Innocent: Part 1 of 3: The True Story of Siblings Struggling to Survive. Cathy Glass
to the notice of the social services on Monday. The decision to remove the children was made by us yesterday afternoon.’ It was only Thursday now, which showed just how urgent they considered it to be to bring the children to a place of safety.
I had a couple of hours before Molly and Kit arrived. I texted Adrian, Lucy and Paula to let them know the children were coming so it wouldn’t be a complete surprise. I then went quickly into the High Street where I bought a trainer cup, nappies and baby wipes for Kit (I assumed he was still in nappies), and some snack food that might tempt them both if they were too upset to eat – for example, corn and carrot sticks, little packets of dried fruit and fromage frais in brightly decorated pots. If the children didn’t come with their own clothes, I’d be back here tomorrow to buy them what they needed. We’d get by tonight with the spares I kept in the ottoman in my bedroom. I had most sizes, from newborn to teens, all washed and pressed and ready for emergency use.
An hour later I was home again and, having unpacked the shopping, I began to make a cottage pie for dinner later. There wouldn’t be much time once the social worker arrived with Kit and Molly, and most children enjoy cottage pie. I didn’t know yet if Kit and Molly had any special dietary requirements, allergies or special needs, and it would be something I’d ask Tess when they arrived. If this had been a planned move, I would normally have received background information like this in advance of the children arriving, but this was an emergency, so everything was happening quickly.
Shortly after four o’clock my phone rang and it was Tess, the children’s social worker. ‘We’re in the car with the children,’ she said. ‘We should be with you in about twenty minutes. Molly will need a change of clothes, she’s just wet herself.’
‘I’ll have some ready,’ I said. ‘Tell her not to worry.’ I knew how children fretted if they had an accident. It wasn’t surprising she’d wet herself, given the trauma of being taken from home.
‘See you shortly,’ Tess said, and ended the call.
I went straight upstairs to my bedroom where I searched through the ottoman until I found a new packet of pants marked ‘Age 3–4 Years’, and a pair of jogging bottoms and matching top that should fit Molly. I took them into the children’s bedroom and returned downstairs, my heart thumping loudly from nervous anticipation.
Waiting for a new child or children to arrive is always nerve-racking for the foster carer, regardless of how many times they’ve done it before. We worry if the children will like and trust us enough to help them, if we can meet their needs and work with their family – very important. Now I had the added challenge of fostering not one child but two, who were both very young. I hadn’t fostered little ones in a long while. As a specialist foster carer with lots of experience, I was usually asked to look after older children with challenging behaviour, who, to be honest, I felt more confident in dealing with. Would I remember what to do with two little ones?
My crisis of confidence continued until the doorbell rang, when common sense and instinct kicked in. I answered it with a bright smile. ‘Hello, I’m Cathy. Come in.’
Two female social workers stood before me, each carrying a child.
‘I’m Tess, and this is Molly,’ Tess said, introducing the child she was holding. ‘And this is my colleague Preeta, with Kit.’
‘Hello,’ Preeta said as they came in.
I smiled at both children. They looked petrified – large eyes stared out from pale faces and they clung desperately to their social workers. Kit had a plaster cast on his left arm, his cheeks were bruised and there was a red bump on his forehead. ‘Hello, love,’ I said to him, and swallowed hard.
He drew back from me further into Preeta’s shoulder.
‘I’ve put some toys in the living room,’ I said, and led the way down the hall, although I guessed it would be a long time before either child felt like playing. Their little sombre faces suggested they were very close to tears.
In the living room, Preeta sat on the sofa with Kit on her lap, still clinging desperately to her. Tess put Molly down. The child grabbed her hand for comfort. ‘It might be a good idea if you changed her now,’ Tess said to me. ‘She’s sopping wet, and can I use your bathroom to wash my hands?’
‘Yes, of course. This way.’ I could smell stale urine.
Leaving Preeta with Kit, we went upstairs to the bathroom, with Molly still clutching her social worker’s hand.
‘Help yourself to whatever you need,’ I said to Tess, referring to the soap, towel and antibacterial hand wash. ‘I’ll change Molly in her bedroom.’
‘Thanks. I don’t suppose you have a change of clothes for me too?’ Tess joked, sniffing the sleeve of her blouse.
‘I’m sure I could find you a top,’ I offered.
‘No, it’s fine,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ve had worse than a bit of pee on me.’
I bent down to talk to Molly. ‘I’ve got some nice dry clothes for you ready in your bedroom,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and get you changed.’ She stared back at me, bewildered. I gently took her hand and, leaving Tess washing her hands and forearms, I led Molly, silent and expressionless, around the landing and into her and Kit’s bedroom.
I spoke brightly and positively as I pointed out the toy box, her bed and Kit’s cot close by, trying to put her at ease. I held up the clothes I’d put out ready. ‘You can wear these for now,’ I said. She stared at the clothes. ‘Can you change yourself or shall I help you?’ Most children of Molly’s age can make a good attempt at dressing and undressing themselves, although they still need help with fiddly things like buttons and zips. Molly just stood there, looking lost and staring at the clothes.
‘I’ll help you,’ I said.
I began taking off her damp clothes. She was like a doll and only moved to raise her arms as I took off her dress and vest over her head. I then helped her out of her pants and socks. They were all wet and smelt of urine and I put them to one side to go in the washing machine. I wiped her skin with baby wipes. Her body was very pale like her face, as though she hadn’t seen much sun, but thankfully I couldn’t see any bruises or other marks on her as there were on Kit. ‘That will do for now,’ I said, throwing the wipes in the bin. ‘You can have a bath tonight.’ I dressed her in the clean clothes.
Tess appeared. ‘Anything I should be aware of?’ she asked, meaning injuries.
‘No, I can’t see anything. I’ll give them both a bath this evening, though.’
‘I’ll arrange medicals for both children,’ Tess said. This was usual when children came into care.
Molly still hadn’t said a word, but while she looked very sad, she wasn’t crying; indeed, I hadn’t heard a sound from her since she’d arrived. ‘Does she have communication difficulties?’ I asked Tess. I knew so little about the children it was possible she had a hearing and speech impairment.
‘No. She was talking to her parents at home,’ Tess said. Then to Molly, ‘You can hear me, can’t you?’
She gave a small nod. It therefore seemed it must be the trauma of coming into care that was responsible, and possibly what had been going on at home. I’d seen it before in abused children – sometimes it was days before they were able to speak.
‘Let’s go downstairs and I’ll tell you what I know,’ Tess said to me. ‘I haven’t got the Essential Information Form, it’s being completed now. I’ll email it to you, and the placement agreement form.’ In a planned move, this paperwork arrived with the social worker when the child was placed and gave their background information and the reasons they were in care.
We returned downstairs to the living room where Kit was as we’d left him, sitting on Preeta’s lap. She had taken a toy fire engine with flashing lights and a siren from