A Baby's Cry (27 page)

I closed the front door and then stood for a moment, deep in thought, before going down the hall and into the sitting room. I hovered anxiously in the middle of the room, surrounded by the decorations but with all thoughts of Christmas now gone. It was nearly eleven o’clock and I would normally be on my way to bed now, but I knew there was little chance of that, whatever Rihanna decided. If she went against my advice and took Harrison I’d have to telephone the duty social worker and then spend most of the night on standby, receiving calls updating me until Harrison was returned, and even if Rihanna didn’t take Harrison I doubted I would sleep after all this.

As I waited in the sitting room for Rihanna to finish talking to her father I fretted over the image of Harrison crying if he was woken in the night and then taken from the house by a virtual stranger. I dearly hoped Rihanna and her father made the right decision, for all their sakes.

A few minutes later I heard a tapping on the front door, and I returned down the hall and lifted the flap on the security spyhole. Rihanna stood alone on the doorstep and I opened the door.

‘Sorry, Cathy,’ she said awkwardly. ‘My father is asking if he can meet you. Can he come in just for a few minutes?’ She looked tired and strained and I thought she had been crying again.

I hesitated. ‘Why does he want to meet me?’ I asked uneasily.

‘To talk to you about Harrison, just for a moment.’

‘All right,’ I agreed.

Rihanna disappeared back down the path as I held open the door. I glanced upstairs. It was still quiet; thankfully the children hadn’t woken. It would be bad enough if Adrian and Paula had to wake on Christmas Eve morning to find Harrison gone, but even worse if they woke and saw him being taken. I heard a car door open and close, and then Rihanna appeared at the end of the path with her father just behind her. About five foot ten inches tall, he was smartly dressed in a three-quarter-length grey coat over a suit and tie. Rihanna came in and then her father paused on the doorstep and offered his hand.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ he said tightly but politely.

I gave a little smile and shook his hand, and he stepped in. Rihanna, now familiar with the layout of my house, was walking down the hall towards the sitting room while her father hovered uncertainly in the hall.

‘We’ll go into the sitting room to talk,’ I said, closing the front door, and I nodded for him to follow his daughter. I guessed Rihanna’s father was in his late sixties. He was clearly a proud man, and I could also see he felt uncomfortable coming into my house.

I followed them down the hall and into the sitting room, where I quietly closed the door. Rihanna was already sitting on the sofa, while her father hesitated in the centre of the room.

‘Do sit down,’ I said to him.

He sat on the sofa next to his daughter and I saw his gaze flicker around the Christmas decorations before settling on the photographs of Harrison propped on the mantelpiece. I sat in the armchair and looked at them. Seated side by side on the sofa I could see a strong family likeness between Rihanna and her father – similar to the likeness I’d seen between Rihanna and Harrison. I wondered if her father could see the likeness too from Harrison’s photographs. He moved his gaze to me.

‘Thank you for looking after my daughter’s child,’ he said stiffly. ‘I should give you some money towards the costs you have incurred.’ He began reaching inside his jacket for his wallet.

‘There’s no need,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m given an allowance by the state, to which you have contributed through your taxes.’

Rihanna touched his arm and he took his hand from his jacket pocket and returned it to his lap. I wondered if his visit and his wish to support Rihanna were more about repairing family pride than a real desire to play a part in the lives of his daughter and grandchild. There was a small silence before he said: ‘As a parent you will appreciate how difficult this is for me. I’ve had a dreadful shock this evening. Not only have I learnt that my daughter has been seeing a man she knew her mother and I would not have approved of, but I have also learnt I have a grandson who has been kept secret from us.’

I glanced at Rihanna, who was sitting slightly hunched forward and concentrating on the floor. She was a child again in her father’s presence, a naughty child who had done wrong, and I had difficulty equating this woman with the competent doctor she was in her working life.

‘You will appreciate just what a shock this has been,’ her father said again. ‘I have another daughter who is due to marry next year. I also have a large extended family, who will need to be told something. Rihanna’s actions have made things very difficult for all of us, but that is for me to deal with.’ He paused. ‘Now I know I have a grandchild he is my responsibility. It is my wish we should take him home with us tonight. However, I understand you have objections to this.’

‘Not objections,’ I said, meeting his gaze. ‘But I have concerns, which I have discussed with Rihanna.’

‘Would you explain your concerns to me, please?’ he asked tightly.

‘If Rihanna gives her permission, yes,’ I said. He looked taken aback, presuming, I suppose, that I, like Rihanna, would concede to his wishes. I felt a small satisfaction in empowering Rihanna. ‘Confidentiality forbids me from discussing Rihanna’s case without her permission, even with her father,’ I added.

‘It is all right to tell my father,’ Rihanna said quietly.

I now told Rihanna’s father what I had told Rihanna: that I believed taking Harrison would be very upsetting for him and would also upset the social services. I explained what I thought Rihanna should do: leave Harrison here and then contact her solicitor first thing in the morning.

Her father nodded non-committally as I spoke and when I’d finished he asked: ‘Have you had a lot of experience in dealing with the social services?’

‘Yes. I have been fostering for ten years.’

He nodded again. ‘Then we must take your advice and do as you say.’ Which surprised me as, given his previous authoritative attitude, I had expected him to argue. ‘We will leave the child here and I will contact my solicitor first thing in the morning and see what he has to say.’

‘Father, I’ve told you I have a solicitor already,’ Rihanna said quietly, without looking at her father.

Her father glanced at me, apparently embarrassed, and then addressed his daughter. ‘Rihanna, which solicitor we use is for us to decide outside this house. It is no concern of this lady.’

‘Agreed,’ I put in, not appreciating being sidelined. ‘But you will need a solicitor who is well practised in family law. Rihanna’s solicitor is experienced in this type of law and also knows Rihanna’s case well. She has been involved right from the beginning. I would think very carefully before you change solicitor now, at such a delicate stage in the proceedings.’ Rihanna glanced at me gratefully, and I threw her a small smile.

Her father gave another non-committal nod and then, fastening one button on his coat, stood, ready to leave. Rihanna was immediately on her feet too. ‘We have kept you long enough,’ he said formally. ‘Thank you for your time.’

Again I was surprised – by his sudden departure. I wasn’t completely clear why he’d asked to see me, unless it was to confirm what Rihanna had told him or to offer me money. ‘Wouldn’t you like to see Harrison before you go?’ I asked them both.

He looked at me and then at Rihanna, confused.

‘My baby is called Harrison,’ Rihanna clarified, so I guessed he hadn’t had a chance to familiarize himself with the name yet, which was understandable.

He hesitated, and his eyes flickered again to the photographs of Harrison on the mantelpiece and he looked almost scared.

‘We’ll go up quietly so that we don’t wake him or my children,’ I said, crossing to the sitting-room door. It seemed appropriate he saw Harrison and I’d already told Rihanna she could see him.

Rihanna followed me, and her father followed her as we went down the hall and up the stairs. I heard the stairs creek behind me and hoped again we wouldn’t wake Adrian and Paula, who would be very unsettled if they found strangers in the house in the middle of the night. We arrived outside Harrison’s bedroom door, which as usual I’d left slightly ajar so that I could hear him if he woke. Easing the door open, I stepped in; the light from the landing fell gently into the room, giving enough light for us to see without waking him. Rihanna and her father joined me beside the cot and the three of us gazed down at Harrison. He was flat on his back, arms spread wide apart with his mouth relaxed, open in sleep. The soft toy panda and teddy bear Rihanna had bought for him sat on guard at the foot of the cot. All that could be heard for some moments was the faint creak of the radiator as the central heating hummed, and Harrison’s light breathing. The three of us gazed down on him and he lay innocent of the attention.

Presently Rihanna leant forward and lightly adjusted the covers around his chin. I looked past her to her father, and in that moment any doubts I’d had as to his sincerity vanished. His eyes brimmed with tears and his bottom lip trembled as he tried to contain his emotion. A minute later he took a white cotton handkerchief from his jacket pocket and, pressing it to his eyes, walked from the bedroom. Rihanna quickly kissed Harrison’s forehead; he snuffled but didn’t wake, and she went out after her father. I also left the room, easing the door to behind me.

Downstairs I joined Rihanna and her father in the hall. ‘We’ll do as you say,’ her father said, going to the front door, clearly embarrassed by his show of emotion and wanting to be away.

‘Thank you,’ Rihanna said gratefully to me and kissed my cheek. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

I nodded. ‘Take care and good luck.’

Once they’d gone I closed and bolted the front door with utter relief, and then switched off the porch light. I went through to the sitting room, where I took my fostering folder from the shelf and, opening it, began writing up my log notes. I knew I needed to do this before I went to bed if there was to be any chance of sleep. There was a lot to write; I finished one page and went on to the next. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked past midnight; it was now officially Christmas Eve.

I knew the path ahead was not going to be as easy or straightforward as Rihanna and her father believed. The social services would need to be absolutely certain that if they returned Harrison to Rihanna it was best for him. There were many outstanding issues that were worrying me, as I knew they would worry the social services. How would Rihanna’s extended family react when they were told of Harrison? If Harrison was thought to be in any danger from threats from Rihanna’s cousins the social services would not return Harrison to Rihanna. Then there was Rihanna’s mother, who had yet to come to terms with the news she had a grandchild, and if she didn’t, the social services would view her rejection in a very negative light. I also knew the racist attitude of Rihanna’s father towards Harrison’s father (which was presumably upheld by the rest of the family) would count against Harrison being returned to Rihanna.

And what about Harrison’s father? I wondered now as I had before. Didn’t he have a right to know he had a child now that the fact was out in the open? And didn’t Harrison have a right to know who his father was and even have him in his life? The social services might think so. And, on a purely practical level, how would Rihanna look after a baby when she had a demanding job with very long hours? There were many issues to which the social services would want answers and I knew it could take months before a decision was reached. In the end the decision could be that Harrison should be adopted. That Rihanna had had a change of heart didn’t mean the social services would too.

I eventually finished writing up my log notes and, closing the folder, returned it to the shelf. What tomorrow would bring or where Harrison would be next Christmas Eve I’d no idea.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Best Christmas

‘A
nd I thought you were phoning to wish me a Merry Christmas!’ Jill joked, as I finally finished telling her all about Rihanna’s and her father’s visit of the night before. It was 9.45 on Christmas Eve morning and I’d been talking to Jill on the phone for nearly half an hour. ‘I’ll phone Cheryl straightaway,’ Jill now said more seriously. ‘She’ll probably want to speak to you. Are you at home today?’

‘I’m going shopping this morning but I’ll have my mobile with me. I’ll be in this afternoon and obviously this evening – it’s Christmas Eve.’

‘All right. I’ll phone Cheryl now. And Cathy?’

‘Yes?’

‘You handled the situation well. If you hadn’t been able to persuade Rihanna and her father out of taking Harrison, the police would certainly have been involved, resulting in court action. The social services might yet apply for a care order but it’s not so likely. So well done.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, relieved I’d done the right thing.

Having said goodbye to Jill I changed Harrison’s nappy and dressed him in his outdoor clothes, ready for our shopping trip. At the same time I called Adrian and Paula to come and put on their shoes and coats, but they were too excited with thoughts of Christmas to want to bother with food shopping. However, when I pointed out that there wouldn’t be a Christmas dinner if we didn’t go to the high street they were ready in five minutes. ‘We won’t be long,’ I said, for I had no more desire to shop on Christmas Eve than they had.

But once we were in the high street there was such a festive atmosphere that our shopping trip became quite enjoyable. Decorations and lights festooned the shops and hung across the street; a small choir from our local church sang carols in the square; and a man dressed as Father Christmas sat in a large model sleigh, handing out sweets to the children as he collected money for charity. While shopping we met people we knew, all of whom stopped to wish us a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, as we did them, so our quick trip to the shops became extended, but pleasantly so. My mobile phone didn’t ring, which was something of a relief as it would have been difficult to maintain confidentiality in the busy high street. I sometimes have to creep down an alleyway to take a call about a child I am fostering or find a quiet corner if I’m in a shop. Sometimes I simply have to tell the social worker I’m in a public place and that I will return their call as soon as I can. But Cheryl didn’t phone until we were home again and I’d unpacked the shopping, and then her call was brief.