‘Please,’ said the desperate voice on the end of the phone.
‘Okay,’ I said. I love little girls anyway and I couldn’t say no to a three-year-old in need. I heard the social worker breathe a sigh of relief. She sounded so relieved, in fact, that she was close to tears. ‘How long will you be?’ I asked.
‘About an hour. Is that okay?’
‘Fine. See you soon.’
I opened the door of my peaceful, warm red room and stepped back into the chaos. ‘Right, kids! I have an announcement to make. We have a little girl staying with us for the week. Her name is Kira and she’s three.’
‘Does she like Barbie?’ Ruby and Isabella said immediately. Francesca pulled a face. ‘I hate Barbie,’ she said.
‘I don’t know what she likes yet, but I’m sure she’ll love Barbie, and bike rides,’ I added, looking at Francesca, who was the tomboy of the two.
In the meantime everyone was hungry, so while they continued asking questions I gave them fish fingers and chips, a Friday night favourite, and cups half full of Robinson’s orange squash. I had learnt over the years to fill their cups only half full as more often than not they got knocked over and the contents would end up swimming around their dinner plates. Half-full cups offered damage limitation.
It was early December and unusually cold. The night was bitter and bleak, and just looking out of the window made me shiver. I could tell that snow was fast approaching; you could smell it in the air.
After we’d eaten, my four kids got on with their homework and I tackled the dishes. I looked at them, aged between four and fourteen, and smiled. Martin was helping Alfie, who was still looking for his football strip, while his twin Isabella was tackling a large colouring book. Francesca and Ruby, who were thirteen and fourteen, were discussing what to wear to a party the following night. Everyone was chatting and laughing, and for a change there was no bickering. I smiled again. Our activities that night were just straightforward family routine, which as a parent you take for granted, but when you look back you realise how special those moments were when you were all together and just enjoying each other’s company.
A little while later the children heard a car pull up outside the house, and they scampered to the front door like excited puppies, tripping over each other as they went. I followed them, and as I opened it a blast of frosty air hit me full in the face. It reminded me that I must turn up the heating and get the extra blankets out of the airing cupboard. Everyone had cosy duvets, but an extra blanket on top made them even cosier.
It was the social worker, and clinging to her neck was the smallest, frailest little girl, wrapped in a slightly grubby blue fleece blanket. The blanket hid the colour of her hair and most of her face.
‘This is Kira,’ the social worker said. ‘Kira, this is Mia and you’ll be staying with her.’ She handed Kira to me, and I unwrapped her blanket and saw a skinny little girl with unruly dark hair, an Asian complexion and angry eyes as dark as thunder. I looked at her clothes. She was dressed in blue jogging bottoms and a Thomas the Tank Engine jumper. I caught the social worker’s eye. ‘She doesn’t like pink,’ she said, reading my mind. I smiled at Kira. ‘There is no rule that says girls have to like pink,’ I said, and she blinked.
In that short cuddle, I could feel that Kira was tense and only just the right side of being a bag of bones. She looked frightened as well as angry, and I didn’t blame her, but before I could begin reassuring her Francesca shouted:
‘Come on, Kira! Let’s see what’s in the dressing-up box.’
‘Bagsy the princess outfit,’ said Ruby.
‘Bagsy the pirate outfit,’ said Francesca. ‘Kira, you can have the cowboy outfit. It’s your size.’
The children were so welcoming that I saw the fear disappear from Kira’s face. Her look was still cautious, but there was the glimmer of a smile now so I put her down and turned my attention back to the social worker.
I had never met this particular lady. She was frail herself and looked overworked; I already knew she was underpaid – no amount of money could compensate for the tasks you have to carry out in social work. I looked at my watch and it was nine p.m. ‘It’s an hour and 40 minutes’ drive home for me,’ she said. ‘You need a cup of tea,’ I said, but she shook her head and handed me the paperwork to sign, along with a Tesco carrier bag bulging with Kira’s clothes. The bag was not a good sign. I knew her carers were quite well off and could easily have given her a small case, so this meant that either it was so chaotic at their house they had packed her things in a rush, or they didn’t care that much about her.
I took the handover papers and the looked-after children papers, signed them and gave them back to her. She pulled her coat around her, and for the second time I heard her breathe a sigh of relief. I felt sad for her and wondered how long it would be before she was burnt out. She got in her car and I never saw her again.
It was three weeks before Christmas when this journey started and I had no inkling then where we were going with it. All I knew was that Kira would be staying with us for a week to give her carers a chance to assess their needs.
I looked at her playing with my kids. There were no tears, no tantrums and, although you might think that I would be grateful for that, I knew it was a sign that Kira was suffering from an attachment disorder. I felt sad for her. I knew this meant she had never bonded with a special adult – which in most cases is mum and dad, and if they’re not around other members of the family, and if there is no family foster carers take their place – but she was showing no distress at being separated from her primary care givers, as parents and guardians are officially called. I decided I would work hard to give her a family experience that week, but knew I’d have to be careful not to overwhelm her. It was clear her needs had been pretty much ignored up until now but to suddenly make her the centre of attention would probably panic her.
I picked up Kira’s paperwork to see what I could glean from it, but there was essential information only.
I called James and Claire, her official foster carers. James answered. ‘Hello, James, I’m Mia and I’m looking after Kira this week. I just wanted you to know that she’s arrived safely and we’re settling her in.’ Just then, Kira walked past in the cowboy outfit. ‘Would you like to talk to her?’
‘No, thank you. I would normally, but we’re struggling here a bit. Can we speak later in the week?
‘My wife is in shock,’ James explained. ‘A car hit her as she walked across a zebra crossing and she’s broken her hip quite badly. The doctors aren’t sure how long she’ll need to recuperate until after they operate. They’re operating tomorrow. Kira has been so upset, what with the doctors and ambulances, that it’s not fair for her to stay here.’
‘Well, don’t worry. I’ll look after her for you,’ I reassured him.
‘Thank you, Mia, we really appreciate it.’
I knew brief details about them: they lived in a large house near Clacton in Essex and had a child of their own, but had been unable to have more. They thought fostering would be a way to give their own daughter, Jo, a ready-made sibling. It seemed a shame that they had to face this crisis so early in the placement.
Understandably, Kira was quite clingy and spent most of her time with me in the kitchen. She shied away from any affection and wasn’t keen on the dogs, and although she played with my children she didn’t immerse herself totally. She held back. ‘You alright, darling?’ I would ask occasionally.
‘Yes,’ she’d reply.
‘Just ask me if you need anything.’ She’d nod. It was all very formal, but I didn’t want to crowd her. Even so, I kept a constant eye on her. Each time I checked up on her she seemed to be settling well.
There was a knock on the door at 10 a.m. the following Friday morning. The social worker standing there was Roz, a lovely lady I’d met with various other foster children. I