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Learning to Love Amy: The foster carer who saved a mother and a daughter
Mia Marconi


The second in a series of true short stories from foster carer Mia Marconi.India was a child who was destined to end up in care. She came to foster carer Mia Marconi’s house when she was three; she’d already been in care for five months by then. But her mum Amy didn’t get on with her carer and threatened to kill her so India was moved.But no matter how inadequate parents are, children in care love them and want the world to love them too.Amy had had a hard life: she was one of seven siblings, all of who had been abused and ended up in care. She was an alcoholic and she phoned all times of day and night threatening suicide.When India finally settled in Mia’s happy household, Mia embarked on amazing journey to help Amy too.










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Contents


Cover (#u1bb3cf79-79a9-59b3-a789-1ac51fae47c2)

Title Page (#u5b9a8e6b-b707-58fb-a067-bafe435074e0)

Chapter One (#ulink_964c884e-b640-56dc-9fb7-8ccc401b7fc0)

Chapter Two (#ulink_f14e4235-b840-54b0-9054-104e5f7a7589)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Mia Marconi … (#litres_trial_promo)

Coming soon from Mia Marconi … (#litres_trial_promo)

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter (#litres_trial_promo)

Write for Us (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One (#u8a198051-ea79-5bee-96fc-94db7ecf6085)


It was a typical British day: rainy, black sky, lightning, with thunder claps so loud they made you jump. Janet and I didn’t care; we were happy dancing away, singing at the tops of our voices while Star Wars played on a loop on the telly. Every so often Janet would sigh, ‘I love Luke Skywalker, Mia. I really love him,’ or she’d say, ‘Mia. My Luke Skywalker, where is he?’ And I would say, ‘He’s up there with the stars, looking for you.’ Then we would collapse, laughing, and carry on dancing.

I wondered what a passerby looking through the front window would make of me whirling a Down’s syndrome teenager round and round, both of us dancing inelegantly, giggling hysterically, while I tried to explain that Luke Skywalker only existed on the television screen. I was cheering her up, they would think, but the reverse was true. I know this sounds odd but Janet was a fantastic therapist to me, and came along just when I needed her.

I met Janet because she lived next door to us, with her lovely mum Lizzy and younger sister Emma. The first time I saw her I looked at her big, innocent smile and couldn’t help but smile back. We hit it off straight away, which is unusual because Down’s syndrome children are quite fussy and only interact with certain people, but I did not dismiss her as so many other people did, and Janet picked up on that. The look of relief on Lizzy’s face when she realised her daughter was going to be accepted by us was a special moment.

‘Thank you,’ she mouthed silently at me.

‘Janet is lovely,’ I mouthed silently back.

Emma was six, the same age as my youngest daughter Ruby, and although my eldest, Francesca, was seven, and Janet fifteen, because of her disability Janet was oblivious to the fact that she was twice their age and joined in with all their games. I would often find them happily playing with Barbies, getting them ready to go to balls and parties.

Our family – Martin, Francesca, Ruby and I – had only recently moved into the house next to Janet and her family, and I believed that fate had led us there. I felt as though we had found exactly the right house at exactly the right time, because our old home was full of sadness after the sudden death of our foster child Hope. I had cried so many tears in that house, I felt the only real way to exorcise the sadness was to leave.

I know it’s a funny thing to say about mere bricks and mortar, but the place we found was healing in a way I could never have predicted. Firstly, we had bought it from the local parish church, and the moment you walked through the door you were enveloped by a feeling of calm. It was like an invisible being wrapping their arms around you, whispering that everything was going to be okay. I felt safe, protected and secure for the first time in months. The irony was that after Hope’s death I had craved the peace, tranquillity and silence of our local church, and now I got that same feeling in our new house.

It was in a quiet, tree-lined road with a large village-style green at the top. Priests had lived there and I was sure that was why its spiritual atmosphere was so strong. You could feel every prayer and every blessing that had ever been said there, as though all that love had been absorbed by the walls.

When I walked through the door that first time, I fell in love with it, totally oblivious to the amount of work that needed doing to make it habitable. The roof leaked and needed replacing; it would cost a fortune and had to be done fast, because when it rained out came the buckets. Me and the girls often slept in one room, giggling when we had to get up to empty them. Martin never saw the funny side – why would he? He had to do all the work – and slept next door where it was drier.

Martin looked at the bare walls and floorboards, and walked around muttering under his breath, ‘What have we done? It needs new everything, and we don’t have the money to do it!’

I just smiled and said, ‘We will. We will be able to make this our home, and I promise you, it will be a happy one.’

I’d give him a big kiss, the girls would hug his legs, Jack and Jill (the dogs) would start licking his hand and he’d smile and walk off muttering again, pretending to be cross. As always, I was the optimist and Martin the pessimist. We were Yin and Yang, chalk and cheese, Tom and Jerry, and that’s why we worked so well together.

We settled into a routine. Martin would spend all day driving his cab, then come home, have his dinner and start working on the house. I would take the girls to school, come home and start painting. After a few months we were making progress, the crumbling walls were replastered, the peeling paint was sanded down and our furniture was beginning to make it look homely.

We were in a lovely area in Kent and Lizzy and her family could not have been better neighbours.

Lizzy was slim, with light-brown hair and clear skin. She was cool, calm and collected, and never raised her voice – a quality I have never mastered, which I put down to my fiery Italian blood. Despite our differences, though, we had so much in common. Her husband was Italian, like my dad, and she was an osteopath, so in a caring profession like me, and we both adored children.

We each had two kids and were devoted, caring mothers. The one difference between us when it came to parenting was that she did not believe in pushing her children. If Janet didn’t feel like getting on the coach to go to college, Lizzy would say, ‘Oh Janet, if you don’t want to go you don’t have to,’ whereas I would have just shouted, ‘Janet, get on the bus and put your seatbelt on!’

We all have our own parenting skills and ways of raising children, though, and Lizzy’s kids were lovely, so whatever she was doing worked for her. That’s one thing that never ceases to amaze me about families: how we can all do it so differently, but as long as your intentions are good and you lavish children with love and care, and respond when they need you, they seem to turn out fine.

Emma and Ruby became best friends and when the girls were home, Janet would dress up with them and they would all sit there playing with make-up and laughing. What was lovely to watch was how Emma, who was a shy little girl, began to accept Janet who, to be honest, she was a bit embarrassed to be seen with. At first, when Ruby and Francesca would say, ‘Come on, Janet, come on, Emma; we’re going up the shops,’ Emma would tell Janet she couldn’t come, but after a while, because Ruby and Francesca treated Janet as though she had no disability, Janet began to tag along and Emma stopped being embarrassed by her Down’s syndrome sister.

Janet and I had a wonderful connection and while the girls were at school, she was my best friend. Janet was a character. I loved her because she was brutally honest and had a simple approach to life and a straightforward way of talking. If she didn’t like you she would tell you straight. She, in turn, loved that I treated her the same as I would anyone else. I have always had that ability; I don’t care if you’re the Queen or a tramp – everyone is equal in my eyes.

Some days, things that reminded me of Hope just seemed to haunt me. I’d find a toy that she had loved, and before I knew it I was in tears. When I felt really low thinking about Hope I would talk about her for hours to Janet, who would look me straight in the eye and say, ‘Don’t be stupid, Mia. Your stupid Hope is okay and you’re with me now. Put the bloody kettle on.’

Then Janet would look at my puffy, tear-stained face and say, ‘Mia, you look like crap. Hope is safe in heaven, you don’t need to worry.’

I would laugh, immediately snap out of it, put the music on and we’d start dancing.

Normally, I love spending time outside the home, because I am a bit of a free spirit, but in the months after Hope died, I just wanted to stay in all the time, partly because I had so much to do in the house, what with all the painting, the waiting around for deliveries and catering for the workmen’s never-ending tea breaks, and partly because I was still grieving and wanted to keep that private.

Grief is such a personal experience, one we all deal with in our own way. My way was to lock myself in my house with lovely, uncomplicated Janet, who possessed the ability not to judge me.

I felt judged by those close to me. Whether or not they really were being judgemental I don’t know – no one ever said ‘I told you so’ or ‘How irresponsible’ to my face – but I knew everyone thought Hope would be too much for me to cope with, and after she died, I felt they were all thinking, ‘Well, what did she think the outcome was going to be?’ because, deep down, that’s how I felt. In quiet moments, when I was being honest with myself, I wondered exactly that. What had I been thinking when I agreed to care for such a sick little girl? If I had driven a car at a hundred miles an hour and crashed, people would have said, ‘Well, what did you expect?’ So how was this any different?

This time, being the eternal optimist who thinks they can fix everything didn’t work. My character is to jump first and think afterwards. Mostly I come up smelling of roses, although with a few scratches, but this time was different. I had been well and truly ripped to shreds and I was spending a lot of time thinking about Hope.

Janet was new to my world, uncomplicated by prejudice, and I felt safe telling her how I felt because she wasn’t going to judge me or give me advice. She did the most important thing and that was to listen.

‘Sorry for crying,’ I remember saying so often to her.

‘That’s okay, Mia,’ she would say before changing the subject.

For Janet, this was the first time anyone had really needed her. We all like to be needed and Janet was no exception, but because of her disability people felt uncomfortable confiding in her. Now she felt she had a friendship on an equal footing, and she dealt with it on her terms, not mine.

The house was honestly a mess, with its peeling wallpaper, years and years of paintwork that needed sanding and that interminably dripping roof. Martin and I were both working so hard we were truly exhausted, and one afternoon the tiredness just seemed to creep into every bone in my body. There was nothing for it; I just lay down on my bed for a nap. Next thing I knew, Lizzy was banging on my door, shouting, ‘Mia, Mia. Are you there?’

Waking up with a start, I realised I’d missed the school run. It was so unlike me – normally I was one of the first mums in the playground.

‘Are the girls all right?’ I said as I raced out the door.

‘They’re fine, they’re in the Head’s office,’ I could just hear Lizzy say as I raced to the school at what felt like a hundred miles an hour.

I got to the Head’s office and looked at their long faces, which were as dejected as a pair of lost puppies’. I felt terrible and made up for it by cuddling them all the way home and buying them a huge ice cream.

This was so out of character for me; not just forgetting to pick up Francesca and Ruby, but falling asleep in the middle of the day. I did have umpteen jobs, I reasoned, and had just moved and was still grieving, so maybe that was it. Then, suddenly, the realisation that I could be pregnant slapped me hard in the face. I said nothing, though, and kept it to myself for the time being.

It was perfectly possible, as I wasn’t using any contraception. Martin and I worked out the times in the month when I was likely to get pregnant and didn’t have sex then, and that method had worked well so far. But we were so busy that keeping track of the day was hard enough, never mind when I was ovulating. Secretly, I wanted more children, and I had never really let on to Martin how big I wanted my family to be. One thing I knew was that I just loved being a mum, because there is no feeling quite like it, and no one can prepare you for how much you are going to love your children. When I was flying around the world with my job it would never have occurred to me to give it up, but now I was a mum it never occurred to me to go back. Whatever would be, as far as family was concerned, would be. I embraced and enjoyed every minute.

The following morning, Lizzy dropped Janet off with me before the college coach arrived as she had a hospital appointment, and anyway Janet did not want to go to college because she was feeling ill. She was well enough to come on the school run with me, and after we dropped the girls off I walked round to the chemist to get a pregnancy test.

Back home, I ran straight into the bathroom, did the test and held my breath. Those two positive blue lines appeared immediately. I was so excited and so was Janet, and we danced around the living room, singing, ‘I’m going to have a baby, I’m going to have a baby.’

Janet celebrated by pushing a cushion up her jumper and asking, ‘If it’s a boy, can you call him Luke Skywalker?’

It was winter at the time and freezing cold outside, so I made a flask of soup, buttered a roll, wrapped the pregnancy test in foil and put it inside the roll, with the ends sticking out so you could just about see it, then I drove to the cab stand where I knew Martin would be taking his break. He looked cold and tired, so the soup was a godsend. He also looked confused.

‘Everything all right?’ he said.

‘Yes, fine. Just thought you might need something warming,’ I said, trying hard not to smile and give myself away.

I hadn’t had much time for him recently, so he wondered what on earth I was doing there. I didn’t wait; I kissed him on the cheek and left.

Until I did the test, I’d had absolutely no clue that I was pregnant. In fact, I couldn’t even remember having sex! However hard I racked my brain, I just could not remember. One thing was for sure, it was not the Immaculate Conception, and I made a note to take contraception more seriously.

When Martin came through the door that night he had the biggest smile on his face. He walked straight over and gave me a huge hug. Later that evening we told the girls, who were absolutely delighted, and in that moment I knew that whatever road we travelled together, we would be all right. Life could not have been better, I thought, but then I had thought that before.

Once the excitement had died down, all I could think was how on earth we were going to get the house ready in time. My second thought was that I hoped it was a girl, although I knew Martin was desperate for a boy.

We were in a good place, though, and the time was right. The girls loved the new house and they were doing brilliantly at school, which reported that they were happy and blossoming, and that all trace of the sadness they had suffered after Hope had died was gone. The neighbours loved them and they were the new kids on the block.

I called my mum. ‘Are you sitting down?’

‘What’s happened?’ Mum said, a slight panic in her voice.

‘It’s all good, don’t worry. We’re having a baby!’

‘It’s so funny you should say that – I was just wondering if you and Martin were planning to have more. I can’t wait to be a nan again!’

My whole family were overjoyed, but particularly Mum, because she had suffered a horrific shock a few weeks earlier. She had always been a tower of strength to me, and had seen me crumble after Hope’s death, but recently it had been her turn to be heartbroken.

Mum’s older sister Lily had had an only son called Joseph, who was more like a brother to Mum than a nephew, as they were so similar in age. No one knew why, but he had committed suicide. One morning he got up early, attached a hosepipe to the exhaust of his car and fed it through the window, knowing perfectly well that the carbon monoxide fumes would kill him. That day, the bottom fell out of Mum and Auntie Lily’s world.

After Joseph’s funeral, Lily’s whole appearance was transformed, partly because of grief, and partly because of the medication she was taking to anaesthetise herself from the grief.

It was about six months after Joseph’s suicide when Mum called and I could barely understand what she was saying, she was sobbing so hard.

‘What’s happened, Mum? Take a deep breath and tell me what it is.’

It took a minute for Mum to compose herself. ‘Lily’s dead,’ she managed to blurt out between sobs.

I was speechless. All I could say for the next minute or so was, ‘Mum, I am so, so sorry. Stay where you are. I’m coming round.’

I don’t think any of us were that surprised to hear about Auntie Lily. It wasn’t suicide exactly, but the post-mortem showed that a mix of tranquillisers and white wine killed her. To numb the pain, Lily was drinking two bottles a day and had probably forgotten how many pills she had taken – a combination that proved lethal.

Facing two funerals in quick succession was painful for everyone, and only a year after Hope’s death. Deep down I knew the sadness couldn’t last and that something would come along to lift the family’s spirits, and it was my pregnancy. The timing of it could not have been more perfect.

It was brilliant news as far as my family were concerned and everyone got really excited. The phone never stopped. Everybody got involved, suggesting names, wondering if it was a boy or a girl (everyone hoped for a boy because that’s what Martin wanted) or saying, ‘Is there anything you need? What can we get you?’ It wasn’t just between Martin and me; it was a family event, and everyone embraced it. Finally, we had something to smile about and something other than the death of Lily and Joseph to talk about.

As I ticked off the months my bump grew bigger and bigger, and the new house took shape. Family and friends helped us decorate, but the most special helper was my beloved dad.

Dad did everything for me and I could do no wrong in his eyes. If I’d come home and said, ‘Dad, I’ve just murdered someone,’ he’d have said, ‘Go and get me the shovel.’ His love was unconditional, and we just needed to look at each other to know what the other was thinking. I was never going to feel as special with anyone as I did with my dad, I knew that, so I treasured these moments.

I had an extremely supportive family willing to do anything for me without expecting anything in return, and that fact did not escape me. Dad wanted nothing for the hours and hours of work he put in. The only thing he would accept was a glass of chilled white Italian wine at the end of the day and fish and chips on a Friday night.

They were fun times and special times. We would laugh, and shout at each other if we messed up. I loved it when it was just me, Dad, the bump and the paint roller.

Nine months flew by and my waters broke one Saturday while I was up a ladder, painting the hallway. Dad and Martin were both there, Dad painting the other side of the hall, with Martin working on the top floor.

Dad shouted up to him: ‘Mia’s labour’s started!’

Martin panicked, slipped downstairs and landed in a heap at the bottom. While he lay there groaning, Dad was running round like a headless chicken and I was crippled with contractions. It was like a sketch from a sitcom, only no one was laughing.

Somehow we composed ourselves and Dad promised to look after Francesca and Ruby while Martin drove me to the hospital.

The car journey was horrendous – Martin was useless, and we rowed all the way. He was driving about twenty miles an hour and it didn’t help that Saturday shoppers were out in force, and when he stopped at a red light I finally lost it.

‘For heaven’s sake, go through it and drive faster!’ I shouted.

‘I don’t want to get a ticket!’ Martin replied.

‘Are you off your head? I’m having a baby!’

We finally arrived and I was so far into my labour I had lost the ability to walk.

‘Run and get a wheelchair,’ I managed to puff between contractions.

When Martin got back I was screaming, but somehow he managed to get me into the chair. Finally, he shot off like a Formula 1 racing driver, speeding through three sets of double doors, all of them closed, so by the time we reached the labour ward not only was I crippled with contractions, but my shins were black and blue, too.

‘Now you decide to put your foot down!’ I said, and he ignored me.

Isabella was born fifteen minutes later.

Martin was so fed up that he didn’t have a son, he reached into my overnight bag and chucked the pink Babygro and blanket I’d put in there out of the window, and a nurse had to run down and rescue them.

I had a bit of sympathy for him because being surrounded by us girls, with no interest in football or car mechanics, must have been hard for him at times. I knew how I would long for a girl if I only had sons, so when I saw the blanket go flying, I smiled to myself.

The lovely thing about Martin is that he never stays mad for long. It’s true for both of us, really; we’ll have a row, shout and scream, and then it’s all out in the open and forgotten about a few minutes later.

‘I’m getting a cuppa,’ he said, still looking sulky, and ten minutes later he returned with the biggest bunch of flowers I have ever seen and a packet of Jaffa Cakes, my favourite biscuit.

I was cuddling Isabella.

‘Can I hold her?’ he asked.

‘Idiot,’ I said. ‘Course you can.’

He scooped her up gently, and although he tried to hide it, I could see tears welling up in his eyes. As he stood cooing at her, holding her tiny hand, I promised I would buy Isabella a Chelsea football club Babygro, got off the bed and limped over to give him a hug.

‘You still in pain?’ the nurse asked.

‘Only my shins,’ I said, and she looked confused.

I left hospital after a few hours and by the time I got home the family were there waiting, so I could forget any thoughts of having a rest. The chatter and laughter was so loud I’m sure the whole neighbourhood heard, and the house looked like a florist’s shop.




Chapter Two (#u8a198051-ea79-5bee-96fc-94db7ecf6085)


A few days later the doorbell went and I was surprised to see Peter, my social worker, on the doorstep with another huge bunch of flowers.

‘Congratulations,’ he smiled.

The last time he had seen our family we were on the floor with grief, so it was good for him to see us looking happy. Hope’s death had an impact on him, too, and I know he felt guilty about what our family had gone through. After all, it was he who suggested Hope came to live with us.

We chatted for a while, but not about fostering, although I’m sure he wanted to. I still had no thoughts of fostering again, and there was no hint then that anything was about to change.

Soon after moving into the new house, I had met another foster carer who lived locally, a lovely lady called Martine. Martine had begun caring because she was unable to have children of her own, and although she and her husband had gone through the adoption process, they had been unable to adopt a child. They wanted a baby – something all childless couples prefer – but the reality is that babies rarely come up for adoption. In fact, it’s rare to be able to adopt a child under two. Then they had split up, so Martine decided fostering was the next best thing.

I assumed she and her husband had divorced because they couldn’t have kids, but one day Martine told me the shocking true story.

‘You might find this out from other people, so I might as well tell you myself,’ Martine said. ‘After the adoption failed, my husband started seeing another woman and then got her pregnant. That’s why we divorced.’

‘Martine, I am so, so sorry,’ I said, thinking how I could never imagine Martin doing anything like that, even if we had not been able to have children.

Martine was fostering a little girl called India, who was an accommodated child, which basically means that her mother had voluntarily put her into care. She was her first foster daughter and Martine confided in me that she had been overjoyed at the prospect of helping India recover from a terrible start in life.

‘I wanted to make it right for her. I thought we would have fun days out at the park, lots of love and cuddles on the sofa, sipping hot chocolate and watching Dumbo,’ she said. ‘But Mia, I don’t know if it’s me or if it’s India, but she seems scared of me.’

‘Why? You are the kindest person on the planet. I don’t understand.’

‘I don’t either and I don’t know what to do.’

I had noticed a distance between India and Martine but thought that was just because she was settling in.

Martine began to tell me India’s story and little by little I began to understand. India was almost three years old and her mother, Amy, had put her through hell. Amy was a chaotic alcoholic who lived in squalor and was incapable of looking after herself, let alone parenting her daughter. Mother and daughter were known to social services, who had done their best to help Amy sort out her life. They had started by sending a specialist company to cleanse Amy’s disgusting flat. I saw photos of it later and there were piles of dirty clothes covering every surface, half-eaten plates of food and rubbish bags spilling their contents across the carpet. The mess was appalling and almost obscured the empty vodka bottles that littered the place. It was a shock to see them everywhere, and an even bigger shock that they weren’t the first things you noticed.

One thing not in the photos was the drunks who spent their days there, drinking with Amy until they were unconscious. Amy’s place wasn’t so much a crack den, but an alcoholics’ den, and because she was a mum she had her own place, whereas most of the others were sleeping rough. It was no wonder they all loved hanging out at Amy’s, and she was grateful for the company.

If Amy went out to the park it was not to the swings; she joined other drinkers on park benches, and they sat nursing cans of strong lager or cider while India watched, strapped into her pushchair. ‘A dog couldn’t live in those conditions,’ I thought to myself, ‘never mind a child.’

Amy had chosen vodka and a can of Special Brew over her own child. What mother would do that? But alcohol had a strong hold over her and no one could compete.

Despite more than enough support and lessons in domestic management, Amy never mastered keeping the place clean. Social services couldn’t perpetually send in cleaners, and they were receiving a lot of concerned phone calls about India, from one family member in particular.

If Amy couldn’t clean up her act, sooner or later social services would have to act to protect India. In fact, even while Amy was attempting to be a domestic goddess, they suspected she would fail and were actively seeking an interim care order.

To pre-empt the humiliation of having India taken away, which would mean the police turning up at her door with a social worker and a court order and forcing Amy to hand her over, in a sober moment Amy decided India would be better off in care. It was the right thing to do and must have been hard, so to give Amy her due, she did put India first for once.

India showed no signs of physical abuse, but she must have been hurting inside. There was no Cinderella law to protect her from emotional neglect and free her from the daily routine of caring for her mother; she just had to get on with it or she would get shouted at.

India’s days with Amy would have gone something like this:

‘India, Mummy’s tired, get me a blanket.’

‘India, Mummy’s got a headache, don’t make any noise.’

‘India, Mummy’s hungry, get me something to eat.’

‘India, I don’t want to watch this film, find something that Mummy likes.’

It would have started as soon as India was able to toddle and understand simple commands. Amy was merely copying the way she had been raised and knew no different.




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