THE SOCIAL WORKER

Not all social workers are the angels we like to think of them being....

Edina Birtwhistle held Oliver with troubled eyes and shook her head.

“What do you remember of back then?” she asked. Back then was when his father had been alive, before his mother murdered the man in a fit of self-defence and was convicted and incarcerated as a consequence..

“You’d think I’d remember a lot, but I don’t,” admitted Oliver. “Maybe it’s my head injury that knocked it out of my brain or maybe it’s what little children do: they forget a lot of stuff. Perhaps they have to because some things are simply too traumatic to be remembered. I don’t know anyone who can recall being born, for instance, and that must have been a mighty important and memorable event, but it’s been forgotten!”

“Well, she wants to see you and it’s up to you whether she does,” said Edina. “You can say yes or no. It’s entirely in your hands and she’s in no position to make any unreasonable demands. You’re old enough to know your own mind.”

“Would it be unreasonable?” asked Oliver. “After all, she’s the woman who gave birth to me, but as far as I’m concerned you’re my mum.”

Edina’s eyes softened. “I know,” she said, “but think about it. There’s a social worker going to call " she won’t bring your mother with her but she will discuss options with you, and make arrangements should you want to be reunited with her. Though I’ve met her and find her a bit … odd.”

“I suppose I have to see an odd social worker?”

“I don’t know about have to, but I think it would be for the best.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Edina put one hand on his. “Your mother should be really proud of you,” she said quietly. “You’ve turned out to be a really decent young man, you know. Ian says so, and he’s not always easy to please!” Ian was Edina’s husband and therefore Oliver’s foster-father. “And Bert still likes to go fishing with you when he can, though the poor man hasn’t been the same since...”

“Bert’s all right,” acknowledged Oliver. “I’ve always liked Bert.”

“He is that.”

They sat in silence for a while, then Oliver said, “I’ll see the social worker and I guess I’d better see my birth-mother as well. I don’t know what happened back when I was little and I’ve no idea why my mother had to do something as dreadful as what she did, but I guess she must have had a reason.”

“She had an excuse, but I wouldn’t call it a reason,” frowned Edina. “But I won’t pass judgement. The courts did that, and now she’s back amongst us I’ll leave any explanations to her, if she cares to make them and if you care to meet her, to listen.”

The doorbell rung and Oliver guessed it was going to be the social worker, and it was.

Holly Wetherall was young (in her twenties) and fuelled with the sort of enthusiasm that would most likely be eaten away by the future if she had too many problem families to solve too many unsolvable problems for. She was a dumpy woman and seemed to have been fitted with a permanent smile and a well-practised cheery disposition. She exuded two things: pseudo-honesty and manicured falsehood.

Edina brought her into the front room (where she’d been talking to Oliver) and introduced her to the lad before leaving them to their discussions.

“You’ll need privacy,” she said. “You don’t want me getting in the way.”

Holly smiled back at her. “You can stay if you like,” she said, knowing that Oliver might need someone to take his side. But Edina knew the boy, knew his strengths and was well aware that he’d be best on his own.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said.

“I don’t drink caffeine,” smiled the social worker.

“Then I’ll wash the pots.” Edina was already on her guard, and Oliver noticed. Life had taught him to be sensitive to the moods of others, and he smiled at her. He guessed she wouldn’t be too far away, pots or no pots.

“You know about your mother?” queried Holly Wetherall.

“You mean the woman who killed my father?” asked Oliver carefully.

“It might not have been entirely her fault,” began Holly, frowning through her fixed smile. “I’ve read the reports and know he was a bully, and a woman can only take so much before something gives...”

“I was there,” whispered Oliver, “I heard him shout at her, loud and angrily, and I saw her kissing that other man when she didn’t think anyone could see…”

“It might be a false memory...” began Holly, “there are thousands of instances of people justifying the actions of others by remembering what never actually happened. That might have been what you’ve been doing, needing to forgive your father and consequently the actions of your mother for all that shouting by creating a reason for it...”

“Are you mad?” asked Oliver, bravely seeing as he’d barely met the woman, “trying to suggest that I’m a liar even to myself?”

“I didn’t mean...” began Holly, flustered slightly. She hadn’t expected the boy to be anything but like putty to her well-rehearsed arguments.

“But you did, Mrs...” interrupted Oliver.

“Miss,” corrected Holly Wetherall, “I’m not married.”

And she was unmarried, not because she didn’t aspire to the married state but because she was, as she put it, still looking for the right man. She’d been out with a few she rather liked, but none of them had actually rather liked her. She didn’t know it, but her brash confidence and belief in half-baked theories didn’t appeal to most men, who wanted little more than a few drinks and an hour or two in bed.

“As I said, you suggested I’d invented my memories,” said Oliver, evenly, confidently.

“It does happen,” she wittered, “the human brain is a marvellous thing and with all the worrying you’ve done since you were five...”

“What worrying?” he asked, interrupting again.

“About your situation. About having the humiliation of being fostered...”

That did it for Oliver. Humiliation? He’d never felt humiliated, not even when he’d been moved in a summary fashion to his first foster home and the fishing with Bert.

“You know, Miss, this is actually the first time I’ve been humiliated,” he said evenly, “and it’s by you! I’ve lived a happy life so far, with good friends and better parents than most kids have, so what have I to be humiliated about…?”

“Ah, so you’ve been conditioned,” murmured Holly, “they said that might be the case, a sensitive boy conditioned by callous foster-folk who were in it for the money…”

The door opened, and Edina, the gentlest of women, stormed in.

“You can get out of my house!” she barked. “I’ve never heard such offensive talk in all my life!”

“So you were listening at the door, were you?” The smile was still there on the pudgy face, and now it was as false as the vermilion lipstick that highlighted it.

“Not really, but I heard what you were saying!” snapped Edina, “and you can be quite sure that I’m reporting what I just heard you say, to your employers, to the local newspaper, to anyone who’ll listen.”

“I heard it too,” put in Oliver, “I’ve never been so offended by anyone, suggesting that my mind isn’t my own!”

“So I’ll ask you to get out!” repeated Edina, “and if you need Oliver here to meet with his mother you’d better send someone better qualified than you are to arrange it, that’s all I can say!”

Holly Wetherall had sudden tears in her eyes, tears that contrasted oddly with her fixed grin that was still immovably in place.

“I’ll go,” she spluttered, “why does it always end like this? I do my best to help … I knew all the theories, recognise all the signs, and end up being complained about! Yet if I do nothing and a baby dies then it’s all my fault...”

With one last despairing look around the room she made her way out.

“Well I never!” said Edina, and she shivered.

“Don’t worry: there are no babies here,” said Oliver laconically.

© Peter Rogerson 08.01.17