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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      It was pitiful and I felt my eyes well. Poor, gentle Faye, who’d never hurt anyone, having to put up with that. Yet while I was incensed, Faye and her grandparents seemed to accept bullying was part of her life. Wilma said that these lads were part of the group who’d picked on her at school.

      ‘They want reporting to the police,’ I said.

      ‘We have done in the past,’ Stan said. ‘But by the time the police arrive they’re long gone. The sooner we move away from here the better.’

      ‘Is there any news on that?’ I asked.

      ‘No,’ Wilma said with a sigh. ‘I phoned housing again on Monday. We’re gradually moving up the waiting list for either a bungalow or a ground-floor flat, but there are others ahead of us.’

      ‘I’d have thought you would be a priority.’

      ‘We are, but because of the ageing population there are many others like us who need ground-floor housing too.’

      ‘Can’t Becky put a word in for you?’ I asked. I knew that social workers could write to the housing department if there were special circumstances.

      ‘She has,’ Wilma said. ‘And our doctor has sent a letter. We’ll just have to be patient and wait now.’

      Faye kissed her gran goodbye and then Stan came into the corridor as usual to see us to the elevator. Outside the block of flats there was no sign of the bullies, but I saw Faye glance around. I wouldn’t bring up the subject unless Faye did. There wasn’t much I could say. She’d probably had far more personal experience of dealing with bullies than I had, and there wasn’t any advice I could give her beyond what she was already doing – ignore them. However, once in the car Faye confided that this time they’d been calling her names because she was pregnant.

      ‘They asked me if Snuggles was the baby’s father,’ she said.

      ‘That was stupid of them.’

      ‘I didn’t tell Gran, it would have upset her.’

      ‘Yes.’ I paused. ‘Faye, I’m wondering if perhaps it would be wiser if I started giving you a lift in the car when you visit your grandparents. Not just because of what happened today, but as you’re getting bigger now you don’t want to be standing around waiting for buses.’

      ‘Yes. I like going in your car,’ Faye said easily.

      That evening I telephoned Faye’s grandparents and suggested that in future I brought and collected Faye in my car. I didn’t tell them the nature of the boys’ bullying, but I said, as I had to Faye, that I thought it would be more comfortable for her. They agreed.

      ‘Faye’s proved she can do the bus journey alone,’ Stan said. ‘She doesn’t have to prove it any more.’ Which I thought was a sensible view. I’d mention our decision to Becky next time I spoke to her. From then on I took and collected Faye in the car. It saved a lot of time and worry.

      The days passed and Faye continued to talk openly about her pregnancy and what she now referred to as ‘my baby’. My family and I were happy for her; her openness seemed preferable to ignoring her condition, as long as you didn’t think about the end result: that it would never be her baby. But with all the talk and openness, something else was starting to happen: I was bonding with her baby, as I was sure Faye was, and possibly my children too. When Faye had refused to acknowledge her pregnancy the baby had remained a vague and indistinct entity – something apart from our lives. But now she was sharing her pregnancy openly, by telling us when the baby moved and what it felt like, and that it was uncomfortable at night, for example, and she was now sitting with her hands resting over her bump, it had gone from being an ‘it’ to a real living person. As we didn’t know the sex of the child we couldn’t refer to it as ‘he’ or ‘she’, so we used the term ‘baby’. We always asked Faye how baby was today and she’d reply with, ‘My baby is very well, thank you,’ or something similar. So in a few weeks we’d effectively gone from fostering Faye who was pregnant to fostering Faye and her unborn baby, which felt very different. And perhaps part of me saw what was coming next, for I wasn’t as surprised as I might have been.

      In complete contrast to Faye’s previous antenatal check-ups, she was very enthusiastic about the next one, at twenty-eight weeks gestation, and was looking forward to learning how her baby was doing and hearing its heartbeat. As we entered the consultation room she smiled at the midwife and said a bright hello, then answered her questions and generally engaged with her, interested in all aspects of her developing baby. We’d brought the urine sample with us from home and the midwife dipstick-tested it in the surgery and said everything was normal. Faye was pleased and thanked her. She then took her blood pressure and that was normal too, as was her weight gain.

      ‘You’re doing very well,’ the midwife said.

      Faye smiled, thanked her again and then, looking down at her stomach, said, ‘Did you hear that, baby? You’re doing very well.’

      The midwife was looking slightly bemused and I felt I had to say something.

      ‘We’ve had a change of heart and we’re more accepting,’ I said.

      ‘So she’s going to keep the baby?’

      ‘Oh no. I didn’t mean that. But Faye has accepted it is better to talk about the pregnancy.’

      ‘Good. That makes life easier for us all.’

      Faye was ready and lying on the couch to have her bump measured even before the midwife asked her to.

      ‘Am I fat enough?’ she asked as the midwife read out the measurement.

      ‘Yes. That’s perfect,’ she said.

      ‘Are you going to put that jelly on my tummy now?’

      The midwife smiled. ‘The ultrasound gel? Yes, here it is.’

      She put on the gel and then ran the Doppler over Faye’s stomach until the steady clip-clop of the baby’s heartbeat could be heard. Beaming, Faye clasped her hands together in delight. ‘That’s my baby’s heart.’ Then she asked the midwife: ‘Can I hear the rest of my baby?’

      ‘There isn’t any more to hear,’ the midwife said kindly. ‘But you would have seen your baby on the monitor when you had your scan.’

      Faye didn’t say anything, but I knew from Wilma that she hadn’t seen the baby on the monitor at either of the previous scans, because she’d refused to look. There were no more scans scheduled, so I hoped she didn’t regret not looking and not having a print-out of her baby’s image to keep.

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