I Miss Mummy: The true story of a frightened young girl who is desperate to go home. Cathy Glass
would be seeing and phoning her grandparents, and she would also be seeing lots more of her dad and Sharon.
‘I don’t want my dad and Sharon,’ Alice said fretfully. ‘I want my mummy and Nana.’
‘There! Told you!’ Lucy put in.
‘Why can’t she see her mum?’ Paula asked.
‘Alice’s mother is unwell,’ I said, looking pointedly at Paula and Lucy. ‘She isn’t up to it at present. But Alice will be seeing her grandparents and I’m sure they’ll tell Alice how her mummy is.’
Lucy snorted. ‘Oh yeah. Right. In supervised contact?’ she said cynically, having experienced supervised contact. ‘As soon as her gran mentions her mum she’ll be stopped from saying anything. You’re not allowed to talk about other people at contact, especially those connected with the case.’ While there was an element of truth in this, Lucy was exaggerating the situation and her attitude wasn’t helping Alice, who was now crying again.
‘It will be fine for your nana to tell you that Mummy is OK,’ I reassured Alice. ‘And when I next speak to your social worker I’ll ask if we can have a photograph of Mummy, and I’ll frame it, and we’ll put it on that shelf.’ I pointed to the bookshelf in the recess by her bed.
Alice brightened a little. ‘And can I have a photograph of Nana and Grandpa?’
‘Yes. And they can all watch over you while you sleep.’ Alice finally wiped her eyes. I always try to obtain photographs of the child’s parents (or main carers) as soon as possible after a child arrives. It is surprising just how much comfort having these photographs gives a child, and the child often kisses the photograph goodnight.
‘Why don’t you phone the social worker now and ask her to get them?’ Paula asked.
‘Martha is leaving the case, so as soon as we have a new social worker I’ll ask.’
‘All change!’ Lucy said disparagingly, referring to Alice’s change of social worker and all the changes of social workers she’d experienced. ‘Pass the parcel!’
‘Enough!’ I said to Lucy. She was in rather an antagonistic mood and while I appreciated why, she needed to stop it, as it wasn’t helping Alice. I’d noticed before that when a new child arrived it had an adverse effect on Lucy for the first few days. Although Lucy went out of her way to help settle in the new arrival, as did Paula, it reminded Lucy of her own unsettled past and painful memories resurfaced. I knew she would be fine in a day or so.
I decided to leave unpacking Alice’s suitcases until after dinner and, with everyone helping, we sat down to eat thirty minutes later. But unlike at breakfast, when Lucy had set a good example and had encouraged Alice to eat, Lucy now toyed with her food and ate virtually nothing. Alice seemed to be copying her and I found myself having to encourage them both to eat, my own eating interspersed with sideways glances and ‘Come on, eat up.’ Out of the two it was Lucy I was most concerned about, for I knew Alice had had a reasonable lunch – sandwich, yogurt and fruit – but I’d no idea what, if anything, Lucy had eaten. I also knew that if I asked her she’d become evasive and it would turn into an issue.
Eventually I began collecting together the plates. ‘Are you sure you’ve had enough?’ I asked Lucy and Alice. They both nodded. Apart from being concerned that Lucy wasn’t getting enough for her body’s requirements, I was also concerned that Paula might copy her example. Adrian had always been a good eater and he was that much older, but Paula was at an impressionable age and looked up to Lucy. In all other respects Lucy had settled in very well, was coming to terms with her past and was growing very close to Paula, Adrian and me. It was a shame there was still the issue of her eating.
Before I ran Alice’s bath, Adrian took the two suitcases upstairs and into Alice’s bedroom. I lay one flat on the floor and opened it, leaving the other standing by the wall. Opening a child’s bag or case is always a poignant moment: a bittersweet reminder of the life the child has left behind. Sometimes the bag contains no more than a handful of ragged dirty clothes which aren’t of any use, and I make do with clothes from my emergency supply and then go shopping at the earliest opportunity to buy new. But as I opened the first of Alice’s two cases my heart ached: rows and rows of her little clothes, washed and neatly pressed, and smelling of a fabric conditioner which, while unfamiliar to me, would be very familiar to Alice. I looked through the case and found skirts, jumpers, dresses, pyjamas, dressing-gown, slippers, little jogging outfits, coat, gloves and scarf, and shoes wrapped in a plastic bag. It was like a suitcase packed for a holiday where, unsure of the weather, all eventualities had been catered for. I knew how much love and care had gone into that packing; Alice’s nana had wanted to make sure Alice would be comfortable and have everything she needed. I also knew the pain it must have caused her nana to pack her cherished granddaughter’s belongings for a holiday from which she would never return.
Alice, who had been watching me, wide eyed and in silence, now began diving into the case, taking out the little bundles of her clothes and pressing them to her face. The smell and feel was a welcome reminder to her that at least some of her past had come with her. She took out another bundle of clothes and an envelope appeared. ‘To the Carer’ was written on the outside and I quickly picked it up. Directing Alice towards the wardrobe so she could begin putting away some of her clothes, I moved to one side and slit open the envelope. My eyes filled as I read the short handwritten note: ‘Dear Carer, Please take good care of our beloved granddaughter. She means everything to us. God bless you. Janice and Martin Jones.’ I looked at the note and then at Alice. I dearly wished I could have phoned Alice’s grandparents there and then and tried to reassure them. But the social worker had clearly stated that phone contact should take place on Saturday evenings, and I knew I couldn’t go against her instructions.
Tucking the note into my pocket, I joined Alice in unpacking. She was engrossed in the task and, while many of the clothes would need refolding later if they weren’t going to be badly creased, she was happy in her work and, with her clothes in the wardrobe, it was starting to look more like home. I was conscious of the time: I needed to get Alice into bed before long, as she would have to be up early in the morning for nursery, and she hadn’t had her bath yet. I suggested to her that we left unpacking the second case until the following day.
‘Can we just find Brian?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I smiled, guessing that Brian was a favourite toy rather than a stowaway. ‘I hope Nana has remembered to pack him,’ I said.
‘She will,’ Alice said. I shared her confidence: Alice’s grandmother had remembered to pack everything else that Alice could possibly need, so I was sure she would have remembered a favourite toy.
Closing the empty suitcase I stood it on the landing, ready for putting away later. I laid the second case on the floor in Alice’s bedroom and unzipped the lid. Sure enough, to Alice’s delight, there lay Brian: a cuddly teddy bear, resplendent in a Nottingham Forest football kit.
‘Who supports Nottingham Forest?’ I asked.
‘My grandpa,’ Alice said, smiling, and, scooping up the bear, clutched him to her. ‘Grandpa bought him at an away match when they won,’ Alice explained knowledgeably. ‘Brain Clough was the manager and Grandpa said he should have a bear named after him because he had done so well with his team. You can say hello to Brian the Bear if you like.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, shaking his paw.
We assume our lives are pretty constant and that our surroundings and routine will remain constant too, but for a child who is taken into care all continuity vanishes when the child is suddenly uprooted and set down in a strange environment, with strange people and customs. Now that Alice had been reunited with Brian the Bear and her clothes