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Source ISBN: 9780008324292

Ebook Edition © February 2019 ISBN: 9780008324339

Version: 2019-01-09

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter Eleven: Missing

Chapter Twelve: Something Much Worse

Chapter Thirteen: Confession

Chapter Fourteen: Disclosure

Chapter Fifteen: Excluded

Chapter Sixteen: Another Police Search

Chapter Seventeen: Disappointing News

Chapter Eighteen: Dejected and Moody

Chapter Nineteen: Messed Up

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

About the Publisher

Chapter Eleven

Missing

The following day Stevie’s laptop was delivered and he was very pleased. Adrian, Lucy and Paula had their own laptops, and there was the PC with a printer in the front room for us all to use. As Stevie disappeared upstairs clutching his new laptop, it crossed my mind that he hadn’t ever responded to my Facebook friendship request, but I didn’t read anything into it. The need to see who he was in touch with online had lessened since he’d confessed about Joey, and his behaviour had settled down.

February arrived and we woke up one Sunday morning to find a thick blanket of snow, and everyone became a child again. Because it was Sunday we were all at home and could make the most of it. Adrian had arranged to see Kirsty, but they cancelled as the roads hadn’t been cleared and were unsafe to drive on. Big as my family were, when I suggested we got the toboggan out of the shed and took it to our local park, there were cheers of delight. Stevie said he’d been tobogganing when he’d lived with his grandparents and would have liked to have played in the snow with Liam and Kiri, but he understood that I couldn’t take him there in my car because of the snow and there weren’t any buses running.

The park is only a short walk from our house and is known in the area for the hill that makes a good toboggan run in the snow. It was late morning when we arrived and we saw some of our friends and neighbours there. Stevie saw a boy from his class and they chatted for a few minutes, then we dragged our toboggan to the top of the hill and took turns coming down. It was great fun and the air was alive with laughter and screams as children of all ages, and adults, hurtled down the slope on toboggans, trays, sheets of plastic and cardboard – anything that would slide. We were there for a couple of hours and then, with our cheeks glowing from the cold, we returned home for hot drinks and lunch.

While I love summer, I think winter has a special quality in bringing families closer together. With the curtains closed against a cold night sky, no one is in any rush to go out and everyone is more content to spend time with each other in the warmth of the house. Winter seems to cocoon the family and strengthen family bonds, although perhaps that’s just me being sentimental. At the weekends we group around board games – Scrabble, Monopoly, Cluedo and so on – and play with a real competitive spirit. Stevie said nostalgically that he used to play board games with just him and his grandparents when Kiri and Liam had been little. ‘That’s a nice memory,’ I said. ‘Why not suggest playing next time you’re there? Kiri and Liam are old enough to join in now.’ I thought again what a good job of parenting Peggy and Fred had done and how committed they’d been to raising Stevie and then later Kiri and Liam. They’d had no retirement in which they could slow the pace and take things easy, and I hoped Stevie appreciated that.

The whole of February was bitterly cold, although we didn’t get any more snow. Then March arrived and the first green buds of spring started to appear. Stevie had been with us for two months and I felt everything was going well. I’d had a chat with Verity and she’d confirmed the way I was fostering Stevie was fine, and she’d spoken to Fred and Peggy about this. Stevie was attending school, seeing his grandparents and Liam and Kiri a couple of times a week, and getting along with my family. Indeed, it was difficult to remember a time before he’d arrived, although of course I’d never forget the other children I’d fostered.

Then suddenly and dramatically, almost overnight, Stevie changed. He became withdrawn, moody and snapped if anyone asked him what was the matter. It was difficult to get him to shower and he spent most of the time in his room. He wanted his meals there too, although I insisted he come down to eat with us, as I thought the last thing he needed was to spend more time alone. When I asked him what was worrying him – which I did often – he said, ‘Nothing.’ If I pressed him, he just got annoyed.

Stevie’s behaviour continued for a week. I noted the change in my log and also telephoned Verity. She said she’d talk to Stevie to see if he would tell her what was wrong, but it wouldn’t be for a few days, as she was in court on another case for most of the week. She added that Stevie should really see a therapist at CAMHS and she’d suggest it to him again.

Stevie had stopped visiting his grandparents and when I asked him why he said sulkily, ‘Don’t want to go.’

‘Have you and your grandfather been arguing?’ I asked.

‘No more than usual,’ came his terse response.

Peggy naturally telephoned to find out why Stevie hadn’t been to see them. I said he seemed down again and anxious, and that I’d informed Verity. While Peggy was concerned, she said, ‘Probably best Stevie doesn’t come here while he’s like that. Fred doesn’t have time for the sulks.’ Which I could imagine.

I hadn’t telephoned the school, as I hoped Stevie’s behaviour wasn’t impacting there but was confined to home. I assumed if there was anything wrong Carolyn would phone me. She did, the following Tuesday. She said that during the last lesson Stevie had been caught in class checking his phone, which should have been switched off and in his bag. In keeping with school policy, the teacher had asked him to hand over his phone, as it would be confiscated until the end of the school day. Stevie had refused, then shouted at her to fuck off and had stormed out of school. I wasn’t wholly surprised. I’d guessed something had been building inside Stevie, I just wished he could have told me what. I apologised for Stevie’s behaviour, told Carolyn I’d speak to him as soon as he came home and admitted that his behaviour with me had been giving me some cause for concern, although he’d been quiet rather than aggressive. Carolyn said Stevie could return to school the following morning, but he would need to see the Head first and apologise to the teacher before he was allowed to rejoin his class. I thanked her and said again I would talk to Stevie as soon as he came home.

But he didn’t come home. Four-thirty came and went, and when it got to five o’clock I called his mobile. It went through to voicemail. I left a message and also texted him: Can you text or phone me, please. I’m worried about you. Carolyn phoned. You’re not suspended but we need to talk. It was possible he’d gone to his grandparents, but I hesitated in calling them because if he wasn’t there it would worry them, perhaps unnecessarily. However, foster carers have to follow a set procedure for reporting a child or young person missing, and I knew I’d have to call the duty social worker before long, then the police. They’d want to know I’d checked all the possible places he might be. I tried Stevie’s phone again and it went through to voicemail, so at 5.45, with the daylight failing and no word from Stevie, I called his grandparents. A child answered.

‘Hello. Is that Liam?’ I guessed it was him rather than his younger sister.

‘Yes.’

‘Can I speak to your gran or grandpa, please?’

‘Grandpa is here.’

‘Thank you.’ I would rather have spoken to Peggy, but I couldn’t really say that.

Fred came on the line with a gruff ‘Hello?’

‘Fred, it’s Cathy, Stevie’s carer. Is Stevie with you?’

‘So he’s up to his old tricks again. No. Haven’t seen him for over a week.’

‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but there was a bit of an incident at school this afternoon and he hasn’t come home yet. I’ve tried phoning him, but it goes through to voicemail.’

‘Just like what happened to us,’ he said with a certain satisfaction.

‘Can you think of anywhere he might have gone?’

‘He’s probably with one of his nancy friends.’

Ignoring his derogatory terminology, I said, ‘As far as I know, the only friend Stevie used to see out of school has gone to live abroad.’

‘Wouldn’t know about that,’ Fred said, which of course was part of the problem. Fred had been so dismissive of Stevie’s friendships and lifestyle choices that he had no idea who his grandson had been associating with or what he’d been doing.

‘So you can’t think of anywhere he might be?’ I asked. ‘The police are sure to ask me.’

‘Police? Why are you telling them? It’s only six o’clock.’

‘Yes, but Stevie should have been here at four-thirty, he’s not been in touch, so technically he’s been missing for an hour and a half. As his foster carer I have a duty to contact the social services and then report him missing to the police.’

‘And then he’ll breeze in, pleased with himself and enjoying all the attention,’ Fred said.

‘Possibly, but better that than the alternative – that something dreadful has happened to him.’ I didn’t want to alarm Fred, but his blasé attitude was not only annoying me, it was dangerous. Young people, especially those struggling with issues such as Stevie, are vulnerable and need protecting. All Fred saw was a stroppy teenager hell bent on antagonising him. ‘If he gets in touch or arrives there, will you let me know, please?’

‘Yes,’ he said bluntly. ‘But I doubt he’ll come here if he’s in trouble.’ Which, sadly, was probably true.

I tried Stevie’s mobile phone again, but it went through to voicemail. I told Adrian, Lucy and Paula to help themselves to dinner – there was a casserole in the oven – and I’d join them when I’d phoned the social services. They knew Stevie hadn’t come home and were aware of the procedure I had to follow, as I’d had to report other young people I’d fostered missing. At this point they weren’t unduly worried, more concerned – as I was – but as the evening wore on that would change.

Following procedure, I telephoned the call operator at the social services and briefly explained why I needed to speak to the emergency duty social worker. She took my details and said the emergency duty social worker would return my call as soon as possible and certainly within an hour. That was standard; had it been an emergency I would have phoned the emergency services directly – fire brigade, police or ambulance. I quickly went through to the kitchen, where I gobbled down some dinner and plated up some for Stevie. While part of me thought that Stevie was just cooling off somewhere after the incident at school and would come home soon, there was always the chance that something bad had happened – something connected to whatever had been worrying him for the past week.

The landline rang just as I’d finished eating. It was Peggy, wanting to know if I’d heard from Stevie. I said I hadn’t, and that I was waiting to hear back from the duty social worker and would phone her as soon as I had any news.

Twenty minutes later the duty social worker returned my call. The duty social worker doesn’t usually know the child, so I had to give him Stevie’s background information, which he noted, including Stevie’s date of birth, the reason he was in care, the type of care order and the circumstances leading up to him going missing. I explained what had happened at school and that he hadn’t been in touch since – either with me or with his grandparents. He advised me to leave another message on Stevie’s mobile saying that I had spoken to him, and that if he didn’t return home or contact me by 7 p.m. then I would have to report him missing to the police. The mention of the police sometimes prompted the young person to get in touch, then, with the barrier they’d erected around themselves lowered, it usually became easier to open the line of communication and for them to return home. He said I should telephone him to let him know the outcome.

Increasingly concerned for Stevie, I followed the duty social worker’s instructions and called Stevie’s mobile again. It went through to voicemail, so I left a message: ‘Stevie, it’s Cathy. I’m worried about you, love. Can you phone or text me, please, to say you’re OK? Whatever the problem is, I am sure we can sort it out. I’ve just called the duty social worker and he told me that if you haven’t got in touch by seven o’clock I should report you missing to the police. Come home, love, please, we miss you.’ I ended the call. It was dark outside now and bitterly cold, and I was worried Stevie was out there somewhere alone and, for whatever reason, too scared to come home.

Adrian came downstairs. ‘Shall we go out and look for him, Mum?’ he asked.

I was touched. ‘That’s nice of you, but I wouldn’t know where to start looking.’ I’d done similar before when a young person had gone missing, but then I’d had an idea of where they might be as I knew who they associated with and what their favourite haunts were (for example, Joss in Girl Alone). Now I had no idea where Stevie might be, and neither did his grandparents.

Adrian nodded. ‘Try not to worry. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.’

I smiled weakly, for, as Adrian knew, with every passing minute our concerns would grow.

At seven o’clock, with no word from Stevie and following the duty social worker’s advice, I telephoned the police – not 999 (the emergency services number) as I would have done if a small child had gone missing, but our local police station. Once connected, I explained to the officer that Stevie, aged fourteen, was a looked-after child, that I was his foster carer and the circumstances surrounding him going missing. Of course he wanted to know if he’d gone missing before and I explained that he had when he’d lived with his grandparents, but not since he’d been with me. He asked for a description and what Stevie was wearing – his school uniform – if he had any health issues or if he was depressed or suicidal. I said he’d been quiet the previous week, which had made me think something was worrying him, but I didn’t think he was suicidal, although of course you can never be sure. The officer wanted the name and contact details of Stevie’s social worker and his grandparents. I had them ready. He said he’d send an officer to my house as soon as one became available, and in the meantime Stevie’s details would be circulated through the police computer. He told me to have a recent photograph of Stevie ready to give to the police, which I also knew. I always made sure I had at least one good photo of the child I was fostering for official use, in addition to family photographs of the child’s time with us, a copy of which the child kept to remember us by.

I thanked the officer and felt some relief that the police were now looking for Stevie.

A few minutes later Adrian came into the living room with his coat on. ‘I’m going to walk around the block and up to the High Street to make sure Stevie’s not in the area and worried about coming back.’

‘Thanks, love, that is kind of you.’

‘It’s better than doing nothing,’ he said.

Then Lucy and Paula appeared, slipping on their coats. ‘We’re going too.’

Tears sprung to my eyes; I was so moved by their thoughtfulness. ‘Thank you. Don’t be too long, though. I don’t want you getting cold.’ Although it was early March, the temperature at night was dropping to freezing. ‘I’ll wait here for the police to arrive. I’ll call you if Stevie comes home.’

Yet while I appreciated their concern, the fact that they were going out to look for Stevie seemed to heighten the seriousness of what was unfolding. I still hoped that Stevie would breeze in shortly as Fred said he’d done when he’d gone missing before, but as time passed I thought it less and less likely.

By 8.30 I was starting to worry where my three children were, and was about to phone one of their mobiles when Adrian texted to say they’d got delayed and were now on their way back, although they hadn’t seen Stevie. As soon as I heard the front door open I was in the hall to meet them.

‘You must be freezing,’ I said. ‘You’ve been gone ages.’ They looked cold.

‘We helped a guy in the High Street,’ Adrian explained as they took off their coats.

‘Mum, did you know there’s a man sleeping rough in the High Street?’ Paula asked, shocked.

‘No, I didn’t.’ Although I was aware the number of rough sleepers in the country was increasing.

‘He’s in a doorway in an old sleeping bag,’ Paula said. ‘We bought him sausage and chips and a cup of tea.’

‘That was kind of you.’

‘He wasn’t very old,’ Lucy added. ‘I’d guess mid-twenties. I asked him why he was there and not with his family, but he wouldn’t talk to us.’

‘I’m sure he appreciated the food and drink,’ I said.

I feel it’s a disgrace and a dreadful indictment of our society that anyone has to sleep rough. It’s a sad fact that a sizeable proportion of those sleeping rough are care leavers. Looked-after children leave care at eighteen and then receive some support until they are twenty-one (longer if they are in education or training). During the transition to independence they are usually put in a hostel, lodgings or a small council flat, then they are on their own. With little or no family support, they often struggle to pay their bills. They fall behind with their rent and are eventually evicted. One recent study showed that 25 per cent of homeless people in the UK have been in care, and 20 per cent of care leavers become homeless within five years of leaving care. Shocking statistics.

Peggy telephoned and I told her I’d reported Stevie missing and was waiting for the police to arrive, and that Adrian, Lucy and Paula had checked the local area. She thanked me and began to tell me all about what had happened when Stevie had been living with them and gone missing, reliving it, when the front doorbell rang – two firm rings.

‘Peggy, I have to go,’ I said, interrupting her. ‘I think the police have arrived.’

‘Tell them if they want to search my home they need to wait until morning – the kids are in bed. Last time they woke them.’

Saying a quick goodbye, I went into the hall just as Adrian was opening the front door.

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