Angels in Our Hearts: A moving collection of true fostering stories. Casey Watson

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СКАЧАТЬ placement planning meeting and I want to appear as if I’m in full control. After waving my own children off to school I scan the living room, hardly knowing where to start. I’d forgotten how someone so little can cause such an inordinate amount of chaos.

      Tucking her nappies and wipes in the magazine rack, my back strains with the effort of cleaning with Sarah attached to my chest. I decide to give up and let them take me as they find me. I’ll be no use to anyone if my back goes. An hour later, as I make one final effort by sweeping the detritus of the morning into the cupboard under the stairs, the doorbell rings.

      ‘Hi, Desmond,’ I say, genuinely pleased to see him. Desmond has been my link worker from the fostering agency ever since I registered, and we quickly established a rapport. Only a few years older than me and with a Scottish lilt to his voice, I feel comfortable in his company and able to speak to him with complete frankness, something I fear I will be unable to do in the presence of the social worker who follows him in.

      I have never met Sue before – a tall, formidable-looking woman in her fifties with short, permed black hair. As I welcome them into the living room, Sue fills the space with the scent of her musty perfume. ‘Can she breathe in that thing?’ she asks, arching her pencilled-in eyebrows at the harness.

      She reminds me of my old religious studies teacher, her disapproving voice strained after years of being hugely irritated by unruly children.

      ‘Of course, she’s comforted by the closeness and …’ I answer falteringly before trailing off. Sue has sat herself down and is removing a diary from her large canvas bag, not even listening. Desmond raises his eyebrows.

      ‘Well, I can’t stay long.’ Sue thrusts a copy of the placement agreement towards me and I smile weakly, tiredness minimising my ability for small talk. ‘Check through and sign the last page. I need to get back to the office before lunch.’

      Within ten minutes and without even asking how the baby is doing, Sue informs me that I must take Sarah for contact with her birth mother in the morning. Then, with a withering expression, she says goodbye.

      The next morning I wake to a leaden, cold sky. It rains hard and steady from 5 a.m. and continues incessantly as I drive along unfamiliar country roads and through the black wrought iron gates of the psychiatric hospital. Stumbling through the sodden lawns with Sarah sleeping in the car seat lodged in the crook of my arm, my socks wringing wet and clinging to me, I feel a stab of irritation towards Sue, Sarah’s social worker.

      During her whirlwind visit she neglected to mention that Sarah’s birth mother had been detained under a section of the Mental Health Act 1983 after attacking one of the midwives with her dinner fork. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I stagger across the sprawling grounds towards the hospital, wondering whether the car-seat manufacturer enjoys a practical joke with its customers by putting rocks in the base of their products. Bare trees cast skeletal shadows across the grounds and rolls of barbed wire atop the high boundary walls are a reminder that the hospital building, a large old country house with ivy-covered red brick, is not the setting for an episode of Downton Abbey.

      A strong smell of antiseptic hits my nostrils as I enter the cavernous lobby. The receptionist checks my ID and directs me towards the quiet room where I am to meet Sue. A nurse, bespectacled, with a touch of rosacea on her cheeks, gives me a sidelong glance. ‘Can I help?’ she asks in a slightly suspicious tone, probably wondering why on earth I’d bring a baby to a place like this.

      Sue suddenly appears in the corridor, flanked by another member of staff. ‘This way,’ she trills. The attendant, a stout, short woman with cropped hair, leads the way down another bleak corridor, this one separated by several iron doors. Reaching for the large bunch of keys hanging from her waist band, she turns to us. ‘Stay near the door so you’ve got a quick exit if you need one,’ she mouths, ushering us into a side room.

      Alarmed, I stare wide-eyed at Sue but she waves her hand. ‘It’s alright, I’ll be right beside you.’ Suddenly I find her redoubtable presence hugely reassuring and wonder if I’d be just as forbidding after twenty years doing her job.

      The room is small and at the far end an overweight young woman lies face down on a bed. Barely out of her teenage years, she lifts her head slowly as we enter the room, such a delayed reaction that I wonder if she is heavily sedated.

      ‘Morning, Sam,’ Sue says, briskly. ‘You’ve only got half an hour’s contact so come along, sit yourself up.’

      Obediently, Sam rises, her flimsy T-shirt riding up. Deep scarlet stretch marks and sagging skin remind me how recently she gave birth. The young woman glances towards me through a curtain of dark, lank hair with heavy, swollen eyes. She meets my gaze and I smile but she doesn’t respond, looking quickly away. From outside I can hear the constant murmur of voices, the occasional sound of running feet. My palms begin to sweat.

      ‘Hello, Sam.’ Smiling nervously, I release the baby from her papoose. Sarah immediately objects, drawing her legs to her stomach and yowling. Wary of making any unexpected moves, I glance towards Sue for direction.

      ‘Yes, go on, hand her over,’ she says in a tone that tells me she is accustomed to being obeyed.

      Gently, I lay Sarah in her mother’s waiting arms. A dank, unwashed smell rises from Sam’s body and I feel a moment’s revulsion. Sarah screams and her mother takes this as a signal of hunger, lifting her T-shirt and releasing one of her pendulous breasts. With armpits raised the smell intensifies and I take a few steps back, forcing myself to focus on an unpleasant-looking stain in the middle of the carpet.

      Oblivious to my embarrassment, Sam ‘encourages’ Sarah to latch on by slapping her over the face with an engorged nipple. Sarah tries to wriggle away from the mammary onslaught, throwing her head wildly from side to side. She yowls piteously, her skin the colour of beetroot.

      Sue remains near the doorway, her expression watchful. Sam groans at her baby’s refusal to co-operate and I can sense her growing impatience. A vein throbs in my temple as maternal protectiveness roars up in me but I set my jaw and force myself to ignore it. It’s easy to forget that I have no rights to this baby. My eyes flick between Sue and Sarah, feeling utterly helpless. The social worker appears too engrossed to perform a rescue, scribbling away in her notebook.

      ‘I have a bottle in my bag if you’d prefer …’ I offer in a quiet voice.

      ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Sam releases her grip and Sarah’s tiny head, downed with a thatch of hair the same colour as her mother’s, lolls back awkwardly. ‘Why won’t she shut up?’ She looks up at me accusingly. ‘’ere, take her.’

      Biting down a sudden spasm of contempt, I take the sobbing baby into my arms and rock to console her. Her sleep suit is damp with perspiration. Had Sam shown some concern for her child, some remorse, I might have felt more empathy. Did she not realise the suffering her addiction had caused?

      ‘Contact suspended for today,’ Sue announces, snapping her notebook shut.

      Sam stares rigidly ahead as I back towards the door, her face expressionless.

      It’s funny how quickly our family adjusts to the needs of new arrivals, how normal it all becomes. When Sarah has been with us for almost four weeks, I pick her up from her cot and realise that the wail that was so nauseating in its pitch during her first fortnight has already toned down to an ordinary cry.

      Encouraged, once the children leave for school I crank the heating up, then run the bath. Affronted by being undressed, Sarah shrieks, her features crumpling with rage but as I lower her into the СКАЧАТЬ