A Baby’s Cry. Cathy Glass
at home again or if I could take him to the clinic or GP to be weighed in future. I said I would go to the clinic and she made a note of this in her file. She then handed me the red book, which I knew I had to keep safe and take with me each time I went to the clinic, when the nurse would enter Harrison’s weight, dates of vaccinations and also the results of the developmental checks.
‘Well, if you haven’t any questions I’ll be off now,’ Grace said, dismantling the scales and putting them in her nurse’s bag together with her record sheets.
‘I can’t think of anything,’ I said. ‘I’ll phone the clinic if I need advice.’
‘You’re doing a good job,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll see you next week at the clinic, when you bring Harrison to be weighed.’
‘Yes.’ I thanked Grace and, leaving Harrison in his bouncing cradle for a minute, I saw her out.
Returning to the sitting room I lifted Harrison out of the bouncing cradle and carried him upstairs, where I changed his nappy. It was now 2.30 and time to be thinking about collecting Adrian and Paula from school.
Downstairs again I took a ready-made carton of milk and a sterilized bottle from the kitchen and at 2.45 began getting Harrison and the pram chassis into the car. I arrived in the playground with five minutes to spare and I joined a couple of friends. As we talked I gently rocked Harrison in the pram; I didn’t feel quite so conspicuous now I was more confident in fostering a baby. Adrian and Paula came out of school with their news, including what each of them had liked and disliked of their school dinner, and I drove home.
The evening ran more smoothly than the previous evening, as I began to establish a routine. Dinner was only a little late, and after dinner I gave Harrison his bath while Adrian and Paula played, so I had time to read Adrian and Paula a bedtime story once I’d settled Harrison in his cot. I gave Harrison a feed before I went to bed and he fell asleep immediately.
Later, as I lay in bed with Harrison asleep in his cot, I wondered again about Harrison’s parents and if Grace would succeed in finding his mother. I doubted she would, without Rihanna’s correct surname, date of birth or last known address. I’d no idea where Rihanna lived or what she looked like. The English in her letter was perfect and she’d made no cultural requests in respect of Harrison’s care, so I assumed her family were very Westernized and that she’d probably been born in England. I’d already surmised she was well educated and mature, not a teenage mother. I knew nothing of Harrison’s father other than that he was very likely a public figure, which didn’t narrow it down much. I wondered if, in years to come, when Harrison was older, he would want to trace his natural parents, as some adopted children do, and what success he’d have. Would it be possible for him to find his parents when they’d gone to so much trouble to hide their identities? I didn’t know.
I was used to children coming into foster care with information about their background arriving piecemeal, so their sad stories slowly came together like pieces in a jigsaw. But that wouldn’t happen with Harrison. He was like a baby abandoned at a railway station with a note from his mother asking for him to be looked after, and I wondered what effect not knowing his origins would have on him as he grew older. Unless, of course, his adoptive parents didn’t tell him he was adopted, in which case if he ever found out by accident he would be devastated.
Chapter Eight
Stranger at the Door
‘Oh, isn’t he gorgeous?’ Cheryl, the social worker, enthused as I opened the front door with Harrison in my arms the following day. I’d just fed and changed him, so he was wide awake and contented. ‘The nurses at the hospital said he was a lovely baby but this is my first chance to see him.’
Cheryl and I shook hands and I led the way down the hall and into the sitting room. I hadn’t met Cheryl before; she was of medium height and build and I guessed in her mid-thirties. She was dressed smartly in black trousers and a white blouse. I’d no idea how long she’d been qualified as a social worker, nor how much experience she had, but she seemed very pleasant.
‘Can I get you a tea or coffee?’ I asked as we entered the sitting room. ‘Or a cold drink?’
‘A coffee would be lovely – thank you. I’ve come straight from a meeting and I’m gasping.’
‘Would you like something to eat as well? I offered. ‘I can soon make you a sandwich.’ I’d had social workers arrive before having not had time to eat or even drink.
‘That’s kind of you, but a coffee will be lovely. I’ll pick up something to eat on the way back to the office. I’ve another meeting at two o’clock. Can I hold him?’ Cheryl asked, sitting on the sofa and looking longingly at Harrison in my arms.
‘Of course.’ I laid Harrison in her arms and went into the kitchen to make coffee. I could hear Cheryl talking to Harrison as Jill had done, only without all the funny noises: ‘Aren’t you a cute baby? Are you being a good boy? You certainly look very healthy’ and so on.
‘He’s doing very well,’ I said as I returned with Cheryl’s coffee and a plate of biscuits, which I placed on the coffee table within her reach. ‘The health visitor came yesterday,’ I continued, updating her. ‘She weighed and measured him and checked his hearing and sight; everything is fine. She’s given me his red book and I’ll be taking him to the clinic next week for weighing. She said she’d send you a copy of all her notes.’
‘Thank you,’ Cheryl said. ‘Shall I put Harrison in his bouncing cradle while we talk and I have my coffee?’
‘I usually put him in his pram for a sleep about now,’ I said. ‘Is that all right?’
‘Yes, of course. Go ahead. Don’t let me disrupt your routine.’
I carefully lifted Harrison from Cheryl’s arms and carried him down the hall, where I settled him into his pram, before returning to the sitting room. Cheryl had taken a wad of forms – the paperwork I needed – from her briefcase and now handed them to me.
‘I think everything is there,’ she said. ‘Although I’m afraid the information form doesn’t tell you any more than you already know.’
I nodded and, sitting in the armchair, I looked through the paperwork as Cheryl sipped her coffee and ate a biscuit. The forms I needed were all here, although as Cheryl had already said there was nothing new to be learned from them. The essential information forms and placement forms, which usually contain background information and contact details of the child’s natural family, were largely unfilled in. However, the last sheet – the medical consent form – contained a nearly illegible signature beginning with R, which I assumed to be Rihanna’s signature. I needed this signed form in case I had to seek medical treatment for Harrison, including vaccinations. But it seemed strange to see Rihanna’s signature on the form, given that she had severed all contact with Harrison.
‘So you’re still in contact with Harrison’s mother?’ I asked.
‘Only through her solicitor now,’ Cheryl clarified. ‘She gives Rihanna any forms that need signing.” I nodded. ‘You understand why there is so little information in this case and why strict confidentiality has to be respected?’ Cheryl now asked.
I hesitated. ‘I only know what Jill has told me: that Harrison’s birth has to be kept a secret. I don’t know the reason. Were you aware that Rihanna sent a case of clothes for Harrison, together with a letter addressed to the foster carer?’
‘No.’
Reaching over I took my fostering folder from the bookshelf and slid out Rihanna’s letter, which I passed to Cheryl. While she read the letter I went down the hall and checked on Harrison in his pram; he was fast asleep. I returned to the sitting room and Cheryl handed me back the letter, with a small sigh.
‘This is one of the saddest cases I’ve ever come across,’ she said. ‘As you realize from this letter, Rihanna wanted to keep her baby but couldn’t – for reasons I am not allowed to go into.’