Can I Let You Go?: Part 2 of 3: A heartbreaking true story of love, loss and moving on. Cathy Glass
know you do, love.’
The hairbrush was filthy by the time Faye had finished brushing the horses’ manes, so I put it into a carrier bag to wash on our return home, and gave Faye plenty of antibacterial wipes for her hands.
On Wednesday I took Faye to see her grandparents again, and on the return journey she finally remembered, without prompting, when to press the bell button to stop the bus. ‘Well done,’ I said. I decided that if she did it correctly on two more journeys then she could travel to see her grandparents by herself, as Becky wanted her to. Faye didn’t seem too bothered if she made the journey alone or not. True to her character, she tended to go along with everyone else’s wishes.
Edith, my support social worker, telephoned on Thursday afternoon for an update and to see how Faye had settled in. When I was fostering a child she would visit every month to check I was caring for them to the required standard, assess my ongoing training needs, give support and advice where necessary and sign off my log notes. As Faye had been referred from adult services it was felt that Becky could support and supervise me, although I could phone Edith if I needed to and I still sent her my monthly reports.
Now Faye knew that Becky and I wanted her to talk to me about her feelings and her pregnancy, she continued to do so in a relaxed and spontaneous manner. The number of comments and questions steadily increased, and they weren’t just to me but to Lucy, Paula and Adrian as well – as and when the moment arose, although Adrian usually told Faye to ask me if she wanted to know something about pregnancy or childbirth. I always answered her questions honestly, in detail, and using language appropriate for her level of understanding, rephrasing and repeating if she didn’t grasp it the first time. I found some books that I’d used with my own children and children I’d fostered, which explained how babies were conceived, grew inside the mother’s womb and were born. One of the books had large colourful illustrations and told the story of a new life as if it was an incredible adventure. Faye loved the story with the passion a child shows for a fairy tale, which in a way it was. She wanted me to read it over and over again. The wonder of creation never ceases to amaze me: a microscopic sperm joining with a single-cell egg and growing into a baby. It’s pretty awe-inspiring, even for adults, and it was true magic for Faye. However, in all our readings and discussions about babies I was no nearer to finding out who the father of Faye’s baby was, although we got close a few times.
‘You understand that it takes a man and a woman to make a baby?’ I asked Faye one time.
‘Of course I know,’ she said a little indignantly.
‘Good. So you know that every baby must have a daddy, even though he might not see the mother. He gave the mummy the sperm to make the baby.’
‘Yes, I know. There’s a picture here,’ she said, flipping back through the book.
‘So your baby has a daddy, although you may not see him now.’
‘I know,’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘Do you want to tell me about him?’ I asked.
‘No. Gran wouldn’t like it.’
‘But you know you can talk to me or Becky about him?’
‘Yes, but I don’t want to. It’s our secret.’
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘Yes. And I agree with him,’ she said emphatically.
I could have continued my questioning, but I felt to do so would have been unreasonably intrusive and would possibly have forced her into saying something she’d later regret or even to make up something. Becky had asked me to try to find out who the father was, as she had concerns that Faye might have been forced into having intercourse, but from Faye’s manner when I’d mentioned the father I didn’t think so. She wasn’t distraught or tearful as surely she would have been had she been raped. It was still possible she’d been persuaded or coerced into having sex, and, if so, the circumstances in which that had happened would need to be looked into if they ever became known. But, then again, Faye had sexual feelings as much as anyone, so she might have entered into the relationship of her own free will, although where and with whom would remain a mystery for now.
Faye began making the journey alone to her grandparents’ flat the following week. Each morning before she left I checked she had her phone and bus ticket with her, but I was on tenterhooks until Stan phoned to say she’d arrived. On the return journey I telephoned her grandparents to say she was back. I didn’t think we were being overprotective, for although Faye had used the buses to go to and from the day centre for many years, the route to my house was very different and in the opposite direction, so checking she’d arrived seemed a sensible precaution. The first three trips went without incident, but then on Saturday, at the time Faye should have been leaving to catch the bus to me, Stan telephoned and asked if I could collect her in the car. He said that while she’d been waiting at the bus stop outside the flats some boys who lived locally had begun taunting her and calling her names. She had tried to ignore them for a while, but then she’d felt threatened and had fled back to the flat. I was horrified, angry and upset that anyone could be so cruel as to pick on someone with a learning disability – as, I expected, her grandparents were. But when I arrived Stan was philosophical.
‘It’s not the first time it’s happened and I doubt it will be the last,’ he said. ‘Faye does her best to ignore them, but today it got personal. It was worse when she was at school. They’d surround her and take her snack money. Bullying was one of the reasons we moved her to a special school.’
It was pitiful and I felt my eyes well. Poor, gentle Faye, who’d never hurt anyone, having to put up with that. Yet while I was incensed, Faye and her grandparents seemed to accept bullying was part of her life. Wilma said that these lads were part of the group who’d picked on her at school.
‘They want reporting to the police,’ I said.
‘We have done in the past,’ Stan said. ‘But by the time the police arrive they’re long gone. The sooner we move away from here the better.’
‘Is there any news on that?’ I asked.
‘No,’ Wilma said with a sigh. ‘I phoned housing again on Monday. We’re gradually moving up the waiting list for either a bungalow or a ground-floor flat, but there are others ahead of us.’
‘I’d have thought you would be a priority.’
‘We are, but because of the ageing population there are many others like us who need ground-floor housing too.’
‘Can’t Becky put a word in for you?’ I asked. I knew that social workers could write to the housing department if there were special circumstances.
‘She has,’ Wilma said. ‘And our doctor has sent a letter. We’ll just have to be patient and wait now.’
Faye kissed her gran goodbye and then Stan came into the corridor as usual to see us to the elevator. Outside the block of flats there was no sign of the bullies, but I saw Faye glance around. I wouldn’t bring up the subject unless Faye did. There wasn’t much I could say. She’d probably had far more personal experience of dealing with bullies than I had, and there wasn’t any advice I could give her beyond what she was already doing – ignore them. However, once in the car Faye confided that this time they’d been calling her names because she was pregnant.
‘They asked me if Snuggles was the baby’s father,’ she said.
‘That was stupid of them.’
‘I didn’t tell Gran, it would have upset her.’
‘Yes.’ I paused. ‘Faye, I’m wondering if perhaps it would be wiser if I started giving you a lift in the car when you visit your grandparents. Not just because of what happened today, but as you’re getting bigger now you don’t want to be standing around waiting for buses.’
‘Yes. I like going in your car,’ Faye said easily.
That evening I telephoned Faye’s grandparents