Four Waifs on Our Doorstep (2 page)

‘OK, OK. There’s no need to rush. We have plenty enough for all of you, so let’s take everything through to the dining room.’

So we carried all the food we could from the kitchen to the dining room, setting it all out on our long dining table until it was almost fully covered. The children stood and looked at it all in
stunned silence. The sight of so much food seemed to overwhelm them.

Normally, I would have made sure they all washed their grubby hands but, for once, I realised that the most important thing was to feed them.

Suddenly I remembered what one of the girls had asked for earlier. ‘You can all choose anything you like to start with, then sit down at the table to eat, and I’ll quickly cook some
pasta for you as well.’

Hamish went forward first and picked up various things with his hands to give to the others, then took some for himself. This started a feeding frenzy as they grabbed everything they could,
snatching from each other. They crammed their food straight into their mouths and wolfed it all down, still standing up, while clutching at more in case it disappeared.

‘You can sit down to eat,’ I repeated, but that seemed to confuse them, so I decided to leave table manners to the next day. I filled some bowls with cereals of their choice –
we had lots to choose from.

As soon as they realised that if they finished this, they could have something else, they began to calm down and just concentrated on eating. But Hamish was still shaking as he ate, turning this
way and that to make sure his siblings were all right.

I brought in a big tureen of pasta in tomato sauce, and they all wanted some. I filled up big bowls to the brim for each child and watched them ladle it into their mouths with their hands,
making a terrible mess, which satisfied them no end. I had put out cutlery for them, but they seemed to have no concept of eating with a knife and fork.

For somebody so tiny, Caroline could certainly put her food away. She managed to eat three full bowls of pasta before she finally had to give in. Anita’s eyes darted across the table as
she ate.

‘I can do with some more,’ she announced with her cheeky grin.

Hamish fed himself and Simon by turns.

I watched them as they finally began to flag. The difficult bit, I thought, is that we’re looking at four filthy children, and I could almost see their hair and clothing move with lice,
but they must be so tired and so anxious. I can’t bath them tonight – they can barely stay awake, now that they’ve filled their tummies.

So, catering for the children’s evident insecurities, Mike and I committed the sin of turning one double bed around, so that the side was up against the wall. Then we took the children to
the bathroom for a quick wash – not a popular move, especially as they didn’t seem to be familiar with soap. Caroline held back, outside the door, so I didn’t insist. We would
have to leave a more thorough wash until the morning.

We only had one pair of pyjamas that weren’t too big. They were my grandson Brett’s. The legs were too long for Hamish, but at least he could tie the waist so they didn’t fall
off. The other three had to go to bed that first night in what they had on, minus their ill-fitting footwear – quite an assortment. Hamish had his feet crammed into a cracked pair of plastic
sandals, Anita wore floppy wellington boots and Caroline was in threadbare slippers. None of them wore socks, except for Simon, and when I took his off, I was shocked to see what looked like a deep
cigarette burn on his grubby ankle.

Hamish’s face lit up – a picture of wonder – at the sight of a thick, clean duvet covering the soft, springy mattress. He kept touching it all as if it was a new experience. We
laid all the children side by side across the bed. This way, if they woke in the night, anxious or confused, they would have the security of each other nearby.

That first night, and every night after, we left their bedroom door open, with their light and the landing light on. Our bedroom was directly opposite theirs, across the corridor, so we could
see into their room and all the way to the bed.

When Mike and I had finished cleaning up the mess we were worn out. We sat down with a hot drink before bed and just looked at each other. I think we were both shell-shocked.

‘I hope we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew,’ I sighed.

Mike remained very quiet. He just gave me a look that was supposed to be encouraging. He’s always so positive, but I knew he was really thinking: Mmm, have we done the right thing?

We were both feeling very apprehensive. Seeing those poor waifs arriving on our doorstep in that state and watching their behaviour with the food and everything . . . it had all been quite
upsetting. I knew we were both quiet because I was thinking and Mike was thinking, and neither of us wanted to voice those thoughts. Not yet anyway.

As I lay in bed, mulling it all over in my mind while Mike slept, I could see across the landing how restless the children were and how fitfully they slept. Every now and then
one of them would moan or cry out, especially Anita who wailed the loudest, and the first few times I got up to go and comfort them, only to find they were crying in their sleep. Back to bed I
went, wondering about their nightmares.

Had we taken on too much? It had all happened so quickly – just a few weeks from being a retired couple moving house, to taking on this new little family, perhaps the most challenging we
have ever had. My thoughts went back to the events leading up to the children’s arrival on our doorstep . . .

2

‘T
his place is like a 1960s timewarp!’ I said to Mike when we first viewed the house in Church Road. ‘I’m going to do it
all up and only have the grandchildren at weekends. I know just how I want it.’

‘We’d better buy it then!’ He grinned.

In the first few weeks of 1997 we moved in and started decorating. This was going to be my dream home, with Laura Ashley wallpaper throughout.

‘Why not paint?’ asked Mike.

‘We’ve had washable walls in every house we’ve lived in, since we took in our first children all those years ago,’ I sighed. ‘Nearly seven hundred children later,
this house is going to be just for us, to enjoy our retirement.’

By the end of February, we had decorated all the upstairs, and we’d just started on the hall and study when I heard a knock on the door.

I was surprised to see John there on our doorstep. He used to be a social worker, so I knew him from my fostering days.

‘Can I come in?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course.’ I showed him into the sitting room. ‘Is this a social visit?’

‘I’ve been thinking about you and Mike. You see, there’s a new way of fostering now,’ he explained. ‘It’s through an agency, so it’s more
care-focused.’

‘About time somebody focused on care, instead of the money side of it!’

‘I’ve just opened up a fostering agency in this area. It’s called the ODFA, which stands for the Open Door Fostering Agency. Local authorities ask us to place their difficult
cases. We have our own list of the best foster carers . . . and that’s why I’ve come to you. We do training sessions, and get all our foster parents together to share their experiences
and tips.’

‘That would have appealed to us twenty years ago,’ I said. ‘We would have liked that idea, but we’ve moved on since then. We’ve retired.’

‘Yes, I remember. You used to have emergency cases, mums with babies, large sibling groups or difficult children, didn’t you?’

‘That’s right.’ By now, I was feeling even more curious. What is he doing here?

‘Don’t you miss having a houseful?’

‘Well, no, not really. I think we’ve earned a rest! I’m fifty-five you know, and Mike’s sixty-two.’

‘But you don’t seem it, and you were such great foster parents, you and Mike. Wouldn’t you like to foster again?’

‘No. No, we wouldn’t. No-no-no-no-no. No. Definitely not!’

‘Well, maybe you might reconsider?’

‘I don’t think so!’

We talked a bit about some of the children we remembered. Then he stood up to leave.

‘So you’ll think about it . . .’

He looked so hopeful that I didn’t like to say no outright.

‘Well, maybe.’ I paused. ‘I’ll mention it to Mike and see what he thinks.’

I didn’t expect to give fostering another thought that day, but I was wrong. As I painted the skirting boards, I found myself harking back to the antics we’d had with so many foster
children, some just staying for one night; others for weeks, months, or even years.

Of course, I knew what Mike would think, but I asked him anyway.

‘Do you remember John, who used to be a social worker? Well, he came round this morning, while you were taking the car to the garage.’

‘What did he want?’

‘He was telling me all about his fostering agency, and the way they offer training and invite their carers to meetings together.’

‘Oh yes,’ he said, absent-mindedly.

‘So what do you think?’

‘About what?’

‘He wants us to consider going onto his list of the best foster carers. I felt mean to keep saying no, so I said I’d ask you about it.’

He was silent for only a moment or two. ‘No, we’re too old.’ He picked up his newspaper to read, so we just left it at that.

The next day I was about to call John to give him our verdict, when he rang me.

‘I’ve been telling my partner Suzy all about you,’ he began. ‘We run the agency together and she would like to come and meet you. Could we come round this afternoon, at
about fourish?’

‘Well, yes . . . but . . .’

‘Great. See you then.’ And he put the phone down, before I could tell him we weren’t interested.

So, I made some scones, put the kettle on and they arrived at a few minutes past four.

After the introductions, as I was pouring out the tea, John’s partner began to tell me about her role in the agency.

‘Oh, it’s so exciting now,’ she said. ‘We can offer loads of support to our foster carers and pay them well too. We invite them to regular meetings where we can sit round
and chat about all their problems. People find that so helpful.’

‘Yes, I’m sure they do . . .’

‘And that’s not all,’ she cut in, brimming over with enthusiasm. ‘We have some brilliant trainers to help you consider different approaches to some of your problems . .
.’

‘Wait a minute.’ It was my turn to interrupt. ‘We’re not foster carers any more. We’re enjoying our retirement.’

‘I know. But if you’re good at something, why waste it?’

I sat silently for a moment and thought about that. There’s not a lot I’ve excelled at. I’m good at cooking. I’m good at coming in under budget when I’m doing up
houses . . .

‘Don’t you agree?’

‘Well, yes,’ I hesitated. ‘I did a fair job on fostering. We both did.’

‘John told me you won the “Mum in a Million” title a few years ago. Isn’t that marvellous?’

‘Well, it was only the Midland region,’ I explained. ‘I was just runner-up in the national awards. But Mike once won a Tommy Steele lookalike competition . . . and a bar of
soap for his knobbly knees.’

They looked confused. They probably had no idea who Tommy Steele was, and knobbly knees contests had passed them by.

‘We’d really love to add you to our list of top foster parents,’ said John. ‘Did you talk to Mike about it?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry he couldn’t be here this afternoon. I did ask him what he thought, and he said, “We’re too old for all that.”’

‘I bet you don’t feel old?’ suggested Suzy. ‘You don’t seem it at all.’

‘And you have so much to offer,’ said John. ‘Both of you. We have a lot of urgent cases these days, which means they’re with you before you know it, and you get very
involved in it all.’

‘And with emergency placements they don’t usually stay long,’ added Suzy. ‘So you could have plenty of rest days in between.’

‘Please don’t say no,’ continued John, ‘without considering how different and how much better it would be this time around. We’d love you to join us.’

‘Well . . .’

‘Good.’ He stood up. ‘It’s time we left. Thanks very much for the tea.’

‘And the delicious scones.’ Suzy smiled.

‘And promise me you and Mike will reconsider?’ pleaded John. ‘I’ll call you at the end of the week and you can tell me then.’

‘I’m keeping everything crossed!’ Suzy called back as they walked down our path to their car.

The next day, I was putting up some pretty, blue-diamond-patterned wallpaper in the bathroom and thinking: No, I don’t think I want any more foster children, thank you!
We’d just bought a beautiful cream suite. I’d waited all my married life for a cream suite and finally, after thirty-six years, I’d got one. And it was quite a large house, so I
had in my mind that I was going to do bed and breakfast for Americans. I would be able to do nice, grown-up cooking, and the house would be clean and tidy. All my decorating was nearly done and I
thought: Yes, this is going to be really lovely.

But, much as I wanted this new, carefree life for our retirement, there was still a niggle in my mind. We’d helped so many damaged children over the years, and the more I thought about it,
the less I remembered the horrible bits. I just thought about all the fun, you know? And I thought . . . Yeah. We could enjoy some more of that.

‘What do you think, love?’ I said to Mike that evening, trying to sound undecided.

He gave me a look. I think he knew I’d already made up my mind.

‘Well . . .’ He broke into a wide smile. ‘We’ve got a five-bedroom house and there’s only the two of us . . .’

So that was it.

‘I suppose we ought to tell the children?’

‘Yes, but I can just imagine what they’ll say!’ he laughed.

‘You’re mad!’ exclaimed Sally, the eldest of our three adopted children. ‘Why do you want to work that hard again, Mum?’