Cruel to Be Kind: Saying no can save a child’s life. Cathy Glass
‘Of course he’s had a nice time,’ Caz snapped. I hadn’t intended any harm by the comment. I always ask a child if they’ve had a nice time if they’ve been somewhere.
‘Good. How are you doing?’ I tried again with Caz.
‘She’s had her toes off,’ her daughter said, stifling another yawn.
‘And it bleedin’ hurts,’ Caz said forcefully to her.
‘I’m sure it does,’ I sympathized. I would have liked to engage Caz in a proper conversation, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen, and Max seemed ready to leave.
‘My bag is under the bed,’ he said, struggling to bend down to retrieve it. I helped him pull the large zipper holdall from beneath the bed. ‘They remembered Buzz, so Adrian can have his back,’ he added.
‘Who’s Adrian?’ Caz said, suddenly turning to me.
‘My son. He’s waiting over there by the door with my daughter.’ She looked over and then returned her attention to her daughter. ‘Any good celeb gossip in there?’ she asked her, referring to the magazine.
‘Nah,’ she said, flicking the page and just looking at the pictures.
‘We’ll be off then,’ I said. ‘See you tomorrow.’
Caz turned to Max. ‘Give us a kiss then.’ She offered her cheek and he dutifully kissed it. ‘And your sister.’ His sister didn’t move, so Max squeezed around the bed to where she sat and she lowered her cheek, just enough for him to kiss it, while keeping her gaze on the magazine.
‘Goodbye,’ I said to them both, raising another smile. ‘Take care.’
But they kept their eyes down and Caz reached for the bag of sweets.
I picked up the holdall and we crossed to where Adrian and Paula were waiting and left. Some children become very distressed after separating from their parents at the end of contact, but Max seemed to deal with it in his usual pragmatic, matter-of-fact manner. He plodded along the corridor, then, taking the handrail, carefully manoeuvred himself down the stairs. By the time we were outside he was telling me he was hungry and asking if there would be time to have a snack before bed. I said there would be. We’d had an early dinner so it was reasonable for us to have a drink and a snack before bed. I asked Max if he’d been thirsty while he’d been on the ward, as he could take a bottle of water in with him next time. He said it was OK, as his sister had got him a bottle of cola. Then as I drove he asked if he could read in bed as he did at home.
‘Yes, of course, love. Once you’ve had your bath and are in your pyjamas. I’m pleased you like reading, it’s a nice way to end the day.’
It was 7.30 p.m. when we arrived home and the air was still warm, so the children ate the cheese on toast and cherry tomatoes I made for them sitting on the patio, while I took Max’s bag upstairs to unpack. All children in care feel more at home once they have some of their belongings around them, and I always make it a priority to unpack. It would also mean that Max would have fresh clothes for tomorrow without me running the washer-dryer tonight. I set the bag on the floor and unzipped it. I found Buzz and sat him on the bed where Max liked him and returned Adrian’s Buzz to his room. I began unpacking Max’s clothes, folding and hanging them in the drawers and wardrobe. As I did I noticed that all the labels showed they were for age 12 or older, as the pyjamas he’d worn the night before had, and of course they’d all been shortened in the arms and legs. However, while his school uniform had been neatly turned up and hemmed, as had the one he’d arrived in, his casual clothes were either rolled up or fastened with a safety pin. His pyjamas had been cut to length and were now fraying badly at the raw edges. I wondered why Caz hadn’t bothered to take up all his clothes properly, as it looked so much better and stopped the hem from fraying. There wasn’t much in the holdall, and I was aware that some parents of children in care purposely didn’t send many of their child’s belongings to the foster carer, in the hope that the child would soon be home. Having unpacked Max’s bag, I stowed it on top of his wardrobe. I went downstairs to start bringing the children up to bed and for a moment I thought Max had eaten the cherry tomatoes I’d put on his plate, but then Adrian said, ‘Max didn’t want his tomatoes, so I had them.’
‘OK, love, but that won’t do Max any good, will it?’ I said lightly.
‘I hate tomatoes,’ Max said.
‘They may not like you either,’ Adrian quipped, and both boys laughed.
I took Paula up to bed first, then Max and Adrian, and by a quarter to nine all three children were in bed. Paula was fast asleep and the boys were reading. Downstairs I took the opportunity to check a few details in the essential information forms, the first being the names of Max’s sisters. If I was going to meet them every evening, it would help to know their names and give me a better chance of establishing a relationship with them. I flicked through the sheets and found the page I wanted. They were called Kelly, Paris and Summer, aged seventeen, fifteen and thirteen respectively. Then I turned the page to the section that covered the reason Max was in care: he’d been left alone in the house while his mother was in hospital having her toes amputated. She had type 2 diabetes, and the primary cause of this condition was obesity. I struggled to understand why, having suffered so much, Caz appeared to be inflicting the same fate on her children, for clearly if something didn’t change Kelly, Paris, Summer and Max were all going to suffer as their mother was.
Chapter Seven
Max was already snoring loudly when I went up to bed, so I shut all the children’s bedroom doors, including his. Usually – unless a child specifically asks to have their door completely closed – I leave it ajar so I can hear them in the night if they are out of bed or upset, but I didn’t want Adrian being woken up again, and Max had slept well the night before. Knowing him a little better now, I felt sure he would call out if he needed me. I left my door open though, and Max’s snoring rumbled on in the distance all night, like a storm advancing and retreating. I would mention the snoring to the paediatrician when I took him for his medical.
The following morning we fell into our school routine and all three children were pleased it was Friday. Over breakfast (when I limited Max to one spoonful of sugar on his cereal) they talked about making a camp in the garden at the weekend. I thought this was a good idea, as it was a game Max could easily join in with. The weather was settled so I suggested we put up the tent on Saturday morning. It was a small one that the children sometimes used for playing.
‘Why not tonight?’ Adrian asked excitedly. Then remembering, ‘Oh yes, there won’t be time. We have to go to the hospital.’
‘I don’t mind if we don’t go,’ Max said, also delighted at the prospect of playing in a tent.
‘Your mother will mind,’ I said. ‘We can put up the tent first thing on Saturday morning, even before breakfast. And you’ll have all weekend to play in it.’
Max nodded, then looked thoughtful. ‘I think I’d rather have my breakfast first,’ he said.
‘OK, love,’ I smiled.
Sometimes I saw my parents at the weekend, but I’d purposely kept this weekend free to allow Max time to settle in. And, of course, we’d still be visiting the hospital on Saturday and Sunday from five-thirty till seven o’clock, but it wouldn’t be such a rush without school.
I’d arranged for Paula to be collected from nursery by a friend of mine who had a similar-aged child at the same nursery so that I could meet Mrs Marshall; we’d helped each other out in the past. Paula was looking forward to going to her friend’s house to play and I anticipated collecting her around one o’clock. I told Max I would be going to his school to meet his teacher and to hear how well he was doing in case he