The Cast-Off Kids (3 page)

I was torn between picking Brian up to comfort him, and calming down the offended nun, so I did both, giving Brian a cuddle, while at the same time apologising to the nun.

‘I’m so sorry. He didn’t mean to be rude. He’s almost blind, that’s the trouble. He probably just saw you as a black shape.’ I paused. ‘Do you mind if I
just hold him in front of your face, so that he can see you are a real person?’ I asked her. ‘And then he will stop being frightened of you.’

‘All right,’ she agreed.

‘Look Brian, here is the nice lady you thought was a dalek. Can you see her smiling?’

Fortunately, the nun took her cue and gave Brian a weak smile. ‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Not dalek?’ asked Brian, still clinging on to my clothes.

‘No,’ I reassured him. ‘Not a dalek.’ Brian relaxed his grip.

‘What is this word “dalek”?’ asked the nun.

So I then had to try to explain to someone who had probably never watched television in her life. ‘Well, it’s a kind of metal character on a TV programme. Not a person; more like an
alien . . .’ I was struggling for words to describe it.

‘I don’t really understand,’ she interrupted my confusion, with a smile that said she was humouring me. ‘But it’s all right. No harm done.’

Phew
, I thought. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry we upset you.’

‘Please don’t worry.’ She bowed her head and turned, her robes swishing past us as she walked out of the shop.

As soon as the door closed after her, everyone in the shop burst into laughter.

‘Well,’ chortled the chemist. ‘That was a first on both counts. The first nun in my shop and the first dalek as well!’

I think we made his day.

After that, we carried on down the lane to register Daisy and Paul at the doctor’s surgery, then back home again.

By the time we arrived back at the house, and I set to getting the children’s tea ready, I was full of hope about the advert in the shop window. I remembered the shopkeeper’s
confidence that he knew just the person. What a difference it would make to have a helper, even if it was only an hour or two at tea, bath and bedtime. I wondered who this paragon might be.

Mike had the Tuesday afternoon off, so he took all the children out into the garden, including baby Katie, who was now six months old. She was still suffering the effects of
her burn injuries, when her father had poured boiling water on her chest and arm a week after her birth. So Mike made sure she was protected from bright sunlight on her skin. Only the day before,
we had heard that Katie’s father would be tried the following week, and would probably be sent to prison for two or three years. That might sound long enough to some, but Katie would suffer
the scars all her life.

So there she lay in my pram, under the shady apple trees, while all the other children played with the assortment of ride-on and pull-along toys that Mike had got out of the shed for them. It
was good to see three-year-old Ronnie pushing little Paul, laughing like mad, on a toddler-trike, while four-year-old Chrissy and three-year-old Sheena encouraged Daisy to join them, rolling small
logs to make a ‘camp’.

As I was unloading the washing machine, the doorbell went. It was Fay, baby Katie’s social worker, popping in as she passed by. We went out to look at Katie, fast asleep in her pram, under
the trees.

As if on cue, Katie woke up and looked straight at us, then set off with her hungry cry, trying to eat her little fist.

‘She looks well,’ said Fay as I lifted her out of her pram and we turned to go back inside.

At the kitchen door, we met three little girls – four-year-old Chrissy leading Sheena and Daisy.

‘What are you three up to?’ I asked with a chuckle.

‘We showed Daisy where we wash our muddy hands,’ said Chrissy, holding hers up to show how clean they now were.

‘Well done.’

‘Come on,’ Chrissy said to the other two, with a giggle. ‘Let’s go outside again.’ They scampered down the steps, with Daisy, the smallest, bringing up the
rear.

‘That little one’s a poppet.’ Fay smiled.

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘That’s Daisy. She only arrived a couple of days ago, with her little brother.’

‘Well, it looks as if she’s made some new friends already.’

‘Have you got time to stay for a cup of tea?’

‘Not today, I’m afraid.’

I put Katie’s bottle to warm, while I comforted her at my shoulder and set all the food out on the table for the children’s tea – one-handed.

I knocked on the window for Mike to bring the children in and it was all go for the pair of us, washing hands, sitting everyone at the table or in their high-chairs with their bibs on, making
sure they all had the right food and drinks in front of them. By now, Katie was reduced to a pitiful whimpering, desperate to be fed.

‘You look like you could do with a hand,’ Mike offered, as he took Katie and her bottle and sat down at the table to feed her.

‘Quite a few hands,’ I agreed. ‘That’s why I put an ad in the village shop yesterday. Now that we’ve got nine under-fives, maybe we need someone to help us out.
What do you think?’

‘Good idea,’ he agreed. ‘You’re the boss.’

We spent the next couple of hours going through the bath and bedtime routines, more frazzled than ever with a six-month-old baby to fit into the schedule as well.

‘Are babies more demanding these days?’ asked Mike. ‘Or are we getting older?’

‘Speak for yourself!’ I grinned, as we started to clear away the children’s tea things, before cooking supper for ourselves.

Just then the phone rang. I looked at the clock. It was half past seven and we were both hungry. It rang again and again as I looked at Mike.

‘Don’t answer it,’ he said.

‘I better had. It might be important.’

‘Yes, we might have won the pools,’ he said. ‘Except that we don’t go in for them.’ He shrugged and carried on clearing up, while I picked up the receiver on its
umpteenth ring.

‘Mrs Merry?’ It was a young female voice, sounding a bit tentative.

‘Yes.’

‘My name is Lizzie and I’m phoning about your advert for a mother’s helper.’

‘Oh yes?’ I was so tired by now that I’d quite forgotten. ‘That was quick. I only put it in the shop window yesterday.’

‘Yes, Ron came out and showed me it when I was walking home from the bus stop.’ She paused. ‘That’s how I knew your name.’

‘Good. So are you interested in working a few hours for us?’

‘Yes, but I’m only fifteen and still at school, just starting my last year, so I could only come from about half past four to half past seven each evening. And maybe some of the
weekend too, if you like.’

‘That’s just what I need. Your age is no problem, as long as you like playing with noisy children! Come round and we’ll have a chat.’

I liked the brightness in her voice, but I wanted to see her with the kids. If she survived that, she could do as many hours as she wanted.

She came the next afternoon. She was a lovely girl and great with the children, so I offered her the job, starting the next day.

She was thrilled. ‘I can’t wait.’

It was what they call a baptism of fire for her that first evening, with all the kids clamouring to have her feeding or washing them, brushing their hair, giving them cuddles .
. . She went home exhausted.

‘She was good,’ said Mike. ‘Do you think she’ll come back?’

Lizzie did come back; she kept on coming and she soon settled into our routines and idiosyncrasies. She made such a difference to all our lives. She really got stuck in and got to know all the
funny things about the children. They idolised her. She loved it all – mess, bubbles, noise, everything. She was particularly good at getting them ready for bed and calming them down as she
read stories to the older ones and sang songs to the babies.

Two or three mornings after Lizzie started, one of the ladies in the village came and knocked on our door.

‘Hello?’ I said with a smile as I opened it.

‘I need to have a word,’ she said, keeping her voice to a whisper, and glancing over her shoulder before she continued. I expected the KGB to come round the corner any moment.

‘It’s about Lizzie Hopkins.’

‘Yes . . . OK.’ I tried to look suitably serious.

She leant towards me and spoke in little more than a whisper, as if we were conspirators. ‘Are you aware that she lives in a council house?’

Somehow I managed to keep a straight face, though I was giggling uncontrollably inside. ‘Oh no!’ I replied, in a shocked voice. ‘Really?’

‘Don’t worry,’ she continued. ‘You weren’t to know.’

‘Thank you for telling me,’ I said.

She turned and walked off, nose in the air. I closed the door and at last I could let out the laughter.

I think she thought I was taking her seriously. She probably went away happy that I would be sacking Lizzie immediately. Aren’t people funny? I’d seen her before and I knew she lived
at our end of the village, which she obviously thought of as the ‘posh’ end.

Sonnington was a quaint old village, a community of two halves. And this woman clearly didn’t think we should mix with the other end.

But although we lived in a big house, which we needed for all our foster children, in the ‘posh’ part of the village, we didn’t fit the required profile . . . what with all our
‘unruly’ kids (which they weren’t at that stage; they were just normal, lively toddlers) and our unconventional ways. I think they thought I was a hippy, with all my flowing
skirts and long curly hair, so that didn’t help. But nonetheless, I suppose this snob-woman presumed that even I wouldn’t want to employ someone from a council house! If it wasn’t
so laughable, it would have been outrageous.

‘So are you going to give Lizzie the sack?’ Mike grinned when I told him about my snooty visitor that evening.

‘No way!’ I exclaimed. ‘The children adore her – she’s their Mary Poppins, and ours too. Lizzie is an angel.’

‘Yes, she’s made our lives a lot easier.’

‘And more fun too. I couldn’t do it without her now.’

‘You’re right,’ agreed Mike. ‘She’s worth more than a hundred of Sonnington’s posh matrons.’ He paused. ‘But what if they try to frighten her
off?’

‘I don’t think our Lizzie would frighten easily!’ I smiled, hoping I was right.

O
ne evening, all the children were asleep, Lizzie had gone home and we’d had our supper. Mike put the bins out and I made us a hot drink to
take into the sitting room. Much as I loved playing with the kids all day, and even doing the chores for them, this last hour or two before bedtime was always a calm haven to cherish some down time
– just the two of us.

I picked up my knitting, while Mike read the local evening paper.

‘Oh dear!’ he exclaimed, showing me the front page headline:

‘Poor little scrap,’ he murmured.

‘But that’s only two or three miles away,’ I said. ‘Read it out. What does it say?’

‘Underneath the headline it says
“Newborn baby found under bush
”.’

‘Really? Was it alive?’

‘I don’t know. Let me find out. “
An elderly couple were walking their dog across the common, when he ran off. They called him, but he wouldn’t come back, so they went
after him. As they approached the far end of the common, where their dog had stopped and laid on the ground, they heard a baby’s cry
.” ’

‘So it IS alive,’ I said, letting out a sigh of relief.

‘Yes.’ He read on.

‘ “
As they reached their dog, he was lying down next to the baby, licking its face
.” Clever dog,’ added Mike.

‘So their dog found the baby? I suppose he was following his instincts – trying to warm the baby up.’

‘Yes. I’m sure that’s it.’

‘So what did the couple do with the baby?’ I asked, impatient as ever. Babies and toddlers were my favourite people. An abandoned newborn baby seemed like the worst kind of crime, to
me. But there was also the niggling feeling that the mother must have been desperate to have no other choice but to abandon her baby. Maybe she was under age, or the baby’s father was a
rapist, or . . .

‘It says, “
the baby had been hidden in a grassy hollow, under a leafy bush
”. There’s a photo of it.’ He turned the paper round for me to see.

‘Look at that sheltered spot,’ I said, reassured. ‘Whoever left the baby there must have wanted to hide it but also protect it. Maybe they were confused – perhaps they
felt they had no choice, or maybe there were mental health issues . . . but at least the baby was sheltered from the worst of the weather.’

‘Yes, except surely it would have died if those people’s dog hadn’t found it?’

‘I suppose so. But this baby didn’t die. He or she was meant to be found.’

‘Surely they would have left it by a hospital or police station if they had wanted someone to take it in?’

‘Are there any more details? Go on.’

Mike found his place again. ‘It says: “
The baby was snugly wrapped in an adult’s woollen cardigan, inside a pillow case. The couple who found the baby took it back to their
car and drove it straight to the hospital
.”

‘Why do they keep calling the baby “it”?’ I protested. ‘This baby is not a thing – it’s a little person. A she or a he. Don’t they
know?’

‘Wait a minute. There’s a bit more. Maybe it will tell us . . . “
The police held a press-conference this afternoon, to make a brief statement
”,’ he continued
. . . ‘You’ll be glad to know it’s not an it . . . it’s a she – a baby girl. She was found under a laurel bush, so the nurses gave her the name Laurel.’

‘Oh, that’s a good name. Did the doctors check her over?’

‘Yes, it says here that when they took away the cardigan, they found she had a head injury. So they’re treating it.’ Mike sighed. ‘That’s all it says about the
baby. At the bottom of the article it just says the police have asked for the mother to come forward, in case she needs medical help.’

As I got into bed that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about that poor little babe, wounded as soon as she was born. What could have happened? How? Who had placed her under the bush? Would
the mother come forward? . . . so many questions going round in my head. And most of all, would she need to stay in hospital, or would they put her into care? Would they ask us to take her? I knew
there were a few other carers in our area, but I hoped they would bring her to us.