I Miss Mummy: The true story of a frightened young girl who is desperate to go home. Cathy Glass

       Chapter One

       Desperate

      ‘Mum has snatched her! The police are looking for them now. Goodness knows where they could have gone! They’re not at home.’

      I could hear the anxiety and panic in the social worker’s voice on the other end of the phone, and I appreciated why. From the little I knew of the child’s mother, I knew she was very unstable, with ongoing mental health problems, compounded by drug addiction. I also knew she was fiercely opposed to having her daughter taken into care and had been fighting the social services for three months to stop it. But while no one wants to see a child forcibly removed from home, sometimes there is no alternative if the child is to be kept from harm.

      ‘When did this happen?’ I asked, equally concerned.

      ‘Two hours ago. They can’t have got far. The police have circulated a description of them, and the ports and airports have been alerted. No one could have foreseen this happening – otherwise we’d have taken Alice sooner.’

      Alice was the little four-year-old I’d been expecting all afternoon. I’d been told the day before that the social services were going to court in the morning to ask the judge to grant an ICO (Interim Care Order) so that Alice could be brought into foster care. I knew from the referral (the print-out that gives the child’s basic details) that both her parents were drug users, and because neither of them could look after Alice she’d been staying with her maternal grandparents. I also remembered reading that Alice attended nursery from 9.00 a.m. to 3.15 p.m. every day.

      ‘Was Alice snatched from her nursery?’ I asked, puzzled, aware of the high security that now surrounds schools.

      There was a slight hesitation. ‘No. The head teacher phoned the social services first thing this morning to say Alice wasn’t in nursery. When we went to the grandparents’ home after court this morning, to collect Alice, she wasn’t there.’

      Now, I don’t think I’ve got incredible insight but if I’d been a social worker I think I might have heard alarm bells ringing if the child I was about to bring into care was suddenly absent from nursery on the morning of the court case.

      ‘We think the grandparents may have colluded in their granddaughter’s abduction,’ the social worker added. ‘They’re being interviewed by the police now, and I’m going to see them soon. I’ll phone you again later.’

      ‘All right. Thanks for letting me know. I do hope you find Alice soon.’

      ‘So do I,’ the social worker said. ‘And that she’s found safe.’

      I replaced the receiver and returned to the kitchen, where I had been preparing dinner. It was 5.30 p.m. and I’d been expecting Alice at 1.00. The apprehension and nervousness which I’d been feeling all afternoon, and indeed which I always felt when waiting for a new child to arrive, now developed into full anxiety. Although I’d never met Alice, and had only the briefest of details, I knew enough to be very worried. Her mother, mentally unstable and possibly under the influence of drugs, had snatched her daughter in a desperate bid to keep her, and was now on the run. Who knew what was going through that mother’s mind or what she might do in desperation? News headlines flashed across my anxious thoughts: Mum leaps off bridge with daughter, Mum and daughter found dead. My morbid speculations were far fetched, but such things do happen, particularly when a parent is desperate or under the influence of drugs.

      Ten minutes later the phone rang and I snatched it up, hoping it was news that Alice had been found safe and well. But it was Jill, my link worker from the agency I fostered for. In her voice I could hear the anxiety that I’d heard in the social worker’s, and which I now felt.

      ‘Did the social worker phone you?’ Jill asked. ‘I told her to contact you directly as soon as she heard anything. I’ve been in a meeting all afternoon.’

      ‘She phoned a short while ago, but they haven’t found Alice yet, although the police are out looking.’

      ‘Poor child,’ Jill said with a heartfelt sigh. ‘Poor mum.’

      ‘I know. But her mother must realize she can’t get away with it. They’ll be found eventually, and snatching her daughter is hardly going to count in her favour.’

      ‘Mum won’t have thought it through,’ Jill said. ‘With her level of problems she’ll have acted on impulse and won’t be thinking rationally.’ Which did nothing to ease my fear for mother’s and daughter’s safety. ‘Martha, the social worker, asked me if it was all right if they bring Alice straight to you when she’s found, assuming she doesn’t need hospital treatment, even if it’s out of office hours. I said I thought it would be.’

      ‘Yes, of course, bring her straight to me,’ I confirmed; then, unable to resist a dig: ‘I don’t really work to office hours, Jill.’

      ‘No, I know, but you know what I mean.’

      ‘Yes. Hopefully the police will find her soon.’

      ‘I hope so,’ Jill said. ‘The poor child will be upset enough already at having to come into care without all this.’

      Deep in thought, I returned to the kitchen and the dinner I was preparing, which was now running late.

      Adrian appeared, his stomach growling. ‘When’s dinner ready, Mum?’

      At fourteen, my son was continuously hungry, and growing upwards at an quite a rate. He was already four inches taller than me, and he was going to be six foot, like his father – who unfortunately no longer lived with us.

      ‘About half an hour till dinner,’ I said. ‘Have an apple if you’re hungry.’

      He nodded, and took an apple and banana from the fruit bowl, and a packet of crisps from the cupboard.

      ‘I hope that’s not going to spoil your appetite,’ I called after him, envious. I couldn’t have eaten all that and dinner without putting on weight. There was no answer, but I knew the snack wouldn’t spoil his appetite. Adrian never left his food, unlike Lucy, my twelve-year-old foster daughter who picked at her food.

      Presently Paula, my ten-year-old daughter, came into the kitchen and began foraging for food.

      ‘No, leave the biscuits,’ I said. ‘Dinner will only be fifteen minutes.’

      ‘Adrian’s got crisps,’ she said accusingly.

      ‘I know, and you can have a packet after dinner, if you’re still hungry. Although fruit would be better.’

      She pulled a face but left the biscuit tin untouched in the cupboard. ‘Isn’t that little girl coming?’ she asked, suddenly remembering that I’d said Alice would be with us for dinner.

      ‘Hopefully later,’ I said. ‘She’s been delayed.’

      Paula looked at me questioningly and, while I didn’t want to burden her with my anxiety about Alice’s safety, I knew I had to give her some explanation. ‘Alice is with her mother,’ I said, ‘and the social worker isn’t sure where they are.’

      Paula pulled another face, unimpressed. ‘How can they be lost?’

      ‘They’re not lost, just temporarily misplaced,’ I said lightly, and changed the subject. Paula can be a real worrier when it comes to little children, even worse than