Short Story Competition 2021

2nd Prize - Ellen Evers with:

The Goodbye Visit

The stuffy room is too small for all of us; condensation has begun to fog up the window. Debbie, our social worker, has arranged for tea in plastic cups to be brought in and we make a show of drinking the too milky lukewarm brew. There is a battered yellow box of toys, far too young for the children, and a dog-eared pile of books. I know they too will be ignored. One of my many missions is to give these two a love of reading. It’s going to be an uphill struggle.

Debbie has suggested I allow them to choose their own clothes and I bow to the experience of a mother of three. Kylie is beautiful in her Elsa dress and Frozen wellies but far too underdressed for a December day. Billy is manic in his Spiderman outfit, trying to climb the walls like his super hero. No one tells him off. I bite my tongue, reminding myself that I have no right to be here. It is a privilege to be allowed in and I will be tolerated as long as I keep quiet.

Their mother (I should say birthmother) sits on a red plastic chair alternating between picking at her nails and texting furiously. Billy’s father is not coming as he is still at Her Majesty’s Pleasure and Kylie’s has never been named, so it’s just Tracy here to say goodbye forever to her children. This kind of supervised visit is normal life for these two and they are too young to know the significance of the meeting. Tears are not expected.

Tracy’s social worker, Rachel, is straight from University and as green as me. This is her first job and Debbie has taken her under her wing. In the ten weeks I’ve known her she seems to have aged ten years. She wanted to call this meeting ‘wish you well in your new family’ which would be much less distressing she says.

‘Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.’ She quotes from Peter Pan.

I’m not sure that social work is right for Rachel.

Tracy looks unchanged. I swear she’s wearing the same distressed jeans, strappy top and fleece as she did the last time I saw her but I bet the new high boots didn’t come from Primark. I make some uncharitable assumptions that are not worthy of a vicar’s wife but I don’t think I’m far off the mark. She’s what’s called ‘heroin chic’ with pale skin, hair dragged back and a skinny frame that has never known a square meal. She pauses to scratch her arms, a sure sign of a drug user. Debbie flashes me the look. Don’t be judgemental.

But how can I help it? She’s the mother of these two children and willing, eager even, to give them away. She doesn’t want them. I can feel anger welling up but I must control myself. I want to see this, be part of the final closure and not be asked to leave.

It doesn’t have to be final. I could keep in touch with Tracy, send photos, school reports and all that sort of thing through a third party but Tracy says no thank you. She wants a clean break. I don’t admit it to anyone but I’m glad they are rid of her. That doesn’t sound very Christian does it? I don’t even feel ashamed.

I suppose I am the polar opposite to Tracy, involved in church life, active in charity work, comfortably off with money no object. It’s such an irony then that James and I, who would be such wonderful parents, cannot produce children. Adoption is the natural solution. We could have brought children in from abroad, babies even, but I’d set my heart on older children from our culture. In the counselling sessions they made a lot of this as if it wasn’t the norm but I stuck to my guns. I can make a difference. James had reservations and kept reminding me of the Jesuit mantra. Give me a child until he is seven and I will give you the man. That doesn’t mean these children are a lost cause, does it? Nurture will win out over nature every time, I’m certain.

I refused to listen to good advice. People at church whispered that taking on two damaged kids of seven and eight when we had no experience of children was making life too difficult. They were right but I won’t give up no matter how hard things become.

Billy and Kylie knew no boundaries explained Debbie and Rachel. I’d nodded, thinking that they’d so love being with us in our fantastic home that they would automatically do what they were told. I had created two wonderful bedrooms for them and couldn’t wait to see their faces when they saw a fairy kingdom in pink for Kylie and a space station that Billy would adore.

But they hated being in separate rooms and curled up together to sleep in the bed that resembled a rocket ship. That was after they enjoyed drawing and colouring the walls with the stupidly expensive pens I’d bought. I admit I cried just a little to see the glorious Laura Ashley paper ruined. Not that I let on to James. He had more than enough misgivings.

‘It’s to be expected,’ I soothed as we listened to them charge around upstairs, jumping on the beds and creating mayhem. ‘It’ll take time that’s all. You’ll see.’

The children had moved from Manchester to Sale, from one planet to another, from one school frankly relieved to see the back of them to a school that didn’t know what had hit them.

Billy was diagnosed as ADHD, a new condition to me. Hyperactive. You could say that again. Kylie’s speech was considerably delayed but nothing that intense speech therapy couldn’t cure. I hadn’t expected problem-free kids. I could cope. I gave it, and them, my all.

It was nothing like I expected. I thought that the children would love us, be grateful even that they had been chosen. I squirm now at my naivety. They liked staying over with us because they were spoiled. We tried to buy their affection I see now. When all the treats were over, they’d ask, well demand, to be taken back to the foster parents’ chaotic house full of kids like themselves. I couldn’t wait to get them out of the uncertainty of their lives and show them what a beautiful future we’d planned for them.

It hadn’t registered with me or with the children that the goodbye also meant the end of contact with the foster family who were the only parents that Billy and Kylie had really ever known. I consoled myself that they would soon forget about Aunty Jane and Uncle Fred and a clean break would be best. It shouldn’t be a problem – should it?

Kylie crawls on Tracy’s knee and tries to put her arms around her mother’s neck. With a sigh Tracy pockets her phone and stands up with Kylie clinging like a monkey. Billy, bored now, has spotted something that looks like Christmas wrapping in the bag besides the chair. With a whoop he drags two presents out and before he can be stopped, tears the paper off both gifts to reveal a doll and a motorised car. The children are distracted; Kylie snatches the present, trying to open the packaging while Billy rips his box open. I cannot help myself.

‘Be careful Billy!’ He ignores me as I help Kylie to remove the doll.

‘Say thank you to Mummy.’ I say less sharply. They mumble something and Tracy glares in my direction. Debbie darts a look at her watch.

‘I think this might be a good time to go, Tracy if that’s okay with you.’ She slips on her anorak and collects her things. Tracy rifles in her tote bag and finds an envelope which she hands to me.

‘You asked me if I wanted to write something, Rachel,’ she looks at me hard now, ‘something for the new family to keep for the kids.’

Rachel blows her nose, unable to answer.

’You let them see it when they’re grown up, right?’

Tracy comes close to me, so near that I can smell cigarettes and tea on her breath. I stand tall, trying not to pull back.

‘Look after my kids, right?’

I nod, throat dry. I can’t speak even if I knew what to say.

‘I’m doing this for them but it’s breaking my heart. I wrote it all down; it’s here in this letter.’ She thrusts it into my hand. ‘They mustn’t think I don’t care. You hear me?’ Her voice is harsh with emotion.

I nod again as she wipes snotty tears across her face with her sleeve.

‘They deserve better than me, but at least I can do this for them. And you’d better make them understand that, right?’

She turns to the kids sprawled on the floor.

‘Okay you two. Give yer mum a kiss. Be good.’ She grabs Billy and hugs him so tightly he squeals.

‘Gerroff Mum! Yer hurtin’ me!’ She releases him and lifts Kylie, kissing her softly, stroking her hair and gently letting her slide to the floor. Silently Debbie helps them on with their coats as Tracy heads for the door, her eyes red but smile falsely bright.

‘Ta-ra everyone. See ya later!’

Meaningless words. She will not be seeing them later. I put my arms around the children.

‘Say goodbye to Mummy.’

Still clutching their gifts, they barely look up.

‘Bye Mum,’ says Billy.

‘Bye bye!’ calls Kylie.

The door bangs and we hear the clip of heels on the stairs. Rachel is trying to stem her tears as Debbie fusses, tidying up to cover her emotion. I put the crumpled envelope into my bag.

Going away doesn’t mean forgetting.

I hope I can be as strong as Tracy.

About the author:

Ellen Evers is a 70 something retired teacher who enjoys writing short stories, non-fiction and occasionally poetry. She's had some success with publication;

- Writing Magazine, Scribble, Society of Civil and Public Service Writers (SCPSW)
- Anthologies; Crowvus, Black Pear, SCPSW, Henshaw 3
- Online short listed; Save as Writers, LAA, Senior Travel, Bridgend, Write Times
- Prize winner; Henshaw, Tamworth, Erewash, Nottingham Writers, Pennine Ink, Elmbridge.

When she's not writing Ellen likes walking and keeping fit, being with her family and lots of travel. She loves history and enjoys being a tour guide which inspires her writing!