Casey Watson - A Last Kiss for Mummy - A teenage mum, a tiny infant, a desperate decision

The truth was, of course, that good social workers, like the kids in their charge, came in all sorts of shapes and sizes. I’d met young, fresh-faced types, just out of university and keen as mustard, right through to the battle-worn, tattered-suited, ready-for-retirement types. Where would Maggie fit in here, I wondered? Well, we would soon see.

Very soon, as it turned out, the already short morning having disappeared from beneath me, with Mike dashing in with less than fifteen minutes to spare. And my response to his greeting of ‘Get the kettle on, love, will you? While I run up and shower’ was greeted, in return, by my usual pre-meeting answer of ‘Don’t you dare leave so much as a drip on my bathroom floor!’

I was always a bit like this when an important meeting loomed. I’d done the house from top to bottom yesterday but I still felt I could do more. I’m a bit of a clean-freak and was characteristically anxious in case I’d missed some speck of dust or splash of water somewhere. Ridiculous, really, since neither John nor Maggie would be up inspecting my bathroom, but even so I just couldn’t help it.

‘Now, remember,’ Mike warned me, having come back down and joined me at the dining table, ‘we’re here to listen to what they have to say; to mull it all over and consider the possibilities. Not to immediately ask when the girl can move in, okay?’

‘Oh, be quiet, Mike,’ I chided him. ‘I’m not a child, you know. Anyway, they’re here now,’ I added, gesturing to the car that was pulling up outside. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Go let them in.’

I smoothed my blouse down over my jeans and glanced again out of the window as Mike did so, childishly pleased to see that I’d been right; Maggie Cunliffe looked exactly like a Maggie. Mid-forties or thereabouts, I decided, with a lovely warm expression and curly blonde hair. She was also, I noticed appreciatively, dressed in jeans and a warm jumper. Nothing prim or proper about her. I felt immediately at ease.

The file itself, however, looked rather more daunting. Introductions done, the coffee poured, the biscuits politely declined – so far – it appeared out of Maggie’s briefcase and landed on the table with a dull thud. Which was unusual. It was normally the case that we had almost nothing to go on, and had to find out the extent of a child’s difficulties the hard way.

Not so here, clearly. Maggie dived straight in with a summary.

‘Emma’s mum was only sixteen when she had Emma,’ she began. She had a soft Scottish accent, which seemed to go just perfectly with her name. ‘There was no boyfriend – again, there’s no knowledge of who the father was – and, as you already know, Shelley – that’s her name – has battled with her demons since we’ve known her. She’s an only child herself and has long since been estranged from her own mother, and has a long history of substance abuse. Various addictions have been on file here: alcohol, prescription medicines, as well as an array of illegal drugs. During her worst periods – and there have been quite a few down the years – she’s had Emma placed into care, or had the authorities just step in and take her, but, because she never objected and so often put Emma in care voluntarily, a court order’s never been sought.

‘Every now and then,’ Maggie continued, ‘Shelley would sign herself up for rehab, get clean, and then come out determined to step up to the plate and take proper care of her daughter, but of course the harsh reality is that with each new episode of this kind she was just chipping away at Emma’s trust.’ Maggie sighed. ‘So, as night follows day, each time Emma went back into care – and the older she got – the more and more she felt she didn’t need her mum. It’s a really sad one, this.’ She glanced up and looked directly at me. ‘You can see how the picture’s formed here, can’t you, Casey? And it’s why we’ve ended up with the Emma we have today.’

I nodded sadly. I could see it all too clearly. She’d be feeling lost, hurting lots and desperately needing some attachment. In my years working with teenagers I’d seen so many like her; girls who’d gone on to get pregnant at such a tragically early age simply to stop an ache that they had inside them. It was partly a need to nurture, a need to have at least something – someone – to call their own, to replace the pain of not having a mother’s love and affection.

‘I can indeed,’ I agreed, visualising this poor child so very well. ‘And we’re up to speed with the situation with the boyfriend, as well. John’s filled us in there.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ John confirmed. ‘So the next stage, if you wouldn’t mind, Maggie, is to fill Casey and Mike in – well, fill all of us in, actually – about anything extra that has to happen, given this is a mother and baby placement. I’m not fully conversant; is there some extra training that might need to be involved?’

Maggie shook her head. ‘Not in this case, I don’t think. If you were new to fostering, obviously, or if you’d not brought up your own kids, but, no, in this case, I wouldn’t insult your intelligence. It’s obviously not going to be like your usual programme – no points system for Emma to follow or anything – just gentle guidance; it’s more a case of both providing a loving, supportive, non-judgemental home for the two of them, and helping Emma take responsibility for taking care of her child herself.’

I nodded. There was a world of difference between that and being looked after. Emma was Roman’s mother and had to be a mother to him. It would be all too easy for her to slip into a completely different, more dependent role, were she allowed to. I’d seen it happen myself. And it was understandable to some extent, as any mother would probably know; even if your child becomes a mother they are still very much your child, so if they were thirteen or fourteen – even fifteen and sixteen – the urge to mother both child and grandchild would be strong. I would have to guard against doing that, for definite, because it was the sort of thing that would feel so natural to do.

Mike must have been reading my thoughts.

‘How much “help” would this entail, specifically?’ he asked Maggie. ‘I mean, you obviously wouldn’t want us taking over, here. She’d have to do all the usual baby-related tasks herself?’

Maggie lifted a hand and waggled it slightly in front of her as if to indicate there was a degree of give and take here, that we’d have to use our judgement about how strict the division of labour needed to be in this specific situation. ‘Well, in normal circumstances – whatever “normal” is – yes, that’s what we’d expect. However, in this case, we do have to make some allowances. Emma obviously hasn’t had the usual sort of upbringing. No younger or older siblings, no extended family, no experience of babies. The place she’s at now is that she seems to be coping quite well; with the support of the baby’s social worker, who stops by a few times a week to teach her the basics, she is coming on okay. Roman’s social worker also has to record supervisory visits, where she’s been noting down Emma’s ability to care. She’ll continue to do this, obviously, because it really is central to the placement. It’s on the basis of those visits that the court will eventually decide if Emma’s fit to look after her child on her own.’

There was a short silence after Maggie said this, as perhaps there would be. This wasn’t just a case of us providing a home for a young mother. Our home would be the stage on which both mother and baby’s whole future would be played out. At some point – and it only just hit me at that moment – someone other than me would stand in judgement over Emma and make a decision that would affect their whole lives.