A Boy Without Hope

by Casey Watson

  First things first, I told myself. ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it,’ I told Libby. ‘The most important thing initially is to get him to that meeting and try to get him a starting date, isn’t it?’

  Libby downed her juice. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘And fingers crossed we’ll be all set for September.’

  ‘September? If they offer him a place, why can’t he start now? Is the place not available yet?’

  She looked surprised. ‘Not that they’ve said, but I think September will be the better option anyway, surely? I’m not sure he’s in the best emotional place to be thrown in at the deep end. What with all the upheaval he’s already been through.’

  I was tempted to point out that he was already in the deep end. And the small matter that I felt like I was drowning in it. ‘Libby, he needs to be in school,’ I said. ‘As soon as possible. Trust me. All this holing up in his room is only making things more difficult.’

  ‘But a period of adjustment …’

  Count to ten, Casey. She really wasn’t getting it. ‘Seriously, Libby, I really think –’

  ‘And I’ve also got a couple of trips for him half-planned over the next couple of weeks. One of our play-workers I’ve been liaising with is –’

  ‘Which is great but, as I say, I think the priority is school.’

  I could see I was getting nowhere, so I gave up even trying. No point arguing over something that was still only hypothetical, after all. But if he did get a place, then I’d be ready. With six long weeks of school holidays looming over me – coming ever closer – two weeks of Miller in a school, as in out of my sight, was beginning to feel like the only way I could even consider the future without mentally screaming.

  So I would be more than ready. I would be an unstoppable flipping force. ‘Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ I said brightly. ‘In the meantime –’

  ‘I should pop up and say hello to the little monkey, shouldn’t I? Unless you want to try and coax him down? Though if he knows I’m here, he’s unlikely to want to, is he? So maybe best if I just slip upstairs and surprise him. What do you think? He must be bored out of his mind stuck indoors all day, day after day, mustn’t he?’ Count to ten, Casey. ‘So at least if I’m the bearer of good news about some trips and a possible school place, I’ve got the tactical advantage, haven’t I?’

  ‘Indeed you have,’ I agreed, marvelling at how she could refer to him so benignly then talk in terms of a war campaign all in the same thought process. But perhaps that was the central conundrum in dealing with a boy like Miller, right there. ‘Yes, of course,’ I added. ‘Go on up.’

  Libby did so, and, glancing at the time, I decided I’d use a bit of it in deciding what to have for lunch – something else which was still a major headache. Though I still felt in the dark about lots of aspects of Miller’s behaviour – there had sadly been no re-run of his unguarded moment about the toy train – I was now an expert on the vagaries of his eating peccadillos. Even if I didn’t yet know what they meant.

  For starters, if he came down too late for what he considered to be the right time for breakfast, he would refuse to eat anything till lunchtime. Literally nothing I could say would convince him that it was okay to have toast or cereal or a bacon sandwich at, say, ten o’clock. He would simply frown – even look upset – and decline any offer of food, preferring to go hungry, and eat ‘lunch’ food at what he considered to be lunchtime. And, even if he was ravenous, not a single moment earlier.

  A lot of kids had food fads. I knew this from experience. And that some of them were often seemingly inexplicable in their regulations. A former foster child, Georgie, for instance, would only eat what he considered ‘white’ foods, such as rice, white bread, white-coloured sauces and pasta. And would freak if offered anything else. But then Georgie had been quite profoundly autistic, and set in that context his obsession with colour rather than taste did make some sense.

  Similarly, our first foster child, Justin, had food issues. He too was obsessed with timings – specifically what time his next meal was going to be served. Until he had this confirmed – in writing, on a chart on the fridge door – he couldn’t relax, and woe betide us if we subsequently ate late. But, again, Justin had been neglected to the point of being half-starved, so fear of going hungry was a very real emotion for him.

  Miller’s rules around food, though, still foxed me. Though I was beginning to realise that it wasn’t just about controlling us – it was about exerting control over himself. It was almost as if he was punishing his own body. If he was awake at eight, and I called up to coax him down for breakfast, he’d call back ‘eight-oh-three’ and all would be well. But if he had decided the night before that he would get up at eight and didn’t – slept in till nine, say – then it was no good me trying to make him eat anything. No ‘nine o’clock, three minutes past nine’ rule applied. Having had his own body clock fool him, he’d refuse to eat at all.

  And, of course, my suggestion that perhaps I should wake him at a set time every morning – such as he’d have to adhere to, of course, when back in school – was greeted with predicable haughty disdain. Because that, of course, was ceding control.

  Oh, he was a puzzle, and no mistake, as my mum might have said.

  ***

  Libby was back down within ten minutes. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, the bright sunny smile having packed its bags now. ‘He really does hate me. It’s as simple as that. He only spoke one word the whole time I was up there, and that was ‘nope’. He was rolled up in his duvet, and all I could do was ramble on, trying to get him to say something – anything.’

  ‘And how about the school visit?’ I pressed. ‘How did he react to that?’

  ‘Like I just told you. That was all he said. “Nope.” He really is a little …’

  ‘… boy with a bit of a god complex,’ I interrupted. I really didn’t have the stomach to hear her favourite term for him again. ‘Leave it with me, Libby,’ I said, for a second time. ‘We shall have him at that school appointment tomorrow, one way or another. Don’t worry. I’ll sort it. I’ll see you there at ten.’

  The smile returned. ‘Well, if anyone can, you can,’ she said.

  And that’s because, I thought, I have never wanted anything quite so badly.

  ***

  I saw Libby out and went back into the kitchen, and stared up at the ceiling, almost as if, at least if I looked hard enough, I might be able to see into Miller’s room. Into his head. How should I play this? Softly, softly, or a no-nonsense, tough-talk approach?

  But I was interrupted in my reveries by the very antithesis of ‘softly, softly’ as Tyler bounded in through the front door. ‘Woo hoo!’ he yelled, throwing his backpack dramatically across the kitchen floor before doing a victory dance. Or something like that, at any rate. ‘I did it, Mum – I actually did it! I finished my last exam!’ He then punched one arm into the air, leaned his head back dramatically and, in a voice vaguely resembling that of Mel Gibson as William Wallace, yelled, ‘Freeeeeeedom!’

  I couldn’t help but laugh at his theatrics. ‘Oh, well done,’ I said, hugging him. ‘I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. And so’s your dad. We should plan something to celebrate.’

  ‘Steady on, Ma,’ he laughed. ‘I don’t get my results for six weeks yet. Doing them’s one thing, but passing them is another thing altogether.’

  ‘Give over,’ I scoffed. ‘You’ve worked so hard, love. I just know you’ll have done well. So. What should we do? Go out for a meal or something?’

  Now it was Tyler’s turn to tilt his head up to the ceiling. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Mum?’ he said. ‘Like Mister “I-don’t-want-to-do-anything” up there? Nah, I thought I might just do something with Denver and a few other guys tonight, if that’s okay.’ He grinned his cheeky grin. The one that had always melted me. ‘And maybe you could celebrate by giving me some, um, money?’

  I went to punch his arm, even while knowing that we’d do exactl
y that, but then another thought stopped me in my tracks. Now that Tyler had finished school, perhaps tomorrow’s school visit for Miller might not be so difficult after all. Much as I hated the thought of using Tyler to my own ends, I was already having a eureka moment. And not just for my own ends, either. Perhaps roping Tyler in with helping me with Miller might just change the dynamic between the two of them. Perhaps it would give Tyler a stronger sense that he was in the driving seat a little more, and diffuse some of the tension that had built up between them. Responsibility was empowering for kids; I knew that from my days running the Behaviour Unit in school. Plus it might help make Miller see that we were a united team – all of us. It certainly couldn’t do any harm.

  ‘Oh, of course we’ll pay for whatever it is you want to do, love,’ I reassured him. ‘And yes, it does make much more sense for you and your friends to do something fun tonight. We’ll just go out for a nice family meal down the line. But, Ty, I might need a little favour from you tomorrow. Which would mean you getting up early. Are you up for that?’

  Tyler held out his hand. ‘Deal,’ he said, as we shook. ‘And I’m guessing it involves looking after Miller?’

  ‘Not quite,’ I said, winking. ‘Come on, let’s get a sandwich and I’ll fill you in on my cunning plan ...’

  Chapter 13

  The next day, as I’d asked him to, Mike woke me up early. ‘I’m ready to set off to work, lovey,’ he whispered, placing a mug of coffee on the bedside table, ‘but are you absolutely sure you wouldn’t like me to phone in and take the morning off?’

  When we’d discussed it the previous evening, he’d been more than happy to do so; he knew full well how important it was that we managed to get Miller into some sort of school. And if we didn’t manage to pull it off today, it was almost a given that our next shot at doing so wouldn’t be happening till September. We were just too close to the summer holidays now.

  The school summer holidays … all six long weeks of them. I couldn’t even begin to think about that. But at the same time, I felt confident that we could do it.

  ‘No, no,’ I said, shuffling to a sitting position and reaching for my coffee. ‘You go off to work, love. And don’t worry. Me and Tyler have this, I promise.’

  Mike frowned. ‘To be honest, I’m still not sure we should be getting Tyler involved with it all, Case. Not just because it’s getting him to do our dirty work, either. It just feels a bit too much like we’re admitting defeat.’

  I tutted at him. ‘Oh, don’t say that, Mike! You make it sound like I’m forcing him to do something horrible. Which I’m not. Well, apart from dragging him out of bed early, which hardly counts as child abuse, does it? I’m simply using him as an incentive, to encourage Miller to attend the visit, and with his full agreement, I might add.’

  ‘I get that,’ Mike conceded. ‘I know he’s as keen to get him out of the house as we are. But I heard him on the phone to Denver last night after you’d gone to bed, and I’m not sure he’s quite on message in terms of the word “encouragement”. The way he seems to see it is as “by any means necessary”. So I’ve told him in no uncertain terms that under no circumstances is he to get in a scuffle with the lad. Seriously, love, it’s not muscle we need here. If it ends up coming to that then we’re on a hiding to nothing.’

  I couldn’t help but smile as I gave him his goodbye kiss. ‘As if it even would!’ I said. ‘Honestly, Mike, I’m not bloody Ma Baker!’

  Nevertheless, I did still feel a little guilty. Truth be known, Mike was right. I shouldn’t have been enlisting Tyler’s help in the first place. And though I didn’t anticipate a scene, because our plan was a subtle one, I wasn’t naïve enough to assume that just because Tyler was involved, Miller would miraculously find the whole idea thrilling. Still, it was decided now, and Tyler had already done his ‘homework’, so all I could do was cross my fingers.

  With both my coffee and ruminations finished, I got up and showered before going downstairs to sort out some breakfast, then, as per the plan, went into the hall and shouted up the stairs. ‘Tyler! Time to get up, love! We don’t want to be late. Can you make sure Miller gets up too please?’

  ‘Already up, Mum!’ Tyler yelled back. ‘I’ll be down as soon as I’ve got Miller up and ready!’

  I then waited patiently at the bottom of the steps to listen to what might follow. If a bad tone was set, it could set in for the day. I heard Tyler calling Miller’s name as he went into his room, and a few moments later heard, ‘Come on, mate, don’t ignore me’. Then some unclear mutterings before Tyler appeared at the top of the landing, with a grin on his face, and his thumbs in the air. ‘He’s getting dressed,’ Ty called down – loudly enough so that Miller could hear him. ‘I’ve explained how I’ve been wanting to take a look at this school for ages, so I could see the huge motorbike track they have there.’

  This threw me into confusion. ‘You shouldn’t have said that!’ I scolded as Tyler followed me into the kitchen. ‘He’s going to go mad when he realises you’ve made that up.’

  Tyler rolled his eyes. ‘Mum, I haven’t. Did you even bother checking out their website? They do have a bike track. The whole place looks amazing. More like a holiday camp than a school, if you ask me.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Motorbikes? Wow! I bet he’ll be impressed with that and, for your information, mister clever clogs, I did look at the website. I just didn’t have a chance to go through every single page. Any other delights we could point out to him?’

  ‘Oh, loads,’ Tyler said, grabbing his cereal box from the cupboard. ‘You’ll see. There’s all sorts of amazing extra-curricular stuff that you don’t get at normal schools.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t say “normal” schools, Ty,’ I said, as I passed the milk. ‘I get into enough trouble as it is for not being politically correct. It’s just a different school – focusing on behaviour, that’s all. We shouldn’t really start making comparisons.’

  Whatever remark Tyler was about to make died on his lips, as Miller walked into the kitchen and scraped a chair out from under the table. He put his head into his hands and banged his elbows as he slumped forwards, clearly not willing to engage in any morning chatter.

  ‘Morning, love,’ I said brightly. ‘Cereal? Toast? Or would you like something else for breakfast? We’ve got a long drive ahead so best to eat something.’

  I waited for him to respond but he just shook his head. ‘Not hungry yet?’ I asked. ‘Well, no worries, in that case. I’ll put a few bits on the table and if you fancy trying anything, just help yourself. If not, it’s not a problem. I’m sure it won’t kill you to wait for lunch.’

  Again, no response. I also noticed that Miller had not put on any of the clothes I had washed, ironed and neatly laid out for him the night before. Instead he was wearing a pair of trackie bottoms he’d arrived with – ones that were clearly too small and showed around four inches of his socks. Mismatched socks, moreover – one fluorescent orange and one blue. He also sported a crumpled T-shirt, a similarly creased hoodie and a pair of ancient trainers with holes in the toes.

  In short, he looked like he’d got dressed at a church-hall jumble sale. With the lights off. ‘What was wrong with the clothes I sorted out for you, Miller?’ I asked mildly. ‘The ones you’ve chosen look too small for you, love. Do you want to go get changed again? Choose something different?’ I carefully avoided making mention of making a good impression, but the unspoken hint was, of course, there anyway.

  ‘No!’ Miller snapped, finally raising his head and glaring. ‘I chose these. I like these. I am going to wear these clothes. I should be allowed to choose my own clothes at my age.’

  He was spoiling for a row. Nothing new there. But he wasn’t going to get one. There was no point in having one over something so trifling. I would surely have some time alone with the school staff to explain that I hadn’t selected his attire and that it was probably his intention to dress to un-impress. Instead, I dug out a yoghurt, plus some grapes, strawb
erries and blueberries, and placed them on a plate along with a glass of milk and a cereal bar. ‘There you go, love,’ I said, as I put the plate on the table. ‘Help yourself, and you are right, of course, you are most definitely old enough to choose what to wear.’

  ‘Charming!’ Tyler called out, his mouth filled with muesli. ‘Miller gets all that lot and I get a bowl of rabbit food.’

  I knew Tyler was only teasing; trying to lighten the mood, and perhaps diffuse his own irritation, but Miller clearly wasn’t having any of it.

  ‘You can fucking have it!’ he growled, his face pinched and contorted. ‘I don’t eat that shit.’ He pushed the plate away, causing the glass of milk to topple and spill all over the table.

  Tyler jumped up to avoid the white stream falling onto his jeans. ‘What the hell?’ he shouted. ‘Go get a cloth and sort this mess out, Miller. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Gr-eat. ‘Tyler, leave it, love,’ I said, as I hastily reached for a tea towel. ‘Miller, I’m not having this behaviour in this house, do you hear me? Now go sit in the living room until we’re ready to leave, please.’

  As if he’d been waiting for this exact situation to come about, Miller smirked as he stood up and pushed the chair away from him. ‘I’ll have “a little think about my behaviour” while I’m there as well, shall I?’ He put the words in finger quote marks. ‘I’m not fucking five!’

  I could almost feel the waves of anger emanating now from Tyler. ‘Get out of here,’ he said, his voice even but loaded. ‘And don’t you dare speak to my mum like that. Ever. You really don’t want to test me, mate. Got that? Because I mean it. You’re lucky it’s me here just now – not Riley or Kieron. Now do as my mum says and get in that room!’

  Grrrr-eat, I thought again. This was going really well.

  Miller marched away as instructed, but in a ridiculously comic manner, lifting each leg almost up to his chin before taking every step, putting me in mind of Mr Bean. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so bloody infuriating. ‘And what will they do?’ he yelled, as he slammed the door behind him. ‘I’m a foster kid, remember. They can’t touch me!’