optician. I knew from experience that when a child first comes into care this was required. Neave would arrange for Melody to have a medical too.

At the end of school I met Miss May, the teaching assistant who was helping Melody. She accompanied Melody into the playground and to begin with she couldn’t get a word in. Melody had so much to tell me. ‘We did PE and I wore my new PE kit like everyone else,’ Melody enthused excitedly. ‘I’m good at PE, Miss May said. This is Miss May who helps me. She sits with me and the other two boys and we’ve done lots of good work today.’

Miss May laughed. ‘We have indeed. Hello, you must be Cathy.’

‘Yes, nice to meet you. Thank you for all you’re doing to help Melody.’

‘You’re welcome. She’s a delight to work with and works hard, although she has been worrying an awful lot about her mother.’

‘I know, her social worker is aware, and I’ve tried to reassure Melody that her mother can look after herself.’

‘Did you speak to my social worker?’ Melody now asked, her previous excitement replaced by concern.

‘I spoke to Jill and she’s going to talk to Neave, so don’t you worry.’

‘It’s such a shame,’ Miss May said. ‘It’s difficult for me to know what to tell her for the best.’

‘I think time will help. I’ve found before that once a child sees their parents doing all right, they let go of some of the responsibility they feel for them. Also, her social worker will talk to her mother about what she can do to reassure Melody at contact.’

‘That’s good.’ She smiled at Melody. ‘You see? There’s no need for you to keep worrying about Mummy.’

Melody gave a small nod.

I usually work closely with the teaching assistant (TA) of the child I’m fostering. Not only do TAs help the child to learn, but they often give a level of pastoral support, and help the child develop their self-confidence and self-esteem. If a child is struggling at school it can have a knock-on effect on other aspects of their life. I’d taken an immediate liking to Miss May. Short, a little chubby, with a round, open, smiling face, you felt you wanted to hug her. I guessed she was approaching retirement age, but I doubted she would retire. She clearly loved her job, just as the children clearly loved her. As we stood talking I lost count of the number of children who’d gone out of their way to call and wave to her – ‘Goodbye, Miss May!’ ‘See you tomorrow, Miss May!’ and so forth.

As Melody and I went to the car she said, ‘Don’t tell anyone, but Miss May likes sweets. She keeps a packet in her handbag. She gave me one, and the boys she helps, but no one else in the class.’

‘Lucky you,’ I said. I was pleased Melody was starting to enjoy school – some children don’t.

That evening passed as most school nights do, with dinner, homework, bath and bed. The following day was Friday and Melody had contact again. She woke up worrying about her mother. ‘I hope Mum’s not late again,’ she said anxiously. ‘I hope she remembers to come. She might not remember how to get there. I hope she has something to eat.’

‘I’ve got some dinner for her,’ I said. ‘I saved some of the cottage pie we had on Wednesday. I’ll defrost it and bring it with me.’ The look of gratitude on Melody’s face was heartbreaking. Then it was replaced with yet more anxiety. ‘It’s Saturday tomorrow, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mum and me go shopping on Saturday to buy food for the weekend. I won’t see her again until Monday, so she won’t have anything to eat all weekend.’

‘Melody, I am sure your mother will buy herself something to eat over the weekend. She’s an adult. Please don’t worry about her. Now come on, time to get dressed ready for school.’

I was about to leave her room when she said, ‘Cathy, you said you give us pocket money on Saturday. Can I have mine early?’

‘What for?’

‘To buy food for my mum.’ She wasn’t the first child I’d fostered who’d wanted to use their pocket money to help out their parents.

‘Love, that money is for you, but as you’re so worried I’ve got a couple of ready meals in the freezer, which your mum can have. I’ll bring them with me at the end of school and she can have them at the weekend.’

‘Thank you,’ Melody said, and threw her arms around me, which made me tear up. Clearly I wouldn’t be providing Amanda with all her meals – this was a short-term measure to stop Melody from worrying and to get them both through their first weekend apart. Amanda had her benefit money, and if she really had stopped using drugs she should have enough to buy food.

Later, before I left to collect Melody from school, I added some fruit, crisps and biscuits to the bag I was taking.

Melody needn’t have worried about her mother being late for contact, for when we arrived she was already there, and had been for two hours! The receptionist said it wasn’t clear why Amanda had arrived so early, but she’d insisted on staying in the waiting room for the whole two hours so she didn’t miss Melody. She was now in Yellow Room with the contact supervisor for the start of contact. Melody was of course delighted that her mother was already there. She was sitting on the sofa, looking at a children’s book, and the contact supervisor was at a small table at one end, writing.

‘Hello, Mummy!’ Melody cried, running to her, the bag of food dangling at her side.

Amanda looked up and for a second seemed startled, as if she hadn’t been expecting to see Melody or didn’t recognize her, but then she stood and hugged her. I said hello to Amanda and then left. I walked to a small local café where I did some paperwork over a cup of tea and a teacake. I returned to collect Melody at 5.30 p.m. and went through to Yellow Room. The door was open and the three of them were putting on their coats. I said hello. Amanda looked in my direction but didn’t say anything. Melody was naturally reluctant to leave her mother and kept hugging and kissing her until the contact supervisor said, ‘Time to go.’ With a final hug and kiss for her mother, Melody came to me and we left.

Outside the centre Melody said, ‘Mum liked your cottage pie. She ate it all.’

‘Good. She warmed it up in the microwave?’

‘Yes, the contact supervisor helped her, as children aren’t allowed in the kitchen. She was starving and said it was the first thing she’d had to eat since your rice pudding.’

‘But that was Wednesday,’ I said, shocked. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. She ate the crisps and biscuits too. I keep telling you, Mum forgets to eat without me telling her to.’

If Melody was right then it was very worrying and exceeded any adult–child dependency I’d seen before.

‘All right. I’ll make sure Neave knows.’ But shouldn’t her social worker have known already? I wondered. Melody and her mother had been known to the social services for some time. Unless of course Melody was exaggerating, perhaps thinking this was the way to get home.

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