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baby and vice versa, and also so that a parenting assessment can be completed as part of the legal process that will be running in the background. But a high level of contact has its down side, for if the court decides not to return the baby to live with its parents and instead places the child for adoption, then clearly the bond that has been created between the parents and the baby has to be (painfully) broken. However, the alternative – if there is no contact – is that a baby could be returned to parents without an attachment, which can have a huge negative impact on their future together and particularly for the child. I was, therefore, anticipating taking Harrison to and from supervised contact at the family centre every day.

      So that when Jill phoned the following morning and said there wouldn’t be any contact at all I was shocked and confused.

      Chapter Three

      Alone in the World

      ‘What, none?’ I asked in amazement. ‘No contact at all?’

      ‘No,’ Jill confirmed, but she didn’t give a reason.

      ‘What about Harrison’s father? Grandparents? Aunts? Uncles? There must be someone who wants to see him, surely?’

      ‘Not as far as I know,’ Jill said; then, after a pause: ‘Look, Cathy, I’ve just spoken to Cheryl and she’s given me a little background information but it is highly confidential, and of a very delicate nature. I think it would be better if I saw you in person to tell you what I know.’

      ‘All right,’ I agreed reluctantly, for I was now intrigued and would have preferred to know straightaway.

      ‘But I’m afraid it won’t be today,’ Jill continued. ‘An emergency has arisen with a new carer – their child’s gone missing – and I need to talk to the police. Can I come tomorrow morning, say ten-thirty?’

      ‘Yes, I’ll be here.’

      ‘Good. Now to the arrangements for this afternoon. Cheryl has asked that you collect Harrison at one o’clock from the maternity ward at the City Hospital. The nurses will be expecting you, so go straight up to the ward. And don’t forget your ID; they’ll ask for it.’ Jill was referring to my fostering ID card, which carers are expected to carry with them when on fostering business.

      ‘I’ll remember,’ I confirmed.

      ‘If you need me, phone my mobile – I’ll leave it on silent – but I’m not expecting a problem.’

      ‘Will I be meeting Harrison’s mother at the hospital?’ I asked. This was now starting to worry me.

      ‘I think you might,’ Jill said. ‘She will be discharged at the same time as her baby. But Cheryl has assured me that Harrison’s mother is very pleasant and won’t give you any trouble. And it will be reassuring for her to meet you – to see who is looking after Harrison.’

      ‘Yes, I can see that,’ I said, confused, for this didn’t sound like an abusive or negligent mother. ‘And Harrison’s mother doesn’t want any contact with her baby after today?’ I queried again.

      ‘No. I’ll explain tomorrow. Oh, yes, and Cathy, Harrison has dual heritage. Mum is British Asian, I’m not sure about Dad, but there are no cultural or religious needs, so just look after Harrison as you would any baby.’

      ‘Yes, Jill. All right.’

      It was now 10.30 a.m. and my nervous anticipation was starting to build. I would leave the house in two hours – at 12.30 p.m. – to arrive at the hospital for 1.00. I went upstairs to the spare bedroom and double-checked I had everything I needed. I decided to make up a bag of essential items to take with me to the hospital. Although the hospital was only a twenty-minute drive away I wouldn’t know when Harrison had last been fed or changed, so it made sense to be prepared. Taking a couple of nappies, nappy bags and a packet of baby wipes I went downstairs and found a small holdall in the cupboard under the stairs. Tucking these items into the holdall I went through to the kitchen and took a carton of ready-made formula from the cupboard – I’d bought a few cartons for emergency use, as they could be used at room temperature anywhere. The powder formula was in the cupboard and the bottles I’d sterilized that morning were in the sterilizing unit, ready. I remembered I’d fed Adrian and Paula more or less ‘on demand’ rather than following a strict feeding routine, and I anticipated doing the same with Harry, although of course it would be formula not breast milk.

      I placed the carton of milk and a sterilized bottle into a clean plastic bag and put them in the holdall. I then went into the hall and placed the holdall on top of the carry car seat, which I’d previously detached from the pram. I’d no idea what Harry had in the way of clothes; I assumed not much. Children coming into care usually come from impoverished backgrounds, so when I’d been shopping the day before I’d bought some first-size sleepsuits and also a pram blanket. Although it was summer and Harry would be nestled in the ‘cosy’ in the car seat, he would be leaving a very warm hospital ward, so I put the blanket in the holdall.

      Having checked that I had everything I needed for Harry’s journey home, I busied myself with housework, while keeping a watchful eye on the time. My thoughts repeatedly flashed to Harrison and his mother, and I wondered what she was doing now. Feeding or changing Harrison? Sitting by his crib gazing at her baby as he slept, as I had done with Adrian and Paula? Or perhaps she was holding Harrison and making the most of their time together before she had to say goodbye? What she could be thinking as she prepared to part from her baby I couldn’t begin to imagine.

      Shortly after twelve noon I brought in the washing from the line, put out our cat, Toscha, for a run and locked the back door. With my pulse quickening from anticipation and anxiety I went down the hall, picked up my handbag, the holdall and the baby seat, and went out the front door. Having placed the bags and car seat in the rear of the car, I climbed into the car and started the engine. I pulled off the drive, steeling myself for what I was about to do.

      In the ten years I’d been fostering I’d met many parents of children in care but never a mother whose baby I was about to take away. Usually an optimist and able to find something positive in any situation I was now struggling as I visualized going on to the hospital ward. What was I going to say to the mother, whose name I didn’t even know? The congratulations we normally give to new parents – What a beautiful baby, you must be very proud – certainly wouldn’t be appropriate. Nor could I rely on the reassurance I usually offer the distraught parents of children who’ve just been taken into care – that they will see their children again soon at contact – for there was no contact and Harrison’s mother wouldn’t be seeing her son again soon. And supposing Harrison’s father was there? Jill hadn’t mentioned that possibility and I hadn’t thought to ask her. Supposing Harrison’s father was there and was upset and angry? I hoped there wouldn’t be an ugly scene. There were so many unknowns in this case it was very worrying, and without doubt taking baby Harrison from his parents was the most upsetting thing I’d ever been asked to do.

      It was 12.50 as I parked in the hospital car park, and then fed the meter. I placed the ticket on my dashboard and leaving the holdall on the back seat I took out my handbag and the carry car seat and crossed the car park. It was a lovely summer’s day in early July, a day that would normally lighten my spirits whatever mood I was in, but not now. As I entered the main doors of the hospital I felt my stomach churn. I just wanted to get this awful deed over and done with and go home and look after Harrison.

      Inside the hospital I followed the signs to the maternity ward – up a flight of stairs and along a corridor, where I turned right. I now stood outside the security-locked doors to the ward. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves I delved in my handbag for my ID card and then pressed the security buzzer. My heart was beating fast and I felt hot as my fingers clenched around the handle of the baby seat I was carrying.

      Presently a voice came through the intercom grid: ‘Maternity.’

      ‘Hello,’ I said, speaking into the grid. ‘It’s Cathy Glass. I’m a foster carer. I’ve come to collect Harrison.’

      It went quiet for a

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