Fostered
Oi, anybody home? – Helen kicked off her sandals and sighed with pleasure.
They were undeniably lovely, but by heavens, they were agony! Shed been taken in by their looks and not given a moments thought to how on earth shed wear such contraptions in a heatwave. The straps were like cheese wire, digging into her feetheartless little things!
Helen scooped up her shoes to put on the rack in the hallway, and then froze. Two sharp green eyes were peering out from the shadow near the door.
And who are you? Helen asked, inexplicably whispering.
The owner of those bewitching eyes would have preferred to stay silent. He pressed himself further into the corner, crouching and hissing like an explosion of indignation.
Right. Thats clear, then
Helen decided to stay calm so as not to scare their unexpected guest. She placed her sandals gently on the floor and backed away.
I wont touch you, calm down! Ill go figure out where you came fromunless you mind, of course. Surprise
The visitor responded with a low, rumbling tirade, so formidable Helen couldnt help but smile.
Calm down, my fierce one! This is my house, you know. No ones going to hurt you here. No one ever does.
Whether he understood, who knows, but his growling subsided. He planted his front paws down, eyes still full of suspicion, but stopped hissing and grumbling.
Helen padded down the hallway, poked her head into the lounge and kitchen, and was met with eerie silence and tidiness. It was usually so chaotic by her return that she had to watch every stepone never knew! The pieces of her sons constructions were sharper than thumbtacks, and those paints her husband bought for their artistic offspring were, for reasons only known to the manufacturers, nigh on impossible to clean from anything.
The door to the childrens room was ajar, but so quiet that Helen thought the house must be empty.
She was wrong. Her three treasures were all present and accounted for, sat cross-legged on the floor around a massive sheet of paper, all feverishly drawing together.
Well, this is intriguing! And why is no one leaping up to greet me? Helen smiled at the two ginger heads and one dark one.
Three cries of Oh no! rang out as the felt tips were flung aside, and Barbara flung herself dramatically across the paper, limbs akimbo, trying to hide their unfinished creation.
Mum! Dont look!
Helen laughed, covering her face with her hands in mock horror.
I shant! But could someone explain what monster is loitering in the hall, hissing at me?
Oliverthe owner of the lone dark headglanced expressively at his siblings and rose to his feet.
Mum, sorry! We wanted to prepare you but there wasnt time. I found him and brought him home.
I see. And why is he so wild?
Hes hurt his paw. I rescued him from the neighbours dogs in the courtyard.
Helens concern spiked.
They didnt hurt you, did they? Where does it hurt?
Mum, Im fine! They only bothered him, poor thing. It was the Barker sisters dogs. Not strays.
Helen knew those pooches well enough: a pack of four yappy mongrels, adored by Mrs. Barkerthe local queen of commotion. They were less trained than free spirits, roaming wherever they wished, as Mrs. Barkers dodgy knees meant the lead was more suggestion than command. Still, no one dared suggest she part with her little angels. All the mums in the flats at Rosewood Terrace knew: dont let the kids into the yard before ten or youd risk a scene.
Shed seen enough tears and commotion over the yearskids jumped out of their skins at the first bark, and while the dogs never bit, they were so thunderously loud they could frighten most adults. Mrs. Barker, master of the artful retort, paid every council fine with a smirk and would always say to grumbling mums:
Well, keep an eye on your own! Whats yours doing in the yard alone then? Want a rest, do you? What sort of mother needs peace from her kids? Mine wont get any nonsense from yours, I assure you! Learn to defend your brood!
Helen had long since given up trying to argue with Mrs. Barker. She pitied her, really, knowing how much the older woman had endured.
Mrs. Barkers late husband had appeared charmingcrisp white shirt, perfectly pressed trousers, gentlemanly manners. Never missed a good afternoon and would help with a buggy or shopping bagbut the horror behind closed doors was another matter. He never left a mark, never left a clue, and threatened her into silence with the same benign smile he reserved for neighbours babies.
She suffered for years, her only companion her son from a previous marriage, whom shed clung to after being widowed at twenty-three. Her new husband played the role of doting stepdad with an Oscar-worthy performance. The boy had no idea what went on behind closed doors, and Mrs. Barker swore it was all her fault. So when the inevitable happened, her son went to his grandmother, Mrs. Barker served her time, and upon release, started over in a flat nobody recognised her inexcept a tiny, battered dog shed rescued, called Esme, soon nicknamed Emmy.
From then on, Emmys kittens and subsequent generations became the tenants of Mrs. Barkers home. Dogs came and went, but Emmys legacy endured. Though her son was now grown, a manager up north with a sprawling houseful of children and a wife, Mrs. Barker refused to leave her independence (Let them live their own lives, I say!).
This independence did not make her less feisty. When her sadness grew, so did her pack, and soon she had four barking fluffballs causing a commotion in the gardens. Yet none ever bothered Helens brood.
Once a week, Helen would bring a bag of bones leftover from the Sunday roast, put the kettle on at Mrs. Barkers, and marvel politely at her photographs of grandchildren.
Mrs. Barker alone knew Oliver wasnt Helens biological child, and when she learned the truth, only commented onceone overheard conversation at the playground as the neighbours gossiped about how the boy looked nothing like his ginger-haired mum or her blond husband.
Who cares who he looks like, you nosy old ducks? Mind your own! Nature works magic sometimesLens granddad was a dead ringercoal-black hair and bright blue eyes, he was! I had a soft spot for him once, tooyes, even me! Beautiful boy youve got, Helen, touch wood!
And so the gossip ceased, and Helen told Mrs. Barker the whole truth.
Helen and her husband Alex had wanted a child for five years, to no avail. The doctors shrugged; sometimes, thats life. Youre both healthy, keep trying, theyd say.
But fates generosity is rarely straightforward. Helens cousin Sylviafifteen years her seniorfound herself accidentally pregnant. Her partner, when faced with his new role, simply vanished, suitcase and all. Sylvia, never the most sensible, sank into a deep gloom and pushed everyone away. Her mother, Aunt Vera, tried everything but could not draw her out, and when Sylvia insisted shed refuse the child, the family had to make difficult choices.
Ill sign the forms at the hospital. Dont try and talk me out of it. I dont want this baby, Sylvia repeated, unyielding.
In the end, fate stepped in with a heavy hand. Sylvia didnt survive the birth. Whether it was the doctors fault or lifes own mysterious plot, baby Ollie was orphaned before he could know his mum.
Helenfor whom Sylvia had been beloveddidnt hesitate.
She nursed me as a child! I dont know what happened to herand I dont want to know, shell always be my Sylvia. And her son will not grow up with strangers! Aunt Vera wont qualify to adopt with her age and disability. What now, Alex?
She turned to her husband, but already knew what hed say. There was a reason she chose this quiet, unremarkable manhe didnt talk much but loved deeply, and for him, Helen was all the world. He would do anything to make her happy.
Helen was never exactly slim herself, so her pregnancy was plausible to the neighbours. She disappeared for a few months to stay with her aunt, sorted the paperwork, and brought Ollie home. When they returned, they met questions about the timing of the birth with winks and witty dodges.
But something compelled her to confide in Mrs. Barker, who replied:
Its good you told me. Dont worry, my dear, I wont say a wordits not for the neighbours to know. Sometimes you need someone to talk to. Youre young and the boy is small; one day you might need advice. I have a son toowasnt always near him, but hes a good lad. Be proud and dont ever let anyone tell you raising him isnt your rightyoure his mum if you choose to be. No tap-dancing round the truth. Kids need strong parents, one whose word counts. If you start doubting, youll lose himand itll be worse for both of you.
Helen remembered that chat vividly, nodding her silent thanks whenever she saw Mrs. Barker.
Ollie grew, and in time, Helen had two more childrenfirst little Johnny, then Barbara. Mrs. Barker smiled her tight-lipped smile as the ginger pair tumbled through the garden, occasionally feeding their biscuits to Emmy and her ragtag band.
Then there came a time Helen did need advice. Lately, Oliver had been lashing out at other children. He wouldnt lay a finger on his siblings but was becoming the class bruiser. Chats with him went round in tense circles, and the school counsellor just shrugged.
Hell grow out of it, Mrs. Hughes. Ill keep an eye, but boys do these things.
This, Helen decided, simply wouldnt do. One evening, she left the kids with Alex and went next door.
Ah, Helen! I knew youd be by. In you come, Mrs. Barker called her through.
Emmy the Third barely looked up from her spot in the hall (she knew Helen, after all).
On to the kitchen, then. I made a piemine love a treat now and then, and I spoil them (and myself) with a bit of it too! Lets have tea and chat. Fretting about Ollie, are you?
Yes!
Helen felt as though the world had slipped from her shoulders. Alex was always supportive, but sometimes you needed a sympathetic ear outside the familyone who didnt worry about relationships or tact.
Mrs. Barker listened, handing out tissues and pouring tea in silence, only tossing in a question now and then to prompt Helen along.
What can I say, Helen? Hes growing. Boys fight, test things, push back. What matters is you try to understand him. If he feels youre on his side, hell open up. Have you asked him why he fights?
Of course I have! He wont say.
Then youre not asking right! Mrs. Barker grinned. We always start with a lecture: Are you trying to embarrass me in front of everyone, son? Trust me, Ive been there. But try a different tack. Ask him the reason. Tell him youll probably scold him anyway, because fighting isnt on, but you genuinely want to know why. If hes got a reason, youll hear it. For him, knowing youll listen means everything. Youre his mum! Just listenno gasping, no lecturessee what you learn. I wish Id figured that out sooner.
They talked well past midnight. Helen returned home to find all but Alex asleep. She tiptoed into the kids room, kissed the smaller ones, and sat down by Olivers bed.
His hair was dark as Sylvias; his skin tanned, not fair like the others. No, he didnt look like her ginger children, but she felt the same warm tug in her heart at his messy face and the round little heel poking out from the duvet. He was her child, as much as any of them.
Oliver stirred, flung an arm around her, and murmured, Mum? Why are you crying? Dont I wont do it anymore.
His dark eyes brimmed with such pain Helen just gathered him to her, burying her nose under his chin.
I know please tell me, sweetheart. Tell me everything. Whos upset you?
And Ollie spoke.
The reason was so obvious Helen felt a little foolish for missing it.
They say Im adopted! That youre not my mum, that Johnny and Barbara are real and Im just not. Cause I look different. They say youre not really mine.
Nonsense! Helen brushed away her tears, holding his chin so he had to look at her. Youre mine! From your head down to your toesmine (well, all right, Dads too). Pay no attention to anyone, especially dont go fighting on account of it. Let people say what they like. Use your head, not your fists. Remember: smart people dont need to say mean things or hit to prove a pointthough, well, sometimes these things cant be helped. Not this time though! Wait there.
Rummaging through the cupboard under Alexs bemused gaze, she produced the old photo album. Ollie had seen it, but tonight it felt different.
Lookheres your gran when she was young, and her sister with their kids. That tiny ginger is me; thats cousin Sylvia. I loved her, so much. This is your great-grandadsee? Handsome, dark-haired just like you. Any doubt you belong?
No Mum, why are you ginger? And Johnny and Barbara?
Takes after the other side. I do too, actually! Youll learn all about it in biology later. For now, just remember: youre ours. Thats what counts.
Seeing how he relaxed, Helen nearly blurted out everything, but held back. Not yet. One day, maybe, but not now. For now, her son was calm. The rest could wait.
The next day, when Mrs. Barker passed Oliver in the yard, she gave him a regal nod, Your folk have raised you well, Oliver. They should be proud.
Simple words, but enough to put him at ease. Mrs. Barker, of all people, wasnt one to hand out praise lightly!
Helen continued to seek advice, but one day the door she knocked on remained locked. The dogs howled inside, but no one let her in.
Turned out Mrs. Barker had been whisked to hospital by ambulance, and, not wanting to trouble anyone, called no onenot even her son.
Helen rang around the hospitals, found her, collected her keys, and set about looking after the dogs.
Thank you, Helen! My little ones need their walkies or theyll tear the place down.
And feeding! Theyve been starving. Why didnt you call me or your son?
Didnt want to be a bother… Thought itd all blow over.
Well, bother me then! Thats what family and friends are for. If your son was poorly, youd want to know, wouldnt you? Call himits only right. Or Ill do it for you!
Oh, youre probably right. Just feels odd taking up your time.
Theres nothing odd about it! Didnt you give your time to me and my lot? Because of you, Olivers confident, and Im not always worrying. Let me return the favour, please!
The pack were walked, fed, and Oliver took on their care as Helen helped Mrs. Barker recover. Luckily, all was well soon enough, to the wild delight of the dogs.
Ollie got on with the dogs so splendidly, he offered to walk them regularly. Mrs. Barker finally had help, though she still sneaked them out alone sometimes, which led to mock arguments between her and Oliver.
Because the dogs knew him, they listened when he rescued a bewildered, battered cat from their midst one afternoon. The cat was skinny, battered, all bright eyes and nerves. Oliver picked him upgot a slap for his troublebut didnt hold it against the poor thing.
Youre a fine looking chap! British Blue, arent you? What are you doing here, lost?
The cat, unimpressed, only growled but didnt escape.
The younger ones squealed with delight at the new housemate, but sensibly began plotting how best to break the news to Mum. Crouched by the quivering cat, they quietly urged him to be brave while pondering how to present the surprise.
Helen laughed at their handiworka proud mother sketched holding a cat twice her size. Brilliant.
So, you think thats enough for me to agree to keep this grumpy marvel under our roof? You know Ive never had cats, right? I dont even know what to do with him!
Mum, we dont eitherbut cant we ask Mrs. Barker? Cat, dogsurely the same difference. Shell know exactly what to feed him, how to look after him.
Just then, the doorbell rang, cutting Olivers speech short. Helen grinned, No need to go anywhere, then. Go on, open upand keep a hold of your grumpy friend. Auntie Irenes arrived at the perfect time to help us sort that poorly paw.
The little ones exchanged glances, and barely above a whisper, asked:
Mum, can we keep him?
Did I not say already? If no one claims him, he stays. Someone has to love him after all, dont you think?
And stay he would. Helen would sigh quietly at the vet bills, but decide it was a small price to pay for the shining eyes of her children and the purr of the cat, who, once assured he was safe, became a permanent fixture at her side. Oliver protested from time to time, but Helen just laughed, He knows whos boss now!
Helen knew that when the house fell silent and the children snuggled under their duvets, a grey shadow would brush by her leg, slip into the childrens room, and gently nudge the door. Oliver would crack an eye, mumble sleepily, and hold the cat close. The feline would settle, eyes green gems in the dusk, as Helen whispered:
Goodnight. A soft hand on tousled heads and the cats warm back.
And in reply, only the hush of dreams. Helen would smile as she closed the door. Yes, this is right. Happiness prefers quiet. For now. Tomorrow will bring the noise and the muddle again.
Eventually, theyd see Mrs. Barker off to live with her son, promising to care for her pack till she returned. Helen would hug her, stroking her trembling, joyful hands.
Theyre waiting! Theyll always wait for you. And so will we. Safe journey!
And Mrs. Barker would smile through tears, watching the children wave farewell. No one would gossip about the districts biggest troublemaker now, not with that kindness in her eyes. Everyone would knowthis, truly, is a good person. Shes got a lot of life left ahead, and the people around her are good, too. Plenty of light and joy to come.
And there would be an unexpected new grandchild, and a movehard at first, but ultimately a godsend, with a big house her son bought giving room for everyone, even the dogs. Theyd patrol their own garden, tails held high and proud.
Twice a week, Mrs. Barkernow Grandma Barkerwould settle at the computer with her eldest granddaughter ready to set up a call.
And distant yet dear, the voices would say, Hello, Auntie Irene!
And the big, lazy cat would shut his eyes, head nudging the hand of a grown-up Oliver.
