The Silent Cry: There is little Kim can do as her mother's mental health spirals out of control. Cathy Glass
you find it hard with your husband working away?’ Shelley asked, taking a couple of biscuits.
‘I did to begin with,’ I said. ‘But we’re in a routine now. And my parents will always help out if necessary.’
‘I wish I had parents,’ she said.
‘Where are they?’ I asked. ‘Do you know?’ It was clear that Shelley wanted to talk, so I felt it was all right to ask this.
‘My mum’s dead, and I never knew my dad. I think he’s dead too,’ she said without self-pity.
‘I am sorry.’
She gave a small shrug. ‘It was a long time ago. It happened when I was a child. They were both heavy drug users. It was the drugs that killed my mum and I think my dad too. I remember my mum from when I was little, but not my dad. I never saw him. I have a photo of my mum at home. I keep it by my bed. But even back then you can see she was wasted from the drugs. When the kids at secondary school started boasting that they’d been trying drugs I used to think: you wouldn’t if you saw what they did. My mum was only twenty-six when she died, but she was all wrinkled and wizened, and stick thin.’
‘I am sorry,’ I said again. ‘You’ve had a lot to cope with in your life. And it must be difficult bringing up a child completely alone. Although you are doing a good job,’ I added.
Shelley gave a small nod and sipped her tea. ‘I was a week off my eighteenth birthday when I had Darrel,’ she said, setting the cup on the saucer. ‘All my plans had to be put on hold. I had great plans. I wanted to be something. Go to college and study music and try to become a professional singer. I thought I’d get a good job, buy a house and a car, and go on holidays like other people do. But that’s all gone now. I know other young single mums and, although we all love our children, if we’re honest we’d do things differently if we had our time over again – get a job and training first, meet someone, set up home and then have a family. You can’t do that if you have a child.’
‘It is difficult,’ I agreed. ‘You’re not in touch with any of your foster carers?’
‘No. I was moved so often I can’t even remember most of their names. Some of them were nice, others weren’t. The only one I really felt was like a mother to me was Carol. I was with her from when I was fourteen to when I was seventeen. She was so nice. She helped me through a really bad time. But when I was seventeen the social worker said I had to go and live in a semi-independence unit ready for when I left care. Carol tried to stay in touch – she phoned and put cards through my door – but I never got back to her.’
‘That’s a pity. Why not?’
Shelley shrugged. ‘Not sure. But I was dating then and I sort of put my trust in him.’
‘Have you thought about trying to contact Carol now?’ I asked. ‘I’m sure she’d be pleased to hear from you.’
‘It’s been over three years,’ Shelley said.
‘Even so, I still think she’d be pleased if you did get in touch. I know I am when a child I’ve fostered leaves and we lose contact, and then they suddenly phone or send a card or arrive at my door. Foster carers never forget the children they look after, but once the child has left the social services don’t tell us how you are doing.’
‘I didn’t realize that,’ Shelley said, slightly surprised. ‘I’ll think about it.’ She took another biscuit.
‘Are you sure I can’t make you something proper to eat?’ I asked.
‘No, really, I’m fine. I must go soon.’ But she didn’t make any move to go and I was happy for her to sit and talk. ‘When I found out I was pregnant,’ she continued, ‘Darrel’s father had already left me. I told the social worker getting pregnant was an accident, but it wasn’t a complete accident. I mean, I didn’t plan on getting pregnant – I wanted to go to college – but neither did I take any precautions. I was pretty messed up at the time, and I sort of thought that having a child would give me the family I’d never had. I wanted to be loved and needed.’
‘We all want that,’ I said. ‘It’s such a pity you weren’t found a forever family. I don’t understand why the social services didn’t look for an adoptive family for you, with both your parents dead.’
‘They did,’ Shelley said in the same matter-of-fact way. ‘I was adopted. But it didn’t work out.’
‘Didn’t work out?’ I asked, dismayed. ‘Adoption is supposed to be for life. In law, an adopted child is the same as a birth child.’
‘I know. They even changed my surname to theirs. I was with them for two years, from when I was nine. But then the woman got pregnant. They thought they couldn’t have kids and when the baby was born they were all over it and I was pushed out. That’s what it felt like. So I started playing up and being really naughty. I remember doing it because I felt like no one loved me, so they put me back into care.’
‘That’s awful,’ I said. ‘I am so sorry to hear that.’ It was such a sad story, but Shelley didn’t appear bitter.
‘That’s life,’ she said with a dismissive shrug. Draining the last of her tea, she returned the cup and saucer to the tray. ‘I’d better be going. Thanks for listening. I hope I haven’t kept you.’
‘Of course not. I’ve enjoyed having your company. And please don’t worry about Darrel. I’ll take good care of him. I hope the operation goes well.’ The clock on the mantelpiece showed it was nearly ten o’clock. ‘Shelley, I don’t really want you going home on the bus alone at this time. Can I call a cab? I’ll pay for it.’
‘That’s kind of you. I’m not usually out this late,’ she said with a small laugh. ‘I’m usually at home with Darrel. But is it safe for a woman to be alone in a cab? I mean, you read bad stuff in the papers.’
‘It’s a local firm I know well,’ I said. ‘They have at least one lady cab driver. Shall I see if she’s free?’
‘Yes, please. I’ll pop up to the loo while you phone them.’
I called the cab firm and the controller said they had a lady driver working that night, so I booked the cab. He said she would be with us in about fifteen minutes. Shelley had been right to be concerned, a young woman alone in a cab, but I was confident she’d be safe using this firm or I wouldn’t have suggested it. I heard her footsteps on the landing, but before she came downstairs she went into Darrel’s room. A few moments later she returned to the living room. ‘He’s fast asleep,’ she said, joining me on the sofa. ‘He should sleep through, but he’ll wake early with a sopping wet nappy. I’m trying to get him dry at night, but it’s difficult.’
‘You could try giving him his last drink in the evening earlier,’ I suggested. ‘Perhaps with his dinner, or just after. That’s what I did with Adrian and the children I’ve fostered who were still in nappies at night. After all, what goes in must come out!’
She smiled. ‘Yes, very true. I’ll give it a try.’
I told her the cab was on its way and, taking out my purse, I gave her a twenty-pound note to pay the fare.
‘It won’t be that much,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you change.’
‘No. It’s OK. Buy yourself something.’
‘Thank you. That is kind.’
We continued chatting, mainly about Darrel and being a parent, until the doorbell rang. I went with her to the front door and opened it. The lady driver said she’d wait in her cab.
‘Good luck for tomorrow,’ I said to Shelley. ‘And phone me if you change your mind about a lift back from the hospital.’
‘All right. Thanks for everything,’ she said, and gave me a big hug. ‘How different my life would have been if I’d been fostered by you,’ she added reflectively.
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