A Baby’s Cry

Chapter Seven

Abandoned

After Jill’s visit and her parting comments that Rihanna’s life could be in danger if Harrison’s existence became known, I had the unsettling feeling that I was becoming involved in something I would rather not have been. It seemed incredible to me that a mother could be in danger from simply having a baby. If it was all true, and Rihanna hadn’t fabricated the story surrounding Harrison’s paternity (for whatever reason), then I felt the sooner Harrison was adopted and settled into his new life the better for all concerned. I knew, however, that it was likely to take the best part of a year for the social services to find and vet a suitable adoptive family and for the legal process to be completed.

Fortunately I was busy for most of that day, so I didn’t have too much time for speculation or worrying. Just after Jill left the health visitor telephoned and, introducing herself as Grace, asked if it would be possible for her to visit us that afternoon, so we arranged for her to come at 1.30. Harrison had a bottle at twelve noon and I had some lunch; then while he slept I went upstairs and unpacked the clothes his mother had sent. As I folded the items neatly into the wardrobe and drawers in his room my thoughts went again to Rihanna who, according to her letter, would find some comfort in knowing her baby was wearing these clothes. It touched me again, and I hoped Cheryl would make sure Rihanna knew I was carrying out her wishes when I told her the following day.

Once I’d finished unpacking the case I stowed it out of the way on top of the wardrobe and went downstairs, where Harrison was just waking.

‘Hi, little man,’ I said, gently lifting him out of the pram. ‘Aren’t you a good boy?’ He wrinkled his nose and I kissed his cheek. ‘What a little treasure you are!’ I told him as I carried him into the sitting room. He didn’t need feeding again, so I sat on the sofa and cuddled him.

When Grace, the health visitor, arrived at exactly 1.30 the house was tidy and Harrison was wide awake and sitting contently in the bouncing cradle in the sitting room. I hoped Grace was impressed.

‘He’s very alert for a newborn baby,’ Grace said, going over and making a fuss of him. She then joined me on the sofa and asked me about Harrison’s feeding and sleeping routine, before she took the red book from her bag and began talking me through it.

‘I’ve filled in as much as I can,’ she said, turning to the first page. ‘But I’ve got quite a few blanks and some of it – about the mother – won’t be relevant as he’s in care.’

As I looked at the first page I saw that Harrison’s name, date of birth, weight and length at birth had been filled in, together with the results of the standard tests that are performed on all newborn babies at the hospital just after they’re born. But the next page – about the mother’s contact details – was blank.

‘I assume I put your contact details in here?’ she asked me.

‘I should think so,’ I said. I gave Grace my full name, date of birth and GP’s name and address. ‘You’d better add “foster mother” at the top of the page,’ I suggested, which she did.

The red book is quite an important document and includes health and development checks and immunizations. It is usually kept updated until the child is five years of age, sometimes for longer. Harrison’s red book would go with him when he was adopted. There were now some questions about the mother’s health during pregnancy, which I couldn’t answer, and if the baby’s birth was normal, which Cheryl had told Jill it was.

‘As far as I know it was a normal birth,’ I said, ‘and I understand both parents were healthy and weren’t addicts.’ It was important that, as the health visitor, Grace knew this. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know any more.’

‘I’m concerned,’ Grace said, suddenly frowning and looking from the red book to me. ‘Health visitors are supposed to visit the mother when she is expecting to make sure she has the right health care, but I was never informed this mother was expecting. I’m going to look into it when I get back to the office. Clearly something has gone wrong here and I’m wondering how many other expectant mothers have been missed off the computer system. As soon as a mother goes to her GP or clinic,’ Grace explained, ‘and has a positive pregnancy test, her details are entered on the computer so that we can look after her and the baby. Also Harrison’s mother will need a postpartum check-up – between four to six weeks after the birth – and very likely emotional support. It’s not good enough. I’ll ask my manager to look into it.’

I doubted it was a computer error that had led to Harrison’s mother not appearing on the health-care system. But if I told Grace what I knew – that Smith probably wasn’t Rihanna’s real name, and her pregnancy and indeed Harrison’s existence were a closely guarded secret and had to remain so – it would have sparked Grace’s curiosity and led to more questions. I didn’t want to be the one to send Grace on a hunt that might find Rihanna, even though she had the best of intentions.

‘I suppose it’s just one of those computer errors,’ I said vaguely.

Grace shook her head, clearly worried. ‘I’ll look into it,’ she said.

Setting the red book to one side, Grace took a set of portable scales from her large nurse’s bag and assembled them. I remembered Adrian and Paula being weighed on similar scales and I gently lifted Harrison into the scales. Grace made a note of his weight on a form and also in the red book. ‘He’s the same as his birth weight,’ Grace said. ‘Which is good. That means he’s already made up the weight he lost after the birth.’ I also knew from having Adrian and Paula that babies often lose weight immediately after birth and can take a week or longer to regain it. Grace then measured Harrison from head to toe, and tested his reflexes and responses to light and sound. Reassuring me he was perfectly normal, she made a note of the results on her form and also in the red book.

‘We carry out further developmental checks at eight weeks, six months, and then eighteen months,’ Grace said. ‘But obviously if you have any concerns about Harrison’s development contact us or your GP straightaway.’

‘I will,’ I said.

‘I’ll send a copy of all my notes to the social services for their files,’ Grace said. ‘What’s the care plan for Harrison? Rehab home?’ Grace was referring to the care plan the social services would have drawn up for Harrison’s long-term future; ‘rehab home’ was the term used for preparing a child to return home.

‘I believe he’s going to be adopted,’ I said.

A look of pain and concern flickered across Grace’s face. ‘Oh dear. Is he really? And he’s such a lovely baby. Oh well, I suppose it’s for the best. At least he’s young enough to have a fresh start.’ I nodded. As a health visitor Grace would go into homes where babies and young children didn’t have a very good start in life and one of her roles would be to monitor those children and alert the social services about her concerns. ‘Why can’t his mother look after him?’ she asked after a moment.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, which was the truth.

Grace then asked if I would like her to visit Harrison and me at home again or if I could take him to the clinic or GP to be weighed in future. I said I would go to the clinic and she made a note of this in her file. She then handed me the red book, which I knew I had to keep safe and take with me each time I went to the clinic, when the nurse would enter Harrison’s weight, dates of vaccinations and also the results of the developmental checks.

‘Well, if you haven’t any questions I’ll be off now,’ Grace said, dismantling the scales and putting them in her nurse’s bag together with her record sheets.

‘I can’t think of anything,’ I said. ‘I’ll phone the clinic if I need advice.’

‘You’re doing a good job,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll see you next week at the clinic, when you bring Harrison to be weighed.’

‘Yes.’ I thanked Grace and, leaving Harrison in his bouncing cradle for a minute, I saw her out.

Returning to the sitting room I lifted Harrison out of the bouncing cradle and carried him upstairs, where I changed his nappy. It was now 2.30 and time to be thinking about collecting Adrian and Paula from school.

Downstairs again I took a ready-made carton of milk and a sterilized bottle from the kitchen and at 2.45 began getting Harrison and the pram chassis into the car. I arrived in the playground with five minutes to spare and I joined a couple of friends. As we talked I gently rocked Harrison in the pram; I didn’t feel quite so conspicuous now I was more confident in fostering a baby. Adrian and Paula came out of school with their news, including what each of them had liked and disliked of their school dinner, and I drove home.

The evening ran more smoothly than the previous evening, as I began to establish a routine. Dinner was only a little late, and after dinner I gave Harrison his bath while Adrian and Paula played, so I had time to read Adrian and Paula a bedtime story once I’d settled Harrison in his cot. I gave Harrison a feed before I went to bed and he fell asleep immediately.

Later, as I lay in bed with Harrison asleep in his cot, I wondered again about Harrison’s parents and if Grace would succeed in finding his mother. I doubted she would, without Rihanna’s correct surname, date of birth or last known address. I’d no idea where Rihanna lived or what she looked like. The English in her letter was perfect and she’d made no cultural requests in respect of Harrison’s care, so I assumed her family were very Westernized and that she’d probably been born in England. I’d already surmised she was well educated and mature, not a teenage mother. I knew nothing of Harrison’s father other than that he was very likely a public figure, which didn’t narrow it down much. I wondered if, in years to come, when Harrison was older, he would want to trace his natural parents, as some adopted children do, and what success he’d have. Would it be possible for him to find his parents when they’d gone to so much trouble to hide their identities? I didn’t know.

I was used to children coming into foster care with information about their background arriving piecemeal, so their sad stories slowly came together like pieces in a jigsaw. But that wouldn’t happen with Harrison. He was like a baby abandoned at a railway station with a note from his mother asking for him to be looked after, and I wondered what effect not knowing his origins would have on him as he grew older. Unless, of course, his adoptive parents didn’t tell him he was adopted, in which case if he ever found out by accident he would be devastated.

Chapter Eight

Stranger at the Door

‘Oh, isn’t he gorgeous?’ Cheryl, the social worker, enthused as I opened the front door with Harrison in my arms the following day. I’d just fed and changed him, so he was wide awake and contented. ‘The nurses at the hospital said he was a lovely baby but this is my first chance to see him.’

Cheryl and I shook hands and I led the way down the hall and into the sitting room. I hadn’t met Cheryl before; she was of medium height and build and I guessed in her mid-thirties. She was dressed smartly in black trousers and a white blouse. I’d no idea how long she’d been qualified as a social worker, nor how much experience she had, but she seemed very pleasant.

‘Can I get you a tea or coffee?’ I asked as we entered the sitting room. ‘Or a cold drink?’

‘A coffee would be lovely – thank you. I’ve come straight from a meeting and I’m gasping.’

‘Would you like something to eat as well? I offered. ‘I can soon make you a sandwich.’ I’d had social workers arrive before having not had time to eat or even drink.

‘That’s kind of you, but a coffee will be lovely. I’ll pick up something to eat on the way back to the office. I’ve another meeting at two o’clock. Can I hold him?’ Cheryl asked, sitting on the sofa and looking longingly at Harrison in my arms.

‘Of course.’ I laid Harrison in her arms and went into the kitchen to make coffee. I could hear Cheryl talking to Harrison as Jill had done, only without all the funny noises: ‘Aren’t you a cute baby? Are you being a good boy? You certainly look very healthy’ and so on.

‘He’s doing very well,’ I said as I returned with Cheryl’s coffee and a plate of biscuits, which I placed on the coffee table within her reach. ‘The health visitor came yesterday,’ I continued, updating her. ‘She weighed and measured him and checked his hearing and sight; everything is fine. She’s given me his red book and I’ll be taking him to the clinic next week for weighing. She said she’d send you a copy of all her notes.’

‘Thank you,’ Cheryl said. ‘Shall I put Harrison in his bouncing cradle while we talk and I have my coffee?’

‘I usually put him in his pram for a sleep about now,’ I said. ‘Is that all right?’

‘Yes, of course. Go ahead. Don’t let me disrupt your routine.’

I carefully lifted Harrison from Cheryl’s arms and carried him down the hall, where I settled him into his pram, before returning to the sitting room. Cheryl had taken a wad of forms – the paperwork I needed – from her briefcase and now handed them to me.

‘I think everything is there,’ she said. ‘Although I’m afraid the information form doesn’t tell you any more than you already know.’

I nodded and, sitting in the armchair, I looked through the paperwork as Cheryl sipped her coffee and ate a biscuit. The forms I needed were all here, although as Cheryl had already said there was nothing new to be learned from them. The essential information forms and placement forms, which usually contain background information and contact details of the child’s natural family, were largely unfilled in. However, the last sheet – the medical consent form – contained a nearly illegible signature beginning with R, which I assumed to be Rihanna’s signature. I needed this signed form in case I had to seek medical treatment for Harrison, including vaccinations. But it seemed strange to see Rihanna’s signature on the form, given that she had severed all contact with Harrison.

‘So you’re still in contact with Harrison’s mother?’ I asked.

‘Only through her solicitor now,’ Cheryl clarified. ‘She gives Rihanna any forms that need signing.” I nodded. ‘You understand why there is so little information in this case and why strict confidentiality has to be respected?’ Cheryl now asked.

I hesitated. ‘I only know what Jill has told me: that Harrison’s birth has to be kept a secret. I don’t know the reason. Were you aware that Rihanna sent a case of clothes for Harrison, together with a letter addressed to the foster carer?’

‘No.’

Reaching over I took my fostering folder from the bookshelf and slid out Rihanna’s letter, which I passed to Cheryl. While she read the letter I went down the hall and checked on Harrison in his pram; he was fast asleep. I returned to the sitting room and Cheryl handed me back the letter, with a small sigh.

‘This is one of the saddest cases I’ve ever come across,’ she said. ‘As you realize from this letter, Rihanna wanted to keep her baby but couldn’t – for reasons I am not allowed to go into.’

‘Is she being forced into giving up her child?’ I asked, worried. ‘Her letter seems to suggest she could be. Jill thought so too.’

‘Only by circumstances,’ Cheryl said. She paused, as though collecting her thoughts, and I knew she was about to tell me what she could of Harrison’s background. ‘Rihanna first came to the attention of the social services four months ago,’ Cheryl began. ‘The duty social worker took a call from her on a private number late one evening. Rihanna was in a bad way, sobbing hysterically on the phone and saying she had done something terrible. She sounded desperate and the duty social was very concerned. He spent a long time talking to her and tried to persuade her to tell him where she was or come into the offices the following day, when she could be helped. But just as he thought he was getting through to her she severed the call. Then two days later Rihanna phoned the social services again during the day and I took the call. She was still very distressed but seemed to be more open to what I was saying – perhaps because I was a woman. After much persuading she finally agreed to meet me. She said she couldn’t come to the offices in case she was seen but agreed to meet me in a coffee shop out of town.’