Cathy Glass - A Life Lost

It was strange, the little nostalgic reminders that brought a tear to my eye. It wasn’t the rest of Lucy’s clothes that made me well up as I cleared them from her wardrobe, although I could smell her perfume on them. Or the soft toys and ornaments she’d lovingly collected as a child that I removed from her bookshelves and carefully packed. Or the boy-band memorabilia from when she’d had a crush on the lead singer. No, it was a couple of old hair braids that sent a tear down my cheek as I remembered plaiting her hair for school and then teaching her to plait it herself.

And the birthday and Christmas cards we’d given to her over the years. All of them, wrapped in tissue paper in a drawer. I also found a partially composed note from her, handwritten one time before she’d decided to apologize in person. It was from her teenage years and I remembered the incident that had led to it. One of a number when she’d been testing the boundaries and had wanted to stay out very late. The letter began:

Dear Mum, I’m sorry I shouted at you. I know you make the rules to keep me safe, but …

Then she had come to me to say sorry. I remembered those cross words and the hugs and kisses that followed as we made up. ‘Never go to sleep on an argument’ was my mother’s philosophy, and my family and I very rarely did. Now, my darling daughter was a mother herself, and in years to come would probably face similar situations with her own daughter, Emma. My heart swelled with pride, love and admiration for everything Lucy and my other children had achieved.

Having paused for trips down memory lane, it took me over two hours to clear out the rest of Lucy’s room, then I thoroughly vacuumed and dusted it, and put fresh linen on the bed. I stacked the boxes and bags on the landing to store in the loft later, where they could stay until Lucy was ready to sort them out. Now the room was clear it had lost its personal touch and I returned downstairs rather melancholy and deep in thought.

But if this had been upsetting, it was about to get a whole lot worse. Shortly, I would be meeting Jackson, whose father and older brother had recently died – the reason given for his anger. Or was there more to it? So often in fostering a child arrives with one story and then gradually you discover another. Time would tell, but for now I needed to get through what was going to be a very upsetting meeting with his mother.

Chapter Two

Whatever can you say to a woman whose husband has died and whose teenage son has committed suicide? I didn’t know if the two tragedies were connected; Joy, my SSW, who’d given me the details, wasn’t sure. I was now driving to the council offices where the meeting was being held with thoughts of the family going through my head.

I knew from the placement information forms that Jackson’s mother, Kayla, was thirty-nine and had been widowed two years ago. A year after she’d lost her husband from cancer, her eldest son, Connor, aged seventeen, had hanged himself. Yet somehow, she’d managed to carry on and I admired her courage. I supposed she felt she had to for the sake of Jackson and her two daughters, Jenna, aged seven, and Grace, five. My heart went out to them. What they had all been through was unbelievably sad; truly the stuff of nightmares and devastating for the whole family. I understood that concerns about Jackson’s behaviour had been raised by his school the previous term, then during the summer holidays Kayla had reached breaking point and had gone to her doctor, who had contacted the social services. Kayla had admitted she was unable to cope with Jackson’s behaviour any longer and had agreed to him going into care. How long he would be with me I didn’t know.

I parked the car in a side road close to the council offices and, summoning my courage, got out. Tragedies like this one reminded me how lucky I was. My children were all healthy. I’d lost my father a few years before, but he’d been in his eighties when he’d died. Thankfully my mother was still doing well. It seemed to me Jackson’s family had been given an unfair share of life’s misery.

Going into the council offices, I registered at reception and, with my ID pass looped around my neck, went upstairs to the room where the meeting was to be held. I’d brought a small photograph album with me to show Kayla so she had some idea of where her son would be living. Because she had placed Jackson in care voluntarily under what’s known as a Section 20 (of the Children Act), and there were no safeguarding issues, she would probably be given my contact details. If a child is brought into care as a result of abuse and is the subject of a court order then generally the parents aren’t told where they are, although some find out.

I knocked on the door of the meeting room and went in. Seated at the table were two women and a young lad who I took to be Jackson. I was slightly surprised to see him there, as Joy had said this meeting was just for Kayla to meet me.

‘Cathy, I’m Frankie, the family’s social worker,’ said one of the women, greeting me. ‘This is Kayla and her son Jackson.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, joining them at the table. ‘I am so sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you,’ Kayla said in a small voice, while Jackson glared at me.

Although he was sitting down, I could see he was tall for his age but willowy and slightly built. He had dark hair and beige skin, the same as his mother. But whereas her eyes showed deep sadness, Jackson’s shouted anger and confrontation. Having thrown me a disparaging look, he concentrated on the mobile phone he held in his lap. It might surprise you to know that nearly half of all children aged five to ten have a mobile phone. I hoped his mother had put parental controls on it.

‘We thought it best if Jackson joined the meeting,’ Frankie said to me. ‘Kayla’s daughters are being looked after by a neighbour.’

I nodded. The schools didn’t return from the summer vacation until the following week, so Kayla would have had to make childcare arrangements to attend this meeting. I hadn’t met Frankie before but she had a calm, confident manner.

‘How are you, Jackson?’ I asked, trying to engage him.

He shrugged and continued to tap the keypad on his phone. His mother looked at me, slightly embarrassed, and I threw her a reassuring smile.

‘Kayla asked to meet you,’ Frankie said to me. ‘She thought it might help. Perhaps you could tell us a bit about yourself, your home and family.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ve brought some photographs with me.’

I placed the album on the table in front of Kayla and Jackson. As Kayla began to turn the pages, I said a few words about each photo. The first was a group photo of us standing at our front door as if welcoming in our new arrival. I told them the names and ages of my children, including Tilly, aged fourteen, who I was fostering, and said that Lucy now lived with her partner and their baby not far away. The rest of the photos were of the house – downstairs, upstairs and then the back garden. The very last was another group photo, taken in our back garden with a selfie stick and including our cat, Sammy. ‘Do you like cats?’ Frankie asked Jackson as I finished.

He shrugged dismissively and stared at his phone.

I hadn’t had time to include a photo of Jackson’s bedroom because until now it had been Lucy’s room, so I showed them the photo I’d taken on my phone before I’d left the house. Jackson kept his gaze down. Kayla thanked me and handed back the album. I then talked a bit about my family, our routine and what we liked to do in our spare time, which was expected at these introductory meetings.

‘How long has Tilly been with you?’ Kayla asked.