The Cast-Off Kids
Authors: Trisha Merry
By the author of
Four Waifs on our Doorstep
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2016
A CBS company
Copyright © 2016 by Trisha Merry and Jacquie Buttriss
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Trisha Merry and Jacquie Buttriss to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
While this book gives a faithful account of the author’s experiences, names and some details have been changed to protect the identity and privacy of the individuals
involved. Trisha Merry is a pseudonym.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia,
Sydney
Simon & Schuster India,
New Delhi
The author and publishers have made all reasonable efforts to contact copyright-holders for permission, and apologise for any omissions or errors in the form of credits given.
Corrections may be made to future printings.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-3852-2
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-4711-3853-9
Typeset in the UK by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed in the UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd are committed to sourcing paper that is made from wood grown in sustainable forests and support the Forest Stewardship Council, the leading
international forest certification organisation. Our books displaying the FSC logo are printed on FSC certified paper.
To my precious family and all of the foster children who made it possible, I want to dedicate this book to you.
1
A Rocky Start
‘C
an you take two new children this afternoon?’ asked the voice on the phone.
I crooked the receiver to my shoulder and carried on bottle-feeding our newest foster-baby. ‘How old are they?’
‘They’re sister and brother. A girl of two and a boy of one.’
‘Oh,’ I gulped. ‘That will make it eight children under five.’
‘If that’s too much for you to manage, Mrs Merry . . .’
‘No, no. That’ll be fine.’ I made a mental note to put an advert in the village shop for a part-time helper. ‘Any idea what time they’ll arrive?’
‘About two o’clock. Their father will bring them along with the social worker.’
‘Oh, that’s unusual. Do you know why they’re coming into care?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. I’m just the messenger.’
A standard reply. I shrugged as I put the phone down – we weren’t supposed to know anything, but it was always worth a try.
There wasn’t much time to get everything prepared for these two newcomers, and my husband Mike was doing overtime at his engineering works that Saturday. So, after putting baby Katie down
to sleep, I phoned Val, a very good friend, to come and keep an eye on the toddlers in the playroom for a couple of hours, while I made up a cot and a bed in our smallest bedroom. I often put newly
arrived siblings together for their first night or two, to help them settle in.
‘I bet you sometimes wish you’d stayed in your nine-to-five office job, don’t you?’ said Val, as we sorted out the children’s lunchtime mayhem.
‘No, never for a moment! I couldn’t stand office work, so seeing that poster for childminders seemed like my perfect way out. Mind you, I didn’t expect it to develop into
fostering – that sort of crept up on us when the local authority needed more help!’ I laughed. ‘This is my perfect job. I just play all day long.’
‘And cook and wash and change nappies and . . .’ Val grinned.
‘Well, I never think about all that,’ I said. ‘It all gets done.’
Val glanced at the clock. ‘It’s nearly two now, so you go and look out for the new children’s arrival and I’ll take care of all the others.’
It was a hot, late summer’s day, so I opened all the windows wide to create a through-draught as I waited in the hall, wondering why it was the father who was bringing the children. What
had happened to the mother? My imagination went into overdrive, as always. Maybe she was having another baby, or was ill, or had been in a car crash . . . or maybe she had died young. I hoped not.
Would I have to be the one to tell the children? It often fell to me to break bad news, and it never got any easier.
Just after two, I heard a car pull up outside, so I watched out of the hall window. A young woman, presumably the social worker, got out accompanying a pale-faced little girl
with straight blond hair in a short, angular cut. The woman plonked the toddler’s feet on the pavement, where she stood still and put her thumb in her mouth; then she leant into the back of
the car and this time picked up a baby, whom she carried towards the house. She called over her shoulder and the forlorn little girl trailed dutifully behind.
As I opened the front door and stood on the doorstep to welcome them in, a lanky young man emerged from the car. He looked no more than a teenager, with his baggy, black T-shirt and dark,
shoulder-length hair that looked as if it hadn’t seen a drop of shampoo for months. He hung well back behind them, carrying a battered sports bag, sauntering slowly, with his eyes down. Yet,
despite his evident reluctance to be here, I remember thinking this young dad had a bit of a swagger about him.
The baby boy’s head had a thin covering of straight ginger hair, and his neat little face was bright red as he wriggled about in the social worker’s arms. It must have been nearly
thirty degrees, and he was dressed in a polo-neck woollen jumper, with a nylon jacket on top, its elasticated sleeves gripping his wrists. Just seeing him dressed like that made me feel hot and
prickly. No wonder he was agitated.
By contrast, the little girl was wearing a light, sleeveless summer dress and plastic sandals.
‘Hello,’ I welcomed them, with a wide smile and my warmest voice. ‘Lovely to see you.’
The boy, so small he could only just have turned one, fidgeted to get down. Meanwhile, the girl stood still and fixed me with her sombre gaze. Not a flicker of a smile. On the surface, she
seemed unusually self-contained for a child of two, particularly in this situation, though I don’t suppose she knew what was happening. Underneath it all though, I detected her inner fear and
distrust, like a stunned, day-old calf without its mother.
‘This little fellow is Paul,’ said the young woman. ‘And this is Daisy,’ she added, taking the little girl’s hand and helping her up onto the front doorstep.
‘I’m Judy, their social worker.’
‘Come in, come in.’ I stood back to let them through. ‘You look hot. The playroom is full of children already, and they’re all being well looked after, so come into the
kitchen where it’s cool.’
‘I’ll go and put the kettle on for us,’ I said. ‘Or would you prefer something cold? And what do the children like to drink?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Judy, shaking her head. We both looked at the young dad, but he just pursed his lips together and shrugged.
I took a couple of beakers out of the cupboard, filled them with cold water and a splash of blackcurrant juice, screwed on the lids and handed them to the two little ones, who took them eagerly
and drank several gulps each. Then I passed round the biscuit tin.
‘Do you mind if I take off Paul’s jumper?’ I asked. ‘He must be sweltering in that.’ We all looked at the baby’s face, bright red against his ginger hair.
Neither of the adults replied, so I changed him into a T-shirt from the top of the ironing pile.
His cheeky smile was enough thanks, as he took out a drum from the toy-chest and started to bang it. After a few beats, Judy skilfully prised the drumstick away from him and took out a car for
him to play with instead. ‘Brrm, brrm,’ she sounded, as she showed him how to move it.
He laughed and copied her, sending it clattering across the tiles, then speed-crawling after it.
‘I wish I had that much energy!’ I laughed. ‘I bet he’ll soon be running around.’
‘Yes. He’s just had his first birthday, so I’m sure he’ll be mobile in no time.’
‘He looks mobile enough already,’ I grinned. ‘Look how he’s climbing up onto that chair.’ It was true. Paul easily scaled the rungs onto one of the kitchen chairs,
then stood up against the table and tried to pull himself up onto it. I dashed over to stop him falling off.
‘Yes. He’s quite a handful, isn’t he?’ Judy agreed.
I lifted him down onto the floor, with a few more cars to play with. ‘I can see I’m going to have to keep a close watch on this scrambly daredevil,’ I said, laughing at his
impishness.
‘Daisy was two in June,’ added Judy. ‘They’re very different personalities. Daisy is much quieter.’
I turned to the silent young man with the sullen look, who seemed quite detached from us all. There was something creepy about him that put me on edge.
‘And you’re the children’s dad?’ I asked.
‘Oh, sorry,’ exclaimed Judy, looking flustered. ‘I should have introduced you. Yes, this is Rocky.’
‘I’m glad you’re here, Rocky. I’m sure it will help the children to settle in.’
I wasn’t sure, of course. If only he could be a bit more engaged with them – even play with them. But there seemed to be no warmth in this young dad. He was like a left-over spare
part, that didn’t fit.
‘I can’t stop long,’ he muttered, as he leant down to unzip his sports bag. He opened out the sides and pushed it along the floor towards me. ‘I’ve got their
clothes in here and everything’s clean,’ he said in a cocky voice.
‘Oh good.’ I nodded with a smile. ‘Did you wash them all yourself?’ I was determined to get him talking a bit if I could. Judy gave me a disapproving look, but I ignored
her.
