Rosie Lewis - Taken - Part 3 of 3

Not that Megan was aware of what was about to happen, or at least, so it seemed. Whenever I got her ready for a session with Christina I told her she was going for contact, and for the last few months she had begun to refer to their time together as ‘hay house’, in honour of the little playhouse she loved in the family centre garden. At just over two years old, her understanding was limited and I was never sure whether she had any idea of who Christina actually was. During the sessions she referred to her mother as ‘lady’, though I had been told by the contact supervisors that Christina sternly corrected her, saying repeatedly, ‘ I’m your mummy, not Rosie. OK, yeah?’ I could understand her frustration at being sidelined, but once Megan’s adoption became inevitable, it seemed futile, unfair even, to press the point.

On the day of contact Megan woke soon after 7 a.m., belting out the theme tune of Balamory . When I went to her bedroom she greeted me with her usual beaming smile, holding her arms out over the bar of her cot. My mind fast-forwarded to the moment of our own parting as she sat on my lap with her morning milk, but I wasn’t going to allow my thoughts there, not before I had to. I held her extra close, pushing everything else firmly aside.

She was excited to wear the new dress I’d bought for the occasion – parents usually liked to take keepsake photos during the session, and I wanted Megan to look nice for her mum. After she was dressed she sat beside me on the sofa and I showed her the photograph album I had filled last night as a keepsake for Christina. Starting with pictures I had taken of her as a newborn baby in the special care baby unit and then continuing on through all her milestones; her first Christmas was included, our trips to the seaside, her birthday parties.

Megan’s short fingers scrabbled with the pages, her breath ragged with intrigue. She loved seeing photos of herself, particularly those from when she was tiny. ‘Baby Meggie,’ she said, touching the pages, and then, patting her own chest: ‘Big girl Megan.’ I laughed, squeezing her into a hug.

Another picture she took delight in was that of Emily sitting on the beach at Whitby, the sun high over her head and Megan in the background, holding a baby crab aloft in her hand. I felt a tightening beneath my breastbone as we came to the last few pages of the album, knowing that our own story would soon come to an end. There would be few opportunities now for family photos, at least ones with Megan included in them. There would be no pictures of her on her next birthday, or as a four-year-old in her uniform on her first day of school.

At a little after half past nine I gave Megan’s hair one last brush and stood at the window with her in my arms. Up until that day, I had always dropped her off at the family centre, a contact supervisor covering the return journey. But since it was Christina’s last contact, Hazel had arranged for social services to transport both ways, in case Christina or one of her friends made an attempt at abduction – if ever there was a moment when a distressed parent might try something reckless, it was during their final session of contact. It had happened before and I knew security at the family centre would be heightened, just in case. For my part, I was relieved that I didn’t have to witness their final hug; I had witnessed last farewells before, and the sadness of it stayed with me for days.

I saw Christina the next day though, at Megan’s LAC review. It was raining again, but, eager to avoid bumping into Veronica outside of the meeting, I took my time searching for a place to park, arriving at the council offices just a few minutes before the scheduled start. It wasn’t Veronica’s fault that Megan couldn’t stay with us, but for some reason I felt a lingering resentment towards her, probably because she had been the first to suggest that a new family had been found.

The receptionist directed me up to a small conference room on the top floor of the building. The air in the corridor up there was fusty, the carpet threadbare and so faded that the colour was unidentifiable; a greyish, milky fawn, like stale, cold tea. A few doors stood open to reveal mostly empty rooms, aluminium shelving abandoned in the corner of one, old, water-damaged books piled up in another.

When I entered the small conference room where the meeting was to be held, the first person I noticed was Alex Stone, a mature but wiry black man with a smooth bald head and brown eyes magnified by the thick-lensed glasses he wore. Standing at the head of a long oval table, Alex was shaking out a light grey overcoat, brushing at the suede collar with his free hand.

I had met Alex several times before and when he looked up and saw me he draped his coat over one of the nearby chairs and then strode over to shake my hand. Shunning the casual jumpers and cords popular in social work circles, Alex was dressed immaculately in a well-cut dark-blue suit and crisp pale-pink shirt, his tie a duskier, deeper pink. Still clutching my hand, he asked after Emily and Jamie, whose names he miraculously remembered, even though it must have been over a year since we’d last met.

Veronica met my eye only briefly as I skirted the table. I forced myself to offer her a smile, though I could only conjure a weak one. She nodded and smiled back, though seemed uncomfortable and quickly glanced away. ‘We’re still waiting for the child’s social worker,’ Alex said in a deep baritone voice as he took his own seat. ‘She called to say she’d be a few minutes late. I plan to begin soon after she arrives. I haven’t heard anything from the child’s mother, but one would hope that she’s on her way.’

Veronica gave a tiny, almost imperceptible snort. Annoyed, I glanced at her, but she kept her eyes focused on her notebook, her pen hovering above it. At the sound of a mobile going off, Alex lifted his hand in apology and left the room to take the call. Silence took over. Apart from the intermittent sound of car tyres on wet tarmac outside, there wasn’t a sound in the room. I found myself studying the empty aluminium chairs dotted around the table and piled high in one corner of the room. They put me in mind of the riverside café near our home, where hot drinks and pastries were served throughout the year from a wooden hut by a hardy soul who didn’t seem to notice the cold. I found myself wishing I was there now, Megan skipping around while I bought some pellets for the ducks (a profitable sideline for the tea hut), Emily and Jamie waiting for a bacon sandwich.

The sound of the door creaking transported me back into the room. Hazel came in first, a sodden umbrella hanging from her wrist by a handle of thin rope. Christina blasted in afterwards, following Hazel around the table and sitting in one of the chairs I’d been staring at. Christina’s eyes ran around the room. I smiled when she settled her gaze on me. ‘That got me here,’ she said, banging her hand on her chest. ‘What you did for me yesterday really got me. It was so nice.’ She must have noticed my blank expression because just as the door opened and Alex re-entered the room she said, ‘The photos.’

‘I’m glad you liked them,’ I said softly, as Alex cleared his throat. He waited for silence and then interlinked his hands, resting them on the dark-blue file in front of him.

‘Thank you, everyone. I’d like to start now, if I may. I’m Alex Stone, Independent Reviewing Officer for this meeting today.’ I remembered then that Alex was a stickler for following the proper procedures. There were only five of us in the room, but he asked that we announce our names and roles to the group, inclining his head first to Veronica. After Hazel and I introduced ourselves, all attention fell upon Christina.