Mia Marconi - If Only He’d Told Me - A foster family pushed to the limits

Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Also by Mia Marconi Moving Memoirs eNewsletter Write for Us About the Publisher

Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

HarperTrueLife

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First published by HarperTrueLife 2014

FIRST EDITION

Text © Mia Marconi and Sally Beck 2014

Cover photo © Shutterstock

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers 2014

Mia Marconi and Sally Beck assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work

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Ebook Edition © September 2014 ISBN: 9780007584390

Version: 2014-09-17

Cover

Title Page Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Also by Mia Marconi Moving Memoirs eNewsletter Write for Us About the Publisher

Copyright Copyright Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Also by Mia Marconi Moving Memoirs eNewsletter Write for Us About the Publisher Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy. HarperTrueLife An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 77–85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB www.harpertrue.com www.harpercollins.co.uk First published by HarperTrueLife 2014 FIRST EDITION Text © Mia Marconi and Sally Beck 2014 Cover photo © Shutterstock Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers 2014 Mia Marconi and Sally Beck assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Find out about HarperCollins and the environment at www.harpercollins.co.uk/green Ebook Edition © September 2014 ISBN: 9780007584390 Version: 2014-09-17

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Also by Mia Marconi

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

Write for Us

About the Publisher

It was one o’clock in the morning when the phone jerked me out of a deep sleep. I was dreaming that I was walking down the aisle in the most gorgeous wedding dress ever made. It was cream silk overlaid with antique lace. My hair was in a chignon secured with a diamond-studded comb and my bouquet was Lily of the Valley. Martin was waiting for me at the altar with the biggest grin on his face, all four of my girls were dressed as bridesmaids and my son, looking the tidiest he had ever looked, was dressed as a page boy. I felt like a princess and was smiling so hard I was laughing. Then someone rang a bell. I thought it was the priest, but it was the phone ruining my big day.

I had no idea how long it had been ringing but I knew exactly who would be on the end of the line. There was only one organisation that phoned at the weekend and at such an unsociable hour, and that was social services.

‘Good morning, Mia, it’s Roz from social services. How was your sleep?’

I could hear the smile in her voice and had a vision of her face at the end of the line, with her great big grin and warm eyes. She immediately began giggling.

‘Good morning, Roz. It’s so nice to hear from you,’ I said, with a slight note of sarcasm.

She went on to explain that another foster carer had been looking after a six-year-old boy who had gone berserk and smashed up her house. He’d broken everything he could, from the television to the toilet, the goldfish tank to his toys. He’d even smashed his bed and dented the fridge. Could I take him, Roz asked, because his current carer no longer wanted him in the house. He sounded more like a whirlwind than a six-year-old.

Most sane people would have said no, but this pattern of behaviour was a sign that the boy was lost and frightened, and I knew that. I also knew that this was his way of crying out for help. It wasn’t very subtle, perhaps, but nevertheless I knew he needed a friend.

After an awkward silence, I said, ‘How long has he been with her?’ expecting a reply of two weeks.

‘Two years.’

‘Two years! And she wants him out of the house in the middle of a Sunday night?’

‘She’s hysterical, Mia, and can’t stop crying. She wants him to leave now.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘He can come here.’

‘Oh, and she won’t bring him herself so he’s coming in a taxi with her son.’

I looked over at Martin, who was still fast asleep next to me. I had no idea how he never woke up from the noise the phone made. The dogs had started barking the second it rang and even they hadn’t stirred him. World War Three could take place and I swear that man would not move.

I, on the other hand, had gone to bed knowing that I was on call for out-of-hours placements, and having fostered so many babies over the years I woke up at the drop of a nappy pin.

I got up, pulled on my dressing gown, slipped my feet into my slippers, padded downstairs, switched on the kettle and made myself a cup of tea. Jack and Jill were so over the moon to see me they nearly knocked me off my feet and began licking me, which made me laugh and calmed me down. There’s nothing more therapeutic than animals, and as I sat down on the settee with my mug and pulled a blanket around me I soon felt Jack and Jill nuzzling me underneath it.

I began to think about what type of child, at only six years old, could smash up someone’s home after two years. There obviously hadn’t been much progress made with him if he was being this aggressive. And by the time I’d finished my tea my brain had provided me with a vision of a ten-foot-tall bruiser of a kid, complete with horns growing out of his head.

It was two o’clock in the morning by the time there was a gentle knock at the door. I opened it cautiously, expecting the worst, and could not believe my eyes. There stood a tiny olive-skinned boy, who looked about four. He was skinny but athletic at the same time, with his chest puffed out, imitating a proud rooster. His body language was cocky, bordering on the aggressive, and his full mouth was turned down and I wondered what he looked like when he smiled. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, and they were full of fear, but it took him only seconds to meet my gaze and when he did he stared right at me. No doubt this was a warning. I’m sure he was thinking, ‘Don’t mess with me, lady, I’m bigger than I look.’