Learning to Love Amy: The foster carer who saved a mother and a daughter

скачать книгу бесплатно


Martin was so fed up that he didn’t have a son, he reached into my overnight bag and chucked the pink Babygro and blanket I’d put in there out of the window, and a nurse had to run down and rescue them.

I had a bit of sympathy for him because being surrounded by us girls, with no interest in football or car mechanics, must have been hard for him at times. I knew how I would long for a girl if I only had sons, so when I saw the blanket go flying, I smiled to myself.

The lovely thing about Martin is that he never stays mad for long. It’s true for both of us, really; we’ll have a row, shout and scream, and then it’s all out in the open and forgotten about a few minutes later.

‘I’m getting a cuppa,’ he said, still looking sulky, and ten minutes later he returned with the biggest bunch of flowers I have ever seen and a packet of Jaffa Cakes, my favourite biscuit.

I was cuddling Isabella.

‘Can I hold her?’ he asked.

‘Idiot,’ I said. ‘Course you can.’

He scooped her up gently, and although he tried to hide it, I could see tears welling up in his eyes. As he stood cooing at her, holding her tiny hand, I promised I would buy Isabella a Chelsea football club Babygro, got off the bed and limped over to give him a hug.

‘You still in pain?’ the nurse asked.

‘Only my shins,’ I said, and she looked confused.

I left hospital after a few hours and by the time I got home the family were there waiting, so I could forget any thoughts of having a rest. The chatter and laughter was so loud I’m sure the whole neighbourhood heard, and the house looked like a florist’s shop.

Chapter Two (#u8a198051-ea79-5bee-96fc-94db7ecf6085)

A few days later the doorbell went and I was surprised to see Peter, my social worker, on the doorstep with another huge bunch of flowers.

‘Congratulations,’ he smiled.

The last time he had seen our family we were on the floor with grief, so it was good for him to see us looking happy. Hope’s death had an impact on him, too, and I know he felt guilty about what our family had gone through. After all, it was he who suggested Hope came to live with us.

We chatted for a while, but not about fostering, although I’m sure he wanted to. I still had no thoughts of fostering again, and there was no hint then that anything was about to change.

Soon after moving into the new house, I had met another foster carer who lived locally, a lovely lady called Martine. Martine had begun caring because she was unable to have children of her own, and although she and her husband had gone through the adoption process, they had been unable to adopt a child. They wanted a baby – something all childless couples prefer – but the reality is that babies rarely come up for adoption. In fact, it’s rare to be able to adopt a child under two. Then they had split up, so Martine decided fostering was the next best thing.

I assumed she and her husband had divorced because they couldn’t have kids, but one day Martine told me the shocking true story.

‘You might find this out from other people, so I might as well tell you myself,’ Martine said. ‘After the adoption failed, my husband started seeing another woman and then got her pregnant. That’s why we divorced.’

‘Martine, I am so, so sorry,’ I said, thinking how I could never imagine Martin doing anything like that, even if we had not been able to have children.

Martine was fostering a little girl called India, who was an accommodated child, which basically means that her mother had voluntarily put her into care. She was her first foster daughter and Martine confided in me that she had been overjoyed at the prospect of helping India recover from a terrible start in life.

‘I wanted to make it right for her. I thought we would have fun days out at the park, lots of love and cuddles on the sofa, sipping hot chocolate and watching Dumbo,’ she said. ‘But Mia, I don’t know if it’s me or if it’s India, but she seems scared of me.’

‘Why? You are the kindest person on the planet. I don’t understand.’

‘I don’t either and I don’t know what to do.’

I had noticed a distance between India and Martine but thought that was just because she was settling in.

Martine began to tell me India’s story and little by little I began to understand. India was almost three years old and her mother, Amy, had put her through hell. Amy was a chaotic alcoholic who lived in squalor and was incapable of looking after herself, let alone parenting her daughter. Mother and daughter were known to social services, who had done their best to help Amy sort out her life. They had started by sending a specialist company to cleanse Amy’s disgusting flat. I saw photos of it later and there were piles of dirty clothes covering every surface, half-eaten plates of food and rubbish bags spilling their contents across the carpet. The mess was appalling and almost obscured the empty vodka bottles that littered the place. It was a shock to see them everywhere, and an even bigger shock that they weren’t the first things you noticed.

One thing not in the photos was the drunks who spent their days there, drinking with Amy until they were unconscious. Amy’s place wasn’t so much a crack den, but an alcoholics’ den, and because she was a mum she had her own place, whereas most of the others were sleeping rough. It was no wonder they all loved hanging out at Amy’s, and she was grateful for the company.

If Amy went out to the park it was not to the swings; she joined other drinkers on park benches, and they sat nursing cans of strong lager or cider while India watched, strapped into her pushchair. ‘A dog couldn’t live in those conditions,’ I thought to myself, ‘never mind a child.’

Amy had chosen vodka and a can of Special Brew over her own child. What mother would do that? But alcohol had a strong hold over her and no one could compete.

Despite more than enough support and lessons in domestic management, Amy never mastered keeping the place clean. Social services couldn’t perpetually send in cleaners, and they were receiving a lot of concerned phone calls about India, from one family member in particular.

If Amy couldn’t clean up her act, sooner or later social services would have to act to protect India. In fact, even while Amy was attempting to be a domestic goddess, they suspected she would fail and were actively seeking an interim care order.

To pre-empt the humiliation of having India taken away, which would mean the police turning up at her door with a social worker and a court order and forcing Amy to hand her over, in a sober moment Amy decided India would be better off in care. It was the right thing to do and must have been hard, so to give Amy her due, she did put India first for once.

India showed no signs of physical abuse, but she must have been hurting inside. There was no Cinderella law to protect her from emotional neglect and free her from the daily routine of caring for her mother; she just had to get on with it or she would get shouted at.

India’s days with Amy would have gone something like this:

‘India, Mummy’s tired, get me a blanket.’

‘India, Mummy’s got a headache, don’t make any noise.’

‘India, Mummy’s hungry, get me something to eat.’

‘India, I don’t want to watch this film, find something that Mummy likes.’

It would have started as soon as India was able to toddle and understand simple commands. Amy was merely copying the way she had been raised and knew no different.