Four Waifs on Our Doorstep (17 page)

‘Were you helping her with something?’ I knew that, like the others, Caroline didn’t like to be told what to do, and with her it was doubly difficult as she often found
instructions impossible to understand.

‘Well, she was busy with the coloured pegs in the board, so I was just helping another child who had asked me for a spelling.’

‘Oh well, that’s probably it then. Maybe she didn’t want to share you. I expect she felt you were neglecting her by helping another child.’

‘Well, that’s rather unreasonable, in a busy classroom.’

‘Caroline doesn’t see it that way.’ I paused. ‘Maybe, if we can get her inside, you could take her to the book corner and read a picture book to her, just the two of
you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She smiled with relief.

I turned to Caroline. ‘Come on, let’s go in and choose a nice book for Maggie to read to you.’

Caroline hesitated and looked from me to Maggie.

‘Come on,’ coaxed Maggie, crouching down to Caroline’s level and smiling warmly. ‘Shall we go and find a Mog book?’ It was like luring in a hard-to-catch fish. It
has to be the right bait.

I watched them go inside, hand in hand, and drove back home again, wondering what it would be about next time.

A few days later, Social Services rang to say that new visits had been arranged for each of the children’s parents. This time it would be their father one day, and their
mother the next.

I had to take all four children out of school and we arrived at the required time, but just as I turned into the family centre’s car park another car sped out and away into the
distance.

‘That was Dad,’ shrieked Hamish, then stuck his head out of the open window. ‘Dad, Dad!’

‘It’s no good, Hame,’ I said. ‘He’s too far away to hear you.’

I could see Hamish’s crestfallen expression in my driving mirror and I felt a surge of sympathy for him, for all of them. The silence was almost painful as I drove round the car park and
out again.

‘OK, kids, it’s not worth going back to school, so who’s for an iced doughnut from the bakery?’

The mood lifted immediately. But as they sat in the cafe, chomping their doughnuts, their resentment resurfaced. Anita was particularly angry.

‘Dad always tells lies,’ she blurted out, spitting hundreds and thousands across the table.

An elderly couple next to us sipped their teas noisily and exchanged disapproving glances.

‘He makes me fucking mad!’ she shouted, and now everyone in the place was turning round.

‘Yes, he always lets us down,’ added Hamish. ‘Like the time he said he was taking me to Scotland, and he went without me.’

‘Well, never mind. I expect he got the time wrong,’ I said, trying to make excuses for him, in an effort to help the children accept what had happened.

‘No, he’s a wanker. He just didn’t want to see us,’ snarled Hamish. ‘And I didn’t want to see him either. I don’t care if I never see him
again.’

‘Me too,’ said Caroline, in support of her brother.

‘Fucking hell,’ added Anita, having the last words.

The next day I took them all back to the family centre to meet their mother for a supervised visit. She wasn’t there when we arrived, but she was usually late, so we went
in and the children got all the toys out, so they were fine for a while. But the time was passing, and she still didn’t show up. After an hour, I decided to call it a day.

‘Come on, kids, let’s tidy up and go home,’ I chivvied them. ‘It doesn’t look as if Mum can make it today.’

‘She’s a cunt!’ exclaimed Anita. ‘She’s so lazy that she can’t even be fucking bothered to come and see us.’

‘She can never get anything right,’ added Hamish, almost as angry as Anita. ‘She never could do anything for us. She can’t look after herself, let alone anyone
else.’

‘Well, let’s go home. It’s a lovely afternoon. Why don’t we all go to the park by our old house and you can play Poohsticks off the bridge.’

‘What’s Poohsticks?’ asked Caroline.

‘Like in
Winnie-the-Pooh
,’ I said. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

As we walked across the grass that afternoon, with the younger three scampering in front of us, Hamish confided in me.

‘I used to worry when I was at school.’

‘What did you worry about?’

‘The little ones,’ he said, with his serious expression. ‘When Anita and me went to school, I knew we were leaving the little ones alone in the house with Mum and her
boyfriends. Mum never got up till lunchtime, and I don’t think they did either, and there was nobody to look after Caroline and Simon. Nobody to make them breakfast, give them a drink, change
their nappies or anything.’

‘I see what you mean.’

‘I used to sit in the classroom and worry all day. Sometimes Mum still wasn’t up when I got home, and they had pulled their nappies off. They had wet and dirtied everywhere. I used
to try and clean it up.’

‘Do you still worry about the others when you are in your classroom?’ I asked.

‘No, they’re all at school now. And if they are at home ill, you will look after them, won’t you?’ His eyes pleaded.

‘Yes, of course I will.’

We walked on in silence for two or three minutes, but I could almost hear him thinking.

‘I like it here best, with you and Mike,’ he said. ‘Because the food is good.’

‘Oh,’ I smiled. ‘Not my brilliant personality then?’

‘Just the food,’ he said with a cheeky grin, and ran off to join the others on the playground. Then we all went across to the bridge and I showed them how to play Poohsticks, which
caused great hilarity.

On the way back to the car, Anita clung to my arm as we walked, while Hamish kicked a stray tennis ball around for Caroline and Simon.

‘I’m glad Mum didn’t come today. I didn’t like it at Mum’s house,’ she said. ‘It made me unhappy. I don’t ever want to go back there.’ I
could feel her arm trembling, tucked into mine. ‘I was always scared.’

‘Well you don’t have to be scared any more,’ I reassured her.

‘Promise you won’t send us back there?’ she pleaded.

‘It’s not up to me,’ I explained. ‘So I can’t promise, but I’m as sure as I can be that you won’t ever be sent back there again.’

The look she gave me was relief, mixed with uncertainty.

‘As far as Mike and I are concerned,’ I added, ‘you can live with us as long as possible.’

Aged seven, Caroline was now at Park School, with the older two. They were all there together for one year. Park School was close to home and the head teacher there was
brilliant – the best head teacher any of them had. Mrs Harris really understood them all, as far as anyone could, and always tried to find creative ways to deal with their different
problems.

The phone would ring. ‘Mrs Merry,’ she would say, with a smile in her voice no matter what the kids were up to. ‘I wonder if you could come in and have a chat about your three
children?’

‘Yes, all right, Mrs Harris. I’m on my way.’

‘Who is it this time?’ I asked as I sat down in her office.

‘Where shall I start?’ she laughed, almost fondly. ‘I’m afraid it’s all three of them today. Hamish refuses to sit down in the classroom and spits at everybody.
Anita is swearing outrageously at the top of her voice, and Caroline, well . . . she started by pinching Tracey, her support assistant. Then she plunged her hand right down inside her blouse, and
later up her skirt.’ She paused. ‘I know it’s just attention-seeking, but you can imagine Tracey’s response!’

‘Yes.’ I tried to suppress my smile. ‘It must have been quite a shock for poor Tracey!’

‘She’s done the same things to some of the dinner ladies too. I could hear the screams from here!’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.

‘Don’t apologise, Mrs Merry. It’s not your fault, and I know it’s not really Caroline’s fault either.’ That lady would have laid down her life for Caroline.
‘You are doing a grand job with those children.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, unused to receiving any praise. ‘I’ll talk to them all when I get them home.’

‘Have you ever thought about counselling?’ asked Mrs Harris sympathetically.

‘For me or for them?’ We laughed.

‘Well, I suppose you could do with it too sometimes! But let’s start with the children.’

‘Have I just? I’ve thought of little else. They all need some sort of therapy to help them unravel the effects of all that neglect and abuse, to untangle their minds.’

‘And maybe help with their behaviour?’

‘Yes,’ I groaned. ‘You must all think they have 666 tattooed behind their ears! It’s the cost. We can’t afford it for all four of them, and neither Social Services
nor the agency will pay. The answer is always no.’

‘What about if I write a letter to our educational psychologist, asking for them to go to sessions with a counsellor?’

‘That would be brilliant! Could you?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll do it today.’

14

‘W
e’ve found a great psychiatrist to work with the children,’ said John at the agency. ‘I think that letter from the school
helped, as the education department are going to pay half.’

‘Oh thank you.’ I smiled with relief. ‘I owe you a hug. That’s great news.’

‘I think you’ll like him, and he’s very good with children. He’s going to contact you direct to arrange a preliminary meeting.’

‘With me?’

‘Yes, for some background information. It will only be for a limited time, I’m afraid. But at least it should be a help.’

‘I have great hopes. Anything will be a help to these kids.’

A few days later, Dr Siyay arrived. The house was peaceful for once, as the children were all at school and, fingers crossed, nobody would need me for a while. I made him some coffee and we sat
together in the living room.

‘Now, what can you tell me about the children’s parents?’ he began.

I told him what I knew of Jill’s background in particular, and the children’s first few years with her, with him writing notes as I spoke. He must have heard so many horrendous
stories over the years, working with abused children, but he made all the right responses, sensitive and sympathetic, and I thought here is someone who will really listen to the kids, and hopefully
help them.

Then I told him about some of the things that had happened since they came to us, some of the awful stories they had told us, and their behavioural problems at school.

As I told Dr Siyay all this, I began to wonder whether it was me. Perhaps I’m too old for this. Perhaps things have moved on so much that I’m not as good as I thought I was.

I asked him lots of questions and he answered me as far as he could.

‘But I need to start working with each of the children,’ he said. ‘They need the chance to speak, to be listened to and to have what they say acknowledged and valued, to help
them understand themselves better and to unravel some of their most confused thoughts and feelings.’

‘Yes, that’s just what they need.’ I breathed a sigh of relief. Now, at last, I felt that we had help to deal with the past and move forward.

The children all warmed to Dr Siyay and liked going to see him when it was their turn. It did seem to help and they were generally calmer for a while. When, a few weeks after their last
sessions, the report came out for each child, I felt relieved that he had understood them all so well. But it also made me realise it had only scratched the surface, and they needed a lot more
input than the agency could afford.

‘How do you all feel about staying on longer with Mike and I?’ I asked them one evening, when they’d finished their tea. ‘The agency has told us this
will be a long-term placement, if that’s what we all want. What do you think? Would you like to stay with us for a long time?’

‘Yes, I like it here,’ said Caroline.

‘I feel safer here,’ added Anita.

‘Me too,’ echoed Caroline. ‘I want to stay forever.’

‘What do you think, Simon?’ I asked, trying to make sure he had his say.

‘Yes, OK,’ he replied, in his usual detached way. ‘I don’t really remember before I was here.’

‘We all want to stay,’ said Hamish. ‘But it would be good if Mum visits less often. She’s always letting us down. Half the time she doesn’t turn up
anyway.’

‘I can’t ask for her not to come,’ I said. ‘But maybe that will change over time. We’ll have to wait and see.’

Mike and I were well aware that our role as foster parents wasn’t only to look after the children. That would have been challenging enough. But we had expectations to
meet, and that was the additional pressure that sometimes threatened to break my back, not to mention my sanity.

Ofsted, Social Services, our own local authority and the agency, all had expectations that required us to show how much better the kids were doing in our care than in their parental home. To all
these organisations, our true job was to help all of them prove that the children’s parents had failed to give them the care they needed.

We had to show that they were looking better, eating better, sleeping better . . . All of them could now see that the children could read, knew their numbers and their colours, though Caroline
was still a bit wobbly on those. The local authorities were happy with the agency, who were happy with us, and the children were happy. The whole of the first year I’d had to keep a daily
diary – a challenge in itself when you’re as dyslexic as I am! I also had to keep up with the washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning up after the kids, monitoring their behaviour, reading
them stories, taking them to schools . . . and everything else. I was always in demand, and it didn’t get any easier as time went on.

‘Come on, kids,’ Mike would say on a Saturday morning, ‘we’re going for a walk.’ And he would walk them for miles. He’d walk the legs off them. That meant I
had a couple of hours, phew! I could listen to the silence – what bliss.

Nobody was saying ‘I’m hungry’ or ‘I’ve just wet myself.