‘Oh, love,’ I said, taking the toothbrush and putting it to one side. ‘You’ll see Mummy soon.’ I held her.
‘I want my mummy,’ she wept inconsolably. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s at home, love.’
‘I want to go home.’
I wasn’t surprised she was distraught now. She’d been bottling it up since she’d arrived and, now she was tired, it was all coming out. Kit, seeing his sister in tears, began to cry too. Lucy cuddled him as I cuddled Molly. We sat on the bathroom floor, gently rocking them and telling them it would be OK and trying to console them. Not for the first time since I’d begun fostering, I wished I had a magic wand I could wave that would undo the past and make everything bad that had happened go away.
Eventually the children’s crying eased. ‘Come on, let’s get you both into bed,’ I said, and stood. ‘You’ll feel better after a night’s sleep.’ It was a reassurance in which I had little faith. It would take many nights before they began to feel better. Lucy held Kit’s hand and I held Molly’s and we went round the landing to their bedroom.
As soon as we entered the room Molly became upset again. ‘I want my mummy,’ she cried, her tears flowing.
‘I know you do, love,’ I said. ‘You’ll see Mummy soon.’ I helped her into bed, wiped her face, and then sat on the edge of the bed.
‘I want Mummy now,’ she said again and again, grief-stricken.
‘Mummy, Mummy,’ Kit said from his cot as Lucy tried to settle him.
‘Would you like a bedtime story?’ I asked Molly, trying to distract her. She shook her head and just sat in bed, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘Come on, love, lie down and try to get some sleep.’ I wiped her cheeks again.
She laid her head on the pillow, Kit lay down too, then, as Molly pressed her face into her cuddly toy, Kit did the same. His cot was adjacent to Molly’s bed – against the opposite wall – so he could see her through the slats. ‘Does your cuddly have a name?’ I asked her.
‘I want Mummy.’
‘Mummy,’ Kit repeated.
I began stroking Molly’s forehead, trying to soothe her off to sleep. Lucy was leaning over the cot and gently rubbing Kit’s back.
‘Lucy, you go, love, if you want to,’ I told her after a few minutes. ‘I’ll stay with them.’ I was mindful that she had come in straight from work and hadn’t had a minute to herself.
‘It’s OK, Mum. I’ll stay until they’re asleep.’
‘Thanks, love, I am grateful.’
For the next half an hour Lucy and I stayed with the children, Lucy by Kit’s cot and me with Molly, soothing them, until eventually, exhausted, their eyes gradually closed. We waited another few minutes to check they were asleep and then crept from the room. With older children I usually ask them on their first night how they like to sleep – the curtains open or closed, the light on or off, the bedroom door open or shut, as it’s little details like this that help a child settle in a strange room. But for now we left the curtains slightly parted, the light on low and the door open so I could hear them if they woke.
I thanked Lucy again for her help and she went to her bedroom. I cleared up the bathroom and took Kit’s nappy downstairs to dispose of it. Adrian was in the kitchen, making himself a drink. ‘Kirsty has gone home as we both have to be up for work in the morning,’ he said. The kitchen was spotless.
‘Thanks for your help,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk to Kirsty.’
‘She understands. She said to say good luck.’
‘I think I’m going to need it.’
Adrian made me a cup of tea and I took it with a couple of biscuits into the living room to write up my log notes, while he went up to shower. All foster carers in the UK are required to keep a daily record of the child or children they are looking after. It includes appointments, the child’s health and wellbeing, education, significant events and any disclosures the child may make about their past. As well as charting the child’s progress, it can act as an aide-mémoire. When the child leaves this record is placed on file at the social services. Opening my folder, I took a fresh sheet of paper and headed it with the date. I wrote a short objective account of Molly and Kit’s arrival and their evening with us. I was just finishing when I heard a bang come from Molly and Kit’s room. I shot upstairs. Paula had heard it too and had come out of her room and was on the landing. ‘Whatever was that?’ she asked, concerned.
We went into the children’s bedroom. By the dimmed light we could see they were both still asleep and nothing seemed out of place, but I noticed that Kit had turned over.
‘I think it might have been his plaster cast banging against the cot slats,’ I whispered to Paula. I couldn’t see any other explanation.
We stood for a moment, looking at them. ‘They’re such sweet kids,’ Paula whispered. I nodded. They were indeed, and generally appeared to have been well looked after, apart from the injuries to Kit’s face and arm. They hadn’t arrived filthy, in rags and with their hair full of nits. Yet all those visits to the doctor and hospital told a very different story, one that I hoped would become clearer in time.
By 10.30 p.m. we were all in our bedrooms either getting ready for bed or in bed (none of us stays up late during the working week). When I said goodnight to Adrian, Lucy and Paula, I told them that if they heard the children in the night to turn over and go back to sleep, as I would settle them. I was expecting a broken night, and I wasn’t disappointed. Just as I was dropping off to sleep, around 11 p.m., Molly woke and began to cry out hysterically, ‘Mummy, Mummy, where are you? Mummy!’
I was straight out of bed and, throwing on my dressing gown, I hurried round the landing, hoping her cries hadn’t woken Kit.
‘Ssh, quiet, love,’ I said as I went into their room. She was standing by her bed. ‘Do you want the toilet?’ I asked her quietly. She shook her head.
‘I want my mummy!’ she cried.
‘I know, love. You’re safe. Let’s get you into bed.’ I persuaded her in and had just got her to lie down when Kit woke with a start behind me and, crying, stood up in his cot.
‘Mummy!’ he sobbed.
Leaving Molly, I turned to him.
‘Come on, love, lie down. It’s OK.’ I laid him on his side. It was awkward with the plaster cast. As I settled him, Molly started crying again.
‘I want my mummy,’ she wept, sitting up in bed.
‘Ssh, love. It’s OK,’ I said, going to her. Kit immediately stood up and sobbed loudly.
Lucy appeared in her pyjamas. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been woken,’ I said.
‘I wasn’t asleep.’
She went to Kit and began talking to him gently, laying him down each time he stood and rubbing his back as I soothed Molly. It was so much easier with two and after about fifteen minutes the children were asleep again and we crept out. I thanked Lucy and we returned to our bedrooms. About an hour later I heard Molly crying again. I wasn’t asleep and managed to get to her before she woke Kit or anyone else. I stayed with her until she was asleep again and then returned to my own bed. I didn’t immediately go back to sleep but lay in the dark, listening out for them. I heard Kit’s plaster cast bang on the side of the cot as he turned over, then I must have dropped off, for I woke with a start at 2 a.m. Kit and Molly were both crying.
Light-headed from lack of sleep and getting out of bed too quickly, I rushed round the landing and into their bedroom. Molly was