A Life Lost. Cathy Glass
href="#ulink_5dca2b5f-cf77-5dc1-9371-4a00300109de">ix123456789101112131415161718192021222324252627282930313233343536373839404142434445464748495051525354555657585960616263646566676869707172737475767778798081828384858687888990919293949596979899100101102103104105106107108109110111112113114115116117118119120121122123124125126127128129130131132133134135136137138139140141142143144145146147148149150151152153154155156157158159160161162163164165166167168169170171172173174175176177178179180181182183184185186187188189190191192193194195196197198199200201202203204205206207208209210211212213214215216217218219220221222223224225226227228229230231232233234235236237238239240241242243244245246247248249250251252253254255256257258259260261262263264265266267268269270271272273274275276277278279280281282283284285286287288289290291292293294295296297298299300301302303304305306307308309
Chapter One
I knew it was going to be difficult, so I waited until my family had left the house that morning before I began to clear out Lucy’s room. Armed with cardboard boxes, bags, wrapping paper, sticky tape and a good dose of courage, I went upstairs and into her bedroom. Or rather, I should say, what had been her bedroom. Lucy, aged twenty-five, the elder of my two daughters, had moved out and was now living with her partner, Darren, and their baby, Emma. Of course, that’s the natural cycle of life. Children grow up, leave home and start families of their own. Fine in theory, but I wasn’t finding it so easy to accept in practice, even though I saw Lucy often.
She had come to me as a foster child many years before and stayed permanently to become my adopted daughter. We’d been through a lot over the years and now, at very short notice, I was having to clear out the last of her belongings to make room for Jackson, a ten-year-old boy I’d been asked to foster. Lucy had already taken what she needed, so her shelves, drawers and wardrobe contained only those items she didn’t require at present or had grown out of. She’d said a few times she’d come over and sort out her belongings, but she was busy with her baby and I’d told her there was no rush. There hadn’t been a rush until Joy, my supervising social worker (SSW), had told me the day before that they needed to move Jackson from his home very quickly and had asked me to look after him.
My first reaction had been to say no, but as a foster carer that’s very difficult when you’re aware a family is in crisis and a child needs a home quickly. So I’d asked Lucy, my son Adrian, my other daughter Paula and Tilly, the young lady I was already fostering, what they thought about having Jackson stay with us. Lucy had said she was fine about him having her old room, as her home was with Darren now. Adrian, aged twenty-seven, had concerns I might be taking on too much, which I’d secretly thought too. While Paula, aged twenty-three, wasn’t overjoyed we’d be fostering another child with behavioural issues, as we’d had plenty of experience of that before and knew it wasn’t easy. (Jackson’s behaviour was the main reason his mother was putting him into care.) Tilly said yes and offered to help look after him. That was very kind of her, although I doubted she knew what it was like to live with a child who was continually kicking off and challenging you.
So, with no one in my family really objecting, and aware that there was always a shortage of foster carers, I said I would take Jackson. Lucy’s was the only free room, so I now needed to get a move on and clear it, for, if all went according to plan, he would be with us later today.
It was strange, the little nostalgic reminders that brought a tear to my eye. It wasn’t the rest of Lucy’s clothes that made me well up as I cleared them from her wardrobe, although I could smell her perfume on them. Or the soft toys and ornaments she’d lovingly collected as a child that I removed from her bookshelves and carefully packed. Or the boy-band memorabilia from when she’d had a crush on the lead singer. No, it was a couple of old hair braids that sent a tear down my cheek as I remembered plaiting her hair for school and then teaching her to plait it herself.
And the birthday and Christmas cards we’d given to her over the years. All of them, wrapped in tissue paper in a drawer. I also found a partially composed note from her, handwritten one time before she’d decided to apologize in person. It was from her teenage years and I remembered the incident that had led to it. One of a number when she’d been testing the boundaries and had wanted to stay out very late. The letter began:
Dear Mum, I’m sorry I shouted at you. I know you make the rules to keep me safe, but …
Then she had come to me to say sorry. I remembered those cross words and the hugs and kisses that followed as we made up. ‘Never go to sleep on an argument’ was my mother’s philosophy, and my family and I very rarely did. Now, my darling daughter was a mother herself, and in years to come would probably face similar situations with her own daughter, Emma. My heart swelled with pride, love and admiration for everything Lucy and my other children had achieved.
Having paused for trips down memory lane, it took me over two hours to clear out the rest of Lucy’s room, then I thoroughly vacuumed and dusted it, and put fresh linen on the bed. I stacked the boxes and bags on the landing to store in the loft later, where they could stay until Lucy was ready to sort them out. Now the room was clear it had lost its personal touch and I returned downstairs rather melancholy and deep in thought.
But if this had been upsetting, it was about to get a whole lot worse. Shortly, I would be meeting Jackson, whose father and older brother had recently died – the reason given for his anger. Or was there more to it? So often in fostering a child arrives with one story and then gradually you discover another. Time would tell, but for now I needed to get through what was going to be a very upsetting meeting with his mother.
Chapter Two
Whatever can you say to a woman whose husband has died and whose teenage son