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

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      Wrapped in a towel I take her back downstairs and lay her on the fluffy rug in front of the fire, amazed that she is still lying contentedly despite not being attached to my chest. Rubbing my hands together to warm them, I roll her onto her tummy and her head rests to the side. Confusion crosses her features and she opens her tiny mouth to protest but as I massage the soft skin on her back with gentle fingers she relaxes, expelling a tiny breath of air.

      Witnessing Sarah as she blossoms fills me with a sense of achievement, reminding me of the joy I felt a few weeks into my first placement, eight years earlier. I was daunted when the three young siblings arrived. As they sobbed in their beds I buried my face in my hands, almost as bewildered as they were. A few weeks later I realised that trusty old-fashioned love, routine and discipline is often all the expertise that is needed to see a transformation.

      When she’s dressed and back in her blanket I drop her next feed into a jug of hot water and hold her in my arms at the garden door while we wait for the milk to warm. Her eyes flicker to our horse-chestnut tree, the bare branches swaying in the winter breeze. ‘When summer arrives we’ll be out there on the grass, warming our feet in the sun,’ I tell her as I brush a kiss on her soft cheek and inhale her sweet, infant scent. Rocked by a sudden feeling of déjà vu, I realise she smells the same as my own babies did.

      Her hand rises up out of the blanket and searches the air, coming to rest inside the collar of my cardigan. She clenches it and I coo at her, tilting her up to kiss her cheek. With parted lips, her eyes narrow and she bestows a fleeting, crooked smile. A sudden rush of love besieges me. No, don’t let yourself, I silently counsel.

      By the end of our fifth week together, when Emily and Jamie leave the house I light the coal fire to bring a bit of cheer into the living room and turn the radio to Smooth FM. Sarah turns her head and watches as the flames sputter into life, her legs scissoring jauntily in response to the music. I’m thrilled. Clearly the drugs in her system haven’t adversely affected her hearing.

      Bending on all fours, I lift her vest and lean in to kiss her tummy. She gurgles in delight, her pleasure bolstering my decision to reject the safer caring plan presented to me when I first registered as a foster carer. One of the conditions of the plan is that carers must agree never to tickle foster children. I refused, only signing when that particular condition was removed. Several other carers followed suit, in agreement that there are times when tickling is appropriate. Of course, I wouldn’t launch myself on a child who may have been sexually abused but why shouldn’t a newborn baby know what a raspberry feels like, just because they’re a ward of the state?

      Worn out by the excitement, she begins to grizzle so I wrap her in a blanket and gather her in my arms, settling the two of us on the sofa. She lies for a few moments looking up at me as I hold her snugly. Watching her eyes flicker, my head drops back and for a few minutes we doze together.

      The telephone jerks me awake. Irritated, I reach for the cordless phone with my spare hand.

      ‘Hello?’

      ‘Hi, Rosie.’ It’s Desmond. He hesitates for a moment and I tense, sensing bad news. Complaints against foster carers are common, particularly when mothers see another woman cradling their own newborn baby.

      ‘Oh dear. Go on, what’s up?’

      ‘The local authority is moving Sarah on to other carers, quite soon. Next week in fact.’

      ‘Moving her? Why?’ I glance down at her peaceful face, feeling suddenly angry. I had heard of children moving foster placements for financial reasons. Social services make an effort to place their looked after children with locally registered carers but if they are full or they refuse a placement, agency carers are employed. If a local authority carer then becomes available, the child is sometimes moved on, even if they’ve been settled somewhere for a considerable amount of time. I close my hand around the receiver so tightly that the muscles in my arm begin to ache.

      ‘Don’t worry, it’s not what you think. The local authority have a couple who have just passed panel and are desperate to adopt a baby. They registered specifically for that reason. The sooner she’s settled, the better.’

      I feel as if a cold band is clamping around my heart. I know he’s right, of course. It will be wonderful for Sarah to get the inevitable move over with while she’s so young, so that the new couple are all she’ll ever remember. It’s a system that has worked well in the US and I had read somewhere that various local authorities were trialling the procedure in the UK. The couple risk heartbreak if the local authority is unsuccessful in their application for a full care order, but if Sarah becomes available for adoption, she’ll be settled in a permanent home much sooner than is usual.

      I have to wait a moment for the constriction in my chest to ease before I manage to whisper, ‘OK, that’s fine.’ Leaning down, I touch Sarah’s warm forehead with my nose, taken aback by the speed events are taking. Ending the call, I sit listening to the sounds of Sarah’s even breathing and chastise myself for not managing to put my own feelings aside.

      Ten a.m. the next morning I’m sitting on a fabric-covered couch in the local authority reception with Sarah fast asleep in my arms, watching the comings and goings of council employees. Sarah’s breathing is deep and regular and, as I watch her, I feel my own heartbeat slowing down.

      After a few minutes Sue appears. ‘We’re ready for you.’ She crooks her finger. Obediently I follow her down a corridor decorated with children’s drawings and several posters featuring smiling children above the words, ‘Could you foster?’

      Sue stops outside interview room two. From inside I can hear low voices and my heart beats in my throat. Meeting prospective adopters feels almost as nerve wracking as embarking on a blind date. Preparing for the worst and clenching Sarah so tightly to me that my jagged nails dig into my palms, I’m pleasantly surprised when Sue throws the door open on a young couple in their mid-thirties. Perched nervously in seats positioned side by side, they release hands and look up, smiling widely. Most adopters are in their early forties at least and I’m pleased they’re a bit younger than average. It means that they may go on to adopt again in the future. It’s a comfort to think that Sarah might not be an only child.

      ‘Kate, Paul.’ Sue waves her hands through the space between us. ‘This is Rosie Lewis, Sarah’s foster carer.’

      The couple rise in unison, both proffering their hands to shake. Shifting Sarah into my left arm I offer my right, reassured by the firmness of their grip. They meet my eyes and smile warmly. ‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ Kate says, her eyes shining as she glances down at Sarah. I like them immediately.

      ‘Please.’ Sue gestures for us to sit down and wastes no time getting to the point. ‘We went to panel this morning. It was unanimously agreed that Paul and Kate are a perfect match for Sarah. So, we’ll be able to get her settled into her new home for Christmas.’

      ‘That’s wonderful news,’ I hear myself say, gulping down the rising emotion in my throat. Meeting her new parents brings home the inevitability of our own little separation. ‘Would you like to hold her?’

      Kate sits with one leg crossed over the other, jiggling her foot. ‘Oh yes,’ she says, nodding vigorously and turning to smile at her husband. Their eyes burn with passion as I place their future daughter in her arms.

      Paul leans over and pulls the shawl down to reveal Sarah’s face. She is awake now, gazing up at the new faces with interest. Kate holds out her finger and Sarah reaches out, clasping it as she did mine on the day I first met her. Paul’s eyes fill with tears. The couple СКАЧАТЬ