A Baby’s Cry

Chapter Five

The Case

Normally when we arrive home from school we fall into an easy routine. The children play while I make dinner; then after dinner Adrian does his homework while I hear Paula read. After that the children play or watch television until it’s time for a bath and bed. But today with a baby now part of our family the old routine vanished and organized chaos reigned. It began on the driveway before we’d even entered the house.

I’d parked the car, got out and opened the rear doors of the car, which had child locks on so couldn’t be opened from inside. Paula said she wanted to carry Harrison in his car seat into the house but I said it would be too heavy for her, so she sulked. Then Adrian opened the boot and began lifting out the chassis of the pram, which was helpful, except he accidentally caught Paula’s shoulder with his elbow and she, not having recovered from her pique, hollered – out of all proportion to the small bump she’d received. Adrian apologized but added that Paula shouldn’t have been standing in his way, so Paula retaliated by saying she hadn’t been in his way and he should be more careful. Harrison, whom I was holding in the carry car seat and who until now had been asleep, clearly felt it was time he joined in the fray and, opening his mouth wide, began to cry.

The situation didn’t improve indoors. I lay Harrison in the pram in the hall and began gently rocking him but without effect.

‘Perhaps he’s hungry,’ Paula suggested, still rubbing her shoulder.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I fed him just before I came to school.’

‘Perhaps he’s done a poo,’ Adrian said. ‘Josh says his brother poos all the time and it’s runny and smells horrid.’

‘It’s possible,’ I said. I undid a couple of buttons on Harrison’s sleepsuit and checked his nappy but it was clean.

I continued rocking the pram but Harrison’s cries grew and he became quite angry and red in the face. Adrian and Paula offered more suggestions, trying to outdo each other: Harrison was too hot, too cold, not tired or ‘He wants his proper mummy,’ which didn’t help. Then they looked at me as though I should have known what was making Harrison cry and I started to feel inadequate that I didn’t. Instinctively I picked him up and as I did he let out a large burp and his body relaxed.

‘It’s wind,’ I said, as relieved as Harrison, and able to reclaim some of my parenting kudos. ‘I should have thought of that sooner.’

‘Yes,’ Adrian and Paula agreed, as I massaged Harrison’s back.

Once he was completely comfortable I returned him to the pram. ‘We’ll leave him to sleep,’ I said.

Adrian and Paula went off to play – separately – while I began to make dinner, but fifteen minutes later the phone rang, which startled Harrison and he began to cry again. ‘I’ll answer it,’ Adrian offered, seizing the opportunity. I didn’t normally allow the children to answer the phone in case it was a nuisance call or a stranger but on this occasion I gratefully agreed.

‘It’s Nana,’ Adrian called from the sitting room as I rocked the pram in the hall. ‘She wants to know if you’re coping all right.’

I thought she could probably hear the answer in Harrison’s cries. ‘Tell Nana I’ll phone her back later,’ I called, and Adrian relayed this to my mother.

A few minutes later Harrison went back to sleep. I returned to the kitchen to make dinner, and Adrian and Paula followed me, complaining they were hungry. I gave them an apple each and told them to play in the garden, as it was a nice day. Then twenty minutes later Harrison woke again and screamed with a vengeance. This time I thought he was probably hungry, as it had been nearly three hours since he’d last been fed. Hearing his cries Adrian and Paula dashed in from the garden and I asked them to gently rock the pram while I made up a bottle, emphasizing the ‘gently’, which they did. Once I’d made up the bottle, remembering the bib, I carried Harrison into the sitting room, where I sat on the sofa, with Adrian and Paula either side of me, and gave him his bottle. I think the children were a little bit impressed that I knew how to make up a bottle and feed a baby, as they’d never seen me do it before: how to tilt the bottle at the right angle so that Harrison didn’t take in air, and stopping every so often to sit him forward and wind him when he obligingly burped.

Then suddenly Adrian exclaimed: ‘Mum, you are silly! It’s not Monday!’

I looked at him. ‘I know, love. It’s Wednesday.’

‘So why have you put Harrison in that bib with Monday on it?’ Adrian said, laughing; Paula laughed too. The bibs I’d bought were embroidered with days of the week and I’d taken the wrong one from the packet.

‘I’ve been busy,’ I said. And I think they began to realize I wasn’t as organized as I usually was and needed their help and cooperation.

‘I’ll get the right bib,’ Adrian said, and went into the kitchen.

‘Shall I get Harry’s froggy rattle from upstairs?’ Paula asked, also wanting to help.

‘Yes please.’

Once Harrison had finished his bottle, Adrian and Paula came with me upstairs while I changed Harrison’s nappy, and I remembered to use the disposable gloves this time. Then they followed me downstairs, where I lay Harrison in the pram to sleep while I finished making dinner. We ate eventually – over an hour later than usual – and I knew I needed to establish a new routine that incorporated Harrison’s needs as well as Adrian’s and Paula’s. I also knew it was important that Adrian and Paula felt included by helping, which would reinforce that we were working together as a team.

That night I managed to get Paula into bed and off to sleep before Harrison woke for his eight o’clock feed. I’d noticed that he seemed to want feeding every three hours, as Adrian and Paula had done as babies, rather than four-hourly as suggested by some parenting guides. Fortunately his cries didn’t wake Paula, and Adrian, who was still up, rocked the pram while I made up the bottle; then he sat beside me on the sofa, gently stroking Harrison’s tiny hand while I fed him. Adrian, like many boys his age, put on a bit of male bravado in front of Paula (and other girls), but underneath he was a very kind and sensitive lad who tended to internalize his worries.

‘Why isn’t Harry with his mother?’ Adrian asked quietly, as Harrison’s little hand curled around Adrian’s forefinger.

‘She can’t look after him?’ I said. ‘I don’t know why.’

‘That’s very sad,’ Adrian said. ‘Can’t someone help her to look after him?’

‘I hope the social services will be able to suggest something, so she’ll be able to,’ I said.

Adrian went quiet and then suddenly kissed my cheek. ‘I’m glad you can look after us,’ he said. ‘I love you so much. You’re the best mother ever.’

My eyes immediately filled. ‘Thank you, love,’ I said, returning his kiss. ‘You’re the best son ever. You and Paula mean the world to me, which I hope you both know.’

Adrian nodded and, slipping his arm around my waist, rested his head on my shoulder, while Harrison took the rest of his bottle holding Adrian’s finger.

Once Harrison had finished feeding I winded him and then I told Adrian he should get ready for bed while I settled Harrison in his cot for the night. I’d have to decide when would be the best time to incorporate a bath in Harrison’s routine, but for tonight I wiped his face and hands with a flannel and cleaned his bottom thoroughly when I changed his nappy. The stump of the umbilical cord was still attached and, using a cotton bud, I also cleaned around Harrison’s bellybutton. It was nearly nine o’clock by the time Harrison was in his cot and asleep, and Adrian was washed, changed into his pyjamas and in bed waiting for me to say goodnight.

As I entered Adrian’s room he reminded me that I needed to phone Nana and Grandpa, to return their call.

‘Thanks,’ I said, giving him a hug. ‘And thanks for all your help. I’ll phone them now. You get off to sleep now, love. School tomorrow.’

‘Only three weeks to the end of term!’ Adrian said, snuggling down and grinning. He was looking forward to the end of the school year and the long summer holidays, and although we wouldn’t be going away he knew I was planning days out, including some to the coast.

I kissed Adrian goodnight, went downstairs and then phoned my parents from the sitting room.

Mum answered. ‘How’s it going?’ she asked a little anxiously as soon as she heard it was me.

‘Good. Harrison’s feeding well and is asleep now – in the cot in my room.’ We chatted for a while and then we arranged for her and Dad to come to dinner on Sunday.

I knew Harrison would wake for feeding at least once in the night, if not more, and I wanted to be prepared. Going into the kitchen I checked I had enough sterilized bottles to see me through the night and then I took the tin of formula from the cupboard and placed it ready on the work surface. Wanting to make sure I also had everything ready for changing him at night, I went upstairs and into the spare bedroom. I would take Harrison in there to change him. The changing mat was on the bed and I put the baby wipes and nappy bags within reach. I also took a clean sleepsuit from the packet.

I went to the window to draw the curtains. The sun was just setting and the sky was clear. One lone star twinkled in the distance and I immediately thought of Michael, the little boy I’d fostered the year before (whose story I tell in The Night the Angels Came). He’d taken great comfort in looking at the night sky when his father had been very ill. Many nights we’d stood together at the window, gazing at the stars, which Michael had said made him think of heaven.

Slowly closing the curtains, I turned from the window. The trolley case, which I’d brought up earlier, stood in the corner of the room. Although I wouldn’t need the clothes Harrison’s mother had packed – I had plenty of first-size sleepsuits – I thought I should at least look in the case, if not unpack it tonight. I laid it flat on the floor. It was a good-quality case and appeared to be brand-new. Kneeling, I unzipped the top of the case and lifted the flap. I stared in amazement.

It was packed full of neatly arranged brand-new baby clothes, all taken from their packets and folded so that they wouldn’t crease. As I moved some of those at the top I saw that in addition to the first-size clothes, 0–3 months, there were clothes to fit an older baby – in fact every size up to twelve months. Vests, socks, romper suits, little trousers with matching tops, sleepsuits, first-size shoes, slippers, boots, a coat and a woolly hat with matching mittens for winter. I noticed that all the clothes were for boys, so it appeared that Rihanna had known she was expecting a boy, presumably from the scan. There was also a small cuddly teddy bear and a panda.

I stayed where I was, kneeling on the floor, and stared at the open case, puzzled. A new case, possibly bought for the purpose of carrying Harrison’s clothes, full of carefully selected and lovingly packed first-year clothes and two cuddly toys: it didn’t make sense. Surely this wasn’t the work of an abusive or negligent mother who was deemed to be unfit to parent her child? It couldn’t be. Jill had said Harrison’s mother wasn’t drink or drug dependent, which really only left two alternatives for a newborn baby coming into foster care. Either Rihanna had mental health problems that stopped her from parenting, or she was a young teenage mother, pregnant by accident, who’d decided to give up her baby and continue her education (and life). Yet the expensive and stylish trolley case with its carefully and lovingly planned first-year clothes simply didn’t fit either of these images. And why clothes for twelve months? Perhaps Harrison’s mother had put her baby into foster care temporarily – for a year – and planned to return and parent him, although this was highly unlikely, as I knew the social services wouldn’t tolerate a mother using the care service for extended babysitting. Usually I’m told why a child is brought into foster care, but all I had now was a healthy baby and a case of brand-new baby clothes.

Then I spotted a white envelope tucked into the pocket at the back of the case. I reached in and took it out. There was nothing written on the outside of the envelope but as I opened the handwritten letter I saw it began: Dear Foster Carer.

It was from Harrison’s mother. I read on:

This is a very sad time for me, as I’m sure you know. I have cried every day since I first found out I was expecting and I am crying now as I write this letter. I have prayed for a solution that would allow me to keep my son, but there is none. In my heart I always knew that would be true and I have had to be very brave and plan for my son’s future, as much as I’m allowed to. Would you dress him in the clothes I have bought and put the soft toys in his cot, please? I would be very grateful if you would. Knowing Harrison is wearing the outfits I chose for him and has the cuddly toys close by when he sleeps will be a comfort to me. The social worker offered to send me some photographs of my baby but I have refused. It would be too painful for me to see them. I know I couldn’t cope. I hope I’ve bought enough clothes for Harrison’s first year; after that his adopted parents will decide what he is going to wear. You must be a very good kind woman.

God bless you.

Rihanna

I stopped reading and looked up, the letter in one hand and the open case in front of me; tears stung the back of my eyes. I could feel the love and concern that poor woman had for her child reaching out to me from the words of her letter and the lovingly packed clothes. I could also feel her sadness. But her letter raised more questions than it answered. Although I now understood why Rihanna had bought the clothes, and for the first year – Harrison would be adopted by the end of the year – I still had no understanding of why she couldn’t keep her son. She obviously wanted to, and she sounded kind and loving. She appeared articulate and educated, and something in the style of her words suggested a mature woman, not a teenager. Yet for whatever reason she had accepted that adoption was the only answer, and her finality was chilling, for she would know that once Harrison was adopted there would be no going back and Harrison would become someone else’s son for ever.

Slowly refolding the letter I returned it to the envelope and tucked it into my pocket. I then took the cuddly panda and teddy bear from the case and closed the lid. Standing, I carried the soft toys round the landing to my bedroom, where I placed them at the foot of Harrison’s cot. Harrison was sleeping peacefully, lightly swaddled and on his side as I’d left him. Tomorrow I would follow his mother’s wishes and dress him in the clothes she’d bought, and I would continue to do so every day until he left me to be adopted. When the social worker visited I would ask her to tell Harrison’s mother I was carrying out her wishes. It was the least I could do, and I hoped it would give Rihanna some comfort.

Chapter Six

The Mystery Deepens

I fed and changed Harrison before I went to bed, and he woke at 2.00 a.m. for a feed. I heard his little whimper first, which allowed me enough time to go downstairs, make up his bottle and return before his cry really took hold. I sat on my bed, leaning against the pillows, as I fed him, as I used to when I’d fed Adrian and Paula. Once Harrison had finished his bottle I winded him and carried him round the landing to what would eventually be his bedroom, where I changed him before returning him to his cot in my room.

I lay in bed with the faint glow of the street lamp coming through the curtains and listened to Harrison’s little snuffles of contentment as he slowly drifted back to sleep, just as I had lain there listening to Adrian and Paula when they’d been babies. I felt a warm glow from knowing Harrison was safe, fed and comfortable – the same nurturing instinct that bonds a mother with her baby. There’s a lot of research that shows this bond (known as attachment) is not so much biological or genetic as a result of nurturing, after the baby is born. As I would be forming an attachment to Harrison so he would form an attachment to me, and he would transfer this attachment to his adopted parents when the time came. Babies who are not nurtured never form that first attachment and can develop emotional and physical difficulties in childhood and in adult life.

Harrison didn’t wake again until six o’clock, which was considerate, as I was already surfacing from sleep by then. I heard his little cry and I was out of bed, downstairs and returning with his bottle before he was crying with hunger. As I had done during the night, I fed him in my bed and then carried him round to his bedroom, where I changed his nappy. I dressed him in one of the sleepsuits from the case Rihanna had sent. ‘It’s from your mum,’ I said, picking him up and kissing his cheek. He wrinkled his little nose endearingly, so I kissed him again. He was a truly gorgeous baby, and also, so far, a very good baby. I returned him to his cot in my bedroom and he obligingly went straight back to sleep.

I showered and dressed so that when I woke Adrian and Paula at seven o’clock for school it was to a calm and well-ordered house. Paula wanted to see Harrison straightaway and tiptoed round to my bedroom in her nightdress. Adrian said he wanted his breakfast first but then couldn’t resist a quick peep at Harrison en route to the bathroom.

I guessed that as Harrison had been fed at six o’clock he was likely to need feeding again at about nine o’clock, when I would be driving home from taking Adrian and Paula to school, so to be safe I took a carton of ready-made milk and a sterilized bottle with us in a bag. However, despite being moved in and out of the car, Harrison didn’t wake until after I’d taken Adrian and Paula to school and had returned home. Once Harrison had finished his bottle and I’d changed his nappy he didn’t want to go back to sleep immediately, so I sat him in the bouncing cradle in the sitting room and took the opportunity to take some photographs of him. While I knew from his mother’s letter she didn’t want photographs of Harrison, the pictures I took would be an important record of Harrison’s first months both for him when he was older and for the adoptive parents, who obviously weren’t here to see him as a baby. These photographs, together with his Life Story book, which I would put together – detailing his development and significant events – would go with him when he left and would be a record of his past. Children who are brought up by their own parents have a living record of shared memories in their family, but once a foster child leaves the foster home he or she leaves behind the family’s collective history, which is why the photographs and Life Story book are so important.

As well as making a Life Story book all foster carers have to keep a daily record of the foster child’s development and general well-being, which is filed at the social services when the child leaves the foster carer. Jill, as my support social worker, always checked this record when she visited; it was a fostering procedural requirement. I had already started a folder on Harrison the evening before and with him now sitting contentedly in his bouncing cradle I updated the record, making a note of his feeds during the night and that he had settled easily after feeding. I had put the letter from his mother in the folder and once I’d finished writing I placed the folder on the coffee table, ready for Jill’s arrival at 10.30 – in half an hour. I was looking forward to Jill coming so that I could show her Harrison, of whom I was very proud, and also to hear what she had to tell me about Harrison’s background and his mother. Never before had I fostered a child who had so much mystery surrounding him.

‘Where is the little fellow?’ Jill said, bustling past me as soon as I opened the front door, clearly more eager to see Harrison than me.

‘In the sitting room,’ I said, closing the door. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yes please.’ She disappeared into the sitting room. There was a short pause before I heard her exclaim: ‘Oh! What a lovely baby! What a darling! He’s awake. Isn’t he alert?’

‘Yes,’ I called back, going into the kitchen to make coffee.

‘He looks older than a newborn, doesn’t he?’ Jill called.

‘Yes. I think it’s all that hair,’ I returned. ‘Are you having milk and sugar in your coffee today?’ I was aware Jill’s answer would depend on whether she was on a diet or not.

‘Just milk, please.’ So I thought she was.

‘Biscuits?’

‘Oh, go on then.’

I arranged the two mugs of coffee and a plate of biscuits on the tray and carried them through to the sitting room. Jill was kneeling in front of Harrison in his bouncing cradle, making all sorts of silly noises that adults manage to produce for babies. Harrison didn’t seem to mind and was keeping Jill amused by appearing to smile at her and cutely wrinkling his little nose as he did for us.