I Miss Mummy: The true story of a frightened young girl who is desperate to go home. Cathy Glass
which seemed at odds with Alice’s needs. From what Alice had been saying all morning she appeared to have a strong attachment to her mother, whom she wouldn’t be seeing, a strong attachment to her grandparents, whom she would be seeing for only one hour every two weeks, and no attachment to her father whom, with his new wife, Alice would be seeing twice a week and with whom she would be going to live within a month. Knowing very little of Alice’s background, I could only assume I’d misinterpreted what Alice had been telling me, and that there were sound reasons for the decisions that had been made.
Alice looked up from the toy box as I entered, and I smiled. ‘That was Martha, your social worker,’ I said. ‘She’s coming to visit us this afternoon.’
‘When can I see my mummy?’ Alice asked, aware Martha was responsible for when she saw her.
‘I’m not sure,’ I hedged. It wasn’t my position to tell Alice she wouldn’t be seeing her mother; that was the responsibility of her social worker, who should have built up a relationship with Alice and, with the details of Alice’s background, could explain to her why she wouldn’t be seeing her mother and answer her questions. ‘But you will be seeing your dad and Sharon tomorrow,’ I added.
‘And Nana and Grandpa?’ Alice asked. ‘When can I see them?’
‘We’ll ask Martha when we see her this afternoon. But you will be seeing them before too long.’ That was all I could say, but even then, knowing so little, I instinctively felt uncomfortable that Alice was not seeing her mother, and very little of her grandparents, when they had been her main carers. Alice was clearly very close to them and was missing them badly.
It was now 11.20 a.m. and I wondered about taking Alice to the park. It was only fifteen minutes’ walk away, and if Martha wasn’t coming until 4.00 p.m. there would be plenty of time. But, aware Martha had been vague about the exact time of her visit and not wishing to risk being out again when a social worker called, I decided to leave the park for another day. I exchanged one box of toys for another and sat with Alice while she played. She seemed a very self-possessed child: although she liked it when I joined in her games she didn’t continually seek my attention but was happy to play alone, preferably in the same room as me. As she played she made little comments about the toys, which were obviously all new to her, and mentioned the toys she had at home with her mum and also at her nana’s house. I told her I hoped we would be getting some of her own toys and clothes soon, as Martha was going to see Nana.
‘I hope she doesn’t make my nana cry again,’ Alice said.
‘No, she won’t,’ I reassured her, but I thought that when her grandmother learned of the very limited contact arrangements cry was exactly what she was likely to do.
Jill phoned to say she’d spoken to Martha and as Martha wasn’t sure what time she’d be with us, Jill would have to leave visiting us until another day. ‘You know to check and sign the forms,’ she reminded me. ‘Although if their computer is still down Martha won’t have the placement forms.’
At 1.00 p.m. I asked Alice what she would like for lunch. ‘A cheese and chutney sandwich, please,’ Alice said, ‘like my nana makes.’ I thought I would be setting myself up for failure if I tried to replicate Nana’s sandwich alone, so I suggested to Alice that she help me and she could show me how her nana made the sandwich.
Alice stood on a stool beside me in the kitchen and gave instructions on how thick to cut the bread, how thin to grate the cheese, how much chutney to put in and, once the sandwich was closed, how to cut it diagonally into four triangles.
‘It’s nearly right,’ Alice said as we sat at the table and she took her first bite. ‘I think Nana might use different chutney.’
I smiled. ‘When I meet your nana, I’ll ask her what type of chutney she uses and I’ll buy some the same.’ I dearly hoped it wasn’t home-made, which would have been right out of my league. ‘You’re going to nursery tomorrow,’ I said as we ate. ‘Do you like nursery?’
Alice nodded. ‘Is Nana taking me?’
‘No, love, I’ll be taking you. Did your nana used to take you?’
‘Yes, and sometimes my mummy and sometimes Grandpa, and sometimes they all took me, and I had lots of people.’ She gave a little smile, happy at the recollection. ‘Why can’t they take me to nursery now?’ she suddenly asked, her face serious.
‘Alice, you remember we talked about how I shall be doing “mummy things” for you while you’re living with me – those things Mummy, Nana and Grandpa did for you?’ Alice nodded. ‘Well, taking you to nursery is one of those things, as well as making your meals, and helping you to clean your teeth and have a bath.’
‘Mummy used to give me a bath,’ Alice said. ‘And sometimes Nana did. But Grandpa didn’t. He said it was because I was a young lady.’
I smiled at this image of a pleasant, normal, loving family, and wondered again how it had all gone so badly wrong. I obviously knew nothing about Alice’s grandparents, but from the memories Alice had shared with me they seemed lovely people who had clearly been an important part of Alice’s childhood and doted on her. They must be devastated, I thought, at having their grandchild brought into care. It all seemed so very, very sad, and if I was honest it didn’t make much sense.
‘I shall be collecting you early from nursery tomorrow and I’ll take you to the family centre to see your dad and Sharon,’ I explained. ‘I think you have seen them there before.’ Alice continued eating, her expression blank, as though these arrangements were of little interest to her. ‘Is that OK, then?’ I asked.
‘Don’t mind,’ Alice said and changed the subject. I felt a stab of unease. Usually when a child first comes into care, they can’t wait to see their parents, but then from what Alice had said so far it was her mother and grandparents to whom she’d been close and for whom she now pined, not her father and his new wife, Sharon.
Four o’clock is not the best time for a social worker to visit, as it is the time when children arrive home from school, badly in need of a drink and snack, and all talking at once with their day’s news. I could only say a brief hi to Adrian, Paula and Lucy as they came home, and had to let them get on with it while I showed Martha through to the sitting room, where Alice was watching some children’s television. ‘We’d better switch that off for now,’ I said gently to Alice. ‘I think Martha would like to talk to us.’
Alice didn’t complain at having her viewing interrupted, but gave a small stoical nod. I switched off the television and hovered. Aware that social workers usually spend some time alone with the child – to discuss any issues the child might not feel comfortable talking about in front of the carer – I said to Martha, ‘Shall I leave you two alone now or later?’
I was expecting Martha to say later, as it would have been reassuring for Alice to see the social worker and me chatting and getting along before I disappeared, but she said, ‘Yes, now, please. Oh, and remind me before I go that I’ve got some of Alice’s things in the car.’ Then turning to Alice: ‘I’ve been to see your nana.’
Before I left the room I caught a glimpse of Alice’s face at the mention of her nana and my heart went out to her. Her little face brightened for a moment and then saddened as she asked: ‘Is my Nana still crying?’
‘No,’ Martha said. ‘She’s fine and sends her love. You’ll see her next week, and you can phone her on Saturday.’ I dearly hoped Alice didn’t know the days of the week, for she’d just been told it would be five days before she could speak to her nana and seven until she saw her – an eternity in a young child’s life.
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