Can I Let You Go?: Part 2 of 3: A heartbreaking true story of love, loss and moving on. Cathy Glass

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘It’s nice to have the opportunity to make it again,’ Mum said. ‘It’s not worth making for one – I’d be eating it all week.’

      After we’d finished lunch and had helped clear away, Adrian found some more jobs to do, including fixing the bolt on the side gate, which had broken when the gate had slammed in the wind, and oiling its hinges. The girls and I helped Mum wash up and put away the dishes, so it was soon done. Faye said she often did the dishes at home, as her gran and grandpa couldn’t stand at the sink for long. We then sat in the living room and chatted for a while, and then at Faye’s request we played some card games she knew from the day centre. Despite my initial reservations that Faye might say something to upset Mum, the day had gone well. Faye was relaxed around Mum, and while she often mentioned her own grandparents and that she liked to help them, as their legs were bad, she didn’t make any untoward remarks about my father that could have been upsetting. Neither did she mention being pregnant or the baby. In the car going home I found out why. ‘I made sure I talked about things that wouldn’t upset your gran,’ she said. ‘Like I have to with my gran and grandpa. I don’t like seeing them upset, so we had a nice day and were all happy.’

      I smiled. ‘Yes, indeed.’

Chapter Ten

       Change of Heart

      On Monday I took Faye on the bus again to visit her grandparents, and then on Tuesday we went to see the horses in the field. Faye was delighted when she called their names and they cantered over, although I think they would have come anyway with the promise of handfuls of fresh grass and being stroked. I’d found an old hairbrush at home and had given it to Faye so that she could brush their manes. A few of the horses stood still to let her brush, but the others shied away, probably not used to having their hair done, for I doubted many visitors arrived with a hairbrush! ‘We could bring some mascara next time,’ I joked.

      ‘Yes, like Lucy,’ Faye said. ‘She wears mascara. I’ve seen her putting it on.’

      ‘Would you like some?’ I asked, wondering if this was a hint.

      ‘No. My gran wouldn’t like it, and I try to please Gran and keep her happy.’ Said without any hint of dissent or regret. Faye was a truly selfless person.

      ‘I know you do, love.’

      The hairbrush was filthy by the time Faye had finished brushing the horses’ manes, so I put it into a carrier bag to wash on our return home, and gave Faye plenty of antibacterial wipes for her hands.

      On Wednesday I took Faye to see her grandparents again, and on the return journey she finally remembered, without prompting, when to press the bell button to stop the bus. ‘Well done,’ I said. I decided that if she did it correctly on two more journeys then she could travel to see her grandparents by herself, as Becky wanted her to. Faye didn’t seem too bothered if she made the journey alone or not. True to her character, she tended to go along with everyone else’s wishes.

      Edith, my support social worker, telephoned on Thursday afternoon for an update and to see how Faye had settled in. When I was fostering a child she would visit every month to check I was caring for them to the required standard, assess my ongoing training needs, give support and advice where necessary and sign off my log notes. As Faye had been referred from adult services it was felt that Becky could support and supervise me, although I could phone Edith if I needed to and I still sent her my monthly reports.

      Now Faye knew that Becky and I wanted her to talk to me about her feelings and her pregnancy, she continued to do so in a relaxed and spontaneous manner. The number of comments and questions steadily increased, and they weren’t just to me but to Lucy, Paula and Adrian as well – as and when the moment arose, although Adrian usually told Faye to ask me if she wanted to know something about pregnancy or childbirth. I always answered her questions honestly, in detail, and using language appropriate for her level of understanding, rephrasing and repeating if she didn’t grasp it the first time. I found some books that I’d used with my own children and children I’d fostered, which explained how babies were conceived, grew inside the mother’s womb and were born. One of the books had large colourful illustrations and told the story of a new life as if it was an incredible adventure. Faye loved the story with the passion a child shows for a fairy tale, which in a way it was. She wanted me to read it over and over again. The wonder of creation never ceases to amaze me: a microscopic sperm joining with a single-cell egg and growing into a baby. It’s pretty awe-inspiring, even for adults, and it was true magic for Faye. However, in all our readings and discussions about babies I was no nearer to finding out who the father of Faye’s baby was, although we got close a few times.

      ‘You understand that it takes a man and a woman to make a baby?’ I asked Faye one time.

      ‘Of course I know,’ she said a little indignantly.

      ‘Good. So you know that every baby must have a daddy, even though he might not see the mother. He gave the mummy the sperm to make the baby.’

      ‘Yes, I know. There’s a picture here,’ she said, flipping back through the book.

      ‘So your baby has a daddy, although you may not see him now.’

      ‘I know,’ she said matter-of-factly.

      ‘Do you want to tell me about him?’ I asked.

      ‘No. Gran wouldn’t like it.’

      ‘But you know you can talk to me or Becky about him?’

      ‘Yes, but I don’t want to. It’s our secret.’

      ‘Did he tell you that?’

      ‘Yes. And I agree with him,’ she said emphatically.

      I could have continued my questioning, but I felt to do so would have been unreasonably intrusive and would possibly have forced her into saying something she’d later regret or even to make up something. Becky had asked me to try to find out who the father was, as she had concerns that Faye might have been forced into having intercourse, but from Faye’s manner when I’d mentioned the father I didn’t think so. She wasn’t distraught or tearful as surely she would have been had she been raped. It was still possible she’d been persuaded or coerced into having sex, and, if so, the circumstances in which that had happened would need to be looked into if they ever became known. But, then again, Faye had sexual feelings as much as anyone, so she might have entered into the relationship of her own free will, although where and with whom would remain a mystery for now.

      Faye began making the journey alone to her grandparents’ flat the following week. Each morning before she left I checked she had her phone and bus ticket with her, but I was on tenterhooks until Stan phoned to say she’d arrived. On the return journey I telephoned her grandparents to say she was back. I didn’t think we were being overprotective, for although Faye had used the buses to go to and from the day centre for many years, the route to my house was very different and in the opposite direction, so checking she’d arrived seemed a sensible precaution. The first three trips went without incident, but then on Saturday, at the time Faye should have been leaving to catch the bus to me, Stan telephoned and asked if I could collect her in the car. He said that while she’d been waiting at the bus stop outside the flats some boys who lived locally had begun taunting her and calling her names. She had tried to ignore them for a while, but then she’d felt threatened and had fled back to the flat. I was horrified, angry and upset that anyone could be so cruel as to pick on someone with a learning disability – as, I expected, her grandparents were. But СКАЧАТЬ