As happy as the kids were to see me, Tanya was always less so. Communication between us as parents reached an all-time low after Anjie and Nathan came into my life. I tried to keep my cool and let things wash over me, but handovers remained incredibly tense, difficult times.
Becky and Danny would be very quiet when they first arrived at our place on Friday evenings. It was as if it took them a few hours to warm up and start enjoying themselves. I just assumed the pair of them were taking some time to get used to the new family unit, but Anjie had her doubts.
‘Have you noticed how Becky has starting sitting on the sofa all the time in just one spot?’ she said to me after we put them to bed one evening. ‘It comes across like she’s scared to move, like she’s been told off for it. I had to plead with her just to come and play on the floor with me and Danny.’
‘She’ll come around,’ I reassured her, but in the back of my mind I knew she had a point. Some weekends, the kids would be timid and jumpy, as if the slightest thing unnerved them. Once, when I went to pick them up, Danny was hiding underneath Tanya’s kitchen table.
I tried to talk to Tanya about their behaviour but, to be honest, communication between us was too difficult. She just shrugged when I brought it up.
‘Maybe they don’t like being there with you and your new family,’ she suggested. I knew it wasn’t that because once they relaxed – usually by Saturday morning – they were giggling and laughing and having a great time.
Tanya and I often clashed over the state of the old clothes the kids were wearing when they came to us. Anjie and I went out and bought them new outfits, but the following week they would come back in the old clothes again. Once or twice, Becky didn’t even have any shoes on when she got into my car, and I couldn’t find a suitable pair for her in Tanya’s house. Every time I raised the issue with Tanya, she threatened to call the police to remove me from her home. Despite the fact that I was paying child maintenance every month, Anjie and I were having to buy the kids loads of essentials every time we saw them. In the end, we kept the clothes we bought for them at our house, so at least they always had something nice to wear when they were with us.
On Sunday nights, when we got into the car for me to drive them both home, Becky would cry her eyes out the whole way, and cling to me like a limpet as I carried her out of the car and up the front path.
‘Come on, sweetheart, it’s OK,’ I’d say as I tried to reassure her. ‘You’re going to see Mummy now and you’ll come back to Daddy’s house next weekend.’
No matter what I said, it was absolutely heartbreaking for me to leave her that upset. Danny never cried, but he would sigh and drag his feet.
I used to drive home to Anjie feeling terrible and trying desperately to understand what was going on. ‘I know they like spending time with us and we have lots of fun together, but it’s not just that. It’s as if they don’t want to go home,’ I said to her in bed one night. ‘Becky just didn’t want me to leave. Something’s wrong, Anjie.’
I didn’t want to seem like an ex complaining, but eventually I was so worried I phoned social services.
‘We’ll look into it,’ I was told, but as far as I could tell nothing happened. I called again and again, but I might as well have been hitting my head against a brick wall for all the good it did.
Then, in September 2001, when Becky was three and Danny was five, everything changed. I opened the door to a man who introduced himself as Dave and said he was a social worker. I invited him in and he wasted no time in telling us why he was paying us a visit.
‘I have an update about your children, Daniel and Rebecca,’ he said, and Anjie shot me a concerned glance. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr Galsworthy, but the pair of them have been taken into care.’
I stared at him in shock, and my stomach tightened into a knot.
‘Are the children OK?’ Anjie asked him. She sounded panicked. ‘Has something happened to them?’
‘The children are fine,’ Dave answered. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. They are both fit and healthy, but we weren’t sure they were being properly cared for at home with their mother so we deemed it necessary to step in. They’ll be staying with a foster family until we decide what to do.’
I was horrified to think of children of mine being in care, being looked after by strangers. What had been happening to them at home?
‘I want my kids to come and live here with me,’ I said, and Dave nodded.
‘I imagine you do, Mr Galsworthy, but it’s now a case of reviewing their care and deciding on the best possible outcome. You’ll have the opportunity to apply for custody, and you’ll still have your regular access to them on weekends. It’s important that Daniel and Rebecca maintain that routine and still see a lot of you. Their mother, Miss Watts, will also have supervised access to them.’
I was relieved that they could still come and stay with Anjie and me at weekends. At least they would have an ounce of normality throughout the whole thing. I could tell that Anjie was thinking the same thing, as her shoulders relaxed a little.
‘So why can’t they come to us straight away?’ I asked. ‘We have enough room to have them here during the week, and they are always properly taken care of when they’re with us. Why can’t you just arrange for them to live here?’
‘It’s a little more complicated than that, I’m afraid,’ he answered. ‘There will be a few court hearings about their care, and you’ll be considered for custody. I imagine their mother, Miss Watts, will be applying too. Until a decision is made, Daniel and Rebecca will need to stay with a foster family during the week.’ It seemed part of the problem was that I hadn’t been named as Becky’s father on her birth certificate.
‘So what you’re telling me is, I now have to fight to get my kids?’ I asked him. I could feel a wave of anger wash over me but I tried not to show it.
Dave nodded again. ‘I’m afraid so.’
As soon as he left, Anjie and I looked at each other, still reeling from the news.
‘I suppose we should just be grateful that they’re safe,’ Anjie said, and I smiled. She could always look on the positive side of things. I knew they would be treated properly in foster care, but that they would inevitably be confused and scared by all the changes in their young lives. I was desperate to have them living permanently with me.
When I saw the kids the following Friday, they rushed into my arms.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked Danny. ‘Is it nice where you are staying?’
He just nodded and didn’t want to talk about it. I explained that I wanted them to come and live with us, but that mummy wanted them as well and the social workers were going to decide what was the best thing. Becky clung to me like her life depended on it. Although she hadn’t started talking yet, I knew she understood most of what was being said around her. ‘We’ll still see each other every weekend while they’re deciding,’ I reassured them. ‘Just like before.’
For the next three months, Anjie and I lived and breathed the fight to get my children out of care. It was the first thing I thought about as soon as I woke up in the morning, and the last thing that passed through my mind before I fell asleep – if I managed to get any sleep at all. The number of sleepless nights I had worrying about the fate of Danny and Becky was unreal.
We saw Dave, the social worker, a few times after that, and I grew to really like him. He talked us through the whole process and kept us up to date with what we had to do to apply for custody. A brilliant family solicitor called Greg Moss, one of the best in Bristol, agreed to take on the case on behalf of the children, and it was good to know he was on our side.
We got dressed up and went to several family court hearings, only to discover that they were going to be adjourned to another date. It was irritating, as I had to book a whole day off work every time. Eventually,