I Miss Mummy: The true story of a frightened young girl who is desperate to go home. Cathy Glass
p.m., a male voice, stern sounding and quite terse: ‘Message for Mrs Glass. This is the out-of-hours duty social worker, please call me immediately on…I was informed you were to be the carer for Alice Jones.’ My heart missed a beat at the mention of her name, as the answerphone continued to the second message, timed at 8.47 p.m. It was the same male voice, now very impatient, almost demanding: ‘It’s the duty social worker again. I’ve already left a message. Would Mrs Glass phone immediately?’ He repeated the number and hung up. In his third message, timed at 9.05 p.m., I could hear his anger: ‘I’ve phoned twice. Alice has been found. Call me immediately.’ And in his last call, timed at 9.16 p.m., he was rude: ‘What the hell is going on!’ he demanded. ‘Where are you? You were supposed to be looking after Alice. Phone immediately. It’s not good enough!’ He hung up, the line went dead and the answerphone clicked off.
With my heart racing and my fingers shaking, I quickly took my mobile from my handbag and checked for messages and missed calls. There were none. If he was angry, I was upset, and my legs trembled. I prided myself on being a good carer, experienced and professional, and now it seemed I had failed in my duty.
Adrian, Lucy and Paula came into the hall, with a glass of water each, en route to their bedrooms. The colour must have drained from my face. ‘What’s the matter?’ Adrian asked. Lucy and Paula had stopped too and all three were looking at me, very concerned.
‘Alice has been found,’ I said, picking up the receiver, ready to dial. ‘The duty social worker has been trying to contact me for the last hour. But no one called my mobile.’
‘And you’re surprised?’ Lucy asked sarcastically, remembering her own experiences with the social services before coming into care. I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand it.’ Still in my coat, I quickly dialled the duty social worker’s number, as Adrian, Lucy and Paula continued upstairs to take turns in the bathroom. Not only was I upset by the duty social worker’s manner and rudeness, but he had made it sound my fault, as though I was solely to blame. Had I done wrong in going out for the afternoon and evening, even though I’d had my mobile on? Neither Jill nor the social worker had told me to stay at home; in fact no one had told me anything. But as I listened to the phone ringing, waiting for the duty social worker to answer, I knew the real reason I was upset was because I hadn’t been there for Alice. The poor child: whatever must she be thinking? I had badly let her down even before I’d met her.
‘So you’re there, at last!’ the duty social worker snapped, finally answering the phone. ‘I’ve been trying to get you all evening. Alice has been found.’ I didn’t know the duty social worker and, as far I was aware, I hadn’t had any dealings with him before. He would probably be from an agency, covering out-of-office-hours calls.
Ignoring his gross exaggeration of ‘all evening’ – his first call had been timed at 8.30, fifty minutes before – I held my voice steady as I said: ‘I’m sorry you were unable to reach me. Why didn’t you phone my mobile?’
‘Wasn’t aware I had your mobile number,’ he said, no less tersely. Then, clearly having found it on the paperwork, he added dismissively: ‘Oh yes, but it’s not obvious. At least you’re there now.’ I thought an apology wouldn’t have gone amiss but, aware Alice was waiting somewhere, waiting to be brought to me, I didn’t pursue it. ‘The child is at the police station,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to bring her to you, but it won’t be straight away. I’m stretched to the limit here.’
‘Do you want me to collect Alice from the police station?’ I offered.
‘You can’t,’ he snapped. ‘It needs an SW’ – social worker – ‘to place a child who’s on an Interim Care Order.’ It was a technicality, but I realized he was probably right. As a foster carer I couldn’t simply go to the police station and collect Alice; procedure dictated a social worker or police officer should bring her to me.
‘Is Alice all right?’ I asked anxiously. ‘Where’s she been?’
‘No idea. Mum snatched her, and then disappeared, that’s all I know. I’ll get to you as soon as I can, but I’m the only one on duty.’
‘How long do you think you’ll be?’ I asked, mindful that little Alice, after three days missing and goodness knows what else, was now waiting at the police station instead of snuggled in her bed upstairs and being comforted by me.
‘As soon as I can,’ he snapped. ‘Why? You’re not going out again, are you?’
That was the final straw. I’d had enough of his rudeness and intimidating manner. ‘No, of course I’m not going out,’ I snapped back. ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. But I’d have thought, given Alice’s age and what has happened to her, it should be a priority for you to get her to me.’
It went quiet for a moment, then he said stiffly: ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can, Mrs Glass. You do your job and I’ll do mine.’ And he hung up.
I remained where I was by the phone for a second and then replaced the receiver with more force than was necessary. ‘Ignorant pig,’ I muttered. Overworked he might be, but that was no reason to be rude. I glanced up the stairs and saw Lucy and Paula watching me from the landing, looking very worried.
‘It’s all right,’ I reassured them. ‘That was the duty social worker. He’s bringing Alice to us as soon as he can.’
‘Terrific. Is she OK?’ Paula said.
‘I think so, although the social worker didn’t know much.’
‘Do they ever?’ Lucy said disparagingly.
‘Now, now,’ I cautioned lightly. ‘They’re understaffed.’ Lucy took every opportunity to criticize social workers and I knew she had to start letting go of the anger from her past and look to the future. ‘Alice is safe at the police station,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know what time she will be here. I want the two of you to get ready for bed, and if you’re still awake when Alice arrives you can see her. Otherwise you’ll see her in the morning.’
Lucy and Paula disappeared into their bedrooms to get changed, ready for bed, and I went upstairs to draw the curtains in what would soon be Alice’s room. The room was ready, as it had been since I was first told to expect Alice. There was a brightly coloured Cinderella duvet cover on the bed with a matching pillowcase, cuddly toys propped on the chair and posters of rabbits and kittens on the walls. I knew virtually nothing about Alice – only that she was small for her age and of average intelligence. More details would follow in the essential information forms, which Martha should bring when she visited Alice – presumably on Monday. What trauma Alice had suffered since going missing I couldn’t begin to guess, but clearly she was going to be very distressed, and I anticipated being up most of the night comforting her. For when all was said and done Alice was being brought to the house of a stranger (albeit a well-meaning one), in the middle of the night, by a man she didn’t know, having somehow got to the police station after going missing for three days. I thought she had a right to be upset.
Perhaps the duty social worker had heeded my comment about prioritizing his workload, for he must have left his office straight after we’d spoken. Thirty minutes later the doorbell rang and, with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, I ran to answer it.
Standing in the porch was a very tall man, over six feet, cradling a small bundle in a pink blanket.
‘Oh my,’ I said, peering into the bundle, and holding the door wider so that he could come in. ‘Oh, bless her, poor little mite.’
I looked closer at the child the duty social worker held as he stepped into the hall. With only her little face showing, Alice looked just like a sleeping doll. A few strands of light brown hair wisped around her