‘Suppose we’d better get back inside,’ George says, kissing the cold tip of my nose.
I reply by tilting my face up to his, and he rewards me with a sweet, gentle kiss on my lips. We withdraw and smile at each other.
We have to make the most of these quiet moments, when it’s just the two of us.
We walk arm in arm back up to the farmhouse, talking about the weekend and what it has in store.
George’s eyes widen when we enter the kitchen and he sees what I’ve been up to.
‘I almost forgot that it’s Friday,’ he says with glee at the sight of the chocolate cake on the table.
‘Can’t miss cake day,’ I reply with a shrug.
It’s a weekly tradition. Fridays are for cakes; Sundays are for roast dinners. Junk food night may strike at any time of the week, depending on what’s going on in our lives. I try to prepare healthy meals wherever possible, but sometimes my limits are stretched, and on those days, takeaway comes in very handy. No one complains, as you can imagine.
‘You’re Supermum,’ George says.
‘That’s what I used to call my mum,’ I tell him.
‘Did you?’
‘Only in my head. She was pretty fantastic, though, wasn’t she?’
The sound of voices in the courtyard cuts off any answer he was going to give me.
The door flies open with Emilie, fourteen, leading the charge, shouting back over her shoulder at thirteen-year-old Logan to, ‘Pack it in, you git!’
‘Oh, Emilie,’ I want to say. ‘Be patient with him. He’ll get there.’
But I don’t interfere. This girl can handle herself. She’s trouble at times, like her father, but she has a big heart. We love the bones of her.
Logan follows her in, slamming the door behind him.
‘Mind yourself,’ George says mildly, opening the door back up again.
Logan looks as though he’s going to storm from the room, but then he sees the cake on the table and hesitates.
‘Why don’t you go wash your hands and help yourself,’ I say gently, rubbing his back.
When Logan’s harassed social worker brought him to us last month, and left, telling him to behave, George said, only loudly enough for Logan and me to hear, ‘Don’t listen to her, son. We’ll take you as you are.’
And we do. We take them all as they are.
Here come the little ones now, although they’re not so little any more. Hayley and Maysie joined our family when they were seven, but they’re already halfway through their first year of secondary school. They’re identical twins and you can usually hear them coming a mile off, talkative as they are.
Finally, bringing up the rear is Dillon, a quiet twelve-year-old who has been with us for four months.
‘Is it okay if Hayden comes in?’ he asks me uncertainly, and I peer behind him to see Becky and Robin’s eldest hovering.
‘Of course it is,’ I say to Hayden, passing him the phone as he comes inside. ‘Call your mum and dad so they don’t worry.’
It means the world to us that Becky and Robin don’t merely allow their children, Hayden and Gina, to play with ours, but actively encourage it. Becky thinks it’s good for them, that it teaches them compassion.
I agree with her. While my childhood was challenging at times and I didn’t have my parents’ attention as much as I sometimes needed, I wouldn’t change it. It made me who I am, taught me compassion. I want the same for Emilie and hope that one day she’ll understand and forgive me for not always being able to put her first.
The kitchen is a hive of activity with hands being washed, drinks being made, school bags unpacked and chocolate cake devoured. It’s the best kind of chaos.
‘They’re so lucky to have you,’ a mother at school said to me the other day. I’d gone in for Parents’ Evening and Dillon’s mother had failed to turn up, even though she’d assured us that she would be there.
Dillon was so worried about her. His father is abusive, but his mother won’t leave him. She’s very young; spent her own childhood in care.
I wanted to reply, ‘This boy was taken from his mum and dad without warning. He was separated from his siblings, his pets and all his toys. He had to leave behind his bedroom, his house, his garden, his school, his classmates and everything he knew. And then he was brought to a strange house and expected to slot in with a new family. Do you know how terrifying that must’ve been? How anxious he must be feeling? All he wants to do is go home. He’s not lucky. The very least we can do is try to ease some of his pain while he’s with us.’
But I held my tongue, as I so often do.
George still works part-time at Forestry England, and, without Mum to help out these days, I have my hands full at the farm, but both George and I find time in our busy schedules to volunteer at the local youth club. George also visits schools to talk about his experience and try to educate young people and teachers. We strongly believe that we need to reframe the way we talk about people in care. We’re sick of hearing struggling parents being described as the scum of the earth, simply because they find it hard to live in a way that most of us take for granted. They need support and they need education, and a whole lot more understanding.
As Mum once said, it takes a village, and there is more that we all can do.
She really was a Supermum.
I gaze out of the kitchen window at her home on the other side of the courtyard. She was so excited the day she moved in. I’d sold my flat in London and George had sold his cottage in Devon, and we’d used the proceeds from both sales to update the farmhouse and convert the barn. The building’s structure was already sound, formed from sandy-coloured stone with a shiny slate rooftop, as with here at the house. George replaced the big barn doors with windows and glass doors, and we brought in a building crew to do the internal works, plastering and whitewashing the interior to a clean, fresh, clutter-free space: one bedroom and an en suite bathroom, plus an open-plan kitchen and living space. Mum was thrilled.
I grab Maysie and Hayley before they can disappear. Although a lot older than Ashlee and Nia were, they reminded me of them when they first came to us. Both so timid: a raised voice would send them into hiding and they’d go rigid every time you tried to hug them. But they’ve come so far and I’m ecstatic that we were able to adopt them.
I once asked Mum if she and Dad had ever considered adopting Nia and Ashlee. She replied that they had wanted to, very much, and would have adopted Ashlee in a heartbeat if the situation with Nia hadn’t worked out. But ultimately, they knew that it was the teenagers who were more critically in need of loving, caring placements. By giving up a room to Ashlee and Nia, she wouldn’t have been able to help Dani, Emma, Nikita, Catherine, Tisha, to name but a few.
It’s been about twenty-five years since Ashlee and Nia left us, but I still look for their faces in strangers on the street and hope we might see them again one day. Occasionally I daydream about them coming back to say thank you to the woman who went out of her way to keep them together.
Hayley and Maisie look up at me expectantly.
‘Go get Nanna, would you?’ I say. ‘She’s going to miss out on cake.’
They run across the courtyard, calling her name. She comes out of the door, her dear old face lit with love as she scoops them up in her warm embrace.