Copyright

Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2018

FIRST EDITION

Text © Cathy Glass 2018

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Cover photograph © Kristina Dominianni/Arcangel Images (posed by a model)

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Source ISBN: 9780008305468

Ebook Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008305475

Version 2018-07-31

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Chapter One: Familiar?

Chapter Two: Safe and Happy

Chapter Three: Mummy Needs Me

Chapter Four: School

Chapter Five: Amanda

Chapter Six: The Way Home?

Chapter Seven: Lost

Chapter Eight: Difficult

Chapter Nine: When Can I See Mummy?

Chapter Ten: Snow Angel

Chapter Eleven: Review

Chapter Twelve: Four Sleeps

Chapter Thirteen: Heartbreaking

Chapter Fourteen: Precious Freedom

Chapter Fifteen: Staying Positive

Chapter Sixteen: Amanda – a Mother

Chapter Seventeen: Not Thursday

Chapter Eighteen: Developments

Chapter Nineteen: Caught His Plane

Chapter Twenty: A Timely Reminder

Chapter Twenty-One: Match

Chapter Twenty-Two: Coping?

Chapter Twenty-Three: Robbed of Dignity

Chapter Twenty-Four: True Heroes

Chapter Twenty-Five: Introductions

Chapter Twenty-Six: Overtired and Emotional

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Lucky to Have Her

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Family

Suggested topics for reading-group discussion

Cathy Glass

If you loved this book …

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

Praise for Cathy Glass

About the Publisher

Acknowledgements

A big thank you to my family; my editors, Carolyn and Holly; my literary agent, Andrew; my UK publishers HarperCollins, and my overseas publishers, who are now too numerous to list by name. Last, but definitely not least, a big thank you to my readers for your unfailing support and kind words. They are much appreciated.

Chapter One

Familiar?

I was sure I’d heard it all before …

The child I was being asked to foster had been badly neglected for years by her single mother, who was an intravenous drug user and alcohol dependent. The social services were going to court later that morning to bring the child into care. Melody was eight years of age and had been sleeping on an old stained mattress on the floor of a damp, cold basement flat with her mother, and they were about to be evicted. She hadn’t been attending school, and despite the social services putting in support, there was never any food in the cupboards and she and her mother were often hungry, cold and dirty.

‘She is also very angry,’ Jill, my supervising social worker from the agency I fostered for, continued over the phone. The referral from the social services had come through her.

‘The mother is angry?’ I asked.

‘Yes, and Melody – her child – is too. She tried to kick and thump the social worker when she visited yesterday and threw something at her when she began talking to her mother. The social worker will take a police officer with her when she removes Melody, assuming the care order is granted.’

‘Is there any doubt?’

‘There shouldn’t be, but you never can tell. It will depend on the judge. The case is in court shortly, so it’s likely to be early afternoon before they are with you.’

‘All right.’ Forcibly removing a child from their home wasn’t a good start, but if the parent wasn’t cooperating there was no alternative. The mother had been given plenty of opportunities to sort out her life and parent her daughter properly but had repeatedly failed.

‘Amanda, the mother, can’t control Melody,’ Jill said. ‘She’s failed to put in place any boundaries and Melody can easily become angry. One social worker described her as feral.’

One of the reasons I had been asked to foster Melody was because I had years of fostering experience, much of it working with children with challenging behaviour, and I knew why Melody was angry. Even though she had been living in appalling conditions and had not been looked after, she was being taken away from the mother she knew and loved.

‘She’s very loyal and protective of her mother,’ Jill continued, ‘and won’t hear any criticism of her. They both hate social workers. Melody does as she likes and is very much the one in control.’ Again, this wasn’t unusual for a child who’d had to raise herself.

‘And her father?’ I asked. Knowledge of the family helps the foster carer.

‘They don’t live together. It’s unclear if Melody sees him at all. He’s also an intravenous drug user. Both parents have served prison sentences for drug dealing.’ Which again I’d heard before. ‘Melody has four older half-siblings, different fathers. All those children were taken into care and then adopted years ago.’

‘Why leave it so long to bring Melody into care?’ I asked, almost sure of the answer.

‘Her mother, Amanda, is very good at evading the social services,’ Jill said. ‘She has been moving flats regularly and doesn’t answer the door when a social worker visits, or she gets someone else to say they don’t live there. The social worker only got access yesterday because the main door was open. It’s a multiple-occupancy house and their room is in the basement. The room was freezing, and Melody and her mother were watching television in bed with their coats on.’

‘Dear me,’ I sighed.

‘Amanda has been funding her drug habit from prostitution. If she’s brought the clients back to her room, there is a possibility Melody has witnessed her mother with them, and might even have been sexually abused herself. So be vigilant for any disclosures she may make. Oh yes, and she has nits,’ Jill added. This was common for children coming into care.

‘I assume Melody won’t be returning home?’

‘Highly unlikely. The social services intend to apply for a Full Care Order, so she will remain in care.’ Sad though this was, in cases like these there really was no alternative. It was too early to say if Melody would have the chance of being adopted, but aged eight and with behavioural problems it was unlikely.

‘So, Cathy,’ Jill said, rounding off, ‘that’s it really. Neave, the social worker, will phone once she’s left court, then she and a colleague will take a police officer to collect Melody from home and come to you. I’ll try to be with you when she is placed.’

‘Thank you.’ Jill, as my supervising social worker, offered support and made sure I had all the information I needed and the correct placement forms were signed when a child was placed.

‘See you later then,’ she said, and we said goodbye.

Yes, it was a depressingly familiar story, which I was sure I’d heard before about many children brought into care. As it turned out, I couldn’t have been more wrong. There was another side to Melody’s story, which at this point no one knew.

Chapter Two

Safe and Happy

Even after many years of fostering I’m still slightly anxious before a new child arrives, wondering if they will like us and what I will be able to do to help them. Now I had the added concern of Melody’s angry and challenging behaviour. But by lunchtime I’d given her bedroom a final check, cleaned, hoovered and tidied all the communal areas in the house (I might not have another chance for a while), then I tried to concentrate on the part-time administration work I did mainly from home. As a single parent – my husband having run off with another woman some years before – the admin work plus the small allowance I received from fostering helped to make ends meet. I’d have fostered anyway, even without the allowance. I enjoyed it, and it had become a way of life.

My three children – Adrian, aged sixteen, Lucy, fourteen, and Paula, twelve – were at school, so they’d have a surprise when they arrived home to find Melody here, although it wouldn’t be a huge one. Adrian and Paula had grown up with fostering and knew children could arrive at very short notice. Lucy had been in foster care herself before I’d adopted her, so was only too familiar with the way the system worked. (I tell Lucy’s story in my book Will You Love Me?)

I had a sandwich lunch as I worked and it was nearly two o’clock before the front doorbell rang, signalling Melody’s arrival. I felt my pulse step up a beat as I left the paperwork on the table in the front room and went to answer the door. A female social worker I took to be Neave stood on one side of Melody and a male social worker was on the other, as if escorting her.

‘Hello, you must be Melody,’ I said with a smile. ‘Come in. I’m Cathy.’

Melody glared at me but didn’t move. ‘This is the foster carer I told you about,’ Neave said, and touched Melody’s arm to encourage her to move forward.

‘Get your hands off me!’ Melody snapped, angrily shrugging her off, but she did come in.

‘I’m Neave, and this is my colleague Jim,’ Neave said as they too came in.

Jim shook my hand. I guessed both social workers were in their early forties, and were dressed smartly in dark colours, having come straight from court.

‘Shall I take your coats?’ I offered, but Neave was already halfway down the hall, looking to see which room she should go in. ‘Straight ahead!’ I called. Jim took off his coat and also his shoes, which he paired with ours beneath the hall stand.

‘Would you like to take off your coat and shoes?’ I asked Melody, who was still standing beside us and hadn’t followed her social worker into the living room. She looked at me as though I was completely barmy, probably having never taken off her shoes and coat as part of the routine for entering her home. ‘We usually do,’ I added.

Melody was of average height and build, but her pale skin was grubby. There were dark rings under her eyes from lack of sleep and her brown, shoulder-length hair was unwashed and matted. I already knew she had nits and I would treat those later. Her zip-up anorak was filthy, a long rip down one sleeve showed the white lining and the zipper was undone and hanging off. Beneath her jacket she was wearing a badly stained jumper and short skirt. The skirt and ankle socks she wore were more suitable for summer than winter; her legs must have been freezing. Her filthy plastic trainers had holes in the ends where her toes poked through. Not for the first time since I’d started fostering, I felt greatly saddened that in our reasonably affluent society a child could still appear in this state.

‘Are you going to take off your coat and shoes?’ Jim now asked.

‘No!’ Melody said, and headed down the hall.

‘That told us,’ I said quietly to Jim. He smiled. Foster carers and social workers have to maintain a sense of humour in order to survive the suffering and sadness we see each day. I’d ease Melody into our way of doing things as we went along.

‘Would anyone like a drink?’ I asked as Jim and I entered the living room.

‘Coffee, please,’ Neave said from the sofa. ‘Milk, no sugar.’

‘And for me too, please, if it’s not too much trouble,’ Jim added.

‘And what about you?’ I asked Melody, who’d sat next to Neave.

‘No. I don’t want anything from you.’ She scowled.

‘OK, maybe later. There’s a box of games you might like to look at,’ I said, pointing to the toy box of age-appropriate games I’d put out ready. ‘There’s some children’s books on the shelves,’ I added.

‘Not looking,’ she said. Folding her arms defiantly across her chest, she glared at Neave. ‘I want to go home. Take me back, now!’

‘You know I can’t do that,’ Neave said. ‘I explained in the car what was happening.’

‘I don’t care what you said. It’s not your decision. It’s up to me and I want to go home!’

‘That’s not possible,’ Neave said evenly. ‘You’re staying with Cathy and her family for now, and she is going to look after you very well. You’ll do lots of nice things and you’ll see your mother soon.’

‘I want to see Mum now!’ Melody’s anger flared and for a moment I thought she was going to hit Neave. Neave thought so too, for she moved further up the sofa. ‘My mum needs me!’ Melody said with slightly less aggression. Many children come into care believing that their parents won’t be able to manage without them, and part of my role is to take away the inappropriate responsibility they’ve had at home and encourage them to be children.

I made my way towards the kitchen to make the coffee but as I left the living room the front doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be Jill,’ I said, and went to answer it.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘I’ve come straight from placing another child. Are they here?’

‘Yes, just arrived. They’re in the living room. I’m about to make coffee. Would you like one?’

‘Oh yes, please,’ she said gratefully. ‘Have you got a biscuit too? I haven’t had time for lunch.’

‘I could make you a sandwich?’ I offered.

‘No, a biscuit is fine.’

Jill went into the living room and introduced herself, while I set about making the coffee. I could hear Jill talking to Melody in a reassuring voice, telling her she would be happy with me, that I’d look after her and there was nothing for her to worry about. Jill was a highly experienced social worker and I greatly valued her input, support and advice.

I took the tray carrying the drinks and a plate of biscuits into the living room and set it on the coffee table. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?’ I asked Melody as I handed out the mugs of coffee.

‘No, but I’ll have a biscuit.’ Standing, she grabbed a handful of biscuits and returned to the sofa to eat them.

‘Are you hungry?’ Neave asked her as they quickly vanished.

‘No,’ she snarled.

‘I’ll make her something to keep her going until dinner once we’ve finished,’ I reassured Neave.

I passed the plate of biscuits to the adults and then put the empty plate on the tray. For a few moments there was quiet as they sipped their coffee and ate the biscuits. I thought Jill wasn’t the only one who hadn’t had time for lunch. Neave set her half-empty mug on the coffee table and took a wodge of papers from her briefcase. When a child is placed there are formalities that need to be completed, and Neave handed Jill and me a copy each of the Essential Information Form Part 1. This contained the basic information I needed about the child I was fostering, and I began to look through it, as did Jill, while Neave finished her coffee. Much of the information I already knew from Jill. It included Melody’s full name, most recent home address, date of birth and her parents’ names, and in the box for other family members was printed Four half-siblings, all adopted, but not their names. Melody’s ethnicity was given as white British and her first language English. The box for religion showed None, and her legal status showed Interim Care Order. There were no special dietary requirements and Melody had no known allergies. Her school’s name and address were shown with a comment in the box saying she’d only been there since September. It was January now, so she’d joined four months previously.

‘Melody changed school last term then?’ I asked Neave.

‘Yes, with the most recent move,’ she replied. ‘She’s had a lot of changes of school, with long gaps in between when she didn’t attend at all. Now she’s in care she’ll have more stability in her life. She’s very behind with her school work.’

‘I hate school. I’m not going,’ Melody said, her face setting.

‘All children have to go to school,’ Jill said gently.

‘I don’t!’ Melody snapped.

‘You do, love,’ I said. ‘All the children in this house go to school and tomorrow we’ll buy you a nice new school uniform.’ Not a bribe, but an incentive.

‘I was going to mention her clothing,’ Neave said. ‘I’m afraid she just has what she is wearing. Her mother said she has other clothes, but they needed washing.’

‘Not a problem,’ I said. ‘We’ll use my emergency supply until we can go shopping and buy her new clothes. The school usually sells the uniform, so we can get that tomorrow morning when we go in.’

‘That’ll be nice, won’t it?’ Jill said encouragingly, turning to Melody. ‘Lots of new clothes.’

Melody scowled, but not quite so forcibly. All children like new things, especially when they haven’t had any before.

Jill and I returned to the Essential Information Form. The next line was about special educational needs – Melody requires classroom support was printed in the box. The next question asked if the child had any challenging behaviour and printed in the box was Melody has challenging behaviour. She can be angry. The next box about contact arrangements was empty.

‘Contact?’ Jill queried.

‘I’ll confirm the contact arrangements when I’ve spoken to the Family Centre to check availability,’ Neave said. ‘Melody will have supervised contact with her mother at the Family Centre – I’m anticipating on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, four till five-thirty. You’ll be able to take and collect her?’ Neave asked me. It’s expected that foster carers take children to and from contact, school and any appointments they may have.

‘Yes,’ I said, and made a note of the days and times in my diary.

‘I want to see my mum now!’ Melody demanded, having finished the biscuits.

‘You’ve just seen her,’ Neave said, ‘and you’ll see her again tomorrow – Wednesday.’

‘That’s not long,’ Jill said positively.

‘I want to see my mum at home!’

‘The Family Centre is like a home,’ I said. ‘It’s got sofas to sit on and lots of games to play with. I’ve taken children before and they always have a good time.’

Melody threw me a withering look and I returned my attention to the form, as did Jill.

‘Sibling contact with her half-brothers and sisters?’ Jill asked Neave.

‘No, there is no contact.’

‘And the care plan is long-term foster care then?’ Jill said.

‘Yes,’ Neave confirmed.

We had come to the end of the form and I placed my copy in my fostering folder.

‘I’ll need to arrange a LAC review,’ Neave now said. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I have the details.’ LAC stands for ‘Looked After Child’, and all children in care have regular reviews to make sure everything is being done as it should to help them. The first review is usually held within the first four weeks of a child coming into care.

Toscha, our very old, docile and lovable cat sauntered out from behind the sofa where she’d been sleeping next to the radiator.

‘A cat!’ Melody cried in horror.

‘Don’t you like cats?’ Jim asked her.

‘No, they’re horrible. They have fleas that bite you.’ She began scratching her legs and I saw she had a lot of old insect bites.

‘Toscha doesn’t have fleas,’ I said.

‘My mum says all cats have fleas.’

‘I treat Toscha with flea drops so she doesn’t ever get them,’ I explained.

‘Do you have cats at home?’ Jill asked.

‘They come in when we open the door.’

‘There’s always a lot of stray cats around the entrance to the house and inside the communal hallway,’ Neave said. ‘I don’t expect anyone treats them.’

‘Try not to scratch,’ I said. ‘You’ll make them worse. I’ll put some antiseptic ointment on after your bath tonight.’

‘I don’t have baths,’ Melody said firmly. ‘It’s too cold.’ I’d heard similar before from other children I’d fostered who’d come from homes where they couldn’t afford heating and hot water.

‘It’s warm here,’ I reassured her. ‘The central heating is always on in winter and there’s plenty of hot water.’

Melody looked bewildered.

‘It’s bound to seem a bit strange at first,’ Jill said, ‘but Cathy is here to look after you. If you need anything or have any questions, ask her or one of her children. You’ll meet them later.’ Jill knew, as I did, that despite Melody’s bravado, as an eight-year-old child away from her mother, she must be feeling pretty scared and anxious.

‘Shall we look round the house now?’ Neave said to Jim. ‘Then we need to get back to the office.’

It’s usual for the foster carer to show the social worker and child around when they first arrive, so we all stood. I began with the room we were in, which looked out over the garden. ‘As you can see, we have some swings at the bottom of the garden,’ I said to Melody. ‘And there are bikes and other outdoor play things in the shed. You can play out there when the weather is good.’

‘And there are parks close by,’ Jill told her. ‘Cathy takes all the children she fosters to the park and other nice places, like the zoo and activity centres.’

Melody looked at us blankly. Giving her a reassuring smile, I led the way out of the living room and into our kitchen-cum-dining room. ‘This is where we eat,’ I said, pointing to the table. Toscha had followed us out and I saw Melody eyeing her carefully as she wandered over to her empty food bowl in a recess of the kitchen. ‘It’s not her dinner time yet,’ I said to Melody, trying to put her at ease.

‘Cats are always hungry,’ Jim added.

Melody looked suspiciously at Toscha and gave her leg another good scratch. ‘Honestly, love, she hasn’t got fleas,’ I said. I then led the way down the hall and into the front room. ‘This is a quiet room, if anyone wants to be alone,’ I explained. It held the computer, sound system, shelves of books, a cabinet with a lockable drawer where I kept important documents, and a small table and four chairs. It was sometimes used for homework and studying, and if anyone wanted their own space.

‘Thank you,’ Neave said and we headed out.

We went upstairs, where I suggested we look at Melody’s room first. ‘It’s not my room,’ she said grumpily.

‘It’ll feel more comfortable once you have your things in here,’ I said as we entered. I told all the children this when I showed them round, for while the room was clean and tidy with a wardrobe, shelves, drawers and freshly laundered bed linen, it lacked any personalization that makes a room feel lived in and homely. Then I realized my mistake. Melody hadn’t come with any possessions. ‘Will her mother be sending some of her belongings?’ I now asked Neave and Jim.

‘There isn’t much,’ Neave replied. ‘They moved around so often that what they did have got ditched or left behind along the way. I’ll ask Amanda tomorrow.’

‘Have you got a special doll or teddy bear you would like from home?’ Jill asked Melody. A treasured item such as this helps a child to settle. Most children would have at least one favourite toy, but Melody just shrugged.

‘Perhaps one you sleep with?’ I suggested.

‘No, I sleep with my mum,’ she said. That Melody didn’t have one special toy was another indication of the very basic existence she’d lived with her mother. ‘I’ve got a ball,’ she added as an afterthought.

‘Would you like me to ask your mother for it?’ Neave asked her.

‘Don’t know where it is,’ she said disinterestedly, so I changed my approach.

‘You can choose some posters to put on the walls of your bedroom when we go shopping at the weekend,’ I said brightly. ‘And I’m sure I have a spare teddy bear here if you’d like one to keep you company.’ I always have a few handy.

‘Don’t mind,’ she said, which I took as a yes.

I showed them where the toilet and bathroom were, and then led them in and out of my children’s bedrooms, mentioning as we went that all our bedrooms, including Melody’s, were private, and that we didn’t go into each other’s rooms unless we were asked to, and we always knocked first.

‘That’s the same in a lot of homes,’ Jill told Melody, who was looking rather nonplussed. Having spent most of her life living in a single room with her mother in multi-occupancy houses, this was probably all very new to her.

Lastly, I opened the door to my bedroom so they could see in. ‘This is where I sleep,’ I told Melody. ‘If you need me during the night, call out and I’ll come to you.’

‘Do you leave a nightlight on in the landing?’ Neave asked.

‘Yes, and there’s a dimmer switch in Melody’s bedroom so we can set it to low if she wants a light on at night.’

We returned downstairs, where Neave confirmed she’d ask Melody’s mother to take any toys and clothes of Melody’s to contact tomorrow so they could be passed on to me, then she and Jim said goodbye and I saw them out. Jill stayed for another five minutes to make sure Melody had settled and then left. As soon as the front door closed, Melody asked, ‘When can I go home?’

‘What did Neave tell you?’ I asked gently.

‘That I had to live with you for now.’

‘That’s right. Try not to worry, you’ll see your mother tomorrow and again on Friday. Then every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. That’s three times a week.’ But what Neave wouldn’t have told Melody at this stage – and neither would I – was that, as it was likely she would be remaining in long-term care, the level of contact would gradually be reduced. Then at the end of the year when the final court hearing had been heard and the judge confirmed the social services’ care plan, Melody would probably see her mother only a couple of times a year for a few hours. Sad though this was, it was done to allow the child to bond with their carer and have a chance of a better life in the future. I should probably also say that when children come out of care at eighteen they invariably go back to their birth families – not always, but often.

‘I want to go home. My mum needs me,’ Melody said.

‘I understand, but try not to worry. Your mother is an adult and can look after herself, and Neave will make sure she’s all right.’

‘No, she won’t,’ Melody said.

Best keep Melody occupied, I thought. ‘Adrian, Lucy and Paula will be home from school in about half an hour,’ I said. ‘So we have time to treat your hair and give you a bath before I have to start making dinner.’

‘Treat my hair?’ she queried.

‘Yes, with nit lotion.’ I always kept a bottle in the bathroom cabinet, as so many children who come into care have head lice.

‘How do you know I have nits?’ Melody asked, seeming surprised I knew. ‘My mum said if I didn’t scratch no one would know.’

‘Your social worker told me,’ I said. ‘It must be very uncomfortable for you.’

‘It bleeding well is,’ she said, and jabbing both hands into her matted hair, she gave her scalp a good scratch. ‘Aah, that feels so much better!’ she sighed, relieved.

‘Good, but we don’t swear. Come on, let’s get the nit lotion on and you won’t have to scratch.’

‘Is not swearing another of your rules?’ she asked as she followed me upstairs. ‘Like knocking on bedroom doors.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

‘Do you have many rules here?’

‘No, just a few to keep everyone safe and happy.’

‘I’ll tell my mum. She needs rules to make me safe and happy, then she can have me back.’

I smiled sadly, for of course it was far too late for that. Amanda had had her chance, and Melody wouldn’t be going back.

Chapter Three

Mummy Needs Me

‘I can smell nit lotion!’ my daughter Lucy cried from the hall as she let herself in the front door.

‘We’re in here!’ I called. I was in the kitchen peeling vegetables for dinner, and Melody was sitting at the table colouring in while the head-lice lotion took effect. I’d given her a bath – her first in months, she told me – and she was now dressed in clean clothes from the spares I kept. The lotion had a dreadfully pungent smell and needed to be left on for an hour, but I knew from using it on other children that it was very effective.

‘This is Melody,’ I said, introducing her to Lucy.

‘Hi, how are you? Don’t look so grumpy, you’ll be fine here.’ Having been neglected herself before coming to me as a foster child, Lucy could relate in a special way to the children we fostered. She had an easy manner with them and most of the children formed an attachment to her before they did me.

‘I’m not grumpy,’ Melody said. ‘I don’t like this stuff on my hair. My mum never put it on.’

‘That’s why you had head lice. That will kill the little buggers.’

‘Lucy,’ I admonished, ‘I’ve just told Melody not to swear.’

‘Ooops,’ Lucy said, and theatrically clamped her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry.’ And for the first time I saw Melody smile. ‘Nice picture,’ Lucy said, going over and admiring Melody’s colouring in. Then to me she added, ‘I’m going to my room now, Mum.’

‘Fine, love. Did you have a good day at school?’

‘I guess.’

‘I want to go with you,’ Melody said, clearly finding Lucy’s company far more interesting than mine.

‘Not until the lotion is washed off. It’ll make my room smell.’

I glanced at the clock. ‘Only fifteen more minutes,’ I said.

‘That’s not fair,’ Melody moaned. ‘I want to go with you now.’

‘I’m flattered,’ Lucy said. ‘But you can’t until you’ve had your hair washed. See you later.’ Throwing her a smile, she left the room.

When I think back to how Lucy was when she first arrived, I feel so proud of all she’s achieved. I’m proud of Adrian and Paula too, of course, but Lucy had a shocking start to life and could so easily have gone off the rails. She had a lot of catching up to do, but she didn’t let her past hold her back. Her self-confidence has developed immeasurably; she is happy, has a good circle of friends, eats well and is achieving at school. I couldn’t love her more if she’d been born to me, and I feel very lucky that I have three wonderful children and am allowed to foster more.

No sooner had Lucy disappeared upstairs than Paula came home. She had a different nature to Lucy and was quieter, more placid and could easily let things worry her.

‘Hi, Paula,’ I called. ‘Come and meet Melody.’

‘Hello,’ Paula said, coming in.

‘Are you Lucy’s sister?’ Melody asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You got any more sisters?’

‘No.’ Paula smiled.

‘Good day?’ I asked her as I always ask my children when they first come home.

‘Yes, but I’ve got tons of homework. I’m going to start it now before dinner.’

‘OK, love. I’m nearly finished here, then I’ll wash Melody’s hair, so we’ll eat around six o’clock.’

Paula poured herself a glass of water and, giving Melody a small smile, left.

‘Where’s she gone?’ Melody asked.

‘In the front room to start her homework,’ I said.

‘Can I go?’

‘No, she needs quiet to concentrate. You will see her at dinner when we’ll all eat together.’ I put the chicken casserole in the oven. ‘Now, let’s wash your hair, then you can see Lucy.’

Melody didn’t object, probably because she knew she’d only spend time with Lucy once her hair was washed. We went to the bathroom where I thoroughly washed her hair. As I was rinsing it I heard my son Adrian arrive home. ‘Hi, Mum!’ he called from the hall. At sixteen, he was now six feet tall, although of course to me he’d always be my little boy.

‘I’m in the bathroom, washing Melody’s hair!’ I called down.

‘OK. I’ll say hi to her later.’ I heard him go through to the kitchen. When he came home from school he always fixed himself a drink and a snack to see him through to dinner.

‘You got any more kids?’ Melody asked, head over the bath as I continued to rinse her hair.

‘No, that’s it. Just the four of you.’

‘I’m not your kid,’ came her sharp retort.

‘OK, but while you’re living with me I’ll look after you as if you are.’ There was no reply.

With her hair thoroughly washed, rinsed and nit-free, I towel dried it and then brushed out the knots. She complained throughout that I was pulling, although I was as gentle as I could be. I then dried it with the hair dryer and it shone. It looked quite a few shades lighter now all the grease and grime had been removed. I don’t think it could have been washed for many months.

‘Can I go into Lucy’s room?’ Melody asked as soon as I’d finished.

‘Yes, but don’t forget to knock on her door first.’

She dashed around the landing and banged hard on Lucy’s door – not so much a knock, more a hammering.

‘Hell! Open the door. Don’t break it down!’ Lucy’s voice came from inside.

‘Can I come in?’ Melody yelled.

‘Yes! If you’ve had your hair washed.’

‘I have!’

She disappeared into Lucy’s room and that was the last I saw of her until I called everyone for dinner. Lucy knew that while Melody was with her she should leave her bedroom door open as part of our safer-caring policy, and to call me if there was a problem. All foster carers have a safer-caring policy and follow similar guidelines to keep all family members feeling safe. One of them is not to leave a foster child in a room with someone with the door closed. Leaving the door open means I and others can hear what is going on, and the child can come out easily whenever they want. There’s no knowing what a closed door might mean to an abused child, and Adrian knew that any girl we fostered wasn’t to go into his room at all, for his own protection. Sadly, many foster families have unfounded allegations made against them and they are very difficult to disprove.

Once dinner was ready I called everyone to the table and showed Melody where to sit. For us, it was a lively, chatty occasion as usual, when we shared our news as we ate. It’s often the only time we all sit down together during the week and it’s a pleasant focal point for us. Indeed, foster carers are expected to eat at least one meal a day together, as it bonds the family. At weekends we sometimes had breakfast together too. But Melody stared at us overawed as she ate.

Like many children who come from disadvantaged backgrounds, she wasn’t used to sitting at a table or using a knife and fork, having relied largely on snacks. She struggled to use the cutlery I’d set, so I quietly slipped her a dessertspoon to help with the casserole. She ate ravenously, all the while keeping a watchful eye on us. I’d seen the same vigilant awareness – a heightened state of alert – before in children I’d fostered who’d had to fend for themselves. They constantly watch those around them for any sign of danger. Children who’ve been nurtured and protected don’t do this, as experience has taught them that those they know can be trusted. It would take time for Melody to trust us.

I served rice pudding for dessert. It was a winter favourite of ours and despite Melody’s initial reluctance to try it, saying it looked like sick, she ate it all, and then asked for seconds. ‘Can I take some for my mum?’ she said as she finished the second bowl. ‘I think she’d like it.’ My heart went out to her.

‘Yes, I’ll put some in a plastic box and we can take it to contact tomorrow.’

‘Will it be cold?’ she asked.

‘Yes, but she can warm it up at the Family Centre. There’s a kitchen there with a cooker and a microwave.’

‘I’ll take her some of that casserole too,’ Melody added.

‘I’m afraid that’s all gone. Next time I make it I’ll do extra so she can have some. But please don’t worry about your mum. I’m sure she’ll have something to eat.’

Melody looked at me as if she was about to say something but changed her mind. Hopefully when she saw her mother she’d be reassured that she was managing without her.

After dinner, which I thought had gone well, Adrian, Paula and Lucy helped me clear the table, then disappeared off to do their homework. I was assuming that once Melody started going to school regularly she too would have some homework, but there wasn’t even a school bag tonight. I suggested we play a game together and I opened the toy cupboard in the kitchen-diner, but she said she wanted to watch television like she did at home with her mother. In the living room I switched the television channel to one with an age-appropriate programme, told her I’d be in the kitchen if she needed me and, taking the remote with me (so she couldn’t change channels to something less appropriate), set about doing the washing up. If my children have homework then they are excused from washing the dinner things.

First nights can be very difficult for a new child. Apart from suddenly finding themselves in a strange home and living with people they’ve only just met, the carer’s routine is likely to be very different from any the child has been used to. At 7.30, when the television programme Melody was watching had ended, I told her it was bedtime, which didn’t go down well. ‘What’s the time?’ she demanded, unable to read the time for herself.

‘Half past seven. Plenty late enough. You have school tomorrow.’ Indeed, it was only because she’d already had her bath and hair wash that she’d stayed up this late. Tomorrow she’d be going up around seven o’clock so that she was in bed and hopefully settled by eight o’clock. Children of her age need nine to eleven hours sleep a night.

‘At home I stay up with my mum. We go to sleep together. Sometimes she’s asleep before me.’

‘Is she?’ I asked lightly. ‘What do you do when she’s asleep?’ Clearly Melody wouldn’t be supervised if her mother was asleep.

‘Watch television. You can see the television from our mattress on the floor.’ She stopped, having realized she’d probably said too much. ‘Don’t tell the social worker I told you that.’

‘I think she already knows,’ I said. ‘Now, come on up to bed.’ I stood and began towards the living-room door. ‘You can say goodnight to Lucy, Adrian and Paula. They’re in their bedrooms.’

This seemed to clinch it and without further protest Melody came upstairs with me. I took her to the bathroom first, where I supervised her brushing her teeth with the new toothbrush and paste I’d provided. Like all foster carers, I keep spares of essential items. We went along the landing where Melody knocked first on Lucy’s bedroom door. ‘I’m going to bed!’ she called.

Lucy came out to say goodnight and gave Melody a big hug, which was nice. Then we went to Paula’s room. She too came out and said, ‘Goodnight. See you tomorrow.’ Then Adrian came to his door. ‘Goodnight. I hope you’ll be happy here,’ he said. Melody hadn’t seen much of him, only at dinner. He had exams in the spring, so it was important he studied. She’d see more of him at the weekend.

She used the toilet, then we went into her bedroom. I’d found a new teddy bear that Adrian had won at a fair and didn’t want, so I’d propped it on her bed. I asked her if she wanted her curtains open or closed at night and she said a little open. It’s details like this that help a child settle in a strange room, so I drew the curtains, leaving a gap in the middle. As I turned I saw she was about to climb into bed with her clothes on.

‘Melody, there are some pyjamas for you, love.’ I picked them up from where I’d left them on her bed. ‘You can wear these until we have time to buy you some new ones. They’re clean.’ I’d taken them from my selection of spares and was pretty sure they were the right size, as she was average build for an eight-year-old.

She paused and looked a bit confused. ‘I keep my clothes on at night at home because it’s so bleeding cold.’

‘Well, it’s not cold here, love, and remember we don’t swear.’

‘OK. It’s all so different here.’

‘I know, you’ll soon get used to it.’ But I was saddened to hear yet another example of the impoverished life Melody and her mother had led. No one should have to keep their clothes on to keep them warm at night.

I always give the child I’m fostering privacy whenever possible. Melody was of an age when she could dress and undress herself, so I waited on the landing while she changed into her pyjamas, as I had done when she’d had a bath. Once she was ready I went into her bedroom, thinking how nice it would be for her to climb into a comfortable, warm bed rather than the old mattress on a cold floor she’d been used to, but she didn’t get in. ‘I can’t go to bed here,’ she said anxiously. ‘My mum needs me.’

‘You’ll see her tomorrow,’ I reassured her. ‘Please try not to worry. She’ll be fine. I expect she’ll be going to bed soon too.’ Clearly I didn’t know what Melody’s mother was doing, but it wouldn’t help Melody to keep fretting about her.

‘She’s no good by herself,’ Melody said, still not getting in. ‘She needs me to tell her what to do.’

‘Melody, love, I know you’re missing your mother and she will be missing you, but she’s an adult. She can take care of herself.’

‘No, you don’t understand,’ Melody blurted, her anger and concern rising. ‘She forgets things. I have to be there to tell her what she needs and where things are.’

I paused. ‘Is that when she’s been drinking or taking drugs?’ I asked gently. Aware that her mother had a history of drug and alcohol abuse, this seemed the most likely explanation. Of course she would be ‘forgetful’ if she was under the influence of a substance.

‘Sometimes, but not always,’ Melody replied and then stopped, again realizing she’d probably said too much. Many children I’ve fostered have been warned by their parents not to disclose their home life to their foster carer or social worker. It can be very confusing for the child. Before saying anything, they have to sift through all the information they carry and work out what they can or can’t say. ‘Mum can remember some things, but other times she needs my help,’ Melody said carefully, and then she teared up.

‘Oh, love, don’t upset yourself. Come here.’ I put my arms around her and she allowed me to hold her close. ‘I do understand how you feel, honestly I do. I’ve looked after children before who’ve felt just as you do. They worry about their parents, and that they won’t be able to cope without them. Then, when they start seeing them regularly at contact, they find they’re managing fine without them. Your mother will be missing you, but believe me she can look after herself.’

How those words would come back to haunt me.

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