Authors: Trisha Merry
I didn’t like the sound of that. It seemed unduly rushed. ‘How soon?’ I asked. ‘Weeks? Months?’
‘Days, I expect. Hopefully in time for them to be together for Christmas.’ He sounded pleased at the prospect.
It turned me cold. Nowadays, a move to an estranged parent would have a staged lead-in period – time for familiarisation. These children had never even met their mother’s husband or
visited her house. They barely knew her, nor she them. The acceleration of the process, especially at this time of year, seemed cruel to me.
Two days later, on the evening of the last day of term, the final decision came through.
‘Pamela and her husband will pick up the children on Saturday morning,’ said Bernard.
‘What, this Saturday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Saturday the twenty-fourth? Christmas Eve?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But that’s only three days away . . . not even that. Not much time to break the news and get them ready, emotionally, is it?’
‘I’m sure they’ll be so pleased when they know they’re going back to live with their mum, that you won’t need to worry about that,’ he said.
‘Hmm.’ I paused to gather my thoughts and tried not to say anything inflammatory. ‘You don’t know the children as well as I do.’
I didn’t want to tell them just before bedtime, so on the Thursday morning I sent all the others off – the little ones to the park with Mike and the older ones to
their own activities, and I sat with Daisy and Paul in the kitchen. They looked apprehensive.
‘Have we done something wrong?’ asked Paul, who was often in trouble for one thing or another. But it didn’t usually involve Daisy as well.
‘No, nothing wrong today . . . well, not yet!’ I smiled.
‘What is it then?’ Daisy asked anxiously.
‘I had a phone call from Bernard yesterday evening. He said that your mother wants you to go and live with her and her new husband.’
Both their mouths dropped open. I had braced myself for protests, but their immediate reactions were silence.
‘I didn’t know she had a husband,’ gasped Daisy.
‘Does that mean he will have to be our new dad?’ asked Paul.
‘But we’ve already got a dad,’ Daisy pointed out. ‘We can’t have two dads.’
I explained that he would be their stepdad and he may be very nice, but he wouldn’t replace their real dad.
‘I don’t want to live with them,’ said Paul, looking scared and vulnerable.
‘I’m afraid it isn’t up to us, sweetheart. She is your mum,’
‘But you’re our mum,’ said Daisy, in a sad voice. ‘She might be our mother, but she’s not our mum.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I understand what you mean,’ I agreed. ‘But I hope you will give her a fair chance to become your mum. It won’t be immediate. Just give her
time.’
‘Do we have to go?’ asked Paul, his shoulders hunched.
‘Yes. She is your mother, Pauly, so she has the right to take you back to live with her.’
‘But don’t we have rights too? We hardly know her,’ added Daisy.
‘I know,’ I agreed. ‘But, like I said Daise, give her time.’ I really felt for her, for both of them.
‘Can I take my bike?’ asked Paul – the typical boy, and always the pragmatic one. ‘I’m not going to go unless I can take my bike.’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Well, I don’t want to go, but I don’t mind as long as I can take my bike.’
‘We haven’t even been to her house,’ moaned Daisy. ‘Or met her husband.’ She paused. ‘When do we have to go?’
This was the news I dreaded telling them. ‘Bernard has arranged it for the day after tomorrow, so that you can spend Christmas with your mother,’
‘The day after tomorrow?’ asked Paul, in disbelief. ‘Father Christmas won’t know where we are. We won’t get our presents.’
‘We’ve always had Christmas here,’ said Daisy. ‘You’ll have to tell them we can’t go until after Christmas.’ She wasn’t normally an assertive
child, so I was surprised at the strength of this plea.
‘I’m afraid I have no say, Daise. It’s already been decided. Your mother wants you to be at her house for Christmas, and Social Services have agreed.’
I suspected it was the other way around, but I couldn’t say so. They had more than enough to take on board as it was. No matter how good or bad the decision, this would be the most
important change in their lives. A new start . . . and hopefully a good one. I had a disturbing feeling that it might not be, but we all had to hope.
T
he last couple of days in the run-up to Christmas were always jolly, but also frantic. Now we had the added complication of getting Daisy and Paul
ready to leave us within forty-eight hours. Surely there couldn’t be a worse day to leave a secure and loving foster placement than Christmas Eve.
So, the first thing was writing letters to Father Christmas, to let him know their new address, which Bernard had given me when I explained what I wanted it for. Even Paul was keen to sit at the
kitchen table and write his letter to Father Christmas, while most of the rest of the gang were outside playing on the new rope swings we’d set up for them.
Next on the list that Thursday morning was bringing their memory-boxes up to date. We usually kept them in the kids’ bedrooms, so that they could add to them when they wanted to, and go
through them whenever they felt like reminiscing – Daisy more than Paul on both counts.
‘Go up to your rooms and get out your memory boxes, and have a look through all your things, in case there is anything else you want to put in,’ I suggested, ‘while I go and
find all the old photos of our outings, to see what else we can add.’
I got the old albums and boxes of photos and laid them out on the kitchen table, picking out ones we had copies of that they could take. When Daisy and Paul came back, we spent the next couple
of hours chatting about all the happy memories they had, and laughing at some of the funny photos we’d taken over the years, mostly of the children, some of Mike and hardly any of me –
I hate having my photo taken. We chose some of the duplicates we had, or the ones we had negatives for, to add to their memory boxes.
They had rummaged in their bedrooms and brought down some of their precious things that would fit in. Paul brought down his little ‘Ted’, that we had bought him when he first came to
us, at one year old. The other thing he wanted to include was his times-tables book. This was a notebook we had given him in which he had written down every one of the times-tables, to help him
learn them. It had taken him hours and hours to do. And, as he had never yet learnt them all, he used it all the time as a crib at school. It was the only sit-down thing I can ever remember him
willingly working at. He slipped this precious notebook into his memory box, and laid Ted down on top of it.
Daisy delved through her memory box to check that her beloved plaits were in there, as well as that first square of knitting she had done with me. Then she added the first book she could
remember reading, and had kept in her night-table drawer ever since. Next she put in some of her favourite drawings and colourings she had done over the years. Finally, as if it were some kind of a
religious ceremony, Daisy added the French-knitting cotton reel on which she’d been working to make as long a piece as she could, which she coiled round the reel. So far it was about two
yards long of multi-coloured wool and she was very proud of it.
‘Two more sleeps,’ said Daisy with a gloomy expression that night when she got into bed and I tucked her in. It was what we always said to the little ones, coming up to an important
day. We were doing it for Christmas Day of course, but I knew Daisy had a more important day on her mind. ‘Mum,’ she called me back as I left the room. ‘Are you sure we
can’t postpone going to our mother’s until after Christmas? Can you try again?’ she pleaded.
‘OK,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll call Bernard, or the duty-worker, but I think the answer will be no.’ Sadly, I was right about that. I’m sure Daisy knew, but she was
clutching at any last vestige of hope.
On Friday morning, Mike took the rest of the children out to a Christmas Fair, while I took Daisy and Paul to choose a new backpack each to carry their personal bits and pieces in, and the
things that wouldn’t fit into their memory boxes. I’d seen a huge stall at the market that had all kinds of really trendy backpacks, so that’s where we went.
This guy had everything. Paul picked up a cheap plastic backpack, so I tried to draw his attention to the other, much more exciting ones that were also better made.
‘What about this army camouflage one, Paul? Or look at the Spiderman one.’
‘I want this one,’ he said, holding up the plastic backpack in baby-blue.
‘It you want a plain colour one, there’s a black backpack, or a navy blue one. They’re both in strong canvas and really smart, aren’t they?’ But he still held on to
the tacky, plastic powder-blue one.
I decided that perhaps, if I left him alone, he might change his mind. So I switched to Daisy, who was looking quite systematically at all of them, running her eyes down the racks and along the
rows.
‘Look, here’s a Wonder Woman one,’ I said. ‘Or Aristocats. You went to see that film with Mike, didn’t you? Or you can choose geometrical patterns, or here’s
a pretty pink one.’
She picked one up from the middle, with wild flowers and butterflies on a cream background. ‘I’d like this backpack, please.’
‘Yes, that’s a good choice, Daise.’
Back to Paul again. ‘Let’s put this one aside,’ I suggested. ‘Have a last look at all the others, in case you want to change your mind.’
‘No, no, no. I don’t,’ he said, picking up his pale-blue choice. ‘I want this one, please.’
So, defeated, I bought them both the ones they’d chosen and we took them back home.
‘Now, fill up your backpacks with what you want to take, especially the bits and pieces you have by the side of your bed. Don’t worry about your clothes because we’ll pack
those in a case later on, ready to take tomorrow. While you put in what you want upstairs, I’ll fish out all your old school reports and certificates to put in your backpacks.’
‘Take a cardboard box each.’ I pointed to where I’d put them on the kitchen table. ‘Go and pick all your toys and anything large you want to take and pack them in there.
I’ve got a large bin-bag each for you to take with you the Christmas presents that have your name on, from under the tree in the hall.’
Both the children looked relieved and excited that they could take their gifts with them to open on Christmas Day. They did the usual thing of trying to guess what was in each wrapping-paper,
then put them in their sacks. Finally, that evening, we took the empty suitcases into each of their bedrooms, took their clothes out of the wardrobes and their chests of drawers and packed them
ready to take.
Paul went straight off to sleep, as usual, but when I went in to check on Daisy, she was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, with tears trickling down the sides of her cheeks and onto her
pillow.
I sat down on the edge of her bed. ‘What’s the matter, sweetheart?’
She turned her head a little towards me. ‘This is my home, and I don’t want to leave it. You’re my mum and Mike’s my dad. I don’t want to leave you.’ She
gulped. ‘But what can I do?’ She paused. ‘Why do we have to go and live with strangers?’
‘But your mother isn’t a stranger,’ I said. ‘You just didn’t remember her, but she remembers you.’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ she sobbed.
‘Yes, I know.’ I sat and held her hand, stroking her hair as she gradually fell asleep. It did seem unfair to take children away from all they had ever known, to an unknown place
with a person they felt they’d only just met, and a man they didn’t know at all. They should have had the chance of a staged familiarisation process, like foster-children do now. I just
hoped they wouldn’t make a fuss the next morning, when it was time to go. But I couldn’t blame them if they did.
Well, you should have seen Pamela’s face when she saw all the things they wanted to take. I thought she was going to faint. She didn’t introduce her husband, so we
never even knew his name. He seemed a quiet soul – the type who might say or do anything to keep the peace. I wondered if he had any idea what he was taking on.
All of our kids had come out to say goodbye. Sheena and Ronnie had been with Daisy and Paul since the day they arrived, and they were devastated to be losing them so suddenly, and at Christmas
too. All the others were almost as upset. Even Edie and Frank had come round to join the farewells.
‘We’re both so fond of them,’ said Edie, with her hankie at the ready. ‘We’re going to miss them terribly.’
‘I didn’t know we were going to have an audience,’ seethed Pamela, as she started to organise the packing of the car. ‘What are we going to do with all this?’ she
asked, with a hint of panic in her voice. I don’t know whether she thought they would come with nothing.
They didn’t have a very big car, so they had to put the cases in, take them out again and put them in a different way round, squashing in the bin-bags of gifts and the cardboard boxes of
toys and games. The children put their precious memory boxes and backpacks into the back seat for them to hold.
‘Say goodbye,’ said their mother. ‘Quickly now.’ She was obviously impatient to leave. Perhaps she hoped that if she hurried them, it would minimise the distress . . .
but that didn’t work at all. Quite the opposite.
Daisy and Paul came across to Mike and me, and we all hugged. Then suddenly, they panicked. They both clung on to us tightly.
‘Come on,’ said their mother with a shrill voice. ‘We have to go.’
‘No,’ wailed Paul. ‘I don’t want to go. I want to stay here.’
‘I don’t want to go either,’ said Daisy, the tears welling up again. Another few seconds and she was sobbing. ‘I can’t . . . I have to stay here . . . Mum and Dad .
. . Father Christmas . . .’
‘Oh, this is getting ridiculous,’ snarled Pamela, cold as ice. ‘We’re your mum and dad now.’ She looked straight at me. ‘It’s all your fault, Mrs Merry.
You’ve put them up to this.’
She walked across and started trying to pull Paul away. I feared he was going to kick her; I’m sure he thought about it, but fortunately didn’t do it. Then, when he adamantly refused
to let go of me, she switched her attention to Daisy.