Grace, page 2
As if. Michelle was never going to let social services mess with her ever again. They lied, always, to get what they wanted. And she wasn’t sensible, she knew that, and she definitely wasn’t capable, so that was out. The sooner Grace was out of their hands forever, the better.
Michelle remained silent, playing idly with the hospital tag on her right hand. She felt them all staring at her, all of the suits. First, there was the toff in the pinstripe over to her far left, who was on the side of social services; then there was the knackered-looking woman with a lined face and overly-tight tweed to her right, the children’s guardian; and next to her, her own lawyer, who she’d only chosen because her name fell exactly halfway down the alphabetical list. Those lawyers, and the social workers who were sitting behind her, seemed to her to be like a bunch of crows dancing around a half-eaten carcass.
She could just imagine what they were all thinking, because she looked a bloody state, didn’t she? She was wearing the clothes she’d been wearing when she’d gone into labour. She hadn’t brought anything else into the hospital with her, and they’d come straight here from the ward. Her black pregnancy leggings were now so loose that she’d had to fold them over her deflated belly twice, and her t-shirt, which she’d absolutely soaked with sweat during labour, was hanging off her. She looked down and noticed that two small damp patches were forming on her chest; her milk had come in that morning, and the nurses had said just to ignore it, if she wasn’t going to feed the baby. She’d almost changed her mind when she’d woken up with swollen, aching boobs and had almost asked the nurse to bring Grace in to see her, to try to feed her, just once. But she had stopped herself, because she wasn’t going to keep her. That was something she’d decided long before she’d entered this court. It made things simpler. She wasn’t going to let history repeat itself, no way. This needed nipping in the bud, now. But…
‘Miss Jenkins,’ the judge tried again. ‘I just wondered whether you could explain why you haven’t given consent for the adoption, when you have told social services that’s what you want?’
Michelle cleared her throat, as if she was getting ready to speak, but enjoyed the silence when she didn’t do so. She couldn’t explain why she hadn’t given them the go-ahead properly yet, because she didn’t really know. She just didn’t feel ready. Seeing Grace had given her a shock, if she was being honest with herself. She needed time to process everything. But what she did know was that adoption was way better than a lifetime of social services ‘doing their best’. No, that would be like throwing her new-born daughter to the wolves. Yes, she’d give in eventually and sign her over to them, she knew that. But not today. She wanted to make them wait.
The judge sighed and turned to the woman in the tweed.
‘Marion Stone, you’re the court guardian for the child, appointed by Cafcass. Can I hear your thoughts on the case?’
Michelle looked across at the fluffy-haired woman, whose kind-looking face was bare and shiny, as if it had been buffed. She reminded her of one of her primary school teachers, a soft, gentle woman called Miss Matthews, who’d once taken her aside after school, aged five, and patiently combed out all of her nits, while entertaining her with stories from Enid Blyton’s Faraway Tree. This Miss Stone – she had tried really hard, Michelle thought, to get her to change her mind before the trial had started. She had liked her for that. Even though it had been pointless.
Miss Stone stood up, clutching several dog-eared pieces of paper.
‘Yes madam, I’m here to represent the interests of Grace Jenkins, who, as you are aware, was born just two days ago at Worcester Hospital.’
Michelle was suddenly keenly aware of the soreness between her legs, where she’d torn when Grace was coming out. The nurses had said it would take a while to heal. She felt, really, like the whole of her had been torn to bits in the last few days; who knows when she would heal, she thought. Possibly never.
‘As you know, madam, social services have been assessing Miss Jenkins’ capacity to care for her daughter during her pregnancy,’ the children’s guardian continued. ‘I should add that at nineteen, Miss Jenkins has only recently left the care of social services herself. I understand that she spent much of her childhood in a children’s home, and her teenage years in a series of short-term foster placements. She opted to leave care voluntarily at seventeen, shortly before she moved in with her partner, and the baby’s father, Rob Allcott. Social workers made contact with her again five months ago when she was treated for unexplained injuries in hospital during her pregnancy. It was shortly after this that Miss Jenkins indicated that she did not want to keep her baby. She insists, I am told, that she is not capable of caring for her. Since then, social services have repeatedly offered to place her and her baby in a mother and baby unit for observation and help, but she has refused this.’ Michelle looked down at her lap and began picking at the skin around her fingers. ‘Miss Jenkins says she intends to continue living with her partner Rob Allcott at his home in Malvern. Social services have visited the home and have found Mr Allcott to be aggressive and uncooperative.’ Only because you riled him, Michelle thought. He keeps me safe. He was only protecting me against you load of liars. ‘By all accounts, Michelle’s home life appears to be chaotic at present,’ Miss Stone continued. ‘It is with reluctance, madam, that I recommend that baby Grace should be placed into the care of the local authority. But I think we should give Michelle every support leading up to the final hearing, so that she can make a considered and educated decision about her child’s future.’
Michelle looked behind her to catch a glimpse of her latest social worker, Laura, who had an earnest, pained expression on her face, as if she really cared. She must be a good actress, she thought, because they all lied; it was practically in their job description. Lying, lying Laura.
‘Very well,’ the judge replied. ‘I take on board Miss Jenkins’ unfortunate circumstances, and thank you, Miss Stone, for your thoughts.’
The judge paused and took a sip of water from a glass on her desk.
‘As you all know, we are here because the local authority has asked for an Interim Care Order for Grace Jenkins, under section thirty-eight of the Children Act. I have listened with interest to the evidence presented by the barrister for the local authority, Miss Jenkins’ solicitor, and the guardian. There are two key things I need to take into account when reaching a decision today. One, does the safety of the child demand immediate separation from the parents, and secondly, can the issues raised by social services await the final hearing?
‘I am very concerned to hear of Miss Jenkins’ chaotic home life. It is disappointing that she has refused to co-operate with every effort made by social services to work with her. Her declarations of an apparent inability to care for her child are worrying. However, I have also considered the fact that, despite previously telling social services that she wishes to have her baby adopted, Miss Jenkins has not yet confirmed that she intends to give her consent for it. It is possible, I feel, that she may change her mind. Meanwhile, her partner – the baby’s father, Robert Allcott – has refused to communicate with social services at all. Now, I understand that social services wish to pursue “foster to adopt” in this case. This means that they believe Grace Jenkins should be adopted. Given the apparent instability of the couple’s home life and the absence of evidence of changed behaviour, I am inclined at this stage to agree. However, I am also keen not to close off all avenues, in the event that her parents do show that they are ready and willing to care for her properly. The court always prefers to keep children with their birth parents if it can, as you all know. So, having listened to the evidence from social services and from the children’s guardian, I feel it’s best to grant an interim placement order, so that social services can place her with foster carers who wish to adopt.’
Michelle felt a lump rising in her throat and coughed to disguise it. As she did so, she felt five pairs of eyes boring into her.
‘Here’s how things are going to pan out from now on,’ the judge continued. ‘Within four weeks, we’ll all meet again for the case management hearing. At that hearing, I’m going to need statements from all parties, and an independent parenting assessment. Then in about four months, we’ll hold the issues resolution hearing, and if we are unable to resolve things then, the final hearing will take place shortly after that – so some time in February or March next year. In the meantime, the child will stay in foster care. Both parents will be able to see the child two times a week for supervised contact at an appropriate local centre throughout the interim period. That is all for now. I’ll see you all again in four weeks.’
All of a sudden, people were standing up, putting folders into bags and donning coats and scarves. Michelle looked up in surprise.
‘All done,’ her lawyer said, pulling a face which she assumed was meant to show sympathy. Michelle nodded and followed the woman out of the courtroom and into the lobby, which was home to a broken vending machine and a suite of mismatched metal chairs. Michelle wondered what she should do next. Seeing her uncertainty, the lawyer paused.
‘Look, Michelle, I’m sorry it’s come to this. I did try, honestly. But you didn’t give me much to work with.’ Michelle shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other and did not reply. ‘But this isn’t necessarily it. It’s not over. You can contest it, the adoption. If you want to. We’re only at the beginning of a long journey. You haven’t surrendered parental responsibility yet. But if you want to change things, if you want to get her back, you’ll have to trust social services a bit.’ Michelle grimaced. ‘Hmm, yes, I can imagine how you feel. Look… Anyway… Here’s my card. Please call me. We need to get together before the case management hearing.’ Michelle took the card that she was holding out. ‘I do want to help,’ said Sally.
Michelle doubted that. She was only after the money she’d get if she helped her further, she thought. Everyone you met was on the make, one way or another. That was how the world worked.
‘Look, I’ve got another case. I’ve got to go.’ Michelle could see that the lawyer was becoming increasingly anxious, stuck here with her. ‘But… ah here we are, it’s your social worker, and Marion Stone, the guardian. I’ll leave you in their capable hands. And remember… It’s not over. You have options.’
Michelle watched her walk away at speed, only to be replaced by Lying Laura and the mousy old lady who had just stood up and basically told the judge that she was a waste of space. Laura was probably her 656th social worker, appointed after she’d ended up in A&E a few months ago. She smiled a lot, even when delivering bad news. In fact, she was beaming now.
‘Michelle love… I’m sorry. But I think it’s for the best. You can use this time to get yourself together now, can’t you? We can help you. We can help you get back on your feet.’
Helping me, Michelle thought. You mean like when you lot told me that we’d always be kept together? Or when you said you’d find me a nice stable, safe place to live?
Michelle realised she desperately needed to get home to change her clothes. She was leaking blood down below now, and the pad the nurses had given her didn’t seem to be holding.
‘I want to go home,’ she said, quietly.
‘Yes, I know, of course you do,’ the social worker replied. ‘Okay. You go, you need a rest. But look, we’ll be round to see you in a few days, to see how you’re getting on. Okay?’
‘We?’
‘I’ll be coming to see you too, every so often,’ said Marion, speaking to Michelle directly for the first time since before the court hearing. She is very small, Michelle thought. Now that she was standing up next to her, Michelle could see that she was at least three inches shorter than her already fairly tiny five foot three. ‘They didn’t really explain in there, but I’m an experienced social worker,’ she continued. ‘I’m not from the local council – I’m independent, you see, representing baby Grace. I will be writing a report for the final hearing, giving my recommendation, so we need to get to know each other,’ she said. ‘If that’s okay with you?’
Michelle nodded and looked down, keen not to show how pleased she was that this gentle woman was going to speak up for Grace. They hadn’t had child guardians when she was younger, but she wished they had. It might have made a difference.
Keen as ever not to engage, even with Miss Stone, Michelle began to walk towards the exit, but then had a sudden thought, and turned around to face her social worker.
‘Can I go now to the hospital and say bye to her?’ she asked Laura. ‘I didn’t get a chance this morning. But I want to. To give her a kiss, and that.’
Laura looked pained. ‘I’m so sorry, lovely, no. You can’t. That’s against the rules.’
‘But you said, in the hospital…’
‘I’m sorry Michelle, I should have been clearer. Once you left her there in hospital this morning, that opportunity passed. You can’t go back.’
Yet another of your lies, then, thought Michelle. Her stomach sank, and her eyes began to tingle. Oh no. She was going to cry, she thought, and she hadn’t cried since… then.
Marion Stone took a step towards her, and it looked to Michelle like she was about to try to hug her. Michelle took two steps back in response and folded her arms across her chest. She didn’t let anyone except Rob touch her. She dug her fingernails deep into the skin on her arms to stop herself from crying, and Marion stepped back.
‘… but you’ll be able to see her on Thursday,’ said Laura. ‘The judge has arranged it. You can go to the contact centre and see her, twice a week. We can arrange to pick you up and take you there, if you can’t get a lift. Would you like that?’
Michelle nodded frantically, before turning heel and walking away without another word. She had no desire to go to the contact centre at all, but she needed to get out of the court building fast, before anyone saw the tears which were still threatening to fall.
‘Would you like a lift home now?’ shouted Laura as Michelle marched out of the building and onto the street. She didn’t want to stay and talk anymore.
It was raining heavily. Michelle stood outside the grand nineteenth-century court complex, watching as parades of cars sprayed filthy water over the pavement. She was getting soaked, and she did not have a coat. She did, however, have a phone. She pulled it out of her pocket and dialled Rob’s number. He picked it up after six rings.
‘All right, babe. How did it go?’ he said.
‘I didn’t even get to say bye to her, Rob. They wouldn’t let me.’
There was a short silence on the other end of the line.
‘Oh, darlin’. You must be feeling royally shit. It was always going to be hard, right? Look, you must be knackered. Come ’ome.’
‘Can you come and get me? I haven’t got a coat and…’
‘Sorry darlin’, the car got seized yesterday. No insurance. I haven’t been down to get it out of the pound yet. I didn’t think you’d be out of hospital so soon.’
‘Oh… right.’
‘Look, if you go get the bus though, I’ll make sure I’ve been to the chippie by the time you get ’ome. All right? How’s that?’
Michelle made a vague noise of assent before hanging up and placing the phone back into her pocket. She turned to her right and began the long, painful walk to the bus station, her limbs numb with cold and her heart numb with a pain she had only just begun to process.
3
October 10th
Amelia
Twenty weeks until the final hearing
‘Darling, do come over here and meet Mr Joll. You know his son Charles, don’t you?’
Piers placed his arm around Amelia’s slim waist and guided her over towards the fireplace, where a tall, grey-haired man was standing with a glass of slightly warm, boxed Sauvignon Blanc in his hand.
‘Yes, I do,’ replied Amelia, smiling, desperately trying to picture the boy in her head as she did so. ‘He’s…’ Ah yes, she thought. He’s the boy we caught wrestling with a fellow boarder last week. The other boy had needed a patching up from Matron. ‘He’s the promising rugby player, isn’t he?’
The man’s face lit up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s him. He loves his rugby. Much more than schoolwork, unfortunately…’
Piers laughed. ‘My wife knows all of the boys, Mr Joll,’ he replied. ‘She treats all of them as if they were her own.’
It was true; Amelia did know all of the boys. She’d made it her job to do so since Piers had been made housemaster two years previously. The extra responsibility – living-in, taking care of the pastoral side for the boarders in Shakespeare House – had brought a welcome boost to his salary as a Geography teacher, and she also knew that the role was considered a stepping-stone for senior management. Piers wanted to be made deputy head before he was fifty, and he was already forty-four. Time was running out and she was determined to support his ambition.
‘Do you have children?’ the boisterous boy’s parent asked, looking first at Piers and then at Amelia. It was a question that she knew was as natural as breathing for many. But not for her. For her, it was like being stabbed repeatedly in the heart with a kitchen knife.
‘Not yet, sadly,’ Piers replied without skipping a beat, his smile undeterred but his grip on Amelia tightening. ‘But we’re working on it.’
She had to escape.
‘I must go and speak to Mrs Collins…’ she said, scanning the room for her. She was certain that their dependable, unflappable matron read her like a book, despite all protestations to the contrary. This meant, unfortunately, that she knew all of her faults. ‘I must… speak to her… about the cake. It should be out by now.’ She smiled politely at Mr Joll, peeled off Piers’ embrace and strode away, placing as much distance between herself and that question as she could manage, given the circumstances.
