Rosie Lewis - A Small Boy’s Cry

With the familiar pips of the BBC News at Tens closing music pulsing away in the background, I secure the dead bolt on the back door and walk back through the kitchen. My eyes stray to the smiley face etched onto one of the cupboard doors a legacy of three-year-old Alfie then I go through to our lived-in lounge, where a carefully placed coffee table fails to conceal a lingering pink glow on the carpet: fuchsia nail varnish, courtesy of Amy.

Amy was fifteen years old when she arrived as an emergency placement the previous year, staying with us for four weeks. By the time she left we were more or less buddies (whats a few cracked vases and a broken television between friends?), although her arrival and the ensuing days while she acclimatised to the sobering reality of living in a cannabis-free house were, to use social services mild description, challenging.

But I dont mind that much if our home is less than perfect. Not really. Dimming the lights on our weathered but cosy rooms, I climb the stairs knowing that I wouldnt have it any other way. Smudges on the window panes or scribbles on walls can be erased with some elbow grease or a splash of paint, the effort more than compensated for by the hope that the children we have fostered arent the only ones to leave their mark behind.

Its nice to think that the time theyve spent in our family leaves its own impression. Muddy walks in windswept woodlands, splashing through puddles on a rainy afternoon, drinking hot cocoa while playing board games in front of the log fire; the simple, gentle monotony of everyday life spent with people who care leaves an imprint, perhaps even replacing some earlier, less tranquil memories. Sometimes, all it takes to make a positive difference to a young life is just one adult who cares enough to show an interest. Carving a place in a troubled heart nurtures resilience, buffering whatever turbulence may lie ahead when the haven of foster care has ended.

Up in my bedroom I climb into bed, leaving my clothes and mobile phone within reach. Tonight Im on call and covering the eleven-to-eighteen age range, as well as my usual under-tens. Switching my electric blanket on, I cant help but wonder if Ill be needed and who it might be. When covering such a wide age range, I have to be prepared for anything. Jenny, a fostering friend of mine, recently accepted an unaccompanied minor while on call. When the Somalian arrived at her house, she couldnt help but notice his emerging facial hair and rippling six pack; it turns out that Nafiso was, in fact, twenty-one.

However much my imagination strayed, I must have dropped off fairly quickly because when my phone dances impatiently around the top of my bedside cabinet and I reach out to switch the lamp back on, the bulb is still hot. Still half asleep, I reluctantly grope for the ANSWER button.

Hello, I answer croakily, switching to loudspeaker mode and blinking rapidly in the soft light. My pulse quickens at the sound of Dess Scottish burr.

Im just giving you the heads-up, Rosie, my supervising social worker tells me in an urgent tone, converting my adrenaline into action.

I force myself to my feet and dress hurriedly, pulling on an old jumper, leggings and a pair of fluffy socks. At 1 a.m. in mid-November, the temperature is already dipping close to zero.

Boy, aged three. Suspected neglect. Hes receiving emergency treatment at the moment. Not sure how long hell be at the hospital but yous best get yourself ready.

Aw, three, I think, aware of a familiar clawing in my stomach; its the desire to make him all better before hes even arrived. Des promises to ping the details through to me and reminds me I can call him for support any time, day or night. After making a quick coffee I switch on the computer and open the email sitting in my inbox from Des.

EMERGENCY PLACEMENT REQUIRED

Charlie SMITH, age three

Charlie has been on the vulnerable childrens register since birth, as his mother, Tracy, has struggled for years with depression and addiction issues. With support, Tracy has demonstrated that shes able to meet Charlies basic needs, but hes rarely present at nursery, and neighbours have complained of continued bouts of crying coming from their flat. Tracy has no extended family or network of friends to offer support.

Late this evening Charlie was found wandering the concrete walkway below the family home. Though his vocabulary seems limited, the boy indicated to a passer-by that he had fallen from the first-floor window. Police were unable to rouse his mother when they entered the flat. She appeared to be heavily intoxicated. Charlies currently in A&E where hes receiving treatment for a gash to the head. An urgent foster placement is required while investigations are carried out.

I click X to close the window, and sit staring at the blank screen for a moment. It sounds to me like both Charlie and his mother have been living an isolated existence, with no one but professionals around to offer support. My stomach begins to churn, as it does whenever someone new is about to arrive.

Stop fretting, I tell myself. If Des were here he would say, Yous havent done too badly so far, mdarling. All of the children Ive cared for in my years as a foster carer have left happier than when they came, so I suppose hed be right. Knowing the trauma Charlie has been through, I feel the familiar tug to offer comfort intensifying. The chance comes sooner than expected. Just as Im finishing the dregs of my coffee, the doorbell rings.

Charlie stands on the doorstep, the top of his mousy-coloured hair bathed in pale moonlight. The delicate skin above his right eye is covered with white gauze and tape, held in place by a bandage circling his head like a bandana. I cant see his face as hes staring down at his black plimsolls, but I notice how tiny he looks next to the stocky police officer beside him. Its freezing, but all hes wearing is a pair of dirty pyjamas. A middle-aged woman, presumably the duty social worker, hovers behind.

Im Evelyn, she says, leaning around the officer whos massaging Charlies shoulder with meaty fingers.

Hello, Evelyn. And you must be Charlie, I say softly, crouching down to his level.

His eyes are barely visible under a heavy crop of wispy hair, but I can sense bewilderment there. His features are small and appealing but unusually angular for a child so young hes much too thin. His head hangs awkwardly to one side, as if its too heavy or uncomfortable to hold up. I feel a rush of pity.

You look freezing. Come in, all of you.

He wouldnt let me carry him or wrap him in my coat, Evelyn says, as she follows me through the hall, her fingers on Charlies back, propelling him in. His eyes are swollen with tiredness. And we couldnt find anything warm for him at the flat.

She hands me a small, grubby Fireman Sam rucksack. Here are a few of his bits, but not much, Im afraid.

When we reach the living room she leans towards me. Most of his clothes were damp, covered in all sorts. Mum was so out of it we couldnt make head or tail of what she was saying.

Its OK, I say. I have spares.

Turning to Charlie, I kneel beside him. He stares at me with an anxious frown.

Dont worry, Charlie, everything will be fine. Well find you some things to wear in the morning. Im Rosie, by the way. Youll be staying with me for a bit. Youre safe here, sweetie.

The police officer, a man in his forties with closely cropped dark hair, smiles warmly at me, then grimaces and shakes his head, his expression saying: doesnt bear thinking about, does it?

Evelyn and the officer sit on the sofa, and Charlie sinks down on the rug in the middle of the floor, exhausted.

I know the mum. The social worker speaks out of the corner of her mouth like a ventriloquist, as if Charlie would be unable to hear that way. I was hoping shed get a grip on things, but She gives a weary sigh, shrugging her shoulders. Well, you know