Moving Fostering Memoirs 2-Book Collection. Casey Watson

by strangers if I want to spend an hour with her.’ An edge crept into his smooth voice. ‘Do you really think I’m going to cover the cost of that sort of humiliation?’

      From nowhere, an image of Phoebe’s tangled pyjama bottoms flashed into my thoughts. The memory gave me a disquieting feeling. Could it be that she had suffered abuse at the hands of this man? I banished the thought, telling myself it was natural for him to feel resentful, when his only daughter, and perhaps most treasured possession, had been snatched away from him.

      My own children dropped their straws, watching us keenly. Jamie looked about ready to pounce. My son was a simple soul, without an aggressive bone in his body, but he was always particularly protective of me. I smiled at both of them to convey the message that all was well. Then all at once something in Robin’s eyes flickered and there was another change in pitch. I think he must have realised the effect his tone was having on me because his frown softened. ‘I would prefer you dealt with it now,’ he smiled amiably, ‘if you wouldn’t mind.’

      Conciliatory, I shook my head. ‘Not a problem,’ I said, springing to my feet in my customary wish to oblige. Grabbing the tab, I slung my bag over my shoulder and went to the till. As I entered my pin number into the credit card reader I glanced across at Phillipa. She hovered behind her husband as he held Phoebe’s hands, supporting her while she jumped up and down on his highly polished, shiny black shoes.

      As we said our goodbyes there was no trace of bad feeling between us. Robin shook my hand again and thanked me warmly. There was no real reason, then, for the surge of angst rising in my chest. Except that beneath his charming exterior I was beginning to suspect Phoebe’s father might be concealing something all the more disturbing.

       Chapter 7

      The journey back was stressful, with Phoebe parroting everything Jamie said.

      ‘Mum, please stop her,’ he groaned, drawing his hands roughly down his face and twisting his lip with agitation.

      Phoebe was delighted by his distress.

      ‘Mum, please stop her.’

      ‘That’s enough, Phoebe. You’ll go to your room when we get home if you don’t stop,’ I said firmly, regretting the words as soon as I’d said them. Having recently attended a Behaviour Management course, I was aware that threatening to send a child to their room was frowned upon. Apparently it gave the impression that bedtime was a punishment. Any child who had been sexually abused would already harbour negative feelings around night-time and foster carers were supposed to overlook bad behaviour where possible, rewarding good behaviour instead.

      Positive praise was all very well in theory, I had found, but in the first few weeks of placement often there was precious little that could be applauded. Of course, most children responded well to praise, but being unable to impose some form of penalty made fostering that much harder. Ignoring bad behaviour didn’t always help it to go away.

      As we neared home I decided to pop in to see my mother. She’d only met Phoebe briefly when she came to pick Emily and Jamie up a few days previously, and she was eager to get to know her. During our daily telephone conversations I had regaled her with our struggles so far but I think she thought I had embellished the tales for her entertainment.

      When Mum opened the door she greeted us with her usual warm embrace, though rather than wrapping her arms around Phoebe she patted her on the arm, giving it a friendly squeeze.

      ‘Oh goodness, you’re all skin and bone, girl!’

      Phoebe stiffened, staring at her arm as if Mum had rubbed her over with hot coals. If Mum noticed her reaction (which I’m sure she had, as nothing much got past her), she ignored it. I was touched by her ability to welcome the tribes of children I thrust upon her. Over the years she had treated them with as much generosity as she had shown her own grandchildren, something she didn’t have to do.

      ‘Lovely to see you all – enjoying being off school, are you?’ Cheerfully ushering us all into her cosy living room, Mum launched into her standard routine of listing all the sweet and savoury items available in the kitchen.

      Emily and Jamie dived in, grabbed some goodies and then planted themselves firmly on her sofa. They were so comfortable at their grandmother’s house that it was like a second home to them. Phoebe hovered behind me; I could see she felt a bit uncomfortable.

      ‘Come on, love, don’t be shy. Have a chocolate cookie or something. I made ’em fresh this morning.’

      Oh dear, I thought, I should have mentioned to Mum about Phoebe’s food issues. Talk of freshly baked biscuits and the like was bound to set off her retching. But I was wrong. Amazingly, Phoebe smiled shyly as she took Mum’s hand, allowing herself to be guided to an armchair, where she reached out and accepted one of the warm offerings. Although Mum could sometimes be a force to be reckoned with she was naturally kind, a throwback to a gentler age. It was something I think Phoebe could sense.

      With the children within earshot our conversation revolved mainly around the latest family gossip, the comings and goings of Mum’s new neighbours and the latest developments on Emmerdale.

      ‘Oh, and I forgot to tell you what your brother got up to last week.’

      ‘Oh, and I forgot to tell you what your brother got up to last week.’

      I smiled wryly to myself: Phoebe was definitely feeling at home. Mum stared at her with one of her frighteningly stern looks, the type, I’m ashamed to say, which still had a shrinking effect on me. Phoebe looked away.

      After a moment, Mum continued: ‘Where was I? Oh yes, Chris. He’s only gone and …’

      ‘He’s only gone and …’

      ‘Don’t interrupt adults,’ Mum snapped. ‘It’s rude.’

      ‘Fuck off, whore!’

      Mum’s jaw dropped about two inches. Emily and Jamie spun around, astonished anyone would dare speak to their grandmother in that way. If Mum hadn’t recovered quickly and said, ‘Wash your mouth out with soap,’ I would have laughed at their reaction.

      I cringed. ‘It’s alright, Phoebe, she doesn’t mean it.’ And to Mum I growled through gritted teeth, ‘You mustn’t say things like that – you’ll get me struck off.’ What did she think she was doing?

      ‘Send them social workers around here and I’ll give them short shrift.’ Mum waggled her finger at Phoebe. ‘She’s the one coming into my house with the filthy mouth.’

      Despite our close relationship there were days when my mother was capable of driving me nuts. Did she not realise the trouble she could get me in for saying such a thing? I remembered another foster carer telling me that she had a baby removed from her care because during a visit from her supervising social worker, her own mother, who had offered to change the baby’s nappy, exclaimed, ‘Ooh, look at that lovely bottom! Don’t you just want to eat it?’

      Horrified, the social worker had stared at the foster carer as if she’d been raised by cannibals. She was reinstated soon after the investigation was completed but the baby had gone through an unnecessary move and the foster carer had almost given up her vocation through the stress of it all.

      I suppose I should have been grateful that Mum hadn’t threatened to ‘cut her tongue out’ as she often did when my brothers were young and repeated something they’d heard in the playground.

      Mum was still staring at me belligerently. No surprise there, but what did amaze me was Phoebe’s reaction to the whole exchange. Her eyes were filled with amusement as she stared at both of us and then, to my surprise, she began laughing.

      We stayed another hour before travelling the short journey home. As I drove, I churned Phoebe’s reaction over in my mind. I had thought that autism affected a person’s ability to appreciate humour since sufferers