away. I wondered what the hell I was supposed to do. I could hardly sit in the car with Tracey outside while I phoned the duty social worker as I had been told to do: it would have been rude and also impractical. Reece was now clamouring at the window and bellowing, ‘Mum! Mum!’
I took the keys from the ignition and my mobile from my handbag, and got out. I went round and opened Reece’s door and took hold of his hand.
‘Sharky!’ a deep woman’s voice boomed from behind us. ‘Sharky, me boy!’
With Reece now beside me, I locked the car and, holding his hand so he couldn’t dash across the car park, I turned to greet Tracey. About 5 feet 8 inches tall, and very overweight, she was dressed in nylon jogging bottoms and a short-sleeved nylon Liverpool football club T-shirt, despite the cold night air. Her hair was drawn severely back in a tight ponytail that just touched the top of her broad shoulders. She came towards us with one hand thrust into the pockets of her jogging bottoms and in the other hand she held a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. For all intents she looked like a wrestler.
‘Sharky, me lad!’ she shouted again, continuing towards us. Coming right up she cuffed Reece over the head. ‘Good to see ya, Sharky.’
‘Hello, Tracey,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’m Cathy, Reece’s carer.’ It wouldn’t necessarily be obvious to Tracey who I was, as escorts are sometimes used to take children to contact if the carer can’t. As I introduced myself and saw her face fully illuminated by the lamp of the car park, I noticed how much Reece looked like her. He was her spitting image, from the pale skin to the brown hair and eyes, and even the prominent upper serrated teeth, which were less pronounced in Tracey but still evident. He was so similar to his mother he could have been cloned.
‘He wants a bleeding ‘air cut,’ Tracey said. She went to cuff him again over the head but Reece automatically ducked. Then she stood looking at me.
Although Reece’s hair was little more than stubble, Tracey’s wishes had to be adhered to, as Reece was on an interim care order (ICO). On an ICO the parents retain parental responsibility and have a say in the child’s upbringing. This remains so until a full care order has been granted by the court, when the social services take full control. Hair is often a contentious issue and carers do what the parents wish.
‘Perhaps you could tell me what you normally do with Reece’s hair,’ I said, hoping this might be the starting point for a working relationship with Tracey, for while this meeting shouldn’t have taken place, now that it had I could try to use it for the best.
‘Shave it,’ she said. ‘Number two all over. His dad done it at home, every week.’ I could see where Reece had got his shouting from, for Tracey’s normal speaking voice was very loud, almost shouting.
‘OK, fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll see to it, although I’ll have to take him to the barber’s, so it won’t be every week.’
“As he been good?’ she boomed, changing the subject. Before I could answer she’d turned to Reece and, with another cuff which Reece also missed by ducking, shouted affectionately at him: ‘You been good, Sharky? You little bugger, I bet you ain’t!’ She laughed loudly and her chest rattled, so I guessed she was a heavy smoker. I was about to say that Reece was settling in well but I didn’t get a chance. ‘He’s been moved four times ‘cos of his behaviour, and it ain’t good!’ Tracey yelled. ‘I’m in court next week, and when I talk to the judge he’ll be having that bleeding social worker. I ain’t ‘aving me kid pissed around.’
Again I was about to open my mouth to speak and say something conciliatory but I didn’t get the chance.
‘Is he staying with you now?’ she bellowed. ‘He better be! I ain’t ‘aving ‘im moved again. It’s a bleeding disgrace. Them wankers!’
‘No, he won’t be moved again,’ I reassured
I took the keys from the ignition and my mobile from my handbag, and got out. I went round and opened Reece’s door and took hold of his hand.
‘Sharky!’ a deep woman’s voice boomed from behind us. ‘Sharky, me boy!’
With Reece now beside me, I locked the car and, holding his hand so he couldn’t dash across the car park, I turned to greet Tracey. About 5 feet 8 inches tall, and very overweight, she was dressed in nylon jogging bottoms and a short-sleeved nylon Liverpool football club T-shirt, despite the cold night air. Her hair was drawn severely back in a tight ponytail that just touched the top of her broad shoulders. She came towards us with one hand thrust into the pockets of her jogging bottoms and in the other hand she held a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. For all intents she looked like a wrestler.
‘Sharky, me lad!’ she shouted again, continuing towards us. Coming right up she cuffed Reece over the head. ‘Good to see ya, Sharky.’
‘Hello, Tracey,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’m Cathy, Reece’s carer.’ It wouldn’t necessarily be obvious to Tracey who I was, as escorts are sometimes used to take children to contact if the carer can’t. As I introduced myself and saw her face fully illuminated by the lamp of the car park, I noticed how much Reece looked like her. He was her spitting image, from the pale skin to the brown hair and eyes, and even the prominent upper serrated teeth, which were less pronounced in Tracey but still evident. He was so similar to his mother he could have been cloned.
‘He wants a bleeding ‘air cut,’ Tracey said. She went to cuff him again over the head but Reece automatically ducked. Then she stood looking at me.
Although Reece’s hair was little more than stubble, Tracey’s wishes had to be adhered to, as Reece was on an interim care order (ICO). On an ICO the parents retain parental responsibility and have a say in the child’s upbringing. This remains so until a full care order has been granted by the court, when the social services take full control. Hair is often a contentious issue and carers do what the parents wish.
‘Perhaps you could tell me what you normally do with Reece’s hair,’ I said, hoping this might be the starting point for a working relationship with Tracey, for while this meeting shouldn’t have taken place, now that it had I could try to use it for the best.
‘Shave it,’ she said. ‘Number two all over. His dad done it at home, every week.’ I could see where Reece had got his shouting from, for Tracey’s normal speaking voice was very loud, almost shouting.
‘OK, fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll see to it, although I’ll have to take him to the barber’s, so it won’t be every week.’
“As he been good?’ she boomed, changing the subject. Before I could answer she’d turned to Reece and, with another cuff which Reece also missed by ducking, shouted affectionately at him: ‘You been good, Sharky? You little bugger, I bet you ain’t!’ She laughed loudly and her chest rattled, so I guessed she was a heavy smoker. I was about to say that Reece was settling in well but I didn’t get a chance. ‘He’s been moved four times ‘cos of his behaviour, and it ain’t good!’ Tracey yelled. ‘I’m in court next week, and when I talk to the judge he’ll be having that bleeding social worker. I ain’t ‘aving me kid pissed around.’
Again I was about to open my mouth to speak and say something conciliatory but I didn’t get the chance.
‘Is he staying with you now?’ she bellowed. ‘He better be! I ain’t ‘aving ‘im moved again. It’s a bleeding disgrace. Them wankers!’
‘No, he won’t be moved again,’ I reassured
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