‘Oh?’ Shanice tried not to look offended.
‘Once you’ve brought me up to date with your gorgeous boys, of course…’
After hearing all about how brilliantly they were doing, in between trying to wrestle each other to death, I found Hazel fiddling with the coffee machine in the back. In contrast to Shanice’s simple elegance, Hazel looked as though she’d slept in her shapeless grey tunic, and the bags under her eyes and wan complexion suggested she’d barely slept at all. The only exception was the lustrous blonde hair, curling to her shoulders.
‘Did you want something?’ She sighed. ‘No offence, Libby, but I’m really busy.’
‘I won’t be long. I just wondered if Courtney was okay. She seems to be struggling a bit with Hazel.’
‘Yeah, struggling with all those lie-ins and nights out.’ Hazel shook her head, jaw set. ‘She’s barely lifting a finger. Has decided giving birth is enough work for one lifetime. Everyone else manages to have a kidandcook, clean and do whatever elseneeds doing. When Dex was a baby I had four other kids to look after, my own house to run and this job.’
I opened my mouth to ask whether there was any possibility Courtney was struggling with her mental health, but Hazel wasn’t finished.
‘And that lad doesn’t help, either. Pandering to her every whim, letting her get away with being a lazy cow. He’s cut his rent without even discussing it with me, says he needs money for the baby, while madam spends the Child Benefit on Smirnoff Ice and false nails. What he’s giving me barely covers their food, let alone everything else. So now I’m basically paying to have three extra people sleep in what used to be my dining room. Mess everywhere, and yet more work for me. I’m sorry, Libby, but I’m rapidly running out of sympathy for either of them. I need to think about the others, and I’m not interested in being mum to another kid, even if she is supposedly my granddaughter.’
Supposedly?Baby Hazel looked so like her dad that if she wasn’t Toby’s I’d be suspecting his younger brother, Harry. Things were worse than I’d thought, and I couldn’t imagine how they’d begin to improve without Hazel’s support.
‘It sounds really tough, for all of you, but I was wondering if you could just look at a leaflet…’
‘Sorry, Libby, my client’s here. Talk to Toby if you’re worried about his girlfriend. I don’t have time to sort her life out because she’s not in the mood to grow up.’
She pushed past me into the main salon, conversation over.
I spent two hours in a one-on-one class with a couple who split their time between London and Monaco and so didn’t want to attend a traditional antenatal course. That was probablyjust as well, because their constant references to the ultra-exclusive private hospital, ‘mummy concierge’ and ludicrously expensive high-tech equipment – thousands of pounds on a handcrafted mattress? Really? – would have jarred with our normal discussions about NHS maternity services and life with a newborn. They were a perfectly pleasant couple, whose faces lit up every time they mentioned becoming parents; they simply led a very different life from my other clients, and I was grateful they’d opted for private sessions.
Finn and Isla stayed on for the school football club on Thursdays, so I ignored the List of a Billion Things to Do and took the opportunity to pop over to the Green House, where Shanice had lived before moving into her own flat.
The farm was nestled at the other end of Bigley Country Park, tucked in a hollow with fields on one side and the forest on the other. As well as the main house, painted a cheerful apple green, there were outbuildings including a gym, stabling for two horses and an actual greenhouse for nurturing plants not people. I’d been visiting here for as long as I could remember. The Green House was infamous amongst local fostering families, and we relished their regular fire-pit nights, film and pizza evenings and whatever other excuse they came up with for a gathering.
The two brothers who lived there, Bob and Benny, vibrated with boundless energy despite how old they appeared thanks to Bob’s shock of white hair and Benny’s freckled bald head. They spent hours around the farm with their foster teens, chopping wood, digging vegetable patches and mucking out the stables, their laughter echoing behind them. Their wives, Mary and Maria, were the calm to their husbands’ zeal. I’d witnessed them being screamed and sworn at, breaking up brawls and discovering the shed had been deliberately set on fire, and the only time I’d seen either of them the slightest bit ruffled was when a dog went missing – he was fine; one of the kids had runaway and taken the dog with her, but as soon as it had started raining, she’d slunk home.
In recent years I’d been invited back in a professional capacity, visiting whenever they had a pregnant young person living with them, or a new mum – which was most of the time. Today I was meeting Petra, who had moved in a couple of weeks ago. She claimed not to have realised she was expecting, but it took Mary and Maria about ten minutes to figure it out. Around six months along, thankfully she and baby were both doing well. Physically, at least. Petra was not at all happy about the recent discovery.
‘She’s still in bed,’ Mary said, with a gentle smile. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. ‘I’ll let her know you’re here. Maria’s in the kitchen if you want a drink.’
A few minutes later Mary reappeared. ‘Sorry, she’s not getting up.’
‘Is she awake?’
This wasn’t at all uncommon. For many of the children who arrived at the Green House, healthy routines had descended into chaos before things reached breaking point and they had to move, and it wasn’t uncommon to find them in bed no matter what time I arrived. And while some of the young women loved the attention from yet another professional, others regarded me as a highly unwelcome intrusion.
‘She’s in the blue bedroom,’ Maria said. ‘Good luck! Oh, and here’s your tea and a hot chocolate for Petra. She can’t resist squirty cream.’
I had to knock three times before receiving a grunt in return, but the first step in earning this girl’s trust was respecting her personal space.
‘Hi, Petra, it’s Libby from the Bloomers group. Maria’s made you a hot chocolate. Is it okay if I bring it in?’
‘Whatever.’
The first thing that struck me about Petra, as I placed her mug on the bedside table, was how young she looked. I knew she was fifteen, but – oh, bless her – there was no way she could be mistaken for anything except a child. She shuffled up the bed into a sitting position, huge blue eyes fixed on the pretty duvet covered in forget-me-nots, her thin, badly bleached hair stuffed in a yellow scrunchie and her vest top revealing scrawny shoulders.
My heart cracked, as it did for every young person who found themselves in a similar position. But I wasn’t about to show Petra any pity.
‘I like what you’ve done with your room.’
Every room in the Green House was beautifully designed to be a place of peace and security. The kids often did their best to change this, finding mess and mayhem more their comfort zone, but Petra’s room was immaculate. She’d covered one wall with photos, hung a huge brightly coloured scarf on another, and the bookcase was full of battered stuffed toys, grouped together in similar colours.
Petra scowled, picking at her nail as if she couldn’t wait for me to leave.
