Part of the Family: A journey through fostering

Tommy

Tommy arrived one Friday in February after school, to stay for a couple of weeks’ respite. His usual foster carer was taking a holiday, so a temporary home had to be found for him. He was six-and-a-half years old. Foster carers were allowed only two weeks’ holiday each year, with no bank holidays or weekends off. This was in stark contrast to the social workers who were entitled to five weeks’ holiday, bank holidays and weekends. Although I was new to fostering, I could already see that there were many injustices, particularly concerning the children.

When Tommy arrived in a taxi, I was nervous. I didn’t have much experience with boys – we had two daughters, and most of our friends had daughters too. When the taxi appeared at the top of the driveway, I went outside to welcome Tommy. It was a cold and blustery day and I didn’t want to linger outside for too long. I was keen to bundle him inside where he would be warm. Suddenly, he exploded out of the back door of the taxi, a noisy, scruffy, ‘Dennis the Menace’ type of child. His unruly brown hair stuck up vertically from his head, his face was dirty, and he had very few front teeth. One trouser leg was hitched up somewhere above his knee and his shoelaces trailed behind his scuffed shoes. He also had the remnants of at least one meal splattered on the front of his shabby polo shirt. Even though his scruffy appearance was a shock, I liked Tommy immediately. Tommy was only the second child we had fostered. The first had been an eleven-year-old girl, who came to stay for two nights, so I had next to no experience. He greeted me with a wide toothless grin, and I bent down to his level to say how lovely it was to meet him and that the whole family was looking forward to having him to stay with us. He took a deep breath and shook my hand, whilst surveying his surroundings, then he said, ‘F***k me, this is a big house.’

He did have a point. The house is very long, with its length across the front, making it look enormous, although in reality it was only one room deep. Built around 350 years ago, its owners simply kept adding rooms on either end, when they needed more space.

I ignored the swearing and welcomed him inside, trying my best to stifle a laugh. It was mid-February, but the house was warm and inviting, the wood burner crackling with alighted logs. I wanted Tommy to feel cosy, safe and welcomed. It must be very strange to be thrust into a stranger’s home, especially when you are only six years old. I tried to imagine how my children would have felt in a similar situation, and I couldn’t really comprehend how awful it must be. The wintery sky had darkened and black clouds scudded across the horizon, bringing the threat of rain. I was glad to have Tommy tucked up indoors, and we had a couple of hours to get to know one another before the others arrived home.

Once inside I offered him a drink, then I took him upstairs with his bags to show him to his room. He touched everything. He repeatedly flicked the light switch on and off, then he moved to the door, which he began opening and closing again and again, then the bedside lamp. I took no notice, but motioned him over to see the en-suite bathroom. He began pulling the light cord on and off so much that I thought it would snap. He then looked thoughtful and a bit confused and asked why the bathroom was in his room. He was concerned that he would be woken up when everyone else came to use it. I explained that this was his bathroom and no one else could use it. To which he replied, ‘F**k me,’ whilst shaking his head from side to side in amazement.

It soon became apparent that Tommy’s language was extremely colourful and neither his surroundings, nor the company he was in, was any reason to modify it in any way. I gathered that this was the way he’d been spoken to at home before coming into the care system, and naturally he thought it to be a normal, acceptable way to express himself – much to the frustration of his teachers at school. We decided to ignore it most of the time, although occasionally I gently commented that it wasn’t very polite. I think that although he knew the words were ‘bad’, they were out of his mouth before he could stop them. I often had to stifle a giggle when the bad language exploded out of him, almost like a cheeky monster was inside him trying to push the words out.

Tommy soon settled into life with us. He seemed relatively content and I had no real concerns about him. He seemed to sleep well, eat well and engage with the rest of us just fine. One busy evening we decided to have a rare treat – a ‘chippy tea’. When I told Tommy the plan, his little face fell and he almost looked upset, which I was at a loss to understand at this point. So far, Tommy had attacked every meal with gusto, eating anything and everything I put in front of him. He always commented how good it was and he always managed seconds and even thirds. He also planned his eating for the day, asking what he could have next. Upon his return from school, he would have a yogurt and fruit before he had even changed out of his uniform. When he returned downstairs, he would have crisps. Then, he would polish off a huge plateful of food, with seconds and thirds, followed by a pudding and more fruit snacks throughout the evening, then cake or toast before bed. He even filled his pockets – just in case. I soon realised that this poor child had been starved, so I didn’t even try to curb his huge appetite. As with our own children, we always let the children we cared for have as much fruit as they wanted, helping themselves without needing to ask. One day, Tommy was helping himself to fruit and I saw a startled look cross his face, as he bit into it. I soon realised why – he had taken a huge bite out of an unpeeled kiwi fruit. I quickly ran over to him, took the kiwi, and started to peel it, explaining that many fruits needed to be peeled, especially one as furry as a kiwi. As I was peeling, I looked down to see that Tommy had an avocado in his other hand. Another crisis averted. I’ve never tried to eat avocado skin, but I doubt it tastes very good. Tommy was always very appreciative at every meal, his favourite phrase was, ‘This is right f*****g good Jan,’ followed by, ‘what can I have next?’

One evening I gave him a chicken salad – a first for Tommy, because I guessed that a salad might not satisfy his remarkable appetite, but I was keen to introduce him to as many foods as possible. He tucked in as usual but was eating a bit more slowly than normal. A bit concerned, I asked him if it was ok. He nodded then sheepishly said, ‘Yes Jan, but I have to tell you, it’s gone f*****g cold!’ I hid my giggles and poured on some salad dressing, for him to try. After two mouthfuls, he looked up and said, ‘Oh no Jan, your f*****g gravy’s cold as well.’

When Tommy was in bed, I told Peter and the kids, and we laughed for a good 10 minutes. I still chuckle when I think of his lovely toothless little face looking up at me and trying his best to be tactful about my oversight.

Anyway, back to the ‘chippy tea’. I got a pen and paper and took everyone’s order, but when I came to Tommy he just said, ‘chips.’ I asked him if that was all and he looked puzzled. I told him he could have pie, fish, sausages, peas, gravy and whatever else they sold. It took him a while to understand, because he’d only ever been allowed to have just chips. Of course, once it had sunk in, he then ordered one of everything – until my pen ran out of ink! When we were ready to set off, he asked if he could come along – I suspected he wanted to make sure his order would be fulfilled. We pulled up outside our second favourite chippy (our favourite, Waters Green, was closed for a refurb following a fire) and Tommy said, ‘Oh, this is the f*****g chippy,’ with a knowing look.

I later learned that his grandmother had given him a pound coin every evening and told him to get to the ‘f*****g chippy’ for his dinner. It was no wonder that Tommy craved new foods, and lots of them. Sadly, this poor little lad has lost his mother who had died when he was two years old. He’d gone to live with his grandparents, who had treated him like a dog. He’d been locked in his room, barely fed and spoken to like he was worthless. He hadn’t known love, attention or respect. He’d been given nothing except the very basic essentials to survive. I’m still amazed, shocked and upset that some children are treated with so little care in today’s society. I sometimes feel ashamed to be a member of the human race.

On the Monday morning, following a lovely weekend with Tommy, he came downstairs ready for school. I thought it was a bit odd that he was carrying the liquid hand soap from his bathroom under his arm. I tried to coax him in to leaving it in the bathroom, but he insisted that he needed to show his teacher that he had his own ‘f******g soap’. He repeated this strange ritual each morning, bringing different objects with him in the car. It was usually a towel, toothpaste, loo rolls, ornaments and of course food. More often than not, he’d be persuaded to leave the items in the car if promised to look after them and make sure that, ‘No f****r stole them!’ This gorgeous little boy had never had anything to call his own, and it broke our hearts that a few toiletries could bring a child so much pleasure. I can only imagine what his teachers thought, but I hoped that they understood where Tommy had come from.

In the evenings when Tommy was in bed, I’d read the paperwork about him. Each child usually comes with a report concerning his or her family, contact and school details, and information about their social worker and anyone else involved in their care. It also includes their personal history and an insight into why they had been brought into the care system. Tommy’s report made me cry each time I picked it up. He was such a lovely, kind, bubbly little boy who had suffered the most horrendous neglect in his first few years, at the hands of people who were supposed to care for him – his own grandparents. After reading his report for the first time, we had to take stock. This was only the second child we’d looked after, and we really didn’t know if we’d be able to find enough patience and understanding to help children who were this badly damaged. We would need a lot of emotional resilience to read these documents without becoming upset and very, very angry. We obviously decided that we had to carry on as long as there was a need for foster homes in the area. We had all the resources necessary and we couldn’t turn our backs on children like Tommy. I couldn’t imagine what might happen to kids like Tommy if foster carers didn’t come forward in sufficient numbers. Since making that decision, we’ve hardly ever turned away a child, and we later put ourselves on the emergency list, which meant that we could be called by the Emergency Duty Team in the middle of the night, or at weekends, to take a child. These kids were usually tired, hungry, upset and scared, with only the clothes they were standing in. Peter became a regular at the all-night Tesco, being sent for essentials such as pyjamas, toothbrushes, underwear, socks and school shirts, and even nappies. We have now developed a store cupboard of most of these items – some donated by friends when their kids grew out of them. It still amazes me that some children are so delighted by just a few items of their own, which they can take with them when they leave. This is in stark contrast to the people we know, who like us, can afford to send their kids to private schools. They have ponies, iPads and exotic holidays.

Although our own birth children have never been deprived of material possessions, we haven’t allowed them unlimited luxuries – they have had to earn them. To earn spending money, both our birth children took part-time jobs while they were at university – we only paid for their essentials, no money for beer or designer clothes. They were also asked to help in the house with jobs, such as loading the dishwasher, setting the table and tidying their bedrooms. For this, they received pocket money, at the going rate – no more. Our older child used to mow the lawns using our sit-on lawn tractor. I still maintain that it helped her to learn some of the skills she would need much later, when she started learning to drive. I believe that our own children are grounded and appreciative of all they had, and I also believe that fostering has enriched their lives, as well as mine. Unlike many of their friends, they understand about children, who may be from just a mile or two away, who have had to live in poverty, misery and danger. I think they now have a better understanding of how our society deals with some of its human problems and how we are all responsible for the welfare and care of our fellow human beings. A social conscience came to us a bit later in life, but our girls learned valuable lessons much earlier. Tommy was the beginning for us, but we knew that we would continue on our journey.

During that first week with Tommy, I needed to take him to a ‘contact visit’. These visits are to keep the child in regular contact with their parents. Some of these visits are at the parents’ home, unsupervised, while others take place at a neutral address and are supervised by social workers. The ‘Family Centre’ was the venue for Tommy’s contact, twice a week. To say he didn’t look forward to these visits is an understatement. On Tuesday mornings, he knew what would usually happen that evening after school, and he became agitated and fearful. Through tears, he would ask me if he really had to go to see his Gran, visibly trembling at the prospect. I explained that he had to go because Gran wanted to see him. I felt like a real monster for making him go – why on earth should we send a child back, repeatedly, to the person who has treated them so badly? I will never understand why the rights and wishes of parents/grandparents are held above those of a child. It made me angry that a system which is designed to put a stop to fear and suffering, actually perpetuates it – and that it is presided over by adults who are supposed to be acting in the best interests of the child!

After each contact visit, I had to fill out a ‘contact sheet’ to record how it had gone. I had to give the time, date and any problems encountered, along with a list of those in attendance. Each time I recorded that Tommy had not wanted to go, and that the visit had made him very upset and frightened. The reports obviously meant nothing and I had no say in the matter, so I reluctantly took Tommy twice a week, to visit his Gran. The Family Centre was located near his grandparents, in the middle of a very rundown council estate. To soften the blow, we called the corner shop for an ice cream to eat on the way, and I reassured Tommy that I would definitely be back in an hour. He wanted me to stay outside in the car, so I moved up the road a little and parked up to read my book. He would be able to see me if he looked out of the front window and I hoped that he would feel reassured. After fifty-five minutes, I knocked on the door of the Family Centre and was greeted by a witch with orange hair and very few teeth. She was gaunt, wrinkled, very ugly and would have scared anyone; she didn’t even need the help of a dark alley. I was taken aback by her appearance but tried not to react. The witch immediately launched a tirade of abuse, the gist of which was about me buying Tommy an ice cream, which he was apparently ‘allergic to’. I knew that I hadn’t read anything about him being allergic to anything, but maybe she just wasn’t comfortable letting Tommy have a nice life. A life that she was no longer controlling. She then thrust a nappy bag at me, saying, ‘That’s his shit-filled underpants – and it’s your fault.’ I was so shocked that I couldn’t reply. I took the bag in one hand and Tommy in the other, and we left as quickly as possible. I learned that Tommy often got so upset at having to see his grandmother that this kind of accident wasn’t unusual for him. What kind of planet do we live on, where social services think it’s ok to subject a child to that amount of horror twice a week?

There were to be several more visits to see Gran during Tommy’s stay with us, and they didn’t get any easier – for either of us. We both dreaded Tuesdays and Thursdays, and by comparison, the rest of the week seemed like a breeze. Tommy was, however, quite difficult to entertain. His appetite for outdoors was matched only by his appetite for food. After school we played football outside or went to the park. When I asked Tommy which park, he usually visited, I was shocked when he replied that he’d never been to the park. We made sure that we went regularly after that, often taking a large picnic.

It was such a shame that Tommy had visited us outside of the caravan season, because he would have loved it at our caravan. We were fortunate enough to own a lovely new static caravan on a fabulous sandy beach in Anglesey. The caravan had been bought by Olive, Peter’s mum, but she didn’t use it as often as she would have liked to. Her health was beginning to fail and I’m not sure that she had the energy to travel very far anymore.

Our pitch was perfect, right on the shoreline overlooking the wide, curving beach and the Irish Sea. The sand here was perfect too – soft and fine, with plenty of shells to collect and rock pools to play in. Tommy would have loved running along the sweeping beach, catching fish and shrimps with a net, and messing about in a boat. However, it was the wrong time of year for caravan holidays by the sea and I hoped that Tommy would visit us again and we could take him to the seaside. I find it astonishing that so many of the kids who come into the care system have never been on holiday. I believe it is a fundamental right of all kids to visit the seaside. Tommy came to stay with us twice more, in the September and October of that same year, but we were still unable to go to the caravan, although we did have many fun days out.

At the weekends Tommy really enjoyed helping Peter. They mixed cement and filled in some holes in the drive, fixed a bit of guttering (broken during one of our footie games), and generally tidied up the garden. Tommy was really happy to be helping and pottering about outdoors. Each evening before bed, I ran