Книга - I Miss Mummy: The true story of a frightened young girl who is desperate to go home

I Miss Mummy: The true story of a frightened young girl who is desperate to go home
Cathy Glass


Cathy Glass, the no.1 bestselling author of Damaged, tells the story of the Alice, a young and vulnerable girl who is desperate to return home to her mother.Alice, aged four, is snatched by her mother the day she is due to arrive at Cathy's house. Drug-dependent and mentally ill, but desperate to keep hold of her daughter, Alice's mother snatches her from her parents' house and disappears.Cathy spends three anxious days worrying about her whereabouts before Alice is found safe, but traumatised. Alice is like a little doll, so young and vulnerable, and she immediately finds her place in the heart of Cathy's family. She talks openly about her mummy, who she dearly loves, and how happy she was living with her maternal grandparents before she was put into care. Alice has clearly been very well looked after and Cathy can't understand why she couldn't stay with her grandparents.It emerges that Alice's grandparents are considered too old (they are in their early sixties) and that the plan is that Alice will stay with Cathy for a month before moving to live with her father and his new wife. The grandparents are distraught – Alice has never known her father, and her grandparents claim he is a violent drug dealer.Desperate to help Alice find the happy home she deserves, Cathy's parenting skills are tested in many new ways. Finally questions are asked about Alice's father suitability, and his true colours begin to emerge.















Copyright (#ulink_7a166fed-6e3e-5118-b272-64abe85dc2f7)


HarperElement

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)

First published by HarperElement 2010



Copyright © Cathy Glass 2010



Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work



A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library



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Source ISBN: 9780007267446

Ebook Edition © JULY 2010 ISBN: 9780007389803

Version: 2017-01-16




Contents


Title Page (#uea98581f-14ff-59dc-bb8b-608356fd7b6d)

Copyright (#u43f78481-f666-5d78-9035-4267a14c2e2a)

Chapter One: Desperate (#ue2354eea-7b25-5590-a78d-f7476bbd32a8)

Chapter Two: Am I to Blame? (#u77be1402-8f38-514f-8d8e-da49fc1a22ee)

Chapter Three: Stretched to the Limit (#ua87fe1ae-9fe7-5df4-b837-1348cd9d73a8)

Chapter Four: Normal? (#u11031bc7-78b1-58fd-a80e-9c35822a3710)

Chapter Five: ‘Mummy Things’ (#uf29cba33-8ee7-5449-bf0f-e4c58b23d23d)

Chapter Six: Sleeping with Wolves (#u9e7e8afd-5624-5617-8203-11c9e051b4ef)

Chapter Seven: Accused (#ueb8d69d3-70a6-5b5c-a4e9-0df1d63459aa)

Chapter Eight: When Can I See My Mummy? (#u131c8f17-01ff-585e-b6ad-75a0b1014eeb)

Chapter Nine: Pass the Parcel! (#u0fe9d7cc-5887-538b-b0ef-53cb4fac4e00)

Chapter Ten: Brian the Bear (#ua697c59c-9832-53c4-b183-c42e5796bdc4)

Chapter Eleven: Precious (#uf697e8bc-0bdc-50d9-9bd3-3e45451b095d)

Chapter Twelve: A New Mummy (#ue6c095a1-3837-519d-a90c-021f744957f6)

Chapter Thirteen: Placement Meeting (#u33b333fb-377b-5cac-a4c8-20ed9746758a)

Chapter Fourteen: A Beam of Love (#u366e8c5f-5a97-50ec-8afa-637867482c23)

Chapter Fifteen: A Dreadful Mistake? (#u4e856d69-01ff-500e-92a5-08cf8a0ce88a)

Chapter Sixteen: Breaking the Rules (#u3eeb021b-fce2-5dcd-b8a1-3032455ed5f1)

Chapter Seventeen: Warm and Cosy Inside (#u162371bc-afee-574b-a7e4-f7336541ab27)

Chapter Eighteen: Bad Practice (#u51971dcb-bc76-57ca-a3f5-f039e37e5333)

Chapter Nineteen: A Quick Fix (#u2ccd4199-e1e0-5a1e-aab6-bf39c335b0cb)

Chapter Twenty: Nail in the Coffin (#u64ae3ee0-2072-53be-942b-d96362215daa)

Chapter Twenty-One: Kitty-cat (#u10d9c2a6-8e55-5917-8a40-3da14c5faea7)

Chapter Twenty-Two: ‘Just One Line’ (#u2d582535-1116-571d-9bf5-7a427b5dfbfa)

Chapter Twenty-Three: Hunger Strike (#u6b095930-f404-595e-907d-72a787844b48)

Chapter Twenty-Four: Rejected (#u4f050a63-db46-5ff2-90ba-4844fc2768ee)

Chapter Twenty-Five: ‘Icing Sugar’ (#ufa2d5a23-345b-5e76-a5db-255fba4926b9)

Chapter Twenty-Six: Happy Sand (#u87f505ee-074b-5d03-a455-ac40b9148d7f)

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Letter (#uaf32168d-ab49-5a45-b263-e85a7cc0e27e)

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Judge’s Decision (#ua734d94b-5cfd-5f91-9713-9f5d4140a1d9)

Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Milestone Missed (#uae027167-28b1-5024-b96b-acf2971db562)

Chapter Thirty: Torn Apart (#u087fc8f0-6be6-5c2a-980d-ab8c7ee7b75d)

Chapter Thirty-One: Don’t You Want Me? (#ueca5b8f8-6e35-5675-83ed-1323ac4a2858)

Chapter Thirty-Two: Love from Mummy (#u5b59f240-0d4a-534a-8c31-44288537321d)

Chapter Thirty-Three: Expecting an Ogre (#u0751a989-aab1-5a7d-b713-20febaddaa98)

Chapter Thirty-Four: Don’t Make Me Go! (#u9df9d11e-fb7a-5f4a-b095-4324954f0043)

Chapter Thirty-Five: Very Disappointed (#ua6faca79-62da-5946-9986-88a0e8c036fd)

Chapter Thirty-Six: A New Year’s Wish (#u10544b4c-c694-5302-8926-21e0ab9d4b59)

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Ten Days (#u6f69f0c6-a725-5ef1-a8d0-4677052c4d8e)

Chapter Thirty-Eight: You Can Say No (#u231453e5-be80-5a70-ac7d-7b8752a9da5d)

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Adoption (#uccbbd8ed-ef76-56eb-8e75-21a31782b97f)

Chapter Forty: Finding Home (#u1aab218c-6e8f-5ee9-b30c-f672cbfc460d)

Chapter Forty-One: Moving On (#u491c9b14-83c9-5388-bd1a-48b8200485e0)

Author’s Note (#u9af4f502-e6ad-59f0-b5fb-44371fe9a2b0)

Epilogue (#u399d4d8b-3849-55c3-ab18-3b7559720828)

Exclusive sample chapter (#u5e3ad89a-8830-5741-9a24-8729c5075e4f)

Cathy Glass (#ufdaf607e-586d-55a3-9dcc-cb978d062980)

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter (#u986490b8-0986-56f2-a6f9-a39351723575)

About the Publisher (#u867a6cc0-e59a-5b2e-9b08-4e53dc8be22e)




Chapter One (#ulink_2b0ff55f-ac0b-53cb-b07b-12d0a527535b)

Desperate (#ulink_2b0ff55f-ac0b-53cb-b07b-12d0a527535b)


‘Mum has snatched her! The police are looking for them now. Goodness knows where they could have gone! They’re not at home.’

I could hear the anxiety and panic in the social worker’s voice on the other end of the phone, and I appreciated why. From the little I knew of the child’s mother, I knew she was very unstable, with ongoing mental health problems, compounded by drug addiction. I also knew she was fiercely opposed to having her daughter taken into care and had been fighting the social services for three months to stop it. But while no one wants to see a child forcibly removed from home, sometimes there is no alternative if the child is to be kept from harm.

‘When did this happen?’ I asked, equally concerned.

‘Two hours ago. They can’t have got far. The police have circulated a description of them, and the ports and airports have been alerted. No one could have foreseen this happening – otherwise we’d have taken Alice sooner.’

Alice was the little four-year-old I’d been expecting all afternoon. I’d been told the day before that the social services were going to court in the morning to ask the judge to grant an ICO (Interim Care Order) so that Alice could be brought into foster care. I knew from the referral (the print-out that gives the child’s basic details) that both her parents were drug users, and because neither of them could look after Alice she’d been staying with her maternal grandparents. I also remembered reading that Alice attended nursery from 9.00 a.m. to 3.15 p.m. every day.

‘Was Alice snatched from her nursery?’ I asked, puzzled, aware of the high security that now surrounds schools.

There was a slight hesitation. ‘No. The head teacher phoned the social services first thing this morning to say Alice wasn’t in nursery. When we went to the grandparents’ home after court this morning, to collect Alice, she wasn’t there.’

Now, I don’t think I’ve got incredible insight but if I’d been a social worker I think I might have heard alarm bells ringing if the child I was about to bring into care was suddenly absent from nursery on the morning of the court case.

‘We think the grandparents may have colluded in their granddaughter’s abduction,’ the social worker added. ‘They’re being interviewed by the police now, and I’m going to see them soon. I’ll phone you again later.’

‘All right. Thanks for letting me know. I do hope you find Alice soon.’

‘So do I,’ the social worker said. ‘And that she’s found safe.’

I replaced the receiver and returned to the kitchen, where I had been preparing dinner. It was 5.30 p.m. and I’d been expecting Alice at 1.00. The apprehension and nervousness which I’d been feeling all afternoon, and indeed which I always felt when waiting for a new child to arrive, now developed into full anxiety. Although I’d never met Alice, and had only the briefest of details, I knew enough to be very worried. Her mother, mentally unstable and possibly under the influence of drugs, had snatched her daughter in a desperate bid to keep her, and was now on the run. Who knew what was going through that mother’s mind or what she might do in desperation? News headlines flashed across my anxious thoughts: Mum leaps off bridge with daughter, Mum and daughter found dead. My morbid speculations were far fetched, but such things do happen, particularly when a parent is desperate or under the influence of drugs.

Ten minutes later the phone rang and I snatched it up, hoping it was news that Alice had been found safe and well. But it was Jill, my link worker from the agency I fostered for. In her voice I could hear the anxiety that I’d heard in the social worker’s, and which I now felt.

‘Did the social worker phone you?’ Jill asked. ‘I told her to contact you directly as soon as she heard anything. I’ve been in a meeting all afternoon.’

‘She phoned a short while ago, but they haven’t found Alice yet, although the police are out looking.’

‘Poor child,’ Jill said with a heartfelt sigh. ‘Poor mum.’

‘I know. But her mother must realize she can’t get away with it. They’ll be found eventually, and snatching her daughter is hardly going to count in her favour.’

‘Mum won’t have thought it through,’ Jill said. ‘With her level of problems she’ll have acted on impulse and won’t be thinking rationally.’ Which did nothing to ease my fear for mother’s and daughter’s safety. ‘Martha, the social worker, asked me if it was all right if they bring Alice straight to you when she’s found, assuming she doesn’t need hospital treatment, even if it’s out of office hours. I said I thought it would be.’

‘Yes, of course, bring her straight to me,’ I confirmed; then, unable to resist a dig: ‘I don’t really work to office hours, Jill.’

‘No, I know, but you know what I mean.’

‘Yes. Hopefully the police will find her soon.’

‘I hope so,’ Jill said. ‘The poor child will be upset enough already at having to come into care without all this.’

Deep in thought, I returned to the kitchen and the dinner I was preparing, which was now running late.

Adrian appeared, his stomach growling. ‘When’s dinner ready, Mum?’

At fourteen, my son was continuously hungry, and growing upwards at an quite a rate. He was already four inches taller than me, and he was going to be six foot, like his father – who unfortunately no longer lived with us.

‘About half an hour till dinner,’ I said. ‘Have an apple if you’re hungry.’

He nodded, and took an apple and banana from the fruit bowl, and a packet of crisps from the cupboard.

‘I hope that’s not going to spoil your appetite,’ I called after him, envious. I couldn’t have eaten all that and dinner without putting on weight. There was no answer, but I knew the snack wouldn’t spoil his appetite. Adrian never left his food, unlike Lucy, my twelve-year-old foster daughter who picked at her food.

Presently Paula, my ten-year-old daughter, came into the kitchen and began foraging for food.

‘No, leave the biscuits,’ I said. ‘Dinner will only be fifteen minutes.’

‘Adrian’s got crisps,’ she said accusingly.

‘I know, and you can have a packet after dinner, if you’re still hungry. Although fruit would be better.’

She pulled a face but left the biscuit tin untouched in the cupboard. ‘Isn’t that little girl coming?’ she asked, suddenly remembering that I’d said Alice would be with us for dinner.

‘Hopefully later,’ I said. ‘She’s been delayed.’

Paula looked at me questioningly and, while I didn’t want to burden her with my anxiety about Alice’s safety, I knew I had to give her some explanation. ‘Alice is with her mother,’ I said, ‘and the social worker isn’t sure where they are.’

Paula pulled another face, unimpressed. ‘How can they be lost?’

‘They’re not lost, just temporarily misplaced,’ I said lightly, and changed the subject. Paula can be a real worrier when it comes to little children, even worse than me. ‘Could you pop up to Lucy’s room and tell her dinner is ready? If she says she’s not hungry, tell her I’d like her to come down and join us anyway. Thanks, love.’

Lucy had been with us for nearly a year and, having lived with countless aunts and cousins and never had a proper family of her own, she’d settled into our family remarkably quickly, welcoming the stability and routine. However, while I was very pleased with her progress, both at home and school, my biggest concern remained with her eating. She was an attractive girl, her long black hair and dark eyes coming from her father, who was Thai, but she was slim to the point of thin. At 5 feet 4 inches, she weighed only six and half stone and whereas when she’d first arrived I’d assumed she would put on weight once she’d settled into our family, she hadn’t.

I’d mentioned my concern to Jill and also to Lucy’s social worker, who in turn had taken advice from the looked-after children’s nurse who is employed by the council to advise on the health of children in care. On her advice I was now monitoring (as far as I could) what Lucy ate, and also her weight, keeping my supervision very low key so it didn’t become an issue. There was no evidence that Lucy was making herself sick after eating, or pretending to eat and then throwing the food away, so we were optimistic that she wasn’t suffering from an acute eating disorder such as anorexia or bulimia. But over the last four months since I’d started monitoring Lucy she hadn’t put on any weight but had grown in height, which in real terms meant she’d lost weight. According to the height/weight chart the nurse had used, Lucy should have weighed eight stone, so she was one and a half stone (twenty-one pounds) underweight, which was obviously very worrying.

However, I was pleased to see that Lucy came downstairs with Paula for dinner. At the same time Adrian returned to the kitchen for an update on dinner.

‘It’s ready,’ I announced. ‘Sit down.’

I began dishing up while the three of them sat at the table in what we grandly call the breakfast room – the term used by the architect who drew up the plans for what is really an extension to the kitchen. Having plated up some of the casserole for Alice and left it to one side, I carried the other plates over to the table. All that could be heard for some time was the chink of cutlery on china. As we ate I was half expecting the phone to ring – the social worker telling me Alice had been found and they were on their way – or even the door bell to ring, if they came straight to me.

As we ate I was also watching Lucy out of the corner of my eye for, as often happened, she had begun well, eating four mouthfuls straight off as though she was ravenous, and then ground to a halt; she was now toying with her food. When Lucy had first arrived, I had told her, as I tell all children at their first meals, to eat what she wanted and leave what she didn’t want, but when I’d realized just how little she was eating I’d started to encourage her: ‘Can’t you just eat half of it?’ ‘Another couple of mouthfuls?’ ‘Just the mashed potato?’ I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing, but as every mother knows it is excruciating to watch a child eating insufficient for their body’s needs.

‘Did you have lunch?’ I asked Lucy as she continued to fork her food around the plate. I gave her money for lunch every day, but her secondary school ran a cafeteria system, so I’d no idea what, if anything, she’d bought or eaten.

‘Yes,’ she said as she usually did. ‘I had a sandwich.’ Which, as usual, I had to believe. But even if she had bought a sandwich and eaten all of it, her day’s food intake was still very small and barely sufficient to maintain growth and health: a thin slice of dry toast for breakfast, a sandwich for lunch and now a few mouthfuls for dinner.

Lucy toyed with her food for a bit longer; then she laid her knife and fork on her plate, having finished. Paula laid down her knife and fork too, on a clean plate, and Adrian was looking for pudding.

‘Are you sure you’ve finished?’ I asked Lucy. She nodded, and I collected the plates. ‘I’ve just got to make the custard,’ I said and, leaving the three of them at the table talking about a television programme, I returned to the kitchen. I boiled the kettle and made instant custard; then I poured it into a jug and placed it on the table with a shop-bought apple pie. I told them to help themselves and surreptitiously watched Lucy take a small amount of custard but no pie. Then the phone rang and I jumped up from the table and went into the sitting room to answer it, fervently hoping it was Martha, Alice’s social worker, phoning to say Alice had been found, safe and well, and they would be with me shortly.

It was Martha, but without good news. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Alice and her mother have completely disappeared. The police have searched all the addresses of friends and family we have given them, so I really don’t know where they can be.’ She sounded very weary. ‘I’m off duty soon, but I shall be leaving my mobile on all night and the police have instructions to call me directly when she’s found. Jill said it was all right to bring Alice to you, even it it’s in the middle of the night.’

‘Yes, of course. I’m a light sleeper – I’ll hear the phone or the door.’

‘Alice will be very distressed,’ Martha warned.

‘I know. Don’t worry. I’m an experienced foster carer. I’ll settle her and make sure she’s all right.’ Sometimes the social workers need as much reassuring as the children.

‘Thanks, Cathy.’

‘Have they found her?’ Paula asked as I returned to the dinner table. Adrian and Lucy looked at me, puzzled, unaware there was a problem.

‘Alice, the little girl who was supposed to be coming this afternoon, is missing with her mother,’ I explained.

‘Oh,’ Adrian said. ‘I thought she’d just got delayed.’

Lucy nodded, clearly having thought the same as Adrian. In the past children had been delayed, for all sorts of reasons, arriving a lot later than expected – even the following day.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Unfortunately not, but I’m sure Alice will be found soon. If you hear the phone or front door bell go in the night, try to go back to sleep. Alice could arrive at any time, and you’ve all got school tomorrow. You’ll be able to meet her first thing in the morning.’

They nodded, accepting my assurance and believing, as I did, that at some point during the evening or night Alice would be found safe and well, and be brought to us, when I would tuck her into bed and sit with her and comfort her until she finally dropped off to sleep.

If only that had happened!




Chapter Two (#ulink_d96c1d06-5a3d-5996-8c65-87aa591b74e3)

Am I to Blame? (#ulink_d96c1d06-5a3d-5996-8c65-87aa591b74e3)


At 10.00 p.m. we were all in bed, Lucy and Paula asleep, Adrian reading for half an hour, while I had the radio on, although I wasn’t listening to it. My thoughts were with Alice and her mother, and I was very worried. I hadn’t heard anything further during the evening, so I had to assume they were still missing. It was the end of March and although we’d had a few mild days the nights were very cold, with a ground frost. I sincerely hoped Alice and her mother were indoors, having been given a bed for the night by a friend or relative who perhaps didn’t know about the court case or that the police were looking for them. Or perhaps, I speculated, Alice had been found and was being brought to me at this very moment. At 11.00 I switched off the radio and dozed, but I was listening out for the phone and doorbell, every so often raising my head to glance at the luminous hands on my bedside clock.

Acutely aware of every street noise, shortly after 2.00 a.m. I heard a car pull up outside. My bedroom is at the front of the house, overlooking the road, and immediately I got out of bed and peered through the window, ever hopeful. A taxi was outside with its engine running and as I looked I saw my neighbour, Sue, and her family get out, with their suitcases, having returned from the airport after a week in Turkey. Sue looked up and, seeing me, gave a little wave. Aware that I fostered, she saw nothing too unusual in my peering out of my bedroom window at two in the morning, possibly waiting for a teenager to return, or for the police to bring a child under an emergency protection order.

I returned to bed and dozed fitfully until 6.00 a.m. Then I declared the night over and, slipping on my dressing-gown and slippers, went downstairs to make coffee. On the work surface in the kitchen, almost as a testament to Alice’s disappearance, was the dinner I’d plated and covered the night before. If Alice had arrived hungry, as children often do, I could have easily reheated her dinner in the microwave, whatever time of night. Now I removed the cover from the plate and, scraping the congealed casserole into the bin, put the plate in the dishwasher. Dear Alice, wherever could she be? She had been missing for twelve hours now, which is a long time for a child of four. She and her mother – who I knew from the referral was called Leah and was twenty-three – had vanished into thin air. Where could they have gone? Then I wondered if they had been found and Alice had been returned to her grandparents, in which case Leah would now be in police custody, for I knew that despite any sympathy I had for Leah’s desperate bid to keep her daughter, snatching a child, especially a child protected by a court order, is a very serious offence and Leah would be prosecuted and very likely sent to prison. It was all so very sad.

At 7.00 a.m. my speculation and worries had to be put on hold as I swung into action at the start of the school day. It was Friday, thank goodness, and I was looking forward to the weekend. Apart from getting out of the routine of school for two days we were all going to a birthday party on Sunday afternoon – a friend of mine was forty and was having an open house to celebrate. Fuelled by a large mug of coffee and the prospect of the weekend, I went upstairs and woke everyone with a cheery ‘Good morning’. As I went into each of the children’s bedrooms I was met with a question or statement about Alice.

‘Is Alice here?’ Paula asked.

‘I didn’t hear you in the night,’ Lucy said.

‘She must have been very quiet,’ Adrian commented.

I had to tell each of them that Alice hadn’t arrived and I hadn’t heard anything further.

The routine of school took over for the next hour, culminating in my waving Adrian, Lucy and Paula goodbye at the front door with ‘Have a good day’. Adrian had a ten-minute walk to school, Lucy had a twenty-minute bus ride and Paula, in her last year of primary school, had recently persuaded me to let her walk to school by herself. It was only ten minutes, with one road to cross, and I knew I had to give her this responsibility in preparation for her going to secondary school in September when she, like most of her class, would be catching the bus to school without their mothers. And Paula wasn’t actually walking to school alone but was knocking on the door for a friend who lived halfway down our street.

Having seen everyone off I cleaned up and, checking on the whereabouts of our cat, Toscha, left the house to do a supermarket shop. I couldn’t wait in all day on the off chance that Alice might arrive. I’d left the answerphone on and the social services had my mobile number. Also, I was pretty certain that if Alice was coming to me during the day the social worker would phone me first before bringing her, as opposed to during the night, when it wasn’t unusual for the police to take a child straight to the carer.

As it was, Friday passed and the only person who phoned was Jill, asking if I’d heard anything from the social services, which I hadn’t. Apparently she’d tried to contact Martha but had been told by a colleague she had back-to-back case conferences and was therefore unavailable for most of the day. ‘It’s not very good practice,’ Jill said. ‘Someone from the department should have phoned you or me with an update, even if it was to say there was no news. We’ll keep the foster placement with you open over the weekend and hope that Alice is found, but we can’t hold it open indefinitely.’ Jill wasn’t being heartless but practical: if Alice wasn’t coming to me then another child would. It’s a sad fact that so many children need fostering that in most areas in the UK the demand for foster placements outstrips the number of available foster carers.

‘I was wondering if Alice had possibly been found and allowed to stay with her grandparents?’ I suggested to Jill. ‘They were looking after her before Leah snatched her.’

‘I’m sure someone from the social services would have told us,’ Jill said. ‘Although I agree it wouldn’t be the first time arrangements had changed and no one had thought to notify us. If Martha doesn’t get back to me today I’ll phone her first thing on Monday.’

‘OK. Thanks, Jill,’ I said. Then I asked the question that had been troubling me since I’d first read Alice’s details on the referral. ‘Jill, why wasn’t Alice allowed to stay with her grandparents instead of being brought into care? According to the referral she’d been there for six months and was very happy.’

‘I’m not sure. I think there were issues about the grandparents allowing Leah to see Alice.’

‘So Leah wasn’t allowed to see her own daughter?’ I asked, surprised. ‘That’s very unusual.’

‘Very,’ Jill said. ‘I don’t know the reason.’



I didn’t hear anything about Alice on Saturday, although I was half expecting to, hoping every phone call was to say Alice had been found safe and well. I had another restless night, listening for the phone or the doorbell as I had done the previous night. Jill had been right: an update to keep me in the picture, even if there was no news, would have been preferable to hearing nothing. I suppose I should have been used to not knowing, for foster carers are often left in the lurch and not included in the loop of information circulating among the professionals involved in a case. Although sharing information and keeping all professionals informed in childcare cases has improved since I first started fostering, largely because of the passing of the Children’s Acts, there is still a way to go. Often foster carers are bottom of the list when it comes to being kept informed, but when information is urgently required by a social worker about a child in care – for a report or court case – the carer is suddenly very popular, for we know the child better than anyone and have the information required to hand.

What I didn’t know at the time, but found out later, was that no one was being kept informed – not the social services, the grandparents, who were beside themselves with worry, the Guardian ad Litem, or any of the other professionals connected with Alice’s case – because of a ‘news blackout’. The police, fearful for Alice’s safety, were in sensitive, on-going and secret negotiations with her mother, via text messages, to try to persuade her to leave Alice in a public place where she could be collected.



Tired from two nights of little sleep and much anxiety, but determined to go to the party, at twelve noon on Sunday I changed out of my jeans and jumper and into a dress, stockings and high heels.

‘Blimey. Mum’s got legs,’ Adrian remarked dryly.

‘You look nice,’ Paula said.

‘Shall I do your make-up?’ Lucy asked, which I took as a compliment – that I was worth the effort and not beyond hope, as my tired reflection in the mirror sometimes suggested.

Half an hour later, all in our Sunday best, and me with a professionally applied mascara and eye shadow (Lucy wanted to be a beautician), and clutching a present and bottle of wine for the hostess, we piled into the car and headed up the M1. Once again I had left the answerphone on, and my mobile was in my handbag; if I was needed I could be home in twenty minutes. But it was true to say that my concerns for Alice had lessened during the morning because I was sure Alice must have been found by now and was with her grandparents, and that no one had thought to tell me. I simply couldn’t see how a mother with a young child could have avoided the police for all this time.

We had a really good time at the party and my mobile didn’t go off during the afternoon or evening. The house was overflowing with old friends and families with children my children knew. There was a disco in one room, and the older children kept the younger children entertained. There was plenty to eat and drink, although as I was driving I had only one glass of wine early on and then kept to soft drinks. We all enjoyed ourselves tremendously, but with school the following morning we said our goodbyes, as most other families did, just before 9.00 p.m., and we arrived home at 9.30.

As soon as I opened the front door and stepped into the hall I saw the light flashing on the answerphone, signalling a message. Close up, I saw that the indicator showed I had four messages. Without taking off my coat, and while Adrian, Paula and Lucy went through to the kitchen to get a glass of water each to take up to bed, I picked up the receiver and pressed play.

The first message was timed at 8.30 p.m., a male voice, stern sounding and quite terse: ‘Message for Mrs Glass. This is the out-of-hours duty social worker, please call me immediately on…I was informed you were to be the carer for Alice Jones.’ My heart missed a beat at the mention of her name, as the answerphone continued to the second message, timed at 8.47 p.m. It was the same male voice, now very impatient, almost demanding: ‘It’s the duty social worker again. I’ve already left a message. Would Mrs Glass phone immediately?’ He repeated the number and hung up. In his third message, timed at 9.05 p.m., I could hear his anger: ‘I’ve phoned twice. Alice has been found. Call me immediately.’ And in his last call, timed at 9.16 p.m., he was rude: ‘What the hell is going on!’ he demanded. ‘Where are you? You were supposed to be looking after Alice. Phone immediately. It’s not good enough!’ He hung up, the line went dead and the answerphone clicked off.

With my heart racing and my fingers shaking, I quickly took my mobile from my handbag and checked for messages and missed calls. There were none. If he was angry, I was upset, and my legs trembled. I prided myself on being a good carer, experienced and professional, and now it seemed I had failed in my duty.

Adrian, Lucy and Paula came into the hall, with a glass of water each, en route to their bedrooms. The colour must have drained from my face. ‘What’s the matter?’ Adrian asked. Lucy and Paula had stopped too and all three were looking at me, very concerned.

‘Alice has been found,’ I said, picking up the receiver, ready to dial. ‘The duty social worker has been trying to contact me for the last hour. But no one called my mobile.’

‘And you’re surprised?’ Lucy asked sarcastically, remembering her own experiences with the social services before coming into care. I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand it.’ Still in my coat, I quickly dialled the duty social worker’s number, as Adrian, Lucy and Paula continued upstairs to take turns in the bathroom. Not only was I upset by the duty social worker’s manner and rudeness, but he had made it sound my fault, as though I was solely to blame. Had I done wrong in going out for the afternoon and evening, even though I’d had my mobile on? Neither Jill nor the social worker had told me to stay at home; in fact no one had told me anything. But as I listened to the phone ringing, waiting for the duty social worker to answer, I knew the real reason I was upset was because I hadn’t been there for Alice. The poor child: whatever must she be thinking? I had badly let her down even before I’d met her.




Chapter Three (#ulink_971a6b91-3427-504f-a7c0-e5e8af97855f)

Stretched to the Limit (#ulink_971a6b91-3427-504f-a7c0-e5e8af97855f)


‘So you’re there, at last!’ the duty social worker snapped, finally answering the phone. ‘I’ve been trying to get you all evening. Alice has been found.’ I didn’t know the duty social worker and, as far I was aware, I hadn’t had any dealings with him before. He would probably be from an agency, covering out-of-office-hours calls.

Ignoring his gross exaggeration of ‘all evening’ – his first call had been timed at 8.30, fifty minutes before – I held my voice steady as I said: ‘I’m sorry you were unable to reach me. Why didn’t you phone my mobile?’

‘Wasn’t aware I had your mobile number,’ he said, no less tersely. Then, clearly having found it on the paperwork, he added dismissively: ‘Oh yes, but it’s not obvious. At least you’re there now.’ I thought an apology wouldn’t have gone amiss but, aware Alice was waiting somewhere, waiting to be brought to me, I didn’t pursue it. ‘The child is at the police station,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to bring her to you, but it won’t be straight away. I’m stretched to the limit here.’

‘Do you want me to collect Alice from the police station?’ I offered.

‘You can’t,’ he snapped. ‘It needs an SW’ – social worker – ‘to place a child who’s on an Interim Care Order.’ It was a technicality, but I realized he was probably right. As a foster carer I couldn’t simply go to the police station and collect Alice; procedure dictated a social worker or police officer should bring her to me.

‘Is Alice all right?’ I asked anxiously. ‘Where’s she been?’

‘No idea. Mum snatched her, and then disappeared, that’s all I know. I’ll get to you as soon as I can, but I’m the only one on duty.’

‘How long do you think you’ll be?’ I asked, mindful that little Alice, after three days missing and goodness knows what else, was now waiting at the police station instead of snuggled in her bed upstairs and being comforted by me.

‘As soon as I can,’ he snapped. ‘Why? You’re not going out again, are you?’

That was the final straw. I’d had enough of his rudeness and intimidating manner. ‘No, of course I’m not going out,’ I snapped back. ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. But I’d have thought, given Alice’s age and what has happened to her, it should be a priority for you to get her to me.’

It went quiet for a moment, then he said stiffly: ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can, Mrs Glass. You do your job and I’ll do mine.’ And he hung up.

I remained where I was by the phone for a second and then replaced the receiver with more force than was necessary. ‘Ignorant pig,’ I muttered. Overworked he might be, but that was no reason to be rude. I glanced up the stairs and saw Lucy and Paula watching me from the landing, looking very worried.

‘It’s all right,’ I reassured them. ‘That was the duty social worker. He’s bringing Alice to us as soon as he can.’

‘Terrific. Is she OK?’ Paula said.

‘I think so, although the social worker didn’t know much.’

‘Do they ever?’ Lucy said disparagingly.

‘Now, now,’ I cautioned lightly. ‘They’re understaffed.’ Lucy took every opportunity to criticize social workers and I knew she had to start letting go of the anger from her past and look to the future. ‘Alice is safe at the police station,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know what time she will be here. I want the two of you to get ready for bed, and if you’re still awake when Alice arrives you can see her. Otherwise you’ll see her in the morning.’

Lucy and Paula disappeared into their bedrooms to get changed, ready for bed, and I went upstairs to draw the curtains in what would soon be Alice’s room. The room was ready, as it had been since I was first told to expect Alice. There was a brightly coloured Cinderella duvet cover on the bed with a matching pillowcase, cuddly toys propped on the chair and posters of rabbits and kittens on the walls. I knew virtually nothing about Alice – only that she was small for her age and of average intelligence. More details would follow in the essential information forms, which Martha should bring when she visited Alice – presumably on Monday. What trauma Alice had suffered since going missing I couldn’t begin to guess, but clearly she was going to be very distressed, and I anticipated being up most of the night comforting her. For when all was said and done Alice was being brought to the house of a stranger (albeit a well-meaning one), in the middle of the night, by a man she didn’t know, having somehow got to the police station after going missing for three days. I thought she had a right to be upset.

Perhaps the duty social worker had heeded my comment about prioritizing his workload, for he must have left his office straight after we’d spoken. Thirty minutes later the doorbell rang and, with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, I ran to answer it.

Standing in the porch was a very tall man, over six feet, cradling a small bundle in a pink blanket.

‘Oh my,’ I said, peering into the bundle, and holding the door wider so that he could come in. ‘Oh, bless her, poor little mite.’

I looked closer at the child the duty social worker held as he stepped into the hall. With only her little face showing, Alice looked just like a sleeping doll. A few strands of light brown hair wisped around her delicate features, and one little hand lay pressed against her chin.

‘She fell asleep in the car,’ he said amicably.

For a moment I couldn’t say anything; I just gazed at Alice, nestled deep in the blanket, so peaceful and vulnerable in sleep, and so, so beautiful – she looked just like an angel. My heart went out to her in a rush of love and pity.

‘We’ll put her straight to bed,’ I said, coming to my senses. I closed the front door and led the way upstairs and into what was now Alice’s room. The duty social worker’s previous animosity towards me appeared to have gone now and he carried Alice into her room, where I helped ease her from his arms and on to the bed. She didn’t wake. ‘I’ll just remove her coat for tonight,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll leave her to sleep in her clothes – save disturbing her.’

‘She hasn’t come with a change of clothes,’ he said quietly.

‘It’s all right. I have spares.’

While the duty social worker supported Alice’s back, floppy in sleep, I carefully slipped her arms out of her coat. I noticed that although her coat had dried mud on it, it was of very good quality and also new, as was her little dress and cardigan. My first impression was that Alice wasn’t undernourished, and her face and hands were clean; her chin-length hair looked well groomed. In fact, apart from the mud on her coat, she appeared clean and well cared for.

Having taken off Alice’s coat, I gently eased her head on to the pillow. As I did, her long black eyelashes fluttered and her eyes opened. Huge brown eyes looked at me in surprise and fear. ‘It’s all right, love,’ I soothed, stroking her little forehead. ‘My name is Cathy. I’m going to look after you for a while. You are in bed in my house and you are safe. There is nothing to worry about.’ Her eyes remained wide, staring at me: she was so innocent, so overwhelmed and so worried, I could have wept. ‘It’s all right,’ I soothed again.

‘I’ll get the paperwork from my briefcase in the car,’ the duty social worker said, clearly pressed for time.

I nodded. ‘I’ll ask one of my children so stay with Alice and I’ll come down.’

He left the room and I sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Alice’s forehead. She looked at me with big wondering eyes. ‘It’s OK,’ I continued to reassure her. ‘My name is Cathy, I am a foster carer and I look after children. You are safe now.’

I half expected her to burst into tears and sob hysterically, but I think she was so tired and traumatized she didn’t have the energy. She lay on her back under the duvet with her pink blanket loosely draped on top, her huge eyes still staring at me. Then she licked her lips. ‘Do you want a drink?’ I asked softly, but she didn’t answer, her eyes not daring to move from my face. ‘Oh pet,’ I said. ‘Please don’t worry. Everything will be all right now.’

Lucy and Paula, in their pyjamas, appeared at the bedroom door and hesitated, uncertain if they should disturb us.

‘Come in and say hello to Alice,’ I said quietly.

They crept in, to the side of the bed, and gazed down at her. Their gasps said it all. ‘Oh! Oh, look at her. She’s so sweet.’

Alice’s big eyes moved from my face to theirs.

‘This is Lucy and Paula,’ I said. ‘They live here too.’

‘Hi, Alice,’ the girls whispered. They knelt beside her bed.

I heard the front door close as the duty social worker returned from his car. ‘Could you stay with Alice for a moment while I speak to the social worker?’ I asked the girls. ‘I shouldn’t be too long.’

It wasn’t a question that needed answering. Lucy and Paula immediately took over, Lucy soothing Alice’s forehead as I had been doing, while Paula took hold of her little hand, which still lay against her chin.

‘I’m just going downstairs to speak to the man who brought you here,’ I said to Alice. ‘Lucy and Paula will stay with you.’ While it might have been obvious to us and an older foster child what was happening, it wouldn’t necessarily have been obvious to a traumatized four-year-old, who might have thought I was disappearing for good and that Lucy and Paula would follow me, leaving her alone in a strange room.

Alice’s gaze briefly flickered to me as I stood, and then returned to Lucy and Paula.

Downstairs I found the duty social worker already in the sitting room, seated in the armchair and using his briefcase to rest on as he completed a form.

‘What’s your full name, and postcode?’ he asked as I entered, his terseness returning. I told him. ‘And I placed Alice at ten twenty-five p.m. on 25 March,’ he said, glancing at his watch.

I nodded and sat on the sofa.

‘Who else is in the house?’

‘Just my children and me,’ I said, surprised.

‘I need their names for this form.’

‘Adrian, Lucy and Paula. Lucy is my foster daughter.’

‘And their ages?’

‘Fourteen, twelve and ten.’

He wrote, and then asked: ‘No husband or partner?’

‘No.’ Had Alice been placed during the day, all this information should have been available, supplied by Jill or the social services, but without access to the file I assumed he was completing a placement form for his agency.

He wrote some more, I didn’t know what, and then put the form in his briefcase and snapped the lid shut. ‘Alice’s social worker will contact you on Monday,’ he said and stood, ready to go.

‘Do you not have any other information about Alice?’ I asked quickly.

‘No. Don’t you?’

‘All I have is the original referral, which doesn’t say much. Do you know if Alice has an allergies or special needs?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said with a shrug, ‘so we’ll have to assume she doesn’t, although I should go easy on the peanut butter.’ I didn’t appreciate his stab at humour. Even if a child arrives in the middle of the night as an emergency I’m usually told of anything that could affect the child’s health like allergies or asthma. And given that Alice’s move to me hadn’t been an emergency but had been planned (although it had gone badly wrong at the end, with Alice being snatched), I’d have thought Martha would have had time to print out the essential information and leave it with the duty social worker – or was that expecting too much?

‘I’ve got to go,’ the duty social worker said, heading towards the sitting room door. ‘A runaway teenager has been found on the other side of the county. I’m the only one on call to collect him.’

I nodded, but while I sympathized with his obviously very heavy workload, my concerns were with Alice, and I persisted in trying to find out more about her background that might help me to look after her. ‘Who took Alice to the police station?’ I asked, following him down the hall.

‘Mum’s boyfriend, I think,’ he returned over his shoulder; then, hand on the doorknob, he let himself out.

‘Goodnight,’ I called after him as he went down the front path, but he didn’t reply. He was already taking his mobile from his jacket pocket and answering the next call.

‘Yes, I’m on my way,’ he snapped. ‘But I can’t be in two places at the same time.’ I thought that if I ever won the jackpot on the lottery I’d use some of the money to fund more social workers so they could do their jobs properly and didn’t have to be in two places at the same time.





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