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a job that defines me and so I’m drawn willingly back to the vacancy register.
    Fretting about the effect the encounter by the river would have on the progress Charlie has made with us, it takes a while for me to drop off to sleep.
    I needn’t have worried.
    The next morning Charlie runs to me with his arms outstretched. I reach out to him and clasp his hands in my own before bending my knees.
    â€˜Come on, then,’ I say, with a playful sigh.
    It’s a little routine we’ve got going and he gives a roar of delight, climbing onto my knees and then making the attempt to scale my thighs. I squat a bit lower to give him some purchase and he frowns, puffing his cheeks out with exertion. When his feet reach my tummy I straighten up and whizz him round in a circle. He giggles until the breath catches in his throat, then he hooks both legs around me and hangs back so that the top of his head brushes the floor.
    â€˜Wosie, ’gain, ’gain!’
    Two weeks later I pack the few clothes I’ve managed to buy for Charlie into a small suitcase, ready for him to move on. It’s a shame that he can’t stay with us; we’ve a vacancy but, following the recent introduction of a tiered allowances system, the local authority will save money if he’s moved to a less experienced carer.
    Since only experienced Level 3 carers can be placed on call, any child brought into care as an emergency – the most traumatic way to enter the system – faces another move soon afterwards. I sometimes think that social workers become desensitised to moving children on, not fully acknowledging the devastating impact that frequent moves have on a child’s psyche.
    Fortunately for Charlie, he’s moving on to a carer who lives locally and, knowing the family he’s going to, I’m confident that he’ll continue to thrive. As I help him into his new coat and shoes he leans into me, reluctant to leave. Phoebe hovers behind and my heart goes out to her. She looks bereft, perhaps reflecting on her own past loss and the ones that will inevitably follow.
    Emily and Jamie watch with glum faces as Charlie rests his head on my shoulder and plays with my hair. Later, I’ll soothe them with the knowledge that, even if we never see Charlie again, he’s woven into the fabric of our family by an invisible thread of memories. A picture of Charlie will join the montage of faces smiling out at us from our fostering album, embroidered into the tapestry of our lives and reminding us of all the many things we take for granted in our settled existence.

Epilogue
    One of the most frustrating things for a foster carer is to be left wondering how a child fares when they’ve left the foster home, so it was nice that Charlie went to a local family that I knew. I received regular updates on his progress and about a year after he moved on from us I heard that his birth father had been identified (after testing the DNA of a number of possibles suggested by his mother).
    Charlie’s father had no idea of the little boy’s existence and was overwhelmed but delighted by the news. Following an assessment by social services, Charlie went to live with his father and grandmother. He is now thriving, as much a gift for them as they are for him.

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A Small Boy’s Cry
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The Girl Without a Voice
by Casey Watson

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Chapter 1
    There are jobs and there are jobs, and my perfect kind of job has always been the kind where you wake up Monday morning with no idea what the week might have in store.
    Which was exactly the kind of job I
did
have, so it was definitely a blessing that my home life was, in contrast, so predictable.
    â€˜Mu-um!’ came my daughter’s plaintive voice from upstairs. ‘I can’t find my other black shoe! I have five minutes to get out of the door and I can’t find it anywhere! Have you seen it? Someone’s
obviously
moved