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Authors: Casey Watson
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thinking of her mum reminded me I now had to puncture her seemingly happy bubble. But not yet. I would choose my moment. Do it later.
The ‘later’ turned out to be lunchtime, because the morning had continued in much the same cheerful vein, and I figured she was in a good frame of mind. She’d played in the garden with Bob for ages, even though it was perishing, and once I’d done all my housework and told her I’d make something she particularly liked for lunch she seemed genuinely chuffed at my suggestion.
Which wasn’t out of the blue; I wasn’t a mind reader. With our first foster child, Justin, having such issues around food, and because our kind of fostering was geared to particularly damaged children, minimising any anxieties that didn’t need to be there was a really big help. And with issues around food being quite common in kids who’d been in the care system (unsurprisingly, given how insecure they tended to be, not to mention having to compete with older and bigger kids in children’s homes and so on) Mike and I had devised a questionnaire. It was something kids who came to us could fill in before they moved in, and gave them a chance to list all the things that mattered to them. Foods were the major part, but we also included things like favourite colours, favourite TV shows, any hobbies that mattered to them and so on. It all helped to make the transition process just that little bit less stressful, and, in Sophia’s case, I knew she liked cheese and beans on toast.
‘Ooh, lovely!’ she said, seeing it, as she joined me at the table. ‘You’ve done it just how I like it, Casey. Thanks so much.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘I’m looking forward to trying it, as it happens. I’ve never had beans and cheese on toast together before.’
‘Oh, you’ll love it,’ she assured me. ‘It’s gorg. Really gorg .’
Perhaps this was my moment. ‘By the way,’ I said lightly. ‘I had a letter from social services earlier. They’ve arranged for you to visit your mum Sunday week.’
A full minute passed before she responded in any way. She just carried on eating, mechanically putting forkfuls in her mouth. Then she finally lifted her head. ‘And?’
‘And nothing,’ I said, keeping my tone breezy. ‘I just thought I ought to let you know. Are you okay, love?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said, putting down her knife and fork. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’m not really hungry. Is it okay if I go upstairs and finish my unpacking? I still have some things to sort out.’
‘Yes, yes, love,’ I said quickly. ‘Of course that’s okay. We did have that big breakfast this morning, after all. Probably not a good idea to … well …’
But I stopped speaking because by now she’d already left the room. I sat there not knowing what to think. Had that gone well or hadn’t it? At least she hadn’t kicked off or become visibly upset. And going quiet and wanting some time alone – well, that seemed normal. After all, how did you deal with having your mum effectively dead, yet still there, alive in a hospital bed? The closest analogy I could think of was having a loved one with Alzheimer’s – still there but not there. Not to communicate with, anyway. But that tended to be problem for adults with their elderly parents. This was a child . It was unusual and grim territory.
I got up and cleared the table. I’d leave her with her thoughts for a bit. She knew where I was if she wanted to talk about it. But she’d only known me a few days so I doubted she would. Instead I went to ring John Fulshaw so he was kept up to date. She stayed up there – I could hear the odd clatter of drawers opening and closing – for pretty much the rest of the afternoon. I must remember, I thought, as I pottered around downstairs, to warn Mike and Kieron that she might be a little preoccupied.
And just how preoccupied we were soon to find out. I’d roasted a piece of gammon for our tea, and
The ‘later’ turned out to be lunchtime, because the morning had continued in much the same cheerful vein, and I figured she was in a good frame of mind. She’d played in the garden with Bob for ages, even though it was perishing, and once I’d done all my housework and told her I’d make something she particularly liked for lunch she seemed genuinely chuffed at my suggestion.
Which wasn’t out of the blue; I wasn’t a mind reader. With our first foster child, Justin, having such issues around food, and because our kind of fostering was geared to particularly damaged children, minimising any anxieties that didn’t need to be there was a really big help. And with issues around food being quite common in kids who’d been in the care system (unsurprisingly, given how insecure they tended to be, not to mention having to compete with older and bigger kids in children’s homes and so on) Mike and I had devised a questionnaire. It was something kids who came to us could fill in before they moved in, and gave them a chance to list all the things that mattered to them. Foods were the major part, but we also included things like favourite colours, favourite TV shows, any hobbies that mattered to them and so on. It all helped to make the transition process just that little bit less stressful, and, in Sophia’s case, I knew she liked cheese and beans on toast.
‘Ooh, lovely!’ she said, seeing it, as she joined me at the table. ‘You’ve done it just how I like it, Casey. Thanks so much.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘I’m looking forward to trying it, as it happens. I’ve never had beans and cheese on toast together before.’
‘Oh, you’ll love it,’ she assured me. ‘It’s gorg. Really gorg .’
Perhaps this was my moment. ‘By the way,’ I said lightly. ‘I had a letter from social services earlier. They’ve arranged for you to visit your mum Sunday week.’
A full minute passed before she responded in any way. She just carried on eating, mechanically putting forkfuls in her mouth. Then she finally lifted her head. ‘And?’
‘And nothing,’ I said, keeping my tone breezy. ‘I just thought I ought to let you know. Are you okay, love?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said, putting down her knife and fork. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’m not really hungry. Is it okay if I go upstairs and finish my unpacking? I still have some things to sort out.’
‘Yes, yes, love,’ I said quickly. ‘Of course that’s okay. We did have that big breakfast this morning, after all. Probably not a good idea to … well …’
But I stopped speaking because by now she’d already left the room. I sat there not knowing what to think. Had that gone well or hadn’t it? At least she hadn’t kicked off or become visibly upset. And going quiet and wanting some time alone – well, that seemed normal. After all, how did you deal with having your mum effectively dead, yet still there, alive in a hospital bed? The closest analogy I could think of was having a loved one with Alzheimer’s – still there but not there. Not to communicate with, anyway. But that tended to be problem for adults with their elderly parents. This was a child . It was unusual and grim territory.
I got up and cleared the table. I’d leave her with her thoughts for a bit. She knew where I was if she wanted to talk about it. But she’d only known me a few days so I doubted she would. Instead I went to ring John Fulshaw so he was kept up to date. She stayed up there – I could hear the odd clatter of drawers opening and closing – for pretty much the rest of the afternoon. I must remember, I thought, as I pottered around downstairs, to warn Mike and Kieron that she might be a little preoccupied.
And just how preoccupied we were soon to find out. I’d roasted a piece of gammon for our tea, and
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