by Cathy Glass
‘Yeah, what do you take me for?’ he returned cheekily. No one corrected him, so I guessed that was how he usually spoke to his gran, and possibly to the other adults too.
‘Give us a kiss then,’ his gran said.
Samson went over and kissed her cheek and then, navigating his way around the clutter on the floor, he continued round the room, giving the two women a kiss on their cheeks and slapping the man on his shoulder. It wasn’t an emotional parting; saying goodbye seemed perfunctory, and the adults hadn’t taken their gaze from the television screen.
‘See you Friday then,’ his gran called after him as he shot from the room. ‘Be good.’
‘Yeah, see ya,’ he returned.
I went after him. It appeared we were seeing ourselves out and I called goodbye as we left. I was still carrying Paula, and Adrian was staying close beside me. Samson was already at the door with his hand on the doorknob ready to open it. ‘Bye, Bruno!’ he yelled at the top of his voice.
From somewhere in the flat the dog barked furiously.
Chapter Nine
Samson
Poor Adrian, his face was a picture and said it all. This wasn’t the playmate he’d envisaged and had been hoping for.
‘Where’s your car, missus?’ Samson demanded as we left the path that led from the flats and approached the designated parking area.
‘It’s that sliver Ford there,’ I said, pointing the fob at my car.
He sneered, unimpressed. ‘That ain’t much of a car. My last two carers had four-by-fours.’
‘Very nice,’ I said.
‘Give me the key then,’ he said, making a grab for the fob. ‘I’ll unlock it for you.’
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘Thank you anyway, but I can manage.’ I wasn’t putting Samson in charge of anything yet until I knew what he was capable of.
‘I’ll sit in the front then,’ he said, yanking the passenger door open.
‘No. Children ride in the back,’ I said, closing the door.
‘I always ride in the front in my uncle’s car,’ he protested.
‘Things are a bit different with me,’ I said, opening the rear door. ‘The law states that children have to ride in the back of a car with an age-appropriate seat and harness. We don’t want to break the law, do we?’
‘No. Blimey. We don’t,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to tell my uncle. He don’t need more trouble with the law.’
I hid my smile. With his streetwise, cheeky manner Samson reminded me of the Artful Dodger in the Dickens classic Oliver Twist, but it was already clear to me he was going to be hard work. I adjusted my previous expectations of putting in place ‘a few boundaries’ and the children all playing happily together, just as Adrian must have been adjusting his. Once I had all three children secured under their seatbelts in the rear of the car I began the drive home. It was a very lively journey. Samson talked non-stop at the top of his voice about anything and everything that came into his head, to the point where I was wondering if he was hyperactive.
‘Have you had breakfast today?’ I asked over his babble.
‘Yeah, of course. I always have breakfast. Our teacher says we must, so Gran makes me. I take it to my room and eat it.’
‘What did you have?’ I asked, glancing at him in the rear-view mirror.
‘Me usual. What I always have. A bowl of dry Chocca cereal and a Mars bar.’
‘And to drink?’
‘Lemonade. I like lemonade. Lemonade and Coke are me favourites.’
Little wonder he was buzzing, I thought, with all that sugar in his blood. Most parents will agree that food with a very high sugar content can make a child hyperactive. The effect is even more pronounced if eaten on an empty stomach, but once the sugar rush is over the child can easily become irritable and crave more sugar. I didn’t say anything, but I could foresee a confrontation looming when he didn’t have his sugary cereal and chocolate bar for breakfast. He resumed his chatter: why he didn’t like school, the horror films he watched with his (hero) dad, his boring aunts who were only interested in make-up and men, and then what he could see through his window. Adrian was very quiet; he didn’t say a word. I could see him in the rear-view mirror looking concerned, and Paula was staring at Samson open-mouthed and in awe, not sure what to make of him. As I pulled onto our driveway Samson was asking Adrian if he had a PlayStation.
‘No,’ Adrian replied quietly. ‘I’m not old enough.’
‘Of course you’re old enough, boy!’ Samson exclaimed. ‘Who said you weren’t?’
‘Me,’ I said, saving Adrian the embarrassment.
‘Jesus, missus! I had my PlayStation when I was three. It’s in me bedroom and I have it on when I like. Anything to keep me quiet.’
Doubtless Samson was repeating what one of the adults in the flat had said, and I appreciated why keeping Samson quiet with the PlayStation was an attractive option. Gran, the main carer, had very limited mobility, so she wouldn’t be able to take Samson out and give him the exercise a boy of his age needed. In the small, overcrowded flat, having Samson out of the way and entertaining himself must seem like a blessing. He clearly needed some exercise now to burn off all that excess sugar so that he calmed down.
‘It’s a lovely day, so you’ll be able to play in the garden,’ I said as I opened the rear door to let the children out. ‘We’ve got bikes, footballs and plenty of other garden toys and games.’
‘But I always watch television in the morning,’ Samson said, disgruntled.
‘We don’t usually have the television on in the day,’ I said. ‘But you can watch some this evening for a while.’
‘What’s a while?’ he asked, turning to Adrian.
Adrian shrugged.
‘About an hour,’ I said.
‘Fucking ’ell. That ain’t much telly, missus.’
Adrian stared at him, dismayed, aware that he’d said a really bad word. ‘Samson, we don’t swear,’ I said as I helped Paula from the car. ‘And please call me Cathy.’
‘OK,’ he said easily.
I locked the car and took hold of Paula’s hand, and we all walked up the path to the front door.
‘Do you often stay with foster carers?’ I asked Samson as I unlocked the door.
‘Yeah. It’s cos me gran can’t cope with me,’ he said. ‘I don’t think the other carers coped with me either, cos I never saw them again.’ Out of the mouths of babes, I thought, as I opened the door. He shot in ahead of me and down the hall. By the time I arrived in the living room he was sprawled on the sofa, backpack and shoes still on, with the remote control aimed at the television.
‘Samson,’ I said, taking the remote from him, ‘I said we weren’t watching television right now.’
‘Ain’t fair,’ he said, giving the sofa a kick.
‘And we take our shoes off in the house.’
‘But you said I was going in the garden, and I need me shoes out there, don’t I?’ he replied cheekily.
I crossed to the patio doors, released the catch and slid one door open. ‘Take off your backpack and you can go outside. See if you can run fifteen laps of the lawn. Do you know what a lap is?’
‘Yeah, of course. I ain’t silly. I’ve seen the runners do it on the television.’ He grinned, delighted by the challenge, and immediately stood. Slipping off his backpack he threw it on the floor and ran to the door.
‘On the count of three then,’ I said. ‘And no cheating. I’ll be watching. A lap is right round the edge of the lawn.’
‘Yeah. I’m ready,’ he said, adopting a sprinter’s starting position.
‘One, two, three, go!’ I cried.
With a flying leap he was out of the door, running across the patio and then around the edge of the lawn on his first lap. Adrian and Paula joined me on the patio to watch him. Samson’s face was set in concentration and his arms worked at his sides as he pounded around the imaginary track. ‘That’s one lap,’ I called as he passed. ‘Keep going.’ Our garden is rather long and narr
ow and mostly lawn, so one circuit was about 250 feet (or 76 metres) – a fair challenge for a six-year-old. ‘Two laps! Well done!’ I called a few moments later as he completed a second circuit. He was smiling broadly and waved as he went past as though on a victory run. ‘Good boy.’
Adrian, standing beside me, was still looking anxious. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, giving him a hug. ‘He’ll be fine, and I’ll keep a close eye on him.’
Although Adrian and Samson were of a similar age, that was where any similarity began and ended. Samson was thickly set, appeared to be physically strong and I guessed liked nothing more than play fighting, given the opportunity. Like many children I’d seen come into care he was self-sufficient from having largely brought himself up and meeting his own needs. He therefore assumed that he was in charge, not only of himself but everyone else, which wasn’t healthy for a six-year-old. It wasn’t his fault, but I knew that if these three days weren’t going to be a foster carer’s nightmare I needed to establish that I, the adult, was in charge, not him – in the nicest possible way, of course.
‘Three!’ I called as Samson sped past, his arms bent and fists working the air beside him. ‘Well done.’ I continued counting and praising him as he completed each lap until he reached fifteen. ‘Excellent!’ I said. He ran over to us and flopped onto the patio, exhausted.
‘I need a drink,’ he gasped, clutching his throat dramatically.
‘Of course. Take off your trainers and come inside.’
He kicked off his trainers and I led the way into our kitchen-cum-diner. ‘This is where you will sit at the table,’ I said, drawing out a chair.
He threw himself into it as though collapsing from exhaustion. ‘I’m knackered,’ he said.
Adrian silently took his place opposite Samson and I helped Paula onto her booster seat. She was mesmerized by Samson; I think he was the best entertainment she’d had in a long while.
‘What would you like to drink?’ I asked Samson. ‘Water, milk, juice or squash?’
‘Ain’t you got no fizzy drinks?’ he asked, his cheeks flushed from the exercise.
‘We only have fizzy drinks on special occasions, like birthdays,’ I explained.
‘Jesus, this ain’t much fun.’
‘The blackcurrant squash is nice,’ I suggested. ‘That’s what Adrian has.’
‘OK, give me one of those,’ he said as though ordering a shot in a bar.
‘Would you like something to eat?’ I asked him. ‘Adrian and Paula usually have a snack mid-morning.’
‘A biscuit. Chocolate if you’ve got them.’
‘I think you’ve had enough sweet things for the time being,’ I said. ‘Would you like a sandwich, or cheese on biscuits, or some fruit?’
‘Yeah. Cheese sandwich and crisps,’ he ordered. Then, looking at Adrian, he said, ‘It’s just like at the other carers’ with this “good” food and having to eat at the table.’
I smiled and thought that would at least make my life a little easier. While carers usually try to give the child what is familiar to them and keep to their routines as much as possible, I knew it was highly unlikely that the previous carers would have indulged his high-sugar diet or allowed extreme negative behaviour. We were therefore all coming from the same place, which would help, as Samson would already have some experience of my expectations.
I prepared the snacks and then sat at the table with the children while they ate. Samson didn’t have any table manners, but he did have a good appetite and thoroughly enjoyed the sandwich, crisps and squash, talking as he ate. As soon as he’d finished, before he’d swallowed the last mouthful, he leapt from his chair, ran into the living room and switched on the television. Leaving Adrian to keep an eye on Paula, I went after him.
‘I did say we weren’t watching television in the day,’ I said, taking the remote from him.
‘So what am I going to do with no telly or PlayStation?’ he asked. These had clearly been his life.
‘I’m going to show you around the house, and where you will sleep, and then I’ll organize a game in the garden.’
I hid the remote control out of sight, collected Adrian and Paula, who were still at the table but had finished eating, and began a tour of the house. Although Samson was slightly calmer now, he still entered each room like a spring uncoiling, dashing in, touching things, firing comments and then running out and into the next room. Paula had taken a shine to him and wanted to hold his hand, which he did for a while. He was gentle with her, so I felt that although he gave the appearance of being ready for a fight with boys his own age or older, he wouldn’t harm a toddler. I was more concerned about Adrian.
‘Can you kickbox?’ Samson asked Adrian on the landing, thrusting his foot in his face.
Adrian flinched and took a step back.
‘No. We don’t kickbox,’ I said.
‘My dad’s teaching me. Have you got a dad?’ he asked Adrian.
‘Yes,’ Adrian said quietly. ‘He’s working away.’
‘My dad works away too sometimes,’ Samson said. ‘Gran says it’s for Her Majesty’s pleasure.’ Being detained ‘at Her Majesty’s pleasure’ is a euphemism for being in prison, but I didn’t comment. As we entered Samson’s bedroom he suddenly turned and bolted out again. ‘I’ll get me bag!’ he yelled, pounding down the stairs. He returned a moment later with his backpack, which he threw onto the bed. Jumping on top of it, he unzipped it, pulled out the contents and stuffed them all in the nearest drawer. ‘I know you carers like us kids to unpack so we feel at home,’ he said.
It was true, but I usually helped the children unpack. It was sad that he’d had so much experience of being in respite care that he knew the routine. But then again, if having regular respite meant that his gran could cope and Samson could remain living at home, that was preferable to him having to live in care permanently. No one wants to see a family split up; it’s the last resort.
Having seen all the rooms upstairs we began downstairs, and Samson asked me what we were going to do now. Before I had a chance to reply he said, ‘Are you going to take me on outings like the other carers did?’
‘I was thinking of a day out tomorrow,’ I said, aware that this would no longer be a surprise.
‘Where?’ he demanded.
‘Well, there are lots of interesting places not too far away.’ I began listing them: ‘There’s the castle ruins, Merrymoor Farm, the zoo, the activity centre …’
But after each one Samson said, ‘Been there! Done it!’ as though he was winning some unnamed game.
Five minutes later I’d exhausted the list. He’d visited every place of interest within a fifty-mile radius. Many of the places Adrian and Paula hadn’t been to. Samson had had far more outings than an average child. Of course, it was the well-meaning foster carers who’d taken him, but sadly the regularity of the outings meant that they weren’t treats any more, but something he had to go along with as part of the package of respite care.
‘What would you like to do then?’ I asked. We were in the living room. He scratched his stubbled head in thought and then gazed down the garden.
‘Do more laps in the garden,’ he said, smiling.
‘Really? Well, we could,’ I said, ‘if you don’t want to go on an outing.’ But then I had an idea. ‘Samson, you’re obviously good at sports so let’s have a mini sports day of our own.’
‘Yeah!’ he cried, jumping up and down. ‘Like at school. I love sports day.’
Well done me, I thought. I took Paula’s hand and we all went out into the garden again. Samson and Adrian helped me organize what we needed for our sports day while Paula toddled after them. We began with running events – sprinting, circuits and relay. Then I balanced a garden cane across two stacks of bricks for the high-jump event, raising it after each go until the boys reached their maximum. Using the play sandpit, we held a long-jump event, and then egg and spoon races, using table-tennis balls balanced on dessertspoons. Paula joined in as best she could. For the sa
ck race the boys and I had a dustbin liner each to hop in, and I gave Paula a carrier bag, as she was much shorter. It was fun and I was pleased that Adrian was enjoying it as much as Samson. A few times I had to curtail Samson’s enthusiasm when he became too boisterous, and I steered him away from his idea of sharpening a garden cane for a javelin event and throwing bricks for shot put.
I took everyone indoors for lunch at one-thirty and then we continued the sports day in the afternoon. I promised a little prize-giving ceremony on Friday, the last day Samson was with us, which would give me a chance to put together some prizes. By the end of the afternoon everyone was exhausted and I settled the children in front of the television while I made dinner. Samson was worn out and no trouble, and I felt comfortable leaving him sitting on the sofa with Adrian and Paula, although I looked in regularly to check on them. After we’d finished eating I trusted Samson enough to leave him playing a board game with Adrian while I took Paula upstairs to bed.
‘Samon?’ Paula asked, making a good attempt at pronouncing Samson’s name.
‘Yes, Samson will be here in the morning,’ I said, tucking her in.
I took the boys upstairs to bed at 7.30 p.m., oversaw their washes and teeth cleaning and then, leaving Adrian in his bedroom, I saw Samson into his.
‘Can we have another sports day tomorrow?’ he asked as he climbed into bed.
‘Yes, if that’s what you would like to do.’
‘Yeah, I do. It was fun. Will you give me a goodnight kiss like I ask me gran to?’ he said.
‘Of course.’ Despite all his bravado, he still liked his goodnight kiss and hug.
I tucked him in and reminded him where my room was if he needed me in the night.
‘I’m not scared of the dark,’ he said, his cheeky little face peering up at me from under the duvet. ‘But I have me light on.’
‘That’s fine,’ I said. I adjusted the dimmer switch until the light was how he liked it. ‘Good night then, love.’
‘Night,’ he called as I came out. I drew the door to, but didn’t close it completely so that I could hear him if he called out or was out of bed.