I Miss Mummy (2 page)

A
t 10.00 p.m. we were all in bed, Lucy and Paula asleep, Adrian reading for half an hour, while I had the radio on, although I wasn’t listening to it. My thoughts were with Alice and her mother, and I was very worried. I hadn’t heard anything further during the evening, so I had to assume they were still missing. It was the end of March and although we’d had a few mild days the nights were very cold, with a ground frost. I sincerely hoped Alice and her mother were indoors, having been given a bed for the night by a friend or relative who perhaps didn’t know about the court case or that the police were looking for them. Or perhaps, I speculated, Alice had been found and was being brought to me at this very moment. At 11.00 I switched off the radio and dozed, but I was listening out for the phone and doorbell, every so often raising my head to glance at the luminous hands on my bedside clock.

Acutely aware of every street noise, shortly after 2.00 a.m. I heard a car pull up outside. My bedroom is at the
front of the house, overlooking the road, and immediately I got out of bed and peered through the window, ever hopeful. A taxi was outside with its engine running and as I looked I saw my neighbour, Sue, and her family get out, with their suitcases, having returned from the airport after a week in Turkey. Sue looked up and, seeing me, gave a little wave. Aware that I fostered, she saw nothing too unusual in my peering out of my bedroom window at two in the morning, possibly waiting for a teenager to return, or for the police to bring a child under an emergency protection order.

I returned to bed and dozed fitfully until 6.00 a.m. Then I declared the night over and, slipping on my dressing-gown and slippers, went downstairs to make coffee. On the work surface in the kitchen, almost as a testament to Alice’s disappearance, was the dinner I’d plated and covered the night before. If Alice had arrived hungry, as children often do, I could have easily reheated her dinner in the microwave, whatever time of night. Now I removed the cover from the plate and, scraping the congealed casserole into the bin, put the plate in the dishwasher. Dear Alice, wherever could she be? She had been missing for twelve hours now, which is a long time for a child of four. She and her mother – who I knew from the referral was called Leah and was twenty-three – had vanished into thin air. Where could they have gone? Then I wondered if they had been found and Alice had been returned to her grandparents, in which case Leah would now be in police custody, for I knew that despite any sympathy I had for Leah’s desperate bid to keep her daughter, snatching a
child, especially a child protected by a court order, is a very serious offence and Leah would be prosecuted and very likely sent to prison. It was all so very sad.

At 7.00 a.m. my speculation and worries had to be put on hold as I swung into action at the start of the school day. It was Friday, thank goodness, and I was looking forward to the weekend. Apart from getting out of the routine of school for two days we were all going to a birthday party on Sunday afternoon – a friend of mine was forty and was having an open house to celebrate. Fuelled by a large mug of coffee and the prospect of the weekend, I went upstairs and woke everyone with a cheery ‘Good morning’. As I went into each of the children’s bedrooms I was met with a question or statement about Alice.

‘Is Alice here?’ Paula asked.

‘I didn’t hear you in the night,’ Lucy said.

‘She must have been very quiet,’ Adrian commented.

I had to tell each of them that Alice hadn’t arrived and I hadn’t heard anything further.

The routine of school took over for the next hour, culminating in my waving Adrian, Lucy and Paula goodbye at the front door with ‘Have a good day’. Adrian had a ten-minute walk to school, Lucy had a twenty-minute bus ride and Paula, in her last year of primary school, had recently persuaded me to let her walk to school by herself. It was only ten minutes, with one road to cross, and I knew I had to give her this responsibility in preparation for her going to secondary school in September when she, like most of her class, would be catching the bus to school without their
mothers. And Paula wasn’t actually walking to school alone but was knocking on the door for a friend who lived halfway down our street.

Having seen everyone off I cleaned up and, checking on the whereabouts of our cat, Toscha, left the house to do a supermarket shop. I couldn’t wait in all day on the off chance that Alice might arrive. I’d left the answerphone on and the social services had my mobile number. Also, I was pretty certain that if Alice was coming to me during the day the social worker would phone me first before bringing her, as opposed to during the night, when it wasn’t unusual for the police to take a child straight to the carer.

As it was, Friday passed and the only person who phoned was Jill, asking if I’d heard anything from the social services, which I hadn’t. Apparently she’d tried to contact Martha but had been told by a colleague she had back-to-back case conferences and was therefore unavailable for most of the day. ‘It’s not very good practice,’ Jill said. ‘Someone from the department should have phoned you or me with an update, even if it was to say there was no news. We’ll keep the foster placement with you open over the weekend and hope that Alice is found, but we can’t hold it open indefinitely.’ Jill wasn’t being heartless but practical: if Alice wasn’t coming to me then another child would. It’s a sad fact that so many children need fostering that in most areas in the UK the demand for foster placements outstrips the number of available foster carers.

‘I was wondering if Alice had possibly been found and allowed to stay with her grandparents?’ I suggested to
Jill. ‘They were looking after her before Leah snatched her.’

‘I’m sure someone from the social services would have told us,’ Jill said. ‘Although I agree it wouldn’t be the first time arrangements had changed and no one had thought to notify us. If Martha doesn’t get back to me today I’ll phone her first thing on Monday.’

‘OK. Thanks, Jill,’ I said. Then I asked the question that had been troubling me since I’d first read Alice’s details on the referral. ‘Jill, why wasn’t Alice allowed to stay with her grandparents instead of being brought into care? According to the referral she’d been there for six months and was very happy.’

‘I’m not sure. I think there were issues about the grandparents allowing Leah to see Alice.’

‘So Leah wasn’t allowed to see her own daughter?’ I asked, surprised. ‘That’s very unusual.’

‘Very,’ Jill said. ‘I don’t know the reason.’

I didn’t hear anything about Alice on Saturday, although I was half expecting to, hoping every phone call was to say Alice had been found safe and well. I had another restless night, listening for the phone or the doorbell as I had done the previous night. Jill had been right: an update to keep me in the picture, even if there was no news, would have been preferable to hearing nothing. I suppose I should have been used to not knowing, for foster carers are often left in the lurch and not included in the loop of information circulating among the professionals involved in a case. Although sharing information and keeping all professionals
informed in childcare cases has improved since I first started fostering, largely because of the passing of the Children’s Acts, there is still a way to go. Often foster carers are bottom of the list when it comes to being kept informed, but when information is urgently required by a social worker about a child in care – for a report or court case – the carer is suddenly very popular, for we know the child better than anyone and have the information required to hand.

What I didn’t know at the time, but found out later, was that no one was being kept informed – not the social services, the grandparents, who were beside themselves with worry, the Guardian ad Litem, or any of the other professionals connected with Alice’s case – because of a ‘news blackout’. The police, fearful for Alice’s safety, were in sensitive, on-going and secret negotiations with her mother, via text messages, to try to persuade her to leave Alice in a public place where she could be collected.

Tired from two nights of little sleep and much anxiety, but determined to go to the party, at twelve noon on Sunday I changed out of my jeans and jumper and into a dress, stockings and high heels.

‘Blimey. Mum’s got legs,’ Adrian remarked dryly.

‘You look nice,’ Paula said.

‘Shall I do your make-up?’ Lucy asked, which I took as a compliment – that I was worth the effort and not beyond hope, as my tired reflection in the mirror sometimes suggested.

Half an hour later, all in our Sunday best, and me with a professionally applied mascara and eye shadow (Lucy
wanted to be a beautician), and clutching a present and bottle of wine for the hostess, we piled into the car and headed up the M1. Once again I had left the answerphone on, and my mobile was in my handbag; if I was needed I could be home in twenty minutes. But it was true to say that my concerns for Alice had lessened during the morning because I was sure Alice must have been found by now and was with her grandparents, and that no one had thought to tell me. I simply couldn’t see how a mother with a young child could have avoided the police for all this time.

We had a really good time at the party and my mobile didn’t go off during the afternoon or evening. The house was overflowing with old friends and families with children my children knew. There was a disco in one room, and the older children kept the younger children entertained. There was plenty to eat and drink, although as I was driving I had only one glass of wine early on and then kept to soft drinks. We all enjoyed ourselves tremendously, but with school the following morning we said our goodbyes, as most other families did, just before 9.00 p.m., and we arrived home at 9.30.

As soon as I opened the front door and stepped into the hall I saw the light flashing on the answerphone, signalling a message. Close up, I saw that the indicator showed I had four messages. Without taking off my coat, and while Adrian, Paula and Lucy went through to the kitchen to get a glass of water each to take up to bed, I picked up the receiver and pressed play.

The first message was timed at 8.30 p.m., a male voice, stern sounding and quite terse: ‘Message for Mrs Glass.
This is the out-of-hours duty social worker, please call me immediately on…I was informed you were to be the carer for Alice Jones.’ My heart missed a beat at the mention of her name, as the answerphone continued to the second message, timed at 8.47 p.m. It was the same male voice, now very impatient, almost demanding: ‘It’s the duty social worker again. I’ve already left a message. Would Mrs Glass phone immediately?’ He repeated the number and hung up. In his third message, timed at 9.05 p.m., I could hear his anger: ‘I’ve phoned twice. Alice has been found. Call me immediately.’ And in his last call, timed at 9.16 p.m., he was rude: ‘What the hell is going on!’ he demanded. ‘Where are you? You were supposed to be looking after Alice. Phone immediately. It’s not good enough!’ He hung up, the line went dead and the answerphone clicked off.

With my heart racing and my fingers shaking, I quickly took my mobile from my handbag and checked for messages and missed calls. There were none. If he was angry, I was upset, and my legs trembled. I prided myself on being a good carer, experienced and professional, and now it seemed I had failed in my duty.

Adrian, Lucy and Paula came into the hall, with a glass of water each, en route to their bedrooms. The colour must have drained from my face. ‘What’s the matter?’ Adrian asked. Lucy and Paula had stopped too and all three were looking at me, very concerned.

‘Alice has been found,’ I said, picking up the receiver, ready to dial. ‘The duty social worker has been trying to contact me for the last hour. But no one called my mobile.’

‘And you’re surprised?’ Lucy asked sarcastically, remembering her own experiences with the social services before coming into care. I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand it.’ Still in my coat, I quickly dialled the duty social worker’s number, as Adrian, Lucy and Paula continued upstairs to take turns in the bathroom. Not only was I upset by the duty social worker’s manner and rudeness, but he had made it sound my fault, as though I was solely to blame. Had I done wrong in going out for the afternoon and evening, even though I’d had my mobile on? Neither Jill nor the social worker had told me to stay at home; in fact no one had told me anything. But as I listened to the phone ringing, waiting for the duty social worker to answer, I knew the real reason I was upset was because I hadn’t been there for Alice. The poor child: whatever must she be thinking? I had badly let her down even before I’d met her.

‘
S
o you’re there, at last!’ the duty social worker snapped, finally answering the phone. ‘I’ve been trying to get you all evening. Alice has been found.’ I didn’t know the duty social worker and, as far I was aware, I hadn’t had any dealings with him before. He would probably be from an agency, covering out-of-office-hours calls.

Ignoring his gross exaggeration of ‘all evening’ – his first call had been timed at 8.30, fifty minutes before – I held my voice steady as I said: ‘I’m sorry you were unable to reach me. Why didn’t you phone my mobile?’

‘Wasn’t aware I had your mobile number,’ he said, no less tersely. Then, clearly having found it on the paperwork, he added dismissively: ‘Oh yes, but it’s not obvious. At least you’re there now.’ I thought an apology wouldn’t have gone amiss but, aware Alice was waiting somewhere, waiting to be brought to me, I didn’t pursue it. ‘The child is at the police station,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to bring her to you, but it won’t be straight away. I’m stretched to the limit here.’

‘Do you want me to collect Alice from the police station?’ I offered.

‘You can’t,’ he snapped. ‘It needs an SW’ – social worker – ‘to place a child who’s on an Interim Care Order.’ It was a technicality, but I realized he was probably right. As a foster carer I couldn’t simply go to the police station and collect Alice; procedure dictated a social worker or police officer should bring her to me.

‘Is Alice all right?’ I asked anxiously. ‘Where’s she been?’

‘No idea. Mum snatched her, and then disappeared, that’s all I know. I’ll get to you as soon as I can, but I’m the only one on duty.’

‘How long do you think you’ll be?’ I asked, mindful that little Alice, after three days missing and goodness knows what else, was now waiting at the police station instead of snuggled in her bed upstairs and being comforted by me.

‘As soon as I can,’ he snapped. ‘Why? You’re not going out again, are you?’

That was the final straw. I’d had enough of his rudeness and intimidating manner. ‘No, of course I’m not going out,’ I snapped back. ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. But I’d have thought, given Alice’s age and what has happened to her, it should be a priority for you to get her to me.’

It went quiet for a moment, then he said stiffly: ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can, Mrs Glass. You do your job and I’ll do mine.’ And he hung up.

I remained where I was by the phone for a second and then replaced the receiver with more force than was
necessary. ‘Ignorant pig,’ I muttered. Overworked he might be, but that was no reason to be rude. I glanced up the stairs and saw Lucy and Paula watching me from the landing, looking very worried.

‘It’s all right,’ I reassured them. ‘That was the duty social worker. He’s bringing Alice to us as soon as he can.’

‘Terrific. Is she OK?’ Paula said.

‘I think so, although the social worker didn’t know much.’

‘Do they ever?’ Lucy said disparagingly.

‘Now, now,’ I cautioned lightly. ‘They’re understaffed.’ Lucy took every opportunity to criticize social workers and I knew she had to start letting go of the anger from her past and look to the future. ‘Alice is safe at the police station,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know what time she will be here. I want the two of you to get ready for bed, and if you’re still awake when Alice arrives you can see her. Otherwise you’ll see her in the morning.’

Lucy and Paula disappeared into their bedrooms to get changed, ready for bed, and I went upstairs to draw the curtains in what would soon be Alice’s room. The room was ready, as it had been since I was first told to expect Alice. There was a brightly coloured Cinderella duvet cover on the bed with a matching pillowcase, cuddly toys propped on the chair and posters of rabbits and kittens on the walls. I knew virtually nothing about Alice – only that she was small for her age and of average intelligence. More details would follow in the essential information forms, which Martha should bring when she visited Alice – presumably on Monday. What
trauma Alice had suffered since going missing I couldn’t begin to guess, but clearly she was going to be very distressed, and I anticipated being up most of the night comforting her. For when all was said and done Alice was being brought to the house of a stranger (albeit a well-meaning one), in the middle of the night, by a man she didn’t know, having somehow got to the police station after going missing for three days. I thought she had a right to be upset.

Perhaps the duty social worker had heeded my comment about prioritizing his workload, for he must have left his office straight after we’d spoken. Thirty minutes later the doorbell rang and, with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, I ran to answer it.

Standing in the porch was a very tall man, over six feet, cradling a small bundle in a pink blanket.

‘Oh my,’ I said, peering into the bundle, and holding the door wider so that he could come in. ‘Oh, bless her, poor little mite.’

I looked closer at the child the duty social worker held as he stepped into the hall. With only her little face showing, Alice looked just like a sleeping doll. A few strands of light brown hair wisped around her delicate features, and one little hand lay pressed against her chin.

‘She fell asleep in the car,’ he said amicably.

For a moment I couldn’t say anything; I just gazed at Alice, nestled deep in the blanket, so peaceful and vulnerable in sleep, and so, so beautiful – she looked just like an angel. My heart went out to her in a rush of love and pity.

‘We’ll put her straight to bed,’ I said, coming to my senses. I closed the front door and led the way upstairs and into what was now Alice’s room. The duty social worker’s previous animosity towards me appeared to have gone now and he carried Alice into her room, where I helped ease her from his arms and on to the bed. She didn’t wake. ‘I’ll just remove her coat for tonight,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll leave her to sleep in her clothes – save disturbing her.’

‘She hasn’t come with a change of clothes,’ he said quietly.

‘It’s all right. I have spares.’

While the duty social worker supported Alice’s back, floppy in sleep, I carefully slipped her arms out of her coat. I noticed that although her coat had dried mud on it, it was of very good quality and also new, as was her little dress and cardigan. My first impression was that Alice wasn’t undernourished, and her face and hands were clean; her chin-length hair looked well groomed. In fact, apart from the mud on her coat, she appeared clean and well cared for.

Having taken off Alice’s coat, I gently eased her head on to the pillow. As I did, her long black eyelashes fluttered and her eyes opened. Huge brown eyes looked at me in surprise and fear. ‘It’s all right, love,’ I soothed, stroking her little forehead. ‘My name is Cathy. I’m going to look after you for a while. You are in bed in my house and you are safe. There is nothing to worry about.’ Her eyes remained wide, staring at me: she was so innocent, so overwhelmed and so worried, I could have wept. ‘It’s all right,’ I soothed again.

‘I’ll get the paperwork from my briefcase in the car,’ the duty social worker said, clearly pressed for time.

I nodded. ‘I’ll ask one of my children so stay with Alice and I’ll come down.’

He left the room and I sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Alice’s forehead. She looked at me with big wondering eyes. ‘It’s OK,’ I continued to reassure her. ‘My name is Cathy, I am a foster carer and I look after children. You are safe now.’

I half expected her to burst into tears and sob hysterically, but I think she was so tired and traumatized she didn’t have the energy. She lay on her back under the duvet with her pink blanket loosely draped on top, her huge eyes still staring at me. Then she licked her lips. ‘Do you want a drink?’ I asked softly, but she didn’t answer, her eyes not daring to move from my face. ‘Oh pet,’ I said. ‘Please don’t worry. Everything will be all right now.’

Lucy and Paula, in their pyjamas, appeared at the bedroom door and hesitated, uncertain if they should disturb us.

‘Come in and say hello to Alice,’ I said quietly.

They crept in, to the side of the bed, and gazed down at her. Their gasps said it all. ‘Oh! Oh, look at her. She’s so sweet.’

Alice’s big eyes moved from my face to theirs.

‘This is Lucy and Paula,’ I said. ‘They live here too.’

‘Hi, Alice,’ the girls whispered. They knelt beside her bed.

I heard the front door close as the duty social worker returned from his car. ‘Could you stay with Alice for a
moment while I speak to the social worker?’ I asked the girls. ‘I shouldn’t be too long.’

It wasn’t a question that needed answering. Lucy and Paula immediately took over, Lucy soothing Alice’s forehead as I had been doing, while Paula took hold of her little hand, which still lay against her chin.

‘I’m just going downstairs to speak to the man who brought you here,’ I said to Alice. ‘Lucy and Paula will stay with you.’ While it might have been obvious to us and an older foster child what was happening, it wouldn’t necessarily have been obvious to a traumatized four-year-old, who might have thought I was disappearing for good and that Lucy and Paula would follow me, leaving her alone in a strange room.

Alice’s gaze briefly flickered to me as I stood, and then returned to Lucy and Paula.

Downstairs I found the duty social worker already in the sitting room, seated in the armchair and using his briefcase to rest on as he completed a form.

‘What’s your full name, and postcode?’ he asked as I entered, his terseness returning. I told him. ‘And I placed Alice at ten twenty-five p.m. on 25 March,’ he said, glancing at his watch.

I nodded and sat on the sofa.

‘Who else is in the house?’

‘Just my children and me,’ I said, surprised.

‘I need their names for this form.’

‘Adrian, Lucy and Paula. Lucy is my foster daughter.’

‘And their ages?’

‘Fourteen, twelve and ten.’

He wrote, and then asked: ‘No husband or partner?’

‘No.’ Had Alice been placed during the day, all this information should have been available, supplied by Jill or the social services, but without access to the file I assumed he was completing a placement form for his agency.

He wrote some more, I didn’t know what, and then put the form in his briefcase and snapped the lid shut. ‘Alice’s social worker will contact you on Monday,’ he said and stood, ready to go.

‘Do you not have any other information about Alice?’ I asked quickly.

‘No. Don’t you?’

‘All I have is the original referral, which doesn’t say much. Do you know if Alice has an allergies or special needs?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said with a shrug, ‘so we’ll have to assume she doesn’t, although I should go easy on the peanut butter.’ I didn’t appreciate his stab at humour. Even if a child arrives in the middle of the night as an emergency I’m usually told of anything that could affect the child’s health like allergies or asthma. And given that Alice’s move to me hadn’t been an emergency but had been planned (although it had gone badly wrong at the end, with Alice being snatched), I’d have thought Martha would have had time to print out the essential information and leave it with the duty social worker – or was that expecting too much?

‘I’ve got to go,’ the duty social worker said, heading towards the sitting room door. ‘A runaway teenager has been found on the other side of the county. I’m the only one on call to collect him.’

I nodded, but while I sympathized with his obviously very heavy workload, my concerns were with Alice, and I persisted in trying to find out more about her background that might help me to look after her. ‘Who took Alice to the police station?’ I asked, following him down the hall.

‘Mum’s boyfriend, I think,’ he returned over his shoulder; then, hand on the doorknob, he let himself out.

‘Goodnight,’ I called after him as he went down the front path, but he didn’t reply. He was already taking his mobile from his jacket pocket and answering the next call.

‘Yes, I’m on my way,’ he snapped. ‘But I can’t be in two places at the same time.’ I thought that if I ever won the jackpot on the lottery I’d use some of the money to fund more social workers so they could do their jobs properly and didn’t have to be in two places at the same time.