Will You Love Me?: The story of my adopted daughter Lucy: Part 2 of 3. Cathy Glass
her you’d phone at about seven o’clock. Is that all right?’
‘Yes,’ I said, now even more worried for Lucy. Picking up the pen I kept with the notepad by the phone, I wrote down the carer’s telephone number and then read it back to check I had it right.
‘Good luck,’ Jill said. ‘Pat and her husband were going to move Lucy tomorrow – Saturday – but if she’s still not cooperating then they’ll have to wait until Monday, when the social worker is back in the office and can sort it out.’
‘And what will she do?’ I asked.
‘No idea. There doesn’t appear to be a plan B,’ Jill said, trying to lighten an otherwise dire situation.
‘The whole thing is so tragic,’ I said, my heart going out to Lucy.
‘Yes, and the most tragic aspect of Lucy’s case is that it needn’t have happened,’ Jill said. ‘Lucy’s life could have been so different if someone had made the decision to remove her early on. She could have been adopted. It’s too late now. She’s too old. The damage has been done.’
Adrian and Paula had been expecting to meet Lucy that Friday evening, just as I had, so once I’d finished speaking to Jill on the phone and before I served dinner, I returned to the living room and explained to Adrian and Paula that Lucy wouldn’t be coming for a visit as she was too upset, but that I would phone her carer later and try to talk to Lucy.
‘Why doesn’t Lucy want to come?’ Paula asked. ‘Doesn’t she like us?’
‘She doesn’t even know us,’ Adrian put in quickly, always ready to correct his younger sister.
‘I think she’s just had all she can take,’ I said. ‘She’s never had a proper home and she’s been treated very badly.’
‘Tell her it’s OK for her to come here. We won’t treat her badly. We’ll be kind to her,’ Paula said.
I smiled. ‘That’s nice, love.’ If only it was that simple, I thought.
Once we’d eaten and I’d cleared away the dishes, and before I began Paula’s bedtime routine, I left Adrian and Paula playing a board game in the living room while I went down the hall to phone Lucy’s carers. I needed quiet in order to think what I would say to Lucy if I got the chance, and also I was nervous. Even after many years of fostering, I still get an attack of nerves just before the arrival of a new child, and it’s always worse if the move doesn’t go smoothly. But then, I thought, how much worse must Lucy be feeling, rejected and having to move in yet again with strangers?
‘Is that Pat?’ I asked, as the call connected and a woman’s voice answered.
‘Yes. Speaking.’
‘It’s Cathy Glass.’
‘Oh, yes, Lucy’s new carer. Hello.’ I could hear relief in her voice. ‘Jill said you’d phone.’
‘So, how is Lucy now?’ I asked.
‘Still shut in her room and refusing to come out or speak to us. I don’t know what to do. I feel awful, so does my husband. Lucy’s blaming us for her having to move, but we’re only approved to look after babies. To be honest, Cathy, I regret ever having agreed to take Lucy in the first place. It’s so upsetting and we feel very guilty.’
‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘It’s not your fault. The social services were desperate to place Lucy in the area after her mother complained, and you were the only carer available. It’s not good practice, but it happens when the system is stretched to the limit. Have you been able to tell Lucy that I would be phoning?’
‘Sort of. I called through her bedroom door and told her. She didn’t answer, but I think she heard me.’
‘How long ago was that?’ I asked.
‘About two hours.’
‘All right. Could you go up now please and tell her I’m on the phone. I assume her bedroom door isn’t locked?’
‘No. We never put locks on the bedroom doors. We’re not allowed to.’ Pat was referring to the ‘safer caring’ recommendations for foster carers, which advise against locks being fitted to the child’s bedroom door, as it could prevent the carer from entering in an emergency or if the child is distressed.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘This is what I’d like you to do. Go up now, knock on Lucy’s bedroom door and then poke your head round and say lightly: “There’s a phone call for you. It’s Cathy, your new carer. She’s hoping she can have a little chat with you.”’
‘You think I should open her door and go in?’ Pat asked, concerned. ‘I thought she wanted to be alone.’
Not used to fostering older children, Pat had thought she was respecting Lucy’s privacy in leaving her alone, but as an experienced carer of older children I knew that, once a child had had time to cool off, they usually wanted you to go to them and give them a cuddle. I would never have left a child alone in their room for any more than fifteen minutes if they were as upset as Lucy was.
‘Yes, Pat. Open her bedroom door and go in a little,’ I confirmed.
‘All right, I’ll do as you say.’
I heard the phone being set down and then Pat’s footsteps receding upstairs. As I waited I could feel my heart thumping loudly in my chest. Adrian and Paula’s distant voices floated through from the living room. I heard Pat knock on Lucy’s bedroom door, then a slight creak as the door opened, followed by: ‘Your new carer, Cathy, is on the phone for you. Can you come and talk to her?’
There was more silence and then I heard the bedroom door close. A few moments later Pat’s voice came on the phone again. ‘I told her, but she’s still refusing to even look at me. She’s just sitting there on the bed staring into space.’
My worries for Lucy rose.
‘What should I do now?’ Pat asked, anxiously. ‘Shall I ask my husband to try to talk to her?’
‘Does Lucy have a better relationship with him?’ I asked.
‘No, not really,’ Pat said. ‘She won’t speak to him, either. Jill said that we might have to leave her until Monday, when her social worker is back at work.’
‘Then Lucy has the whole weekend to brood over this,’ I said. ‘It will be worse. Let’s try again to get her to the phone. I’m sure it will help if she hears I’m not an ogre.’
Pat gave a little snort of laughter. ‘Jill said you were very good with older children.’
‘That was sweet of her,’ I said. ‘Now, is your phone fixed or cordless?’
‘Cordless.’
‘Excellent. Take the handset up with you, knock on Lucy’s bedroom door, go in and tell her again I would like to talk to her. But this time, leave the phone on her bed facing up so she can hear me, and then come out. I might end up talking to myself, but I’m used to that.’
Pat gave another snort of nervous laughter. ‘Fingers crossed,’ she said.
I heard Pat’s footsteps going up the stairs again, followed by the knock on Lucy’s bedroom door and the slight creak as it opened. Pat’s voice trembled a little as she said: ‘Cathy’s still on the phone and she’d like to talk to you.’
There was a little muffled sound, presumably as Pat put the phone on Lucy’s bed, and then I heard the bedroom door close. I was alone with Lucy. This was my chance to talk to her, to try and connect with her and reassure her. Maybe my only chance.
I took a deep breath and said gently: ‘Hello, love. It’s Cathy. Can you hear me, pet?’
I paused. Although I wasn’t expecting a reply straight away, I wanted to give her the chance. I pictured the handset on the bed, presumably near enough for Lucy to hear. I wondered if