Cathy Glass - Where Has Mummy Gone?

‘I told you, Mum,’ Melody said, looking embarrassed.

‘Where are the clothes my daughter had on when she was taken off me yesterday?’ Amanda snapped at me, her eyes blazing. ‘You’ve stolen them.’

It was ludicrous, but they were all waiting for an answer.

‘They’re in the wash,’ I said.

‘How can I be sure she’s telling the truth?’ Amanda turned to the manager. ‘And what about her trainers?’ she demanded.

‘They’re in the car,’ I said.

‘And her hair!’ Amanda said, nudging the manager. ‘Tell her.’

‘Amanda was worried about what you put on her daughter’s hair.’

‘It’s poison,’ Amanda snapped, glaring at me.

‘Do you mean the head lice lotion?’ I asked. ‘If so, it’s a standard preparation I bought from the chemist to kill head lice. Apart from that, and shampoo and water, she’s had nothing else on her hair.’

‘She hasn’t got head lice!’ Amanda growled.

‘We couldn’t find any,’ the contact supervisor agreed.

‘No, because I treated her hair and killed them.’ I couldn’t believe how ridiculous this was, although they were all looking at me doubtfully. ‘Ask her social worker,’ I added. ‘Neave was aware that Melody had head lice.’

‘I told you I kept itching,’ Melody said to her mother.

‘And where’s her jacket?’ Amanda now demanded.

‘At home,’ I said. ‘It was badly torn, but I can return it to you if you like. The one she is wearing is a spare I had. I was going to buy her a new winter coat at the weekend. Don’t you want me to do that?’

Amanda fell silent and I struggled to hide my annoyance. The manager should have defused this situation, not turned it into a drama.

‘You mentioned her dinner?’ the supervisor now prompted Amanda.

‘What about her dinner?’ I asked. There was silence.

‘Can’t remember,’ Amanda said, and the contact supervisor had the good sense not to remind her.

‘Is that all?’ I asked curtly.

The manager nodded.

‘Say goodbye to your mother then,’ I said to Melody, who should never have heard all of this.

I was now expecting a long emotional goodbye, but Amanda suddenly said she had to go to the toilet, and shouting, ‘Bye!’ she rushed off down the corridor. I said a cool goodbye to the manager and contact supervisor and left with Melody. I was seething inside, more so with the manager and the contact supervisor than I was with Amanda. She was angry and irrational from losing her child and I was an easy target, but the manager and contact supervisor should have known better and calmed her anger instead of pandering to it and making an issue out of everything she’d complained about. Foster carers don’t expect gratitude, but a bit of moral support wouldn’t go amiss. In bending over backwards to accommodate the parents’ wishes, the staff involved in contact sometimes ingratiate themselves with the parents at the carer’s expense.

Melody didn’t say anything until we were in the car. Then, before I started the engine, she said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Cathy.’

I turned in my seat to look at her. ‘What for, love?’

‘Mum being horrible to you. She’s like that with lots of people. She did it at school.’

‘You don’t have to apologize,’ I said. ‘It’s not your fault. Your mum is upset because you are in care. It will get easier for her each time she sees you at contact as she gets used to it. Did you have a nice time?’

‘I think so. I gave her the rice pudding.’

‘Good.’ I’d noticed Melody wasn’t carrying the stay-fresh box. ‘Did she like it?’

‘She hasn’t eaten it yet. She’s going to take it home and have it for her dinner. There’s nothing else there.’ Hearing that, all my anger evaporated and my heart went out to Amanda again. The picture of that fragile, emaciated woman, aged beyond recognition, who’d lost all her children into care, sitting alone in her cold, damp flat eating rice pudding moved and worried me. I’d telephone Jill in the morning and make sure Neave was aware of just how needy Amanda was, for when a child is taken into care the social services have a duty to help the parents where possible.

When I dished up the cottage pie that evening I set aside a portion with vegetables and gravy for Amanda. Once it had cooled, I’d put it in the freezer to take with us to contact on Friday. Melody had said there was a microwave and kettle in their flat but no cooker or hob, and I knew there was a microwave at the Family Centre. Despite Amanda’s rudeness, the woman needed help.

After dinner I left the washing up for later, and as Adrian, Lucy and Paula disappeared off to do their homework I told Melody to fetch her book bag from where she’d left it in the hall. We then sat together at the table and I helped her with her homework – reading, and spellings to learn. She needed a lot of help, but unlike some children I’d fostered who’d come from homes where education wasn’t a priority, she had the right attitude and wanted to learn. ‘Mum says you can get a good job and earn lots of money if you go to school and pass your exams.’ Which was ironic considering her mother hadn’t been sending Melody to school, but I didn’t comment.

After Melody had finished her homework I began her bath and bedtime routine, finishing with a bedtime story. She was in bed in her new pyjamas at eight o’clock. I find bedtime, when the child is tired, is when they can start fretting and worrying. Far from being reassured by seeing her mother at contact, Melody was even more anxious, as indeed I was. Now I’d met Amanda I had a better understanding and appreciation of Melody’s concerns.

‘Melody, I don’t want you to worry about your mother,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to telephone Jill – you met her – who will speak to Neave and make sure your mother is OK.’

‘Mummy is never OK,’ Melody lamented. ‘She’s getting worse. She forgets to eat, get up and get dressed or go where she has to. That’s why she was so late.’

‘Is she still drinking alcohol or taking drugs?’ I asked her gently. ‘You know what I mean by drugs?’

‘Yes. I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her do it for a bit. The man upstairs calls her nuts, and says she’s done her head in with the stuff she put in her arm, but she can’t help it.’

‘No, all right.’ I looked at her thoughtfully. Neave had said that Amanda had been funding her drug habit from prostitution and had asked if I could find out if she’d brought clients back to their flat, which opened up the possibility that Melody had witnessed her mother with a man or, heaven forbid, had been sexually abused herself. Foster carers can’t afford to be squeamish or delicate about these matters and now seemed like a good time to ask. ‘Melody, do you know where your mummy got her money from?’

She nodded. ‘Benefits. I know because I had to help her get the money out of her bank so we could go shopping for food and pay the bills. Also she had some friends who gave her money.’

‘Did you meet any of her friends?’

She shook her head.

‘Were they women friends, do you know, or men?’

‘Men. She always said “he”.’

‘Did she ever bring her friends home to your flat?’

‘No. She always went out to meet them. She wasn’t gone long and I had to stay in the room with the door locked. On the way home she bought me a chocolate bar if she remembered. Most of our money went to the man who owned the places we lived in. Mum said we were ripped off.’

‘I understand. So Mummy never brought her men friends back to the places you lived in?’

‘No.’ Which was a relief.

‘Do you know about the private parts of our body?’ I asked, taking the opportunity to raise the matter. ‘Did your mummy ever tell you?’