Trisha Merry - Four Waifs on our Doorstep

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2015
A CBS company

Copyright 2015 by Trisha Merry and Jacquie Buttriss

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.

The right of Trisha Merry and Jacquie Buttriss to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

While this book gives a faithful account of the authors experiences, some names and details have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals involved. Trisha Merry is a pseudonym.

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-3845-4
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-3846-1

The author and publishers have made all reasonable efforts to contact copyright-holders for permission, and apologise for any omissions or errors in the form of credits given. Corrections may be made to future printings.

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Printed in the UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

To my amazing family. Every day I thank my lucky stars that I have you in my life. I love you all very much.

6 March 1997 Children taken into police protection.

7 March 1997 Emergency Protection Order made in respect of all four children, who are taken to foster carers.

Social workers case notes

I t was eleven oclock at night when we heard a vehicle pull up outside our house. I peeked out through the curtains and saw a white minibus parked under the street lamp. Two women got out and came up the path.

Theyre here! I called to Mike, and he joined me in the hallway as they knocked on the door. I immediately opened it.

Hello, said one of the women. Mr and Mrs Merry?

Yes, thats right.

They introduced themselves a social worker and a support worker. I believe you are expecting us?

Yes, do you have the children with you?

We do. Weve just woken them up, so theyre still a bit sleepy Im afraid, said one.

Theyve had a difficult day and a long journey, but they slept most of the way, added the other.

We stood out on the doorstep, ready to welcome them, as the support worker carried the youngest and the social worker ushered the other three up our path towards us. I can remember my shock, even after all those years, and the hundreds of children wed cared for.

As the eldest, a boy with a shaven head, approached, I noticed the big wet patch down the front of his light-coloured trousers. He looked petrified. They all did. In all my years of fostering, I had never seen children look more frightened than these four. If I could have taken a photo of them that evening, it would have been just like those sepia prints Id seen of Dr Barnardos urchins, taken off the streets of London in Victorian times.

They trembled in their thin, shabby clothes, much too light for the cold of the night, the younger two in T-shirts and nappies, the elder boys jumper torn and half unravelled up one sleeve. Then there was the obvious bruising on their pinched faces and bony hands... I dreaded to think what other unseen injuries they might have.

Both the boys heads were shaved; the older girls hair looked as if it had been badly cut with blunt scissors, all jagged and tufty, and the younger girl had bald patches where her hair had apparently been pulled out in clumps. This child also had her arm plastered and in a sling, a swollen lip and a black eye. She looked very frail. The other girl had a black eye too. The baby was lethargic and seemed to have some sort of skin condition. He turned his head away when I looked at his face.

The eldest of the four was almost rigid with anxiety, his expression darting from one sibling to another, as if checking they were all right.

We were experienced we knew we had to keep our faces right, our expressions smiling, but in that brief moment when I took in that sight of the four of them, I thought: Oh my God! Then my brain went into overdrive, imagining the lives these poor waifs must have led, and wondering how we were going to cope with their various needs.

As the children came nearer, we could smell them. When you look at a healthy babys skin it has a bloom on it a shine, doesnt it? But when you see children that arent washed, their skin is dull and textured, like suede. These four were grubby all right, very grubby, and all scratching their heads and bodies like crazy.

Steeling ourselves and still smiling, we took a few steps towards them and gave them all hugs. That was the most important thing. I remember the three older childrens faces, their looks of astonishment, mixed with acute apprehension.

Welcome to our home. Come on in weve got hot chocolate and bickies for you, I said as I ushered them into the hall. This will be your home too for as long as you stay. Weve been really looking forward to seeing you.

As Mike took the two social workers and the children into the sitting room, I dashed upstairs and found a pair of my grandson Bretts trousers for the elder boy to change into. Fortunately they fitted well enough, with a belt round the waist and the bottoms turned up. He looked relieved to get rid of his wet trousers, out in the hallway, though he trembled with fear.

I couldnt help it, he wailed, unable to stop the tears. I told them I needed to go. I asked them to stop, but they wouldnt. I knew you would be very cross with me.

No, Im not. It wasnt your fault, so theres no reason for me to be cross. I gave his unyielding body another hug. You dont need to be worried about anything in this house, I tried to reassure him.

But I do. I have to worry about the others, he replied with a quiver in his voice, as he wiped away his tears with his shabby sleeve, leaving a smear across his cheek.

I wanted to take him out of all his clothes and put on clean ones, but realised that would be too traumatic for him so soon.

Simon needs to have his nappies changed, he said as he zipped up his trousers. I remember being quite surprised by this remark. Young children dont usually notice such things.

Do you know when he was last changed? I asked him.

When the social workers came this morning. One of them did it. That would have been more than twelve hours before. I usually have to try to do it, he added.

Well, I have lots of nappies, so Ill change him straight away.

Caroline too?

Yes, Caroline too. I grabbed the nappy bag from the downstairs cloakroom and we went back to join the others.

Whats your name? I asked him.

Hamish, he said.

And how old are you, Hamish?

Seven.

I had to pick up my jaw. He didnt look any older than four or five, his body so bony and his face very thin. To be honest, I thought he looked half starved, so perhaps that was why he was so small for his age.

Can you introduce me to your sisters and brother?

Yes, this is Anita, he said, pointing at the girl with tufty hair. Then he turned to the younger girl. Caroline has a broken arm. Finally he pointed at the baby, now plonked onto the floor and making no effort to move. And this is Simon. As he spoke, I noticed there was something odd about Hamishs speech. Perhaps a slight impediment of some kind.

Im Trisha and this is Mike. I smiled my warmest smile to them all.