LITMIR.BIZ

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able to fill. The emerging picture will hopefully reveal neglect and not wilful abuse; I still struggle to come to terms with the possibility that a mother could deliberately harm her own child. However many times I hear about it, my brain just can’t assimilate something that disturbing.

      The rest of the hospital report matches what was summarised in Des’s email and, for now, what more do I need to know? Evelyn hands me a leaflet – Care Following a Head Injury – reminding me of my own duty of care. Every parent knows how heavily the responsibility of caring for a child can sometimes weigh, especially when they’re unwell. That responsibility increases tenfold when that child is a ward of the state. For a brief moment I feel overwhelmed, but then I remind myself that help is just a phone call away, should Charlie take a turn for the worse.

      ‘They’ve assured us that there’s no sign of serious injury,’ Evelyn says, perhaps noticing the cloud passing over my face, ‘but best keep a close eye on him. It seems he had a soft landing so they don’t think he bumped his head. From what the neighbours had to say, he cut his head on the lid of a tin can, but if there’s any vomiting or you’re at all concerned …’ She makes an L shape with her forefinger and thumb, raising her hand to her ear in imitation of a phone.

      ‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay close by.’

      Evelyn hands me a placement agreement to sign and I scribble my signature, longing for her and the constable to leave so that I can get Charlie settled.

      ‘Well, we’ll leave you to it.’

      Evelyn zips up her bag and rises to her feet. The movement rouses Charlie, who was beginning to nod off where he sat. His head shoots up and he howls, rocking back and forth in a self-soothing action. To see such a small boy surrounded by adults and yet too afraid to reach out to any of us for comfort almost makes me weep. He must think the world an unfriendly place and I wonder how he’ll cope with all the turmoil ahead. Children in care have to adjust to lots of different people coming and going in their lives.

      ‘Aw, it’s all right, sweetie,’ I whisper, reaching down to lift him up. His legs dangle lifelessly around my hips but he stops howling, tears rolling silently down his cheeks. He must have feared we were all about to abandon him.

      ‘I’m not going anywhere, honey. I’m going to take care of you.’

      He nuzzles his face into my shoulder. I can feel heat from his little body pressing against my side. His bandaged head rests against my cheek, the sticky tape cold against my skin. With Charlie perched on my hip I walk quickly through the hall to show Evelyn and the officer to the door, wondering if Charlie’s path had been mapped out from the moment he was born. Could his mother, on the day she first cupped his tiny head in the palm of her hand, ever have imagined that barely three years later she would lose him, at least for the foreseeable future? The might of social services rides like a steam roller over families, whose fate sometimes turns on which social worker is assigned to work on their case.

      On my way back to the living room I fall into the classic words of comfort – ‘There, there, it’s all right, you’re safe here, baby, no need to cry. Hush now, sweetie, everything’s going to be fine’ – but I suspect that Charlie’s in a place where words won’t reach him. With his face tear-streaked he glances up at me, his dirty, overlong fringe falling across his eyes. Close up he smells of hospitals, although antiseptic masks another, acrid stench: tobacco and something muskier.

      ‘Come on, sweetie. Let’s get you a drink and then we’ll tuck you up, shall we?’

      I walk to the kitchen, chatting in soft, sing-song tones. As I pour the milk I notice him watching me with a sullen wariness. He really could do with a bath, but I won’t put him through the trauma at this time of night. What he needs, over and above anything else, is sleep. I hand him a beaker of milk and he takes it, listlessly running the sippy lid over his lips.

      ‘There’s a good boy. Have a nice drink.’

      He begins to cry again and I feel a familiar sharp pang in my stomach, a longing to reassure him that what he’s known is not all that there is.

      Ten minutes later, talking in a loud whisper so as not to wake the others, I hold his hand and guide him, still hiccoughing with tiny sobs, into the spare room.

      ‘I want Mummy!’ he wails suddenly, the sight of an unfamiliar bed filling his voice with urgency. He sinks to the floor, tears streaming down his puffy red cheeks.

      Searching through the rucksack that Evelyn gave me, I try to find a comforter, something familiar that might smell of his mother and console him. Apart from a few ragged items of clothing there’s nothing; no teddy or special blanket. Reaching up to the top shelf of our bookcase, I grab the first teddy I lay my hands on. Lowering my chin to my chest, I deepen my voice and make teddy pretend-talk.

      ‘Hello, Charlie. I’m Harold. Can I come to bed with you?’

      Charlie stops mid-sob, his eyebrows slowly rising with interest. Holding his breath, he stares at ‘Harold’ and nods, clasping the stuffed toy to his chest and wiping his tears on the soft fur. Gently steering him to bed, I half lift, half guide him in. He winces in pain as his head touches the pillow. The tears return as I switch off the main light and plug in a night lamp.

      ‘Night, night, Charlie,’ I whisper, sitting beside his bed and stroking his hair. Eventually his breathing settles and his eyes flutter to a close.

      That night I stage a vigil beside his bed, setting my alarm at two-hourly intervals so that I can keep a regular eye on him. I am surprised to find that he sleeps through it all, and I even manage to get snatches of uninterrupted sleep myself between checks. I guess that he must have been too exhausted from all the drama to fret about his unfamiliar surroundings.

      At 5 a.m. I am confident enough to leave him and chance an hour’s rest in my own bed. It’s Saturday morning and there aren’t any football matches or clubs to get the older children up for, although at just gone six o’clock I get up anyway to make sure Charlie’s not lying awake and fretting. Creeping along the hall, I peer around his bedroom door – he’s curled up on his side in a tight ball, one hand tucked between the pillow and his pink cheek, the other arm resting heavily on teddy. Soft dimples of flesh emerge from the cuffs of his over-small pyjamas, his tiny fingers lightly brushing against his chin. He looks angelic and, I’m relieved to find, quite relaxed.

      I quietly back away and suck a lungful of fresh air from the hall; his room was redolent with the same musky smell I noticed on him last night. Before I reach the stairs there’s a loud wail. Back in his room I find him sitting bolt upright in the bed, staring around in shock. He looks terrified.

      ‘It’s all right, sweetie. You’re in Rosie’s house.’

      I crouch down beside his bed and stroke the back of his head. In daylight I can see that his eyes, though red-rimmed and fearful, are a beautiful blue-grey. He really is a gorgeous child.

      ‘You’re going to be staying with me for a little while. Do you remember me tucking you in last night?’

      He gives a slight nod, hesitantly trusting.

      ‘Where’s Mummy?’ he asks, his voice quavering.

      ‘Mummy isn’t feeling well at the moment but you’ll see her soon, don’t you worry.’

      I expect more tears but he surprises me by throwing the duvet back and shuffling his bottom to the edge of the mattress.

      ‘Me need breakfast.’

      ‘Oh, yes, OK, sweetie, but first you need a bath.’ He really does smell awful.

      As I help him out of his pyjamas I have to suppress a gasp. Charlie’s covered in a series of sores, all the way down his back, arms and legs. I hope I’m wrong but the small red bumps look to me like bed-bug bites. My heart sinks. If any have travelled with him in the creases of his rucksack or on his pyjamas, I’ll be lucky not to have my own infestation soon.

      He continues to plead for food as I lift him

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