Chapter
England has one of the highest teenage pregnancy rates in the developed world. Last year nearly 40,000 teenage girls gave birth and nearly 60,000 terminated a pregnancy. These figures are truly shocking. And while some of the girls’ stories have happy endings, many do not.
We’d just sat down to our evening meal when the doorbell rang. I sighed. Why did salespeople always manage to time their calls with dinner? Double glazing, cavity-wall insulation, religion, new driveway, landscape the garden or fresh fish from Grimsby: whatever they were selling, 6.00 p.m. seemed to be the time they called, I supposed because most people are home from work by then and it isn’t so late that people won’t answer their front doors.
‘Aren’t you going to see who it is, Mum?’ Paula, my eight-year-old daughter, asked, as I didn’t immediately leave the table.
‘Yes,’ I said as the bell rang for a second time.
Standing, I swallowed my mouthful of cottage pie and went down the hall to the front door, ready to despatch the salesperson as quickly as possible.
‘And don’t be rude!’ Adrian called after me.
As if I would! Although it was true I usually sent away cold callers efficiently and effectively, which to Adrian, aged twelve, could be seen as rude and certainly embarrassing.
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ I returned, as I arrived at the front door.
It was dark outside at six o’clock in January and, as usual, before answering the door at night, I checked the security spyhole, which allowed me to see who was in the porch. The porch was illuminated by a carriage lamp and gave enough light for me to see a lady in her early thirties, dressed smartly in a light-grey winter coat, and whom I vaguely recognized from seeing in the street. I guessed she was collecting either money for a charity or signatures for a petition on a local issue: traffic calming, crossing patrol, noisy pub in the high road, etc.
‘Hello,’ I said with a smile as I opened the door. The cold night air rushed in.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ she began. ‘You’re Cathy Glass, aren’t you?’ I saw she wasn’t carrying a charity-collection tin or a clipboard with a petition to sign.
‘Yes,’ I said, surprised she knew my name. I certainly didn’t know hers.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. My name’s Meryl Dennis. I work at Beachcroft School. I’m the games mistress – I teach PE. I expect you’ve seen me around? I live at number 122.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. Number 122 was at the very bottom of the street.
I smiled politely and wondered why she was telling me who she was and about her school, which was on the other side of the county. Adrian, who’d started secondary school the previous September, attended a local school and Paula was still at our local primary school. I smiled again and waited, aware that the cold air was chilling the house and my half-eaten dinner was on the table going cold.
‘You foster, don’t you?’ Meryl asked a little nervously.
‘Yes. Although I don’t have a child at present.’
‘I thought not. I pass your house in my car on the way to work and I used to see you setting off on your school run. I thought your routine had changed.’
I smiled again and nodded, and continued to look at Meryl, still with no inkling as to why she was here or why she’d taken such an interest in my routine. Donna, the girl whose story I told in The Saddest Girl in the World, had left us in November and I’d taken Christmas off and was now waiting for another foster child to arrive. I didn’t yet know who it would be. But what any of that had to do with Meryl I had no idea.
‘Is it possible for me to come in for a few moments?’ Meryl asked. ‘What I have to say is confidential. I’m so sorry to trouble you like this.’
‘Well, yes,’ I said, slightly taken aback but intrigued. ‘Come in.’
Grateful to be able to close the door against the cold night air, I led the way down the hall.
‘Who is it?’ Paula called from the dining table, having heard our footsteps.
‘A lady who lives down our road,’ I said. ‘Finish your dinner, please.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Meryl said. ‘I’ve interrupted your meal.’
‘Don’t worry. It will save. Let’s go through here to talk.’ I showed her into the sitting room and pushed the door to. Adrian and Paula knew where I was if they needed me.
Meryl had the authoritative air of a teacher. She sat on the sofa, unbuttoned her coat and, slipping it off, folded it on to the sofa next to her. ‘I’m sorry to barge in on you like this,’ she apologized again. ‘But I need to ask you a favour – to help me out.’
It was then I thought she was probably looking for a childminder – hence her comments about me not having a child; possibly someone to look after her child or children before or after school. I’d been approached before by neighbours who knew I fostered and asked if I could mind their children. If this was why Meryl was here I’d have to politely refuse, for as a foster carer I’m not allowed to childmind as well, although I am allowed to help out a friend, for example, by looking after their child for a couple of hours while they go to the dentist or similar.
Meryl now looked at me very seriously as she spoke. ‘As well as teaching PE at Beachcroft I’m mentor for the girls in years twelve and thirteen. You know, what used to be known as the sixth form.’ I nodded. ‘The girls come to me with their problems, usually about studying and exams; or they have boyfriend problems, or they’re not getting on with their parents. I listen to them and do what I can to help. However, I have one girl in year twelve who is pregnant. She telephoned me half an hour ago to say her mother has thrown her out. She’s at a friend’s now but can’t stay there tonight. Can she come here?’
I was completely taken aback by the directness of the question, although the answer was simple: no. But I could see how passionate Meryl was in her desire to help the girl, so I thought she deserved a fuller explanation.
‘I can’t, I’m afraid. Although I’m a foster carer I can’t take any child I choose. The way the system works is that when a social worker at the local authority decides to bring a child into care they first check their lists to see if they have a suitable foster carer free; if they haven’t, they send a referral to the independent fostering agencies in the area to see if they have anyone suitable. The agency I foster for, Homefinders, receives the referral together with other agencies and if they think I’m suitable they contact me. Different foster carers have different expertise and specialities. I don’t foster pregnant teenage girls, but some foster carers do. The social services will be able to find somewhere for this girl. Have you contacted them?’
‘Jade doesn’t want them involved,’ Meryl said.
I paused and thought. ‘I think they need to be involved,’ I said.
‘I think they know about Jade,’ Meryl said. ‘I understand