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Two More Sleeps

      Sometimes there’s a fine line between fair and failing parents.

      I don’t envy social workers the responsibility of deciding when that threshold has been breached, especially when the lines are blurred. Before I began fostering, my mind would airbrush over shades of grey, preferring the reassuring palette of black and white. I didn’t like to hear that Hitler was a disarming and humorous man of faith who nursed his mother when she was ill – the contradiction was discomforting, at odds with my blueprint of good and evil. When a documentary on the Discovery Channel claimed that the man responsible for the Holocaust was also wonderful with children, I switched the TV off in denial.

      The watershed came when I met the birth mother of my second fostering placement, back in 2004. Knowing that Lauren had kept two-year-old Freddie locked in a damp room with no comfort and little to eat, my mind had conjured such a monstrous picture of her that when she turned up at my house for contact, I almost goggled in surprise. Frail and unkempt, she seemed almost as helpless as the little one she had brought into the world.

      It was a defining moment, and years later, in December 2010, Lauren’s simultaneous capacity for callousness and vulnerability touched my thoughts as I hurried along the high street for the third time in as many hours. I was on my way to collect Angell, a young boy who had been taken into protective custody by police earlier that day. The four-year-old had been found by a dog walker, half dressed and huddled beneath a park bench in a children’s playground. With fierce blasts of air prickling my skin, it was difficult to comprehend a mother leaving her child alone and unprotected in sub-zero temperatures, but then memories of Lauren resonated in my mind. I reminded myself that, when it came to human nature, there were few certainties or absolutes.

      The police station was a sturdy three-storey Victorian building, conspicuous among the shops for its lack of tinsel and festive frills, on the corner of the street. Its wide sash windows blinked beacons of cool white light into the frosty air, as if keeping watch over the town. Sidestepping an icy puddle, I climbed the stone steps towards the entrance and was almost knocked off my feet by a gangly, hooded youth who lumbered through the open door, elbows at bony right-angles, pale face puckered at the lips around a newly lit cigarette.

      The grim-faced, suited man in his wake bestowed an apologetic nod in my direction, raising his eyebrows as if to say: I can think of nicer places to spend Christmas Eve. Narrowing my eyes against the smoke, I threw him a quick, sympathetic smile in return, absently wondering whether he was a beleaguered parent, an appropriate adult enlisted to ensure fair-play in interview or perhaps even a fellow foster carer.

      The heated reception area offered a welcome sanctuary from the wind and once inside I let out a sigh of relief and stamped my frozen feet, setting my duffel bag on the floor. On the other side of a glass-fronted enquiry desk several telephones demanded attention in shrill tones and a printer suddenly spluttered, coughing itself awake.

      With gloved, stiffly frozen fingers I pressed the buzzer for attention then sat down on a wooden bench and waited. Soon a police constable, perhaps somewhere in her mid-forties, weaved her way between the empty desks of the front office, the radio clipped to her chest accompanying each of her steps with loud, crackling hisses. ‘Sorry we messed you around earlier,’ she said through the grille after checking my Bright Heights Fostering Agency security pass. ‘I’m sure you could have done without all the to’ing and fro’ing, today of all days. I’m Jo, by the way.’

      ‘I didn’t mind, Jo,’ I replied honestly as she joined me in reception. ‘It was good to get out of the house, to tell you the truth.’

      She laughed, gently nudging my upper arm with her epauletted shoulder. ‘It’d do my head in being cooped up with my lot for days on end. That’s why I always volunteer for the holiday shift.’

      I gave her a complicit smile but, for me, it was more the distraction I was grateful for than an escape from the demands of close family. The initial call about Angell came through from my fostering agency just after lunchtime and since then I had made two aborted trips to collect him. There was lots to do at home but Sarah, a new-born baby I had looked after for six weeks, had moved into her forever home just seven days earlier

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