by Cathy Glass
Wendy had been with us for nearly two hours by the time she stood to leave. I was very impressed both by the knowledge she had of the case and by her astute and sympathetic understanding of Reece. She went down the garden to say goodbye to him, and then left with the promise to see me again at the statement review meeting.
‘Have a good holiday,’ she said as she left.
‘Thanks. We will.’
I was determined we would have a good holiday. Feeling considerably relieved now that I had an ally in the Guardian, the following week we packed a suitcase, and early on Wednesday morning — very early, at 5.00 a.m. — climbed into the car and headed south. The early start was a huge adventure for Reece, but considerably less so for the girls. Teenagers seem to need more sleep, not less, as they grow older, and the girls were worried the impact the lack of it would have on their beauty.
‘I’ve got dark rings under my eyes,’ Lucy moaned, peering into her compact mirror, which had become a permanent appendage. ‘And eye bags!’
‘Gross,’ Paula said, when Reece wanted us to stop for fried egg and bacon. ‘Not at five o’clock!’
We did stop for breakfast at seven o’clock, when Reece had his fry-up, and the girls had the benefit of the well-lit mirror in the ladies, in order to apply the make-up that they said was necessary to counteract the damage of sleep deprivation. We arrived at our hotel at just gone twelve noon, and it was superb. The two rooms were next to each other, as I had requested. They were more like suites, with a large ‘living room’ area, Sky television, music centre, sofa and armchair, two four-foot single beds and generous en suites.
I had clarified with the hotel when I had booked that at least one of the rooms would have single beds rather than a double, as it wouldn’t be appropriate for a seven-year-old boy to share a bed with his carer. Lucy and Paula were impressed with their room, particularly the generous mirror allocation in the en suite. The hotel had once been a grand manor house and enjoyed panoramic views over the surrounding countryside and coast. From our first-floor bedroom windows we could see the bay, and further up a small harbour with half a dozen fishing boats. Reece had spotted seagulls from the car when we had taken the coast road, and now with them circling just outside the hotel window he set up a loud squawk.
‘No, darling,’ I said after a while. ‘You will need to be quiet as we leave the room. There are other guests in the hotel and they may not appreciate your seagull impersonations as much as we do.’
With a final squawk we left the room, collected the girls from next door and went to explore the coastline. Although there was a strong breeze it was relatively warm. We went down the steps at the front of the hotel and along a narrow lane that took us straight on to the beach. Reece was in his element on the beach, as we all were, for there is something about walking barefoot over the sand that brings out the children in us all.
Lucy and Paula, having overcome their initial concerns about wind damage to their hairstyles, helped Reece to collect a variety of shells and different pieces of seaweed. Then we all held hands in a line facing the sea and, with our trouser legs rolled to our knees, jumped over the small cold waves that broke steadily on to the shore. There was a beach café further along that had made its first opening of the season for the Easter holidays. We sat behind the windbreak they had erected and, looking out to sea, enjoyed toasted cheese sandwiches and hot chocolate. When we’d finished I bought a bucket and spade from the café’s little shop, and we spent a couple of hours making sandcastles, digging moats and watching the whole lot disappear with the incoming tide.
By 4.30 the sun was starting to lose its warmth and I suggested we head back to the hotel to get washed and changed for dinner. I had booked us dinner at the hotel for that evening, as I thought it would be easier than trying to find a restaurant after the long drive, but I now wondered if Reece would be able to sustain the time he would have to sit at the table waiting for the courses to arrive. When we’d passed the dining room as we’d left the hotel I’d noticed it had been laid out quite formally with silver service and a white linen tablecloth and napkins.
As it turned out I needn’t have worried, for when we went down to the dining room at seven o’clock the hotel staff were excellent. Although Reece was the youngest child there, the atmosphere was child friendly and the waitresses went out of their way to talk to him. I had taken the precaution of bringing crayons and a small colouring book to the table, as I did when we ate at restaurants at home. Reece was happy to sit and colour, with Lucy and Paula helping him, and when the courses arrived he was happy to eat. We had homemade vegetable soup, followed by roast chicken with all the trimmings and finally something from the all-too-tempting sweet trolley.
By the time we had finished, tired from the early start, being on the beach and eating ourselves to a standstill, it was nearly nine o’clock. We went up to our rooms and, leaving Paula and Lucy to watch television in bed, Reece and I said goodnight and went to our bedroom. I helped him with his wash, for he was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. When I tucked him in and kissed him goodnight, he let out a final squawk, and one very tired seagull closed his eyes and was asleep in seconds. I had a quick shower, changed into my nightdress and was asleep by ten o’clock.
When I woke with the early-morning light I was on my side, facing Reece’s bed. As my eyes opened I saw that his bed was empty. The adrenaline immediately kicked in and I sat bolt upright. Then I saw with great relief that he was standing in the bay window, looking out, probably watching for seagulls. He didn’t know I was awake, and I relaxed my head back on to the pillow and watched him for a few minutes. His little profile was completely entranced by the view outside. I could hear seagulls in the distance, fishing for their early-morning breakfast. Reece was very still and quiet, enthralled, and seemed to be deep in thought. He wasn’t a child who usually stood and pondered; like many young boys, once awake he was on the move. I watched him for some minutes; then he must have sensed I was awake, for he turned to look at me and grinned.
I was expecting a very large seagull squawk, in reply to those outside, but instead, his face still calm, he said quietly, ‘I like it here. There aren’t any secrets.’
I looked at him carefully. The word ‘secret’ can be loaded with connotations for an abused child and is often very different from the surprises that come with a birthday present or Christmas. Secrets for an abused child can be a threat from an adult: ‘This is our secret and if you dare tell anyone you will be
‘We don’t have secrets at home either, do we?’ I said.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I like it there too.’
I had a feeling, that sixth sense that comes from years of fostering and seeing children start to try to disclose, that Reece was trying to find the strength, the words, to tell me something; possibly he felt empowered by being right out of the catchment area of life with his mother.
‘Have you got secrets that you don’t like?’ I asked gently, staying where I was, propped on the pillow and not wanting to disturb the rapport.
He gave a small nod.
‘Can you tell me about them? Sometimes it helps to tell people you trust.’ He didn’t say anything but turned again to look through the window.
I slowly got out of bed and, slipping on my dressing gown, went to join him at the window. We both looked at the view. It was truly magnificent, and the morning sun, which was rising over the sea, made the water shimmer like highly polished glass.
‘I like it with you,’ he said. ‘You don’t have secrets.’
‘No, that’s right. We have nice surprises like this holiday. This was a nice surprise, wasn’t it, but no bad secrets.’ He was quiet again, watching the seagulls circling above. I felt he was so close to saying something. I could feel the tension; his trying to tell was almost palpable. So I took a chance. ‘Reece, the secrets you don’t like, are they from when you were living at home?’
‘Don’t know,’ he said quick as a flash, and I knew the moment h
ad gone.
‘OK, no problem. I just wondered,’ I said. ‘Reece, if you ever remember and want to talk, I’m good at listening.’
‘I know,’ he said. Then with a loud squawk he headed for the bathroom to get dressed.
We made the most of our one full day at the coast, for we had to return the following day by 5.15 for Friday’s contact. I used the car so that we could explore more of the coastline and surrounding area. In three separate stops we took in a small museum with dinosaur fossils, which Reece needed some convincing were real; the ruin of a medieval castle; and a ride on a steam train, which was part of an on-going restoration project to reinstate a local service made obsolete fifty years before. At a little after six o’clock I found a pub in a beautiful picture-postcard village with a family room, and we ordered our evening meal. The girls had a game of pool after we’d eaten while Reece played with another lad of a similar age who was on holiday with his family. We left at eight o’clock and, after nearly an hour’s drive back to the hotel, we were all in bed and asleep by ten o’clock. Although it was a pity we couldn’t have stayed a few more days, I felt we had made the most of the time, and had also showed Reece what a holiday was.
The following morning, after a magnificent cooked breakfast, we took in a walk on the beach, said goodbye to the seagulls and began the journey home. It being a Friday, the traffic was already building up in the afternoon as we left the A14 and joined the M6. Once on the motorway we stopped for the toilet at a service station, where I also bought sandwiches and packets of juice for Reece and the girls. They ate as I drove, and we arrived home at 4.30. The girls unpacked the car while I sat with a mug of tea and recovered from the drive. Reece had disappeared straight up to his bedroom, pleased to be surrounded by his possessions once again.
When Sabrina arrived to collect Reece for contact, I called up to him to come downstairs and put on his coat and shoes. I called him a second and then a third time, before he finally appeared.
Coming slowly down, he said: ‘I don’t want to go.’
It was the first time Reece had said he didn’t want to go to contact. While a child would never be forced to see their parents, contact was something that was encouraged at this stage in a placement. If there were good reasons why a child did not want to go, then contact could be stopped, but only after discussion with the social worker, who would have to apply to the court to have the judge’s order changed.
‘You want to go to see your mum and dad, don’t you?’ I asked him.
‘No,’ he said firmly.
‘Why not, Reece?’ I glanced at Sabrina, who was waiting in the hall.
‘Don’t know,’ he said.
I knew that ‘Don’t know’ wasn’t going to satisfy the judge, let alone Tracey, Scott and his social worker. ‘Reece,’ I said, bending forward to make eye contact, ‘if you really don’t want to go, you don’t have to. But I will need a reason to tell your social worker. Why don’t you want to go?’
‘Don’t know,’ he said again. Then, perhaps realizing the wider implications of not going, i.e. having to find a reason and possibly even tell a secret, he changed his mind: ‘OK, I’ll go.’
After I’d seen him out I set the washing machine going — I was surprised at how much washing the four of us had generated in only three days away — and then I wrote up my log notes for the time away, including Reece’s comment about secrets. Having finished the log notes I closed the diary and ignored the unpalatable fact that Tuesday 18 April, the start of the school term, was only four days away.
As if to underline that date, lest I should forget, in the mail was a letter from the head stating the arrangements for Tuesday morning. I was to bring Reece into school at 9.30 a.m., when Mrs Morrison would look after him while I attended the reintegration meeting, scheduled for 9.45. The head, Reece’s social worker, the head of year and I would be present, and the meeting was scheduled to last an hour.
When Reece returned from contact he seemed fine, although he did come in with a message from his mother: ‘Mum says you ‘ad better ‘ave me in school next week or else.’
I smiled sweetly. ‘You will be, darling. Don’t worry.’
Chapter Fifteen:
Set Apart
‘Have you had a nice Easter?’ Mrs Morrison said to us in reception. ‘Did you have lots of Easter eggs, Reece?
Reece nodded. ‘And I saw seagulls at the seaside, and I stayed in a ‘otel.’
‘We’ve had a lovely Easter, thank you,’ I confirmed. ‘Did you?’
‘Yes, thank you. The meeting is in the head’s room,’ Mrs Morrison said. ‘Reece and I will get on with some work. I know we’re going to have a really good term. We are going to use a table at one end of the canteen. Come with me, Reece, and I’ll show you.’
Good, kind Mrs Morrison was starting the new term afresh. I sincerely hoped her enthusiasm would rub off on Reece and ensure he did the same. I kissed Reece goodbye. Then I went along the corridor to the head’s office, where I knocked. He called, ‘Come in.’
There was just the head present, seated behind his desk and talking on the phone, talking to — I subsequently realized — Jamey Hogg.
‘Right, I’ll tell her,’ he tersely said, and replaced the receiver. ‘The social worker won’t be coming,’ he said to me. ‘He has been called to an emergency.’ He tutted. ‘I don’t suppose it matters too much. This meeting is more a formality than anything.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. I had attended reintegration meetings before, although not for some time, as all my recent foster children had been successfully in school.
‘The head of year can’t make it either,’ Mr Fitzgerald added. ‘He’s covering another class, where a member of staff is off sick. So it will just be the two of us.’ I nodded and waited. ‘I’ll start by going over the reasons for Reece’s exclusion, and the arrangements I have now put in place until he can be reassessed by the educational psychologist.’
I sat and listened as Mr Fitzgerald went over the contents of the report he had emailed to me, incident by incident, and then finished by saying that the ed psych (educational psychologist) would be observing Reece in school, retesting him, and once her report was available, a statement review meeting would be called. He added that he sincerely hoped the ‘arrangements’ he had put in place for Reece would minimize the chances of a similar incident taking place.
‘So will Reece be having any contact with the other children?’ I asked.
‘Not to begin with. If he settles down we will think about reintroducing him to the class, starting with a PE lesson.’
‘You don’t think he will become frustrated working one-to-one all day with Mrs Morrison? It’s very intensive, and not just for Reece.’
‘I have arranged for Mrs Morrison to have her lunch hour and for another TA to sit with Reece.’
There wasn’t really much I could say, apart from what the Guardian had advised me to ask for. ‘Could I have a copy of Reece’s IEP, please? It would be useful so that I can help him at home.’
Mr Fitzgerald looked slightly taken aback. ‘I haven’t got it to hand,’ he said. ‘In fact I’m not sure I’ve seen one yet.’
What! I thought. The school should be working from one, and also drawing up a new one, given the time that had elapsed since Reece had left his last school. The IEP is what it says: an individual education plan, detailed and tailored to the child’s educational needs i.e. what the child is working on now and what he or she will be progressing to in the future.
‘Reece should really have a current IEP,’ I said, aware I was probably making myself even more unpopular but determined to get Reece what he should be having in school: an education.
‘I’ll ask our SENCO,’ the head said, referring to the special educational needs coordinator. ‘But she works part time, so it will have to be tomorrow.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, and continued with the next Guardian-inspired question, which was probably going to reduce my popularity even further: ‘Is the
re a behavioural management plan for Reece?’
The head looked at me completely nonplussed, as though he’d never heard of one.
‘It might be useful to have one,’ I continued, ‘in the light of what has happened. Then all the staff will be working with the same strategies in managing Reece’s behaviour.’
‘I’ll look into it,’ he said, dourly, and made a note on a piece of paper on his desk. ‘Well, I think that’s all. Let’s hope the new arrangements improve Reece’s disposition, and that the ed psych comes up with something. How long do you think Reece will be staying with you?’
I had been waiting for this question, the ‘get-out clause’. ‘It’s difficult to say. The final court hearing is in September, so a decision on Reece’s future will be made then.’
‘Is it possible he could come back here in the autumn term then?’ the head asked, trying to hide his dismay.
‘Oh yes. I would imagine he will be with us until Christmas, whatever happens in court.’ Which wasn’t what he wanted to hear — not at all.
The head’s ‘new arrangements’, as he called Reece’s segregation, far from helping Reece made his behaviour worse. It was obvious from the end of day one that Reece was very unhappy about his exile. He had grumbled to Mrs Morrison that he wanted to be with the other children, refused to do any work and hardly eaten any lunch — which for Reece was unheard of. When I met him at the end of the second day, Mrs Morrison took me to one side and said Reece had been miserable all day, and despite her best efforts, all she had succeeded in doing was keeping him occupied; she hadn’t been able to teach him anything. I could see that she was as unhappy as Reece was with the new ‘arrangement’, but while she expressed her concerns to me, as a (new) TA she didn’t feel able to take her worries to the head (although I doubted it would have done much good).