Moving Fostering Memoirs 2-Book Collection. Casey Watson

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СКАЧАТЬ we pulled away, dropping back against the tan leather headrest and bumping against it several times. ‘What are we going to do now?’

      She knew exactly what we were doing. I had taken her through the day’s itinerary several times since she’d woken at 6am, knowing that autistic children feel more at ease when they follow a precise routine.

      ‘We’re going to meet some other foster carers and play with the children they’re looking after. Do you remember?’

      Jenny, a woman in her 50s who began fostering just over a year ago, lived in a lovely house near the river and a group of us carers met regularly at hers, to share the frustrations of being closely involved with social services and generally offering support to one another. Whenever one of our group accepted a new placement, the others were always keen to meet them and I knew they were all intrigued by my description of Phoebe. I had called ahead to warn them I would be bringing her along, if only so that Jenny could ensure her liquid soap was out of reach.

      As I crossed over a wide bridge, Phoebe leaned forward, shouting in my ear, ‘If I see any babies there, I’m going to kill them. I’m going to stab them with a knife and twist it ’til they’re dead!’

      ‘What did I tell you about that, Phoebe? You mustn’t say nasty things, it’s upsetting.’

      She spent the rest of the journey repeating ‘It’s upsetting, it’s upsetting,’ over and over again so that by the time I turned into Jenny’s wide, tree-lined road I had counted backwards several times. ‘Here we are,’ I said, forcing joviality as I secured the brake. ‘Out we get.’ Phoebe leapt from the car and spun in circles, her arms flapping up and down in super-fast motion. I wondered what the girls would make of her, and the other foster kids, for that matter. It was an alarming sight, particularly with her blue eyes swivelling in unison.

      Rachel, a foster carer who wouldn’t look out of place in a nightclub, pulled up behind my Vauxhall. I first met her two years earlier, on a paediatric first aid course. The moment she appeared in the classroom and took the seat next to mine, I knew we would be friends. Tall and curvy, she wore sparkly eye shadow and bold red lipstick. The curious fusion of glamour and mumsiness conjured an image of a nurturing ‘madame’. It was clear that she had a personality to match her bright wardrobe and soon we were bellowing with laughter.

      She was dressed in her customary tight skirt and colourful, silky vest top, a cluster of bracelets jingling as she waved at us before reaching into the back seat of her car to pick up her latest charge. Katy was eight months old and had only been with Rachel for three weeks, but the little one was already attached, crying whenever she left her sight.

      Phoebe rushed over and planted her face barely two centimetres from Katy’s.

      I followed quickly behind.

      ‘Be nice, Phoebe,’ I warned.

      ‘I like your baby, lady …’

      Rachel’s brightly made-up face lit up with a wide smile. ‘That’s nice – I expect she likes you too. I’m Rachel, and you must be Phoebe. Rosie’s told me all about you.’ A whizz with young children, Rachel grinned and hunched her shoulders at Phoebe while taking a subtle step backwards to give the baby some breathing space. ‘Shall we go in and you can help me give her a bottle, if you’d like?’

      ‘I’d rather eat the baby,’ Phoebe said in an earnest voice. ‘Can I bite her? I have sharp teeth – we could see what colour her blood is.’

      Rachel looked at me and chuckled. ‘Well, that doesn’t sound too healthy, if you ask me, honey. But tell you what, I have some cakes in this bag – why don’t you carry it in, give it to Jenny? We can eat some of those instead.’

      Phoebe shook her head. ‘No, yuck, I only eat porridge or chocolate.’ She turned abruptly, bounding off up the path. The door was eagerly opened by Jenny; despite being in her early 50s the foster carer gave off a youthful aura, with her slim figure and keen, intelligent face.

      ‘Hello, lovey, so wonderful to meet you! Come in, come in! I’m Jenny. I bet your name’s Phoebe, am I right?’

      ‘Am I right?’ Phoebe sneered, surprising Jenny by squeezing past so forcibly that the foster carer almost lost her footing.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I mouthed as I reached the door, closely followed by Rachel and the baby.

      Jenny laughed and hugged me freely. ‘You did warn us,’ she said under her breath, giving my shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

      She led us into a large living room, with a double set of large patio doors at one end overlooking a well-maintained, child-friendly garden. A large sofa was placed either side of a long coffee table, with several armchairs dotted around the space as well. On one of the walls was a framed tapestry of a child’s handprint with the words, ‘Quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep, I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep,’ embroidered in the cloth. Her house was immaculate, with a lingering smell of furniture polish, but it was comfortable too, and Jenny was so laid-back that I wasn’t terrified to sit down in case I crumpled the cushions, which was just as well, because Phoebe had already made herself at home. She was jumping up and down on one of the sofas and she still had her shoes on.

      ‘Get down from there, Phoebe,’ I said, striding forward with my arm outstretched.

      ‘Come on, let’s get you some colouring out, shall we?’ Jenny chipped in.

      Phoebe jumped off the sofa in an instant, skipping off to follow Jenny. Her skills at distraction were impressive and I felt grateful that a battle had been averted.

      Jenny returned a few minutes later, having settled Phoebe at a wooden table on the patio, a large assortment of pens and crayons laid out in front of her. She had left the garden doors open just an inch, probably so that we could talk in private.

      ‘Here he is!’ she cried as a dark-haired little boy walked shyly into the room, a cuddly toy clutched in his hand. He made straight for Jenny, burying his face in her skirt before peering shyly at us from behind her legs.

      ‘Hello, Billy,’ I said, crouching to greet him. Rachel, with Katy in her arms, waved hello with her free hand.

      Billy glanced up at Jenny several times, seeking reassurance. I could almost visualise the thoughts behind those questioning eyes. Were these adults to be trusted or were they like the ones he had known before? Three years old, Billy had been placed with Jenny five months earlier due to severe neglect. The change in him over that period was staggering. She smiled down at him.

      ‘You remember Rosie, don’t you, sweetie? And that’s Rachel,’ she murmured softly.

      ‘Wosie and Wakel,’ he lisped sweetly, daring a smile.

      ‘What have you got there, Billy?’ I asked. He glanced up at Jenny again. On another smile from her he walked over and rested a plump hand on my knee, lifting his cuddly toy until it was a few centimetres from my eyes.

      ‘Bunny,’ he said. ‘Jenny got him for me.’

      I felt a moment’s tightening in my stomach, a longing for the all-encompassing, defining comfort that young children offer.

      Jenny grinned, her expression doting. ‘Come on, Billy. Let’s introduce you to Phoebe and you can do some colouring with her.’ I felt a familiar prickle of anxiety as she took Billy’s hand СКАЧАТЬ