I Miss Mummy: The true story of a frightened young girl who is desperate to go home. Cathy Glass
On the work surface in the kitchen, almost as a testament to Alice’s disappearance, was the dinner I’d plated and covered the night before. If Alice had arrived hungry, as children often do, I could have easily reheated her dinner in the microwave, whatever time of night. Now I removed the cover from the plate and, scraping the congealed casserole into the bin, put the plate in the dishwasher. Dear Alice, wherever could she be? She had been missing for twelve hours now, which is a long time for a child of four. She and her mother – who I knew from the referral was called Leah and was twenty-three – had vanished into thin air. Where could they have gone? Then I wondered if they had been found and Alice had been returned to her grandparents, in which case Leah would now be in police custody, for I knew that despite any sympathy I had for Leah’s desperate bid to keep her daughter, snatching a child, especially a child protected by a court order, is a very serious offence and Leah would be prosecuted and very likely sent to prison. It was all so very sad.
At 7.00 a.m. my speculation and worries had to be put on hold as I swung into action at the start of the school day. It was Friday, thank goodness, and I was looking forward to the weekend. Apart from getting out of the routine of school for two days we were all going to a birthday party on Sunday afternoon – a friend of mine was forty and was having an open house to celebrate. Fuelled by a large mug of coffee and the prospect of the weekend, I went upstairs and woke everyone with a cheery ‘Good morning’. As I went into each of the children’s bedrooms I was met with a question or statement about Alice.
‘Is Alice here?’ Paula asked.
‘I didn’t hear you in the night,’ Lucy said.
‘She must have been very quiet,’ Adrian commented.
I had to tell each of them that Alice hadn’t arrived and I hadn’t heard anything further.
The routine of school took over for the next hour, culminating in my waving Adrian, Lucy and Paula goodbye at the front door with ‘Have a good day’. Adrian had a ten-minute walk to school, Lucy had a twenty-minute bus ride and Paula, in her last year of primary school, had recently persuaded me to let her walk to school by herself. It was only ten minutes, with one road to cross, and I knew I had to give her this responsibility in preparation for her going to secondary school in September when she, like most of her class, would be catching the bus to school without their mothers. And Paula wasn’t actually walking to school alone but was knocking on the door for a friend who lived halfway down our street.
Having seen everyone off I cleaned up and, checking on the whereabouts of our cat, Toscha, left the house to do a supermarket shop. I couldn’t wait in all day on the off chance that Alice might arrive. I’d left the answerphone on and the social services had my mobile number. Also, I was pretty certain that if Alice was coming to me during the day the social worker would phone me first before bringing her, as opposed to during the night, when it wasn’t unusual for the police to take a child straight to the carer.
As it was, Friday passed and the only person who phoned was Jill, asking if I’d heard anything from the social services, which I hadn’t. Apparently she’d tried to contact Martha but had been told by a colleague she had back-to-back case conferences and was therefore unavailable for most of the day. ‘It’s not very good practice,’ Jill said. ‘Someone from the department should have phoned you or me with an update, even if it was to say there was no news. We’ll keep the foster placement with you open over the weekend and hope that Alice is found, but we can’t hold it open indefinitely.’ Jill wasn’t being heartless but practical: if Alice wasn’t coming to me then another child would. It’s a sad fact that so many children need fostering that in most areas in the UK the demand for foster placements outstrips the number of available foster carers.
‘I was wondering if Alice had possibly been found and allowed to stay with her grandparents?’ I suggested to Jill. ‘They were looking after her before Leah snatched her.’
‘I’m sure someone from the social services would have told us,’ Jill said. ‘Although I agree it wouldn’t be the first time arrangements had changed and no one had thought to notify us. If Martha doesn’t get back to me today I’ll phone her first thing on Monday.’
‘OK. Thanks, Jill,’ I said. Then I asked the question that had been troubling me since I’d first read Alice’s details on the referral. ‘Jill, why wasn’t Alice allowed to stay with her grandparents instead of being brought into care? According to the referral she’d been there for six months and was very happy.’
‘I’m not sure. I think there were issues about the grandparents allowing Leah to see Alice.’
‘So Leah wasn’t allowed to see her own daughter?’ I asked, surprised. ‘That’s very unusual.’
‘Very,’ Jill said. ‘I don’t know the reason.’
I didn’t hear anything about Alice on Saturday, although I was half expecting to, hoping every phone call was to say Alice had been found safe and well. I had another restless night, listening for the phone or the doorbell as I had done the previous night. Jill had been right: an update to keep me in the picture, even if there was no news, would have been preferable to hearing nothing. I suppose I should have been used to not knowing, for foster carers are often left in the lurch and not included in the loop of information circulating among the professionals involved in a case. Although sharing information and keeping all professionals informed in childcare cases has improved since I first started fostering, largely because of the passing of the Children’s Acts, there is still a way to go. Often foster carers are bottom of the list when it comes to being kept informed, but when information is urgently required by a social worker about a child in care – for a report or court case – the carer is suddenly very popular, for we know the child better than anyone and have the information required to hand.
What I didn’t know at the time, but found out later, was that no one was being kept informed – not the social services, the grandparents, who were beside themselves with worry, the Guardian ad Litem, or any of the other professionals connected with Alice’s case – because of a ‘news blackout’. The police, fearful for Alice’s safety, were in sensitive, on-going and secret negotiations with her mother, via text messages, to try to persuade her to leave Alice in a public place where she could be collected.
Tired from two nights of little sleep and much anxiety, but determined to go to the party, at twelve noon on Sunday I changed out of my jeans and jumper and into a dress, stockings and high heels.
‘Blimey. Mum’s got legs,’ Adrian remarked dryly.
‘You look nice,’ Paula said.
‘Shall I do your make-up?’ Lucy asked, which I took as a compliment – that I was worth the effort and not beyond hope, as my tired reflection in the mirror sometimes suggested.
Half an hour later, all in our Sunday best, and me with a professionally applied mascara and eye shadow (Lucy wanted to be a beautician), and clutching a present and bottle of wine for the hostess, we piled into the car and headed up the M1. Once again I had left the answerphone on, and my mobile was in my handbag; if I was needed I could be home in twenty minutes. But it was true to say that my concerns for Alice had lessened during the morning because I was sure Alice must have been found by now and was with her grandparents, and that no one had thought to tell me. I simply couldn’t see how a mother with a young child could have avoided the police for all this time.
We had a really good time at the party and my mobile didn’t go off during the afternoon or evening. The house was overflowing with old friends and families with children my children knew. There was a disco in one room, and the older children kept the younger children entertained. There was plenty to eat and drink, although as I was driving I had only one glass of wine early on and then kept to soft drinks. We all enjoyed ourselves tremendously, but with school the following morning we said our goodbyes, as most other families did, just before 9.00 p.m., and we arrived home at 9.30.
As soon as I opened the front door and stepped into the hall I saw the light flashing on the answerphone, signalling a message. Close up, I saw that the indicator