to me to introduce myself.
‘Cathy Glass, foster carer,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ Verity said, making a note of those present. ‘Cathy, would you like to start by telling Stevie and his grandparents a bit about you and your family?’
‘Certainly.’ I’d done this many times before; it’s standard at meetings like this. Looking at Stevie and his grandparents as I spoke, I told them I was a single parent and had been fostering for twenty-five years; that I had three adult children at home. I said Adrian and Lucy worked, while Paula was at a local college. I described an average day and what we liked to do in our leisure time in the evenings and at weekends. I finished by passing them the photograph album to look at. I’d written a caption beneath each picture, so they were self-explanatory. Verity thanked me and we were silent as first Peggy and Fred looked at the album and then passed it to Stevie. I couldn’t tell from his expression what he thought.
‘What do you think?’ Verity asked him as he closed the album and pushed it across the table to me.
‘I’ll have my own room then?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Verity confirmed.
‘There’s a photo in here,’ I said, opening the album. ‘I’ve written your room beneath it.’ I showed him.
He nodded and seemed pleased.
‘He has to share with Liam, his younger brother, at home,’ Peggy said. ‘Kiri, his sister, needs her own room.’
‘I have a question,’ Fred said. ‘Are you going to stop him dressing like a tart? It’s embarrassing.’
So was his comment, although of course Peggy and Fred were of a different generation and probably didn’t realise that such comments were unacceptable. The short answer was no, I wouldn’t be stopping him from dressing as he wished in the evenings and weekends. I looked at Stevie and said, ‘I assume you wear your school uniform for school?’
‘He doesn’t go to school,’ Peggy said.
‘Cathy will be liaising with the school to help Stevie return,’ Verity said.
‘I’ll give you a bloody medal if you succeed!’ Fred said. ‘We’ve both tried and got nowhere.’
‘He has a mentor,’ Peggy said. ‘That’s who we see.’
‘And a fat lot of good she is!’ Fred said. ‘Lots of talk, but is she willing to come round and get him out of bed? No!’
I looked at Stevie, who’d lost some of his previous nervousness and was now looking rather smug at having antagonised his grandfather. ‘Is there a reason you haven’t been going to school?’ I asked him.
Tilting his head to one side, he gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘It doesn’t suit me,’ he said.
‘Doesn’t suit you!’ Fred thundered. ‘You cheeky bugger! It didn’t suit us to bring up you lot after we’d brought up our own kids, but we got on with it so you’d all have a proper home.’
‘And you’ve done a good job,’ Verity said pacifyingly.
Fred scoffed, while Stevie provokingly took a small compact from his jacket pocket and checked his face in the mirror.
‘Look at him!’ Fred fumed.
Clearly Stevie knew exactly which buttons to press to annoy his grandparents perfectly!
The only positive part of the meeting, I thought as I drove home, was the photograph album. Stevie and his grandparents had asked to look through it a second time, and his gran said she was less worried now she knew he would be living in a nice house and had met me, as she’d heard some bad things about foster carers not treating kids right. Verity reassured her that I was well thought of and gave the children I looked after a high standard of care. Stevie didn’t say much other than asking how much pocket money he would be getting.
‘You won’t get any if you don’t go to school,’ Fred had seethed. They’d stopped his pocket money when he’d refused to attend school, but as a foster carer I had to give the child or young person their allowance regardless of their behaviour, which of course limited the options available to sanction negative behaviour. Many parents withhold their children’s pocket money if they misbehave and some children are expected to do household chores to earn the money. Young people in care receive an above-average pocket money allowance for their age, plus an amount set aside in a savings account and a clothing allowance, which, at Stevie’s age, he would expect to have in his hand. He would also very likely have a pay-as-you-go mobile phone, which I would be expected to top up, but I didn’t explain all this at the time to Peggy and Fred, and neither did Verity.
It was one o’clock when I arrived home. Paula had left a note saying she’d gone shopping with a friend and would be back around 4 p.m. I had a sandwich lunch and then did some clerical work while I waited for Verity to arrive with Stevie – at around three o’clock. However, just before three the landline went and when I heard Verity’s voice I knew something had changed or gone wrong.
‘Cathy, I’ve just left Mr and Mrs Jones. Stevie won’t be coming to you this afternoon. His grandparents want to give him another chance. They felt bad after the meeting and they think the threat of going into care might give him the shock he needs. I’ll be monitoring the situation and we’ll have to see how it goes.’
‘OK. Thanks for letting me know,’ I said.
While I wasn’t happy at being seen as a ‘threat’, I hoped it all worked out for them. Obviously it’s better for a child or young person if they are able to live with their family, although something told me (from years of fostering) that wasn’t going to happen here, and I was right.
Chapter Three
It was midday on 2 January. Lucy and Adrian were at work and Paula was in her room reading in preparation for returning to college the following day. I hadn’t heard anything further from Verity, and I assumed Edith would phone before long with details of another child in need of a foster home. There was never much of a gap between one child leaving and the next arriving. I’d spent the morning taking down the Christmas decorations while I had the time and was thinking of making Paula and me some lunch when the front doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but sometimes a friend or neighbour dropped by, and we also had regular deliveries as we all shopped online.
But it wasn’t a parcel, friend or neighbour. To my utter amazement, as I opened the front door I saw Stevie standing there, a large holdall at his side.
‘Sorry to turn up like this,’ he said, seeing my expression of surprise. ‘But I will be staying with you after all.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m afraid it’s not that simple, but come in,’ I flustered, trying to clear my thoughts. ‘What’s happened? Does anyone know you’re here? How did you know where I live?’
‘I found your address on some papers Gran had,’ he said, stepping into the hall.
‘Does your gran know you are here?’
‘Yes.’ If she hadn’t, I would have phoned her straight away to let her know Stevie was safe.
Paula was still upstairs in her room and must have heard the doorbell and our voices but decided to stay put for now.
‘Shall I slip off my shoes and leave them here with yours?’ he asked, referring to the place beneath the coat stand where our outdoor shoes were.
‘Yes, please,’ I said absently.
‘And hang my coat here?’
‘Yes.’ I usually told my new arrivals where