Where Has Mummy Gone?. Cathy Glass

she said with a warm smile.

      ‘Cathy Glass, Melody’s foster carer.’

      ‘The Deputy said you’d be here to collect her. So pleased to meet you. Our class’s teaching assistant, Miss May, has been working with Melody today. She’s done some nice work and there is a reading book and some literacy homework in Melody’s book bag. We like the children to read a little every evening. Miss May had to leave early today but is looking forward to meeting you tomorrow.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      Young and fashionably dressed, Miss Langford came across as a very enthusiastic teacher.

      ‘Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help Melody,’ she said. ‘She’s a lovely child. A delight to teach.’

      ‘Excellent,’ I said, although I was pretty certain she said this about all the children she taught.

      I usually ask to meet privately with the teacher of a new child I’m fostering to learn more about how they are doing in school, but as Melody hadn’t been in school long and I’d had a good chat with the Deputy this morning, I didn’t think I could learn much more.

      ‘They have swimming on Monday afternoons,’ she added. ‘One-piece swimming costume, please, black or navy, and a regulation white swimming hat.’

      ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll make sure she has it.’ I made a mental note to buy those too on Saturday.

      ‘So have a good evening then,’ Miss Langford said. ‘Melody tells me she is seeing her mother.’

      ‘Yes, that’s right. We’re going there now.’

      ‘Did you remember the rice pudding?’ Melody now asked.

      ‘Yes, I did,’ I said, pleased I’d included it. Miss Langford looked at me, puzzled. ‘I made rice pudding yesterday evening,’ I explained. ‘Melody said her mother would like some.’

      ‘Mmm, that sounds nice,’ she enthused with a big smile and smacking her lips. ‘I love homemade rice pudding.’

      ‘Well, the next time I make it I’ll bring some in for you too,’ I joked.

      She laughed and we said goodbye.

      I opened Melody’s car door, gave her the new shoes and then waited on the pavement as she tried them on. They fitted, just. ‘Can’t I have trainers?’ she asked.

      ‘Not for school, but we can buy you some for casual wear at the weekend.’

      ‘OK. They’re nice,’ she said. ‘What shall I do with my old trainers?’

      ‘Put them in the bag your shoes were in for now.’ As worn out as they were, I’d be keeping them, together with the clothes Melody had been wearing when she’d arrived. They were the property of her mother and would be offered back to her. If she told her social worker she didn’t want them then I could dispose of them, but not until then. Sometimes all parents have left of their children are photographs, their old clothes and toys, and faded memories.

      I checked Melody’s seatbelt was fastened and gave her the box of rice pudding to hold. Then, with her looking very smart in her new school uniform, shoes and coat from my spares, I began the drive to the Family Centre, chatting to her as we went.

      ‘How was school?’ I asked. ‘Miss Langford said you’d done some nice work today.’

      ‘I played with someone in the playground.’

      ‘Great. You’ll soon make friends.’

      ‘That’s what Miss May said.’

      ‘You like Miss May?’

      ‘Yes. She helps me with my work. There’s me and two boys sit with her and she helps us do what the teacher says. Cathy, why don’t I know as much as the kids on the other tables? You know, the ones that don’t sit with Miss May.’

      I glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. Children intuit that they are behind their peers. ‘Because you haven’t been in school much,’ I replied honestly.

      ‘Is that why kids go to school? So they know lots of stuff and are clever?’ Her question was another indication of just how little schooling she’d had; children of her age usually know why they go to school.

      ‘Yes, and also to make friends and join in activities.’

      ‘I guess I should have gone to school more, but my mum needed me at home.’

      I didn’t want to demonize her mother, but she had a lot to answer for. ‘Your mum is doing fine, so don’t worry,’ I reassured her. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon catch up with your schoolwork, and I’ll help you at home.’

      ‘I hope my mum is OK,’ she said, fretting again. ‘I kept thinking about her at school and I told Miss May. She said my mummy was grown up and would know how to look after herself and I shouldn’t worry.’ Thank you, Miss May, I thought.

      ‘That’s right. I’ll be meeting Miss May tomorrow,’ I said. ‘What else did you do at school?’ But Melody didn’t answer and was clearly worrying about her mother again. ‘We’ll soon be at the Family Centre,’ I told her. There was no reply.

      Five minutes later I parked in one of the bays outside the Family Centre and cut the engine. I’d already explained to Melody what to expect: that there were six rooms in the centre, so other children in care would be seeing their parents too, and a lady called a contact supervisor would be in the room with them making notes. The parent(s) often find this more intrusive than the child(ren), for they know why the contact supervisor is there: to observe them with their child and write a report on each session. These reports go to the social worker and ultimately form part of the judge’s decision on whether their child will be allowed home. I sympathize. I think it’s an awful position for a parent to be in, but there is little alternative if contact needs to be supervised. Some contact supervisors handle it better than others and are able to do their job while putting the family at ease.

      ‘Is Mummy here?’ Melody asked anxiously as I opened her car door to let her out.

      ‘Hopefully,’ I said. It was exactly four o’clock and parents usually arrived early.

      She clambered out, clutching the box of rice pudding, and we went up the path to the security-locked main door where I pressed the buzzer. The closed-circuit television camera overhead allowed anyone in the office to see who was at the door. After a few moments the door clicked open and we went in. I said hello to the receptionist sitting at her computer behind a low security screen on our right. I knew her from previous visits with other children I’d fostered. I gave Melody’s name. ‘Is her mother, Amanda, here yet?’ I asked.

      She glanced at her list. ‘No, not yet.’

      ‘Mummy’s not here!’ Melody cried.

      ‘I am sure she will be soon,’ I said. ‘I’ll sign us in and then we can sit in the waiting room – there are toys and books in there.’

      ‘Why isn’t she here?’ Melody lamented as I entered our names in the Visitors’ Book.

      ‘I don’t know, love. Come on through here.’

      ‘I bet she got lost. Mum often gets lost when we have to go somewhere new. She needs me to show her.’

      ‘Your social worker will have told her how to get here,’ I said. ‘Try not to worry.’ The waiting room was empty and we sat on the cushioned bench.

      ‘What if Mum hasn’t got the money to come here on the bus?’ Melody asked.

      ‘Neave, your social worker, will have checked she has enough money.’ Parents of children in care are given all the help they need to get to contact, including bus or taxi fares when appropriate.

      ‘Mum’s not good without