Where Has Mummy Gone?. Cathy Glass

coping. I was also hoping Amanda wouldn’t be much longer. Her lateness, which was making Melody even more anxious, would be noted by the contact supervisor, who would now be waiting in the allocated room. I knew from experience that we wouldn’t be allowed to wait indefinitely and at some point the manager of the Family Centre would make the decision to cancel the contact and I would return home with Melody. It’s devastating for the child, but not as bad as waiting until the bitter end and having to accept the parent hasn’t come to see them. The child’s feelings of rejection at not being able to live with their parents are compounded and they feel even more unloved. Parents of children in care have to make contact a priority, which I’d have thought was obvious, but isn’t always, especially if the parents are struggling with drink and drug misuse or have mental health issues.

      The minutes ticked by. I tried to distract Melody with books and games, but she just sat there clutching the box of rice pudding, listening for any sign of her mother, and asking me every few minutes what time it was. We heard the security buzzer on the main door go a few times, but it wasn’t her mother. Melody wrung her hands and worried something bad had happened to her. Then at 4.30 p.m. the centre’s manager came in and said that they’d tried to phone Amanda but there was no reply, and they’d give her until 4.45 and then they’d cancel it, unless she phoned to say she was on her way. This was more generous than usual and it was because it was the first contact. Usually if a parent doesn’t phone to say they’ve been delayed then only thirty minutes are allowed.

      ‘Where’s my mum got to?’ Melody asked me again after the manger had left. ‘Something really, really bad must have happened to her, I know. She needs me, it’s my fault.’ Her bottom lip trembled and her eyes filled.

      ‘It’s not your fault, love,’ I said, putting my arm around her shoulders. I wondered if Amanda had any idea of the pain she was causing her child.

      Five minutes later we heard the security buzzer sound again and the main door open and close, followed by a thick, chesty cough.

      ‘That’s my mum!’ Melody cried, jumping up from her seat. ‘She’s here. Mummy!’ She ran out of the waiting room. I quickly followed her down the short corridor and into reception, where a woman I assumed to be Amanda was giving her name to the receptionist. ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ Melody cried and rushed to her.

      Amanda turned and for a second seemed to look confused, as if she wasn’t sure where she was and who was calling her, then, recognizing her daughter, she opened her arms to receive her.

      ‘Mummy, where’ve you been? You’re late. I was going to have to go home without seeing you!’ Melody cried.

      ‘Over my dead body!’ Amanda snapped in a threatening tone.

      Deathly pale, with a heavily lined face and sunken cheeks, Amanda was stick thin and her jeans and jumper hung on her skeletal frame. Her hair was falling out and her scalp was visible in round bald patches. She looked haggard and aged well beyond her forty-two years. If ever there was an advertisement to deter people from drink and drug abuse, it was her. I’d seen it before in the parents of children I’d fostered and would sadly see it again. She lisped as she spoke and as I went closer I saw her two front teeth were missing.

      ‘Hello Amanda, I’m Cathy, Melody’s foster carer,’ I said positively. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

      She’d let go of her daughter and was now trying to understand what the receptionist was telling her, which was to sign the Visitors’ Book.

      ‘The Visitors’ Book is here,’ I said, trying to be helpful and pointing to it.

      ‘Come on, Mummy, you have to write your name,’ Melody said. Taking her hand, she led her mother to the book and then gave her the pen beside it to sign. I exchanged a glance with the receptionist, who was looking at her, concerned. Amanda wouldn’t be the first parent to arrive at contact under the influence of drink or drugs, although I couldn’t smell alcohol and she seemed confused rather than high or drunk. I watched as she made an illegible scrawl in the book, then, setting down the pen, she turned to her daughter.

      ‘Where do we go?’ she asked her.

      ‘You’re in Yellow Room,’ the receptionist said. ‘The manager is coming now to show you.’ It’s usual on the parent’s first visit for the manager to show the parent and child around so they know where the toilets, kitchen and rooms are. Six rooms lead off a central play area where the larger toys are kept, and each room takes its name from the colour it is painted.

      ‘How are you?’ I asked Amanda, trying to strike up conversation. It’s important for the child to see their carer and parent(s) getting along. Amanda looked at me, puzzled, as if she’d forgotten who I was, and I was about to remind her when the manager appeared. It was now time for me to go, as contact had started and this was Amanda’s time with her daughter.

      ‘When will contact end?’ I asked the manager, as we were starting late

      ‘Five forty-five,’ she said.

      ‘See you later then,’ I said to Amanda and Melody. There was no reply. I signed out, and as I left they were following the manager down the corridor and into the hub of the building.

      It was dark outside now in winter, and cold. I pulled my coat closer around me and returned to my car. I usually try to put the time when a child is with their parent(s) to good use, either by doing some essential grocery shopping or by catching up on some paperwork in a local café, but now I sat in the car thinking about Amanda. I was starting to see why Melody was so worried about her. She appeared incredibly fragile and vulnerable and clearly needed Melody’s help – as she’d been telling me. The social services had been aware of the family for a while and support had been put in, so I assumed Neave knew of Amanda’s dependency on Melody. But now, having met Amanda, I wondered how the two of them had coped at all. Far from fearing Amanda at that point, I felt sorry for her. No one starts their life wanting to make a complete mess of it and lose their children and die prematurely, which surely must be Amanda’s fate.

      Chapter Six

       The Way Home?

      Normally when I collect a child from the Family Centre at the end of contact I sign the Visitors’ Book and go through to whichever room they are in, while the parent(s) make the most of their last few minutes with their child. But now as I stepped into reception I saw that Amanda and Melody were already there, together with the manager and another woman I took to be the contact supervisor. For a moment I assumed they’d just finished contact punctually, but then I saw their expressions and knew something was wrong.

      ‘That’s her,’ Amanda said accusingly, jabbing her finger towards me.

      ‘We’ve got a few problems we need to clear up,’ the manager said, taking a step forward.

      ‘You bet we have!’ Amanda snarled. I could see she was chomping at the bit to get at me.

      ‘Amanda is very concerned about Melody’s clothes,’ the manager said evenly.

      ‘What about her clothes?’ I asked, immediately anxious. ‘She’s wearing her school uniform.’

      ‘I told you, Mum,’ Melody said, looking embarrassed.

      ‘Where are the clothes my daughter had on when she was taken off me yesterday?’ Amanda snapped at me, her eyes blazing. ‘You’ve stolen them.’

      It was ludicrous, but they were all waiting for an answer.

      ‘They’re in the wash,’ I said.

      ‘How can I be sure she’s telling the truth?’ Amanda turned to the manager. ‘And what about her trainers?’ she demanded.

      ‘They’re in the car,’ I said.

      ‘And her hair!’ Amanda said, nudging the manager.