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 2020

FIRST EDITION

Text © Cathy Glass 2020

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photograph © Johner Images/Getty Images (posed by a model)

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

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Source ISBN: 9780008380380

Ebook Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008380427

Version: 2020-06-09

Contents

1  Cover

2  Title Page

3  Copyright

4  Contents

5  Chapter Ten: Contact

6 Chapter Eleven: Not Safe

7 Chapter Twelve: Mr Nowak

8  Chapter Thirteen: Review

9  Chapter Fourteen: Distraught

10  Chapter Fifteen: They Made Me

11  Chapter Sixteen: Questioned by the Police

12  Chapter Seventeen: Sickening

13  Chapter Eighteen: Family

14  Chapter Nineteen: Therapy

15  Chapter Twenty: Family

16  Moving Memoirs

17  About the Publisher

LandmarksCoverFrontmatter

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Chapter Ten

Contact

Whatever had happened between Roksana and Oskar to make them so cautious of each other? I wondered as I drove home from the Family Centre. It wasn’t normal. Having been separated for three weeks, neither of them had anything to say to each other and apparently felt nothing on being reunited. Or possibly they had felt plenty, but for whatever reason weren’t able to show their emotions, with neither willing to make the first move. Hopefully they were getting along better now.

I had just enough time to go home for half an hour before I had to leave to return to the Family Centre to collect Oskar. Paula arrived home while I was there and I left her instructions on when to put the fish pie I’d made earlier into the oven so it would be ready for dinner.

I arrived at the Family Centre five minutes early, signed the Visitors’ Book and then waited in the corridor. I knew that every minute was precious to families who are separated, so I never interrupted before their time was up. As I waited, I could hear children’s voices coming from other contact rooms and a baby crying. At exactly 5.30 p.m. I continued along the corridor to Green Room. The door was closed, so I knocked and went in. The silence hit me.

Andrew had gone, the contact supervisor was at the table, writing, and Oskar and his mother were sitting side by side on the sofa, close but not touching. I assumed that whatever they’d been playing with had been packed away, for clearly they hadn’t just been sitting there for one and a half hours.

As soon as Roksana saw me she stood and began putting on her coat. ‘Good, you’re here,’ she said intensely. ‘Can you give me a lift to work? I’m going to be late.’ Oskar remained sitting on the sofa.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t today,’ I said. ‘I’ll need Andrew’s permission and he won’t be in the office now. We can ask him tomorrow and perhaps I can help you out next time.’

She tutted, picked up her handbag and threw it over her shoulder, clearly stressed at being late for work.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I’ll ask Andrew, although if you explain the problem to him he may be able to alter the times of contact to fit around your work.’

‘I have to rush,’ she said and, throwing a kiss at the top of Oskar’s head, called goodbye as she ran out the door. Oskar stayed where he was on the sofa.

I would have liked to help her, but if she and Oskar were in my car it would have constituted a form of contact, so I needed Andrew’s permission. I knew that Roksana worked as a cleaner in various offices, and if they were on my way and Andrew agreed then I’d been happy to drop her off next time. Alternatively, as I’d suggested to her, contact arrangements might be adjusted to fit around her work, although the centre was only open from 9.00 a.m. to 5.30 p.m., Monday to Friday. I appreciated it was difficult for parents who worked full-time, but seeing their children was usually a priority.

Oskar stood, picked up his jacket and came to me, tucking his hand into mine. I gave it a reassuring squeeze said goodbye to the contact supervisor, and we left. ‘Did you have a nice time?’ I asked Oskar as we walked down the corridor.

He shrugged.

‘Did you play some games with your mother?’ I tried.

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ I signed out of the Visitors’ Book. ‘What did you play?’

‘The games you got from the shelf.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I can’t remember. What’s for dinner?’

‘Fish pie and green beans.’

Usually when I collected a child from contact they were brimming over with excitement, wanting to tell me what a fantastic time they’d had with their parents and then counting off the days until their next contact. Oskar didn’t mention seeing his mother all evening, and his reaction was worrying. I hoped I would be given some feedback from the contact. My experience in the past was that this was sporadic. Sometimes the social worker passed on feedback and other times they didn’t. It’s very useful if the foster carer is given a brief résumé of what happened in contact so we are better able to deal with any issues that may arise from it or questions the child might ask.

After dinner, when there was just Oskar and me in the living room, I asked him, ‘Were you happy to see your mother?’ For I really didn’t know.

‘Yes,’ he said, but his face was expressionless, as it often was.

‘Are you happy to see her again?’ I asked. It wouldn’t be his decision, but it was important we knew his feelings.

‘Yes, but she has to work,’ he replied, his voice flat.

‘I know, but she and Andrew can make some arrangements that suit her. It’s important you see each other, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’ he asked.

I hid my shock. Most children would know how important it was to see their parents.

‘I think so. She loves you, and you love her, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but she has to work,’ he said again. ‘Can I go to bed? I’m tired.’ Which was Oskar’s way of telling me he didn’t want to talk about his mother any more. But then he never wanted to talk about her.

I read him a bedtime story and took him up for his bath. That night I asked him – as I had been doing every night – if he wanted a goodnight kiss. To my surprise, he gave a small nod. ‘Here, like Mummy did,’ he said, pointing to the top of his head. I knew then how much that fleeting goodbye kiss from his mother had meant to him.

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

‘No, she’s at work.’

‘What about your aunts and uncles?’

He shook his head.

‘So who sees you into bed?’

‘No one. I have a wash and get into my sleeping bag.’

A lump rose to my throat at the image of little Oskar, so young and vulnerable, taking himself off to his sleeping bag every night without a loving goodnight kiss or hug. ‘Do you want a hug as well?’ I asked as he snuggled down, but he shook his head shyly. I kissed the top of his head and, saying goodnight, came out and closed the door. It would be another month before he wanted a hug.

The following morning, the Guardian ad Litem (or Guardian as they are often referred to in child-care proceedings) telephoned me. Tamara Hastings had also been the Guardian for the two children I’d looked after just before Oskar and whose story I tell in Innocent.

‘I thought I recognized your name,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well, thank you, and you?’

‘Yes, good. How is Oskar settling in?’

I told her more or less what I’d told Andrew, so she was up to date. We didn’t discuss the previous case as it wouldn’t have been appropriate. The Guardian is usually a qualified social worker and is appointed by the court in child-care proceedings for the duration of the case. They are independent of the social services but have access to all the files. They see all parties involved in the case, including the children, their parents and social services, and report to the judge on what is in the best interests of the child. The judge usually follows their recommendation.

Once I’d finished updating her, she made an appointment to visit us after school the following Monday. I noted it in my diary.

Andrew telephoned that afternoon and asked how Oskar had been after contact. He said he had stayed for half an hour and had also spoken to the contact supervisor this morning. I said Oskar had been quiet but that wasn’t unusual, and when I asked him what he and his mother had done he said they’d played with some board games. I then paraphrased the rest of what Oskar had said, including his comments about his mother working.

‘It appears that Roksana has always worked very long hours,’ Andrew said. ‘It may have impacted on their relationship. I appreciate that supervised contact isn’t a natural environment, but Roksana struggled to relate to her son and he to her. The contact supervisor said that Roksana was very worried about being late for work and mentioned this a few times, which worried Oskar.’

‘Yes, he told me that. I think Roksana is going to ask you about changing the times of contact.’

‘I haven’t spoken to her yet today, but I’m proposing contact will be three times a week, four to five-thirty. I’ve left a message on her voicemail to phone me. I think she’s seeing her solicitor this afternoon. If you don’t hear from me, assume the next contact will be on Friday at four o’clock.’

I made a note. ‘Roksana asked me if I could give her a lift to work after contact. I told her she’d need to speak to you first.’

‘OK, I’ll talk to her and let you know. Has Oskar said anything about his uncle hitting him?’

‘No.’

‘The contact supervisor said Roksana told Oskar not to say bad things about his uncles.’

‘I see. No, he hasn’t said anything to me.’

‘OK. Thank you.’

Roksana should have known better than to say that at contact. One of the reasons contact is supervised when there has been an allegation of abuse and care proceedings are current is to stop a parent threatening or coercing their child into withdrawing an allegation. Roksana wasn’t doing herself any favours.

An hour later Andrew telephoned again. I was now in the playground, waiting for the end of school. I moved away from the others so I couldn’t be overheard.

‘I’ve spoken to Roksana,’ Andrew said. ‘Because of her work commitments she can only see Oskar on Tuesday and Thursday for an hour – from four to five. Then she has to start the evening shift. I’ve checked with the Family Centre and there is a room free then. She has asked for phone contact on the other days, which I have agreed to, but I would like you to supervise it, so put your phone on speaker.’

‘All right. When does this new arrangement begin?’

‘Start the phone contact this evening, and then they will see each other next Tuesday and Thursday. Do you have Roksana’s mobile number?’

‘Yes, it’s in the placement information forms. What time should Oskar phone her?’ I asked.

‘Between five and five-thirty is good for her, or after ten, but I’m guessing Oskar will be in bed by then.’

‘Yes, he goes up around seven. And the lift home she wanted?’

‘It won’t be necessary with these new arrangements.’

‘OK.’

I ended the call with a heavy heart. A parent who was fighting to get their child back should be demanding more contact, not less. Andrew had offered Roksana three ninety-minute sessions a week and she’d cut it to two sessions of an hour each. Yes, she had to work and she was gaining phone contact, but it wouldn’t be viewed in a positive light. The inference could be drawn that if Roksana wasn’t able to make time to see her child while he was in care then she was unlikely to have the time to successfully parent him if he was returned to her.

I obviously didn’t tell Oskar this when he came out of school. I began by asking him if he’d had a good day, and he replied, ‘Yes. I like school.’

‘Excellent.’

As we walked to the car I told him I’d spoken to Andrew and then explained the new contact arrangements in a positive light. ‘So you will be seeing your mother twice a week and speaking to her on the phone on the other days,’ I said.

‘Will I have to speak to my uncles?’ he asked quietly.

‘No. Just your mother.’ I unlocked the car door. ‘Why? Do you want to speak to your uncles?’

‘No.’

Before I started the engine, I swivelled round in my seat so I could see Oskar. ‘I’ve looked after a lot of children,’ I said. ‘And I get a sense when something is wrong. If there is anything worrying you, I think it would help if you could tell me.’

He shrugged.

‘I know when you saw Mummy yesterday she asked you not to talk about when your uncle slapped you, but it is important you tell.’

‘He did slap me!’ Oskar blurted. ‘I told Miss Jordan the truth.’

‘Yes, I believe you, so did she.’

‘Mummy doesn’t,’ he said, his face falling. ‘She thinks I made it up.’

‘I know, it’s difficult for her. Why do you think she would say that?’ I asked.

‘Because I don’t like being left alone with those men. Some are nice, but others aren’t.’ It was the most Oskar had said and I wanted to learn as much as possible before he clammed up again.

‘Which men are nice?’ I asked.

‘Uncle Nowak.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Some are OK.’

‘Who isn’t nice?’

Silence.

‘Do you know their names?’

He looked thoughtful and then shook his head. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘OK. If you do, tell me, please.’

Andrew had said we should telephone Roksana between 5.00 and 5.30, so shortly after 5.00, with Oskar sitting beside me, I made the call, blocking the caller identity on my landline. Roksana wasn’t to be given my contact details. It went through to voicemail, so I left a message. ‘Hello, it’s Cathy, Oskar’s carer. Andrew said to phone. I’ll call you back in ten minutes.’ I knew that many people didn’t answer their phones if the number was withheld. I explained this to Oskar.

Ten minutes later I called again and Roksana answered straight away. ‘It’s Cathy. Oskar is here, ready to talk to you.’

‘Andrew said you were going to listen in,’ she said. ‘Are you recording this call?’

‘No, it’s just on speakerphone. Only Oskar and I are present.’

I passed the phone to Oskar. I’d had to supervise phone contact before and it’s never easy to begin with. I felt uncomfortable listening in and obviously it’s not nice for the parents, but this was worse than most. I didn’t know if it was the fact that Roksana knew I was listening or whether their conversation would have been stilted anyway, but they hardly said a word to each other, so that I was left wondering if Roksana knew how to engage with her son at all.

‘Oskar, it’s Mummy.’

‘Yes.’

Pause. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Yes.’

Another pause. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’

More silence. ‘I’m going to work now.’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell Mummy about school,’ I prompted Oskar.

‘I went to school,’ he said uninspiringly.

‘I know. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Be good. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

The line went dead and Oskar passed the phone back to me. It was probably the shortest, saddest telephone conversation I’d ever heard between a mother and her son. There was so much they could have said. Clearly it wasn’t only Roksana who’d had difficulty in talking; Oskar had been equally inhibited. However, as the parent, Roksana bore the responsibility for trying to engage with him, if she knew how, which I was doubting. Most parents, even those who have neglected or abused their children, can talk to them on the phone. In the past I’d often had to wind up a conversation or it would have gone on all night. I hoped that the next telephone contact – on Friday – would be better.

It was no different. Then, on Saturday evening, Oskar refused to speak to his mother at all and went to his bedroom. I explained to Roksana as tactfully as I could that Oskar didn’t feel able to talk to her right now, and I didn’t think it wise to insist.

‘It’s OK,’ she said, far too accepting.

‘We’ll try again tomorrow. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault. He can be like that sometimes.’ Most parents would have blamed me.

That night, I tried talking to Oskar about his mother and the phone calls, his life at home with her and whether there was anything worrying him, but I got no further than I had all the other times. Nods, shrugs and silence.

Chapter Eleven

Not Safe

On a positive note, during the weekend we managed to get Oskar playing some games. Weekends were easier, as we had more time, so he painted pictures, modelled in dough and built castles out of Lego, quietly and with the same self-contained approach he applied to most tasks. He hadn’t asked for his toys from home, and I was hoping that his mother would bring them to contact at some point.

On Sunday we went to visit my mother – just Paula and Oskar came with me, as Adrian was seeing Kirsty and Lucy, Darren. Lucy had seen Darren on Friday and Saturday evening as well as at work during the week. In between, her phone frequently buzzed with text messages from him. I knew they were from him because she couldn’t help but smile as she read each message and then immediately replied. I assumed everything was going well and hoped to meet him when she felt the time was right.

Oskar was a little more relaxed at Mum’s on Sunday, possibly because it was his second visit. He managed to reply when she spoke to him and moved away from my side long enough to play with some of the toys in her toy box. But towards the end of the afternoon my brother popped in and I saw Oskar go on full alert. He jumped up from where he’d been sitting by the toy box and came to me. My brother was his usual chatty and friendly self, but Oskar shrank back whenever he spoke to him, and just nodded or shook his head in reply. I made the excuse that he hadn’t been with us for long and was still shy, but it was the same reaction I’d seen in Oskar when he was around Adrian and Andrew – a wariness of men.

I was driving back from Mum’s between five and six o’clock, so it was just after six when I telephoned Roksana. Oskar had promised me he would talk to her, but before I passed the phone to him I apologized to Roksana for phoning late and explained that we’d been to my mother’s, which was an hour’s drive away.

‘It’s OK,’ Roksana said easily. ‘I don’t work on Sunday evenings. It’s my one evening off.’

‘You do work long hours,’ I said.

‘Yes. All day and most nights. I have to support Oskar and Luka.’

While I admired her work ethic, again I wondered what impact this had had on Oskar and how it would affect the social services’ parenting assessment of her. In reality, she spent very little time with Oskar.

I’d already suggested to Oskar some things he could talk to his mother about – for example, what he’d been doing during the weekend – and it began well.

‘I’ve been out for the day,’ he said.

‘So have I,’ Roksana replied. ‘I’ve been to work and now I’m on my way home.’

‘I’m home now,’ Oskar said, and was about to say more when she interrupted.

‘No, you’re not,’ she said sharply. ‘You’re at your foster carer’s house. Your home is with me. Don’t forget that, Oskar.’

He looked crestfallen and after that all he would say was yes or no, and then, before long, goodbye. Their relationship appeared to be so fragile, it didn’t take much for either of them to recoil, and I wondered how much good telephone contact was doing. However, it had been agreed between Roksana and Andrew, so until he told me otherwise I would continue to make the phone calls on the evenings they didn’t see each other and hoped they improved.

When I collected Oskar from school on Monday afternoon I told him that Tamara, the Guardian, was visiting us and explained her role: a social worker who wanted to talk to him so she could tell the judge what was best for him long-term. Oskar was only six, but it was important he had some understanding of the court process and what it meant for him.

Tamara arrived promptly at four o’clock, shook my hand and smiled warmly at Oskar, who had come to the door with me. He managed a small hello.

Of average height and build, Tamara was in her fifties, smartly dressed in navy trousers, jacket and blouse. I knew from working with her before that she had a quiet, confident manner and was used to talking to children and eliciting a response. She accepted my offer of coffee and we sat in the living room, where she tried to engage Oskar in conversation but had no more success than Andrew had. She asked him about school and how that was going. ‘Good. I like school,’ he said. She asked him about seeing his mother and how that was. ‘Yes,’ he replied. She asked him if he liked living with me and he gave a small nod.

‘Excellent,’ Tamara replied, smiling at me.

She asked him if he had everything he needed from home. He didn’t reply so I said, ‘He has some of his clothes and I’ve bought what he needs. Roksana is going to let me have some more of his belongings, including some toys.’

‘I’ll remind her when I see her,’ Tamara said, making a note. Then to Oskar, ‘Do you understand why you are in care and living with Cathy?’

He nodded.

‘Can you tell me?’ He shook his head. ‘Has your social worker told you?’ He shrugged. ‘It’s because we want to make sure you are safe and well looked after.’ He stared back at her.

‘I’m seeing your mother next week,’ Tamara continued. ‘She has arranged to take an afternoon off work.’ The fact that she’d mentioned Roksana taking time off work suggested it might have been an issue, but I knew that the Guardians only usually worked office hours, and it was expected that the parent(s) made time to see them. I hoped Roksana understood the importance of the Guardian’s role.

Tamara then asked me how Oskar was settling in, about his routine and what he liked to do in his spare time as she made some notes. She gave me her business card listing her phone number and email address and said if Oskar or I had any questions I should contact her. She said she would see us at least once again before the final court hearing, which was set for October. She thanked me for my time and, having said goodbye to both of us, she left. Between now and October she would be gathering the information she needed to make a recommendation to the judge on whether Oskar could return to live with his mother.

It was now after five o’clock, so, setting the phone to speaker, I told Oskar it was time to call his mother. I said hello to Roksana and then passed the phone to him. ‘How are you?’ she asked.

‘Another social worker was here,’ he said.

‘Who?’ she asked anxiously. Oskar looked at me.

‘It was the Guardian ad Litem,’ I said into the speaker.

‘What did she want?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘She’s seeing me next week.’

‘It’s normal for the Guardian to see the child,’ I said, which I was sure would have been explained to her.

‘What did Oskar tell her?’

‘That he liked school and understood why he was in care. Try not to worry.’ I appreciated that parents with children in care must feel that a lot of meetings go on without them, which is true. I’m not the only one who would like to see more transparency in child-care proceedings. ‘I’ll let you and Oskar carry on chatting,’ I said. ‘Probably best not to quiz him about the Guardian’s visit, though.’

‘Have you been to school?’ she asked him.

‘Yes.’

‘Have you got homework?’

‘Yes.’

‘Make sure you do it.’

‘I will, I’m going to do it now,’ he said. ‘Bye.’

‘Bye, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

And that was that.

Of course I noted all this in my log as I was supposed to, while omitting my feeling that there was as much unsaid in these exchanges between Roksana and her son as there was said.

On Tuesday morning, notice of Oskar’s review arrived in the post. It was set for the following Monday at 2 p.m. at Oskar’s school. Children in care have regular reviews; the first takes place within four weeks of the child being placed or moving placement. The child’s parent(s), social worker, teacher, foster carer, the foster carer’s supervising social worker, and any other professionals or adults closely connected with the child are invited. Reviews are there to ensure that everything is being done to help the child, and that the care plan (drawn up by the social services) is up to date. They are chaired by an Independent Reviewing Officer (IRO), who also minutes the meeting. He is a qualified social worker with extra training but is unconnected with the social services. Very young children don’t usually attend their reviews; older children are expected to.

I completed my review form that morning – it took almost an hour. It asked questions about Oskar’s health, education, hobbies and interests, contact with family and friends, emotional well-being, and if the child’s cultural and religious needs were being met. Oskar’s form was a much shorter, child-friendly booklet designed to encourage the child to give their views on being in care. I’d help him complete it when we had the time and then post both forms to the reviewing officer, ready for the review on the following week.

That Tuesday afternoon, when Oskar and I arrived at the Family Centre, Roksana must have gone in just ahead of us. She was in reception signing the Visitors’ Book.

‘Hello,’ I said. She turned.

At this point most parents and children would fall into each other’s arms, but not Roksana and Oskar. Oskar dropped my hand but then looked at his mother carefully. Roksana declared, ‘I’m so stressed! Luka is ill again and I can’t afford to go back there now.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ I sympathized. ‘What a worry for you.’

‘It is!’ she said. ‘If it’s not one thing, it’s another!’

Oskar was looking anxious too, sharing his mother’s worries.

‘I’m sure Luka will be better soon,’ I told him, feeling he needed some reassurance.

‘I’m not,’ Roksana declared. ‘He keeps falling ill. As if I didn’t have enough to cope with already – with Oskar being in care.’ While I had every sympathy for her, I was concerned that Oskar could assume that being in care and all the worry it was causing his mother was his fault.

‘Shall we go to the room?’ I suggested, throwing Oskar a reassuring smile. I signed the Visitors’ Book.

‘You’re in Green Room again,’ the receptionist said, having heard our exchange. ‘You can go through. The contact supervisor is there.’

I thanked her and we went through the double doors and began down the corridor towards the room.

‘I know where it is,’ Roksana said curtly to me. ‘You don’t have to come with us.’

‘I’m supposed to see you into the room,’ I replied.

‘Don’t they trust me?’

‘It’s policy,’ I said diplomatically. But of course, had Roksana wanted to threaten Oskar not to tell, she could have done so in the short distance from reception to the room. There have been instances of a parent intimidating their child when they’ve gone to the toilet or to the kitchen for a glass of water. If the contact supervisor was doing her job properly, she wouldn’t let Roksana or Oskar out of her sight for a second.

Once in Green Room I said goodbye and have a nice time, then left. As contact was only an hour it wasn’t worth me going home. The weather was fine, so I went for a walk and then returned to collect Oskar at five o’clock. I knocked on the door and went in. It was very quiet and the room was tidy, so any games they’d been playing with had already been packed away. My first impression was that Roksana was a little less stressed. ‘Everything OK?’ I asked her, just being friendly.

‘Yes. I’ve been on the phone to my sister and Luka has stopped being sick,’ she said. ‘It seems it was just a stomach upset. He’s prone to getting them.’

‘That’s a relief,’ I said. But I looked at Oskar sitting passively on the sofa and wondered how much of the hour’s contact had been dedicated to him and how much to Luka. I appreciated what a worry it must be for Roksana, but I felt sorry for Oskar, who seemed to take second place – to his mother’s work and Luka.

It’s usual for the foster carer to leave the Family Centre with the child first to avoid any emotional or difficult situations developing outside, so I said goodbye to Roksana and that we’d phone her tomorrow.

‘Goodbye,’ Oskar said, standing, and he came straight to me.

‘Are you going to give your mother a kiss goodbye?’ I asked him.

Roksana had stood and was now checking her phone. Oskar dutifully returned to her. Not taking her eyes from her phone, she threw a half-hearted kiss in the direction of his head. No hug, no proper kiss goodbye. As he returned to me, I saw the look of disappointment on his face and I wished Roksana could have seen it too. Children thrive on attention and praise, and wither from emotional neglect.

‘Good boy,’ I said, smiling at him, and he took my hand.

Outside, I asked him if he’d had a nice time and he said, ‘Yes,’ although his voice was flat. I then asked him if he would like to invite a friend from school home for tea one afternoon, and he shrugged gloomily. ‘Think about it,’ I said. But I was beginning to wonder if Oskar was depressed. It was relatively unusual for a child of his age to be depressed, but it was something I would raise with his social worker. Some children are referred to CAMHS (Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services) for therapy when they come into care.

On Wednesday the phone call to Roksana was no better or worse than the previous ones. It was very short and uninspiring, and Oskar responded to his mother’s questions with ‘Yes’, ‘No’ or a shrug, which of course she couldn’t see. I prompted him with some topics he could talk to her about, but with the phone on speaker Roksana could hear me and said, ‘It’s OK if he doesn’t want to talk,’ and she said goodbye.

After dinner that evening I took out Oskar’s review form and explained to him what the review was all about, then we sat at the table in the kitchen-diner to complete it. He could read some of the questions and his writing was about average for a six-year-old. Some of the questions had a choice of emojis and didn’t require a written answer. To begin with his responses were pretty much what I would have expected of him.

How do you feel most of the time? He circled the emoji with a sad face.

Would you like to know more about your past? ‘Don’t mind,’ he wrote.

Who is your social worker? ‘Andrew.’

Would you like to see more of them? ‘No.’

Who are your friends? Would you like to see more of them? ‘Don’t mind.’

If you have any problems, who do you talk to? ‘Miss Jordan.’

‘I hope you can talk to me too,’ I reminded Oskar, and he nodded.

Do you have any questions about what is going to happen in the future? Most children would put: ‘When can I go home?’ But to my astonishment Oskar wrote: ‘Can I stay with Cathy?’

I turned and looked at him carefully. ‘Do you want to stay with me?’ I asked. ‘Or is it you think that’s what I want to hear?’

‘No, it’s true,’ he said in a tiny voice.

‘Why?’

He didn’t reply but read the next question: Is there anything you would like to add?

He paused thoughtfully and then wrote: ‘I don’t want to go home.’

‘Can you write why you don’t want to go home?’ I asked. It’s often easier to write something painful than to say it.

He paused again and then wrote: ‘It’s not safe.’

‘Why isn’t it safe?’ I asked. ‘Write it down.’

‘No, I can’t tell you,’ he whispered, and concentrated on the next question.

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