by Casey Watson
‘Just incredible,’ said Mike, shaking his head again.
‘Quite,’ agreed John. ‘Anyway, so that’s where we’re at. And obviously why I’ve fetched up on your doorstep with young Jenson. And the main reason I didn’t call first was that I’d originally planned on seeing if I could take him to one of our regular respite carers – in all probability, this is only going to be for a few days or so, after all – but she called back just after we picked him up to say she doesn’t want to commit to it any more – had second thoughts as she’s got a holiday abroad booked in a week’s time, and if it runs over …’ Mike and I exchanged a look. ‘Well … we obviously wouldn’t want to send him from pillar to post, would we? And then I thought of you two –’
Who were free, of course. In theory at least. ‘You don’t have a child lined up for the programme right now?’ I asked him. In the normal course of events we’d be given a specific child with that in mind. And for a long-ish placement, because the programme took roughly nine months to complete.
‘Yes and no,’ John said. ‘There are a couple of cases going to panel next week, both of which children are potentially suitable to come to you, but as that’s likely to take us into the following week – given that they’ll need to make a decision and then do an introductory visit and so on … Well, that was why I had my eureka moment and ended up here. Since this is definitely short term.’
I laughed out loud. ‘Oh, John, you are priceless! How many times have we heard that before!’
John shuffled on his feet a little, looking like a naughty schoolboy who’d been hauled into a head teacher’s office. Not that it mattered to us whether it was short term or long term. A child who needed a home was a child who needed a home. And if there was a child subsequently who would benefit from completing our specialist programme but as a consequence couldn’t do it with us, then so be it. There were other specialist carers. And that was the agency’s business. Not ours.
‘Fair comment,’ John said. ‘But, as I say, this time I think it will be … Look, I know these cases can be notoriously difficult to second guess – it depends so much on the individual judge on the day – but given the neighbour’s comments I see no reason why they won’t go straight back to Mum’s – rap on the knuckles, some sort of supervision order, and so on. Case closed. And even in the worst-case scenario, which we’re not even thinking about right now, obviously, well, it would probably be long-term foster care, with a regular mainstream foster family. Which, for a straightforward kiddie like this, shouldn’t be too much of an ask. They’re okay kids, both of them, according to the neighbour. Though I should tell you,’ he added, having obviously had an afterthought, ‘that the school is slightly less charmed by our little chap here.’ He glanced out of the window, to where Jenson was indeed bouncing on the trampoline. ‘Bit of a tendency to truant and also something of a handful, we were told. And that’s literally all I can tell you – we were only there a few minutes.’
He looked from one to the other of us. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What do you say? You can obviously say no, because I have no business dumping this on you without warning. And you might have a holiday planned yourselves, of course …’
Which would have been an easy thing to say, and also true – well, sort of. But I couldn’t think of a single reason not to step in here, and I knew Mike would feel the same. This was what we did – took in children who needed a loving temporary home. And we could certainly provide that. And one with, by the looks of it, more supervision and more boundaries. You couldn’t do a lot in a couple of weeks, admittedly, but you could always do something.
‘Well?’ I began, turning to Mike. ‘I’m up for it, if you are, love.’ But just as I’d got the words out, we all heard a roar of laughter from the garden. Riley’s voice. We all turned to look.
Marie was standing on the patio, Riley seated at the table beside her, both in stitches watching Jenson, who’d evidently become bored of trampolining, execute a perfect Michael Jackson moonwalk across the garden, accurate in every detail, right down to tilting an imaginary trilby hat. Once again, his cheeky grin seemed to light up his whole face, and I got that familiar prickle at the back of my neck.
‘One thing,’ John cautioned, ‘before they come in. We’ve decided to say nothing to the kids at the moment – you know, about the possible outcomes we discussed. As far as Jenson is concerned, he’s just staying with you till his mum gets back from holiday. End of. No point in stressing him any further.’
‘Of course,’ I said, beckoning the three of them back inside. Poor child. Poor children. How could any mother do that? I turned back to John. ‘And fingers crossed that’s exactly how things will turn out.’
A bemused Riley, plus Marie, plus Jenson came in then. ‘Yep, this’ll do,’ he was telling Marie as they crammed through the doorway. ‘I’ll stay for a bit.’ He turned to me. ‘Is there owt for tea, though? I’m Hank Marvin.’ He grinned at me. (Shyness clearly wasn’t an issue here.) ‘That means “starving”,’ he helpfully translated.
I grinned back. ‘I think we can rustle something up for you,’ I told him. ‘Since you’re staying.’ I was touched by what I reckoned had to be a carefully feigned nonchalance. Deep inside, for all his air of confidence and jocularity, I didn’t doubt at least a part of him was anxious and afraid.
‘Yeah, well, I’ll stop for a bit,’ he confirmed.
So that was that then. No paperwork, no pack drill, no lengthy introductions. Just a boy with a green holdall and a promise from Marie to keep us up to speed re any developments. So while Mum basked in the Costa-del-shame-on-you with her boyfriend, it seemed we had a new occupant for our blue room.
Chapter 3
No two cases are the same in our line of business – how could they be? No two children are the same. But you do pick up experience, and a nose for what’s what, along the way, and though we’d had to bypass the usual procedure of initial meetings and briefings, what we had here in Jenson seemed pretty straightforward: a little boy who was being brought up by what looked like a fairly neglectful parent. Not the worst parent in the world – and we’d experience of a few in that category – but certainly not one who, on the face of the little we did know, made bringing up her children as much of a priority as some. And that was evident from the minute John and Marie left.
Here was a child clearly used to a fair degree of freedom; used to sorting himself out, while his mum was probably otherwise engaged. As a result, two things weren’t terribly high on his agenda: cleanliness and manners.
‘I don’t want no one goin’ in here unless I say so,’ he announced, after we’d trooped up to the blue bedroom, and he’d had a chance to inspect it for himself. He waggled his 9-year-old finger at me to press his point home, as well, and I could see that his fingernails were filthy. Had he seen much in the way of soap and water since his mum had taken off? I doubted it. A decent haircut and a shampoo wouldn’t go amiss either.
Riley was standing next to me on the landing and I tried not to catch her eye. I knew if I did I’d have trouble keeping a straight face. Ditto Mike, who I could see was struggling mightily.
‘Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,’ he told Jenson. ‘We have rules here about people going into other people’s bedrooms. Tell you what, how about we go back downstairs, get you a drink and a biscuit, and we sit down and have a chat about how things work here. That a plan?’
Jenson sniffed. ‘Yeah, I s’pose,’ he said, thrusting his hands in his trouser pockets and yanking them up a little. I could see they had no button.
‘And I’d better head back,’ said Riley, as we all trooped downstairs again. She checked her watch. ‘And get my two to bed. So maybe I’ll see you again soon, Jenson,’ she said once she’d grabbed her handbag. Jenson sniffed again, noisily, and I made a mental note about nose blowing. ‘Nah, I doubt it,’ he said. ‘I’ll be off home soon, I ’spect. Oh an’ Mike,’ he added, as he followed him into the kitchen. ‘Just so you know, I don’t do bedtimes
.’
It was nice to let Mike take charge of setting out the house rules. Usually, that was something I’d do, as almost invariably Mike would be at work. He was a warehouse manager – had been for most of his working life – which meant early starts and more Saturday-morning stints than I’d have liked. I also had a hunch that it would be good for Jenson too, as from what little we knew of his home set-up he wasn’t used to a great deal of discipline from Mum.
I popped out into the garden with a tray, to clear what was left of tea, and left them to it. I was hoping Mike would be able to get the best out of Jenson now that he’d found himself in the negotiating seat. It was obvious that Jenson thought little of rules and was clearly used to getting his own way. Not so much of a big deal for our family – we’d been fostering a while now, so we were used to this – but something that I mentally added to my list of priorities for this kid.
There was a chill in the air now, and a breeze; we’d clearly had the best of the day already. Then I came in and prepared a plate of biscuits and a glass of squash for Jenson, before stacking the dishes to deal with later and going to join them.
‘Right,’ Mike was saying. ‘So here’s what we like to do.’ I saw he’d already been to the drawer where we kept copies of our likes and dislikes questionnaire. It was something we’d done from the outset, following on from the training we’d been given; it always helped to settle a child more quickly if you could introduce some continuity by letting them continue doing the activities they liked, watching favourite TV programmes, being given food that they were used to and enjoyed. Mike explained that they’d go through all Jenson’s likes and dislikes together, and then quickly run through what was and wasn’t allowed in our house.
Jenson looked mildly suspicious as he took a biscuit and began munching on it hungrily. ‘Okay,’ he said, through his mouthful. ‘But I’m not a kid, you know. Like I say, I don’t do bedtimes and all that kind of stuff. All you need to do is feed me and wash me clothes if they get mucky. Oh, an’ get me up in the morning for school, cos I’m crap at doing that.’ He grinned then. ‘An’ so’s me mum. Half the time she forgets to wake me up altogether, and then I get done by the teachers.’
‘Oh, dear,’ I said. ‘Sounds like you could do with an alarm clock.’
‘Nah,’ he said, ‘’s okay. It don’t matter that much. If they start on me she just goes up and gives them holy hell.’
Once again, I had to fight the urge to meet Mike’s eye in case my face cracked.
‘Okay,’ said Mike. ‘And don’t worry, we’ll certainly do that. And that’s the thing, really. That’s how things are done at your house, but in our house we play it a little differently. For a start,’ he pointed out mildly, ‘we don’t like using swear words – even “crap” – and we definitely do have bedtimes.’ He turned to me. ‘Casey, what do you reckon is a fair bedtime for a boy of Jenson’s age? Let’s start with that.’
It took a further half hour of CIA-style negotiating, but we finally had a list of dos and don’ts that Jenson had reluctantly agreed to. We’d set his bedtime as 7.30 p.m. on school nights and 8.30 p.m. at weekends, explained the rules about TV time, and compiled a list of all the foods he liked and disliked, which in the first column included smiley potato faces, pepperoni pizza and chocolate ice cream, and in the second one crab, which he explained he’d been made to eat once and it had made him so ill that he’d been in ‘tensish care’ for a week.
‘They shouldn’t call it crab,’ he said vehemently. ‘They should call it crap!’ Then, realising he’d already broken rule one on the list, he looked sheepishly down at his glass of squash.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I reassured him. ‘We won’t give you that. We’d don’t eat a lot of crab around here, either.’
‘So am I done, then?’ he asked, glancing at both of us in turn. ‘Can I go and sort my stuff out in my room, then?’
‘Go on,’ said Mike. ‘Fine. I think we’re pretty much done here. Off you go.’
Jenson duly trotted off. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on,’ I said, rising from my chair also, and heading off to the kitchen with the glass and now empty biscuit plate.
When I returned, Mike was grinning to himself. ‘What?’ I asked him.
‘Didn’t you hear?’ he answered. ‘You must need your ears syringing or something. Young Jenson, as he went upstairs, muttering to himself.’
‘Saying what?’
‘Saying, “This is well crap. Just as well it’s only a few bloody days.” Something along those lines, anyway.’
But for all our smiles about this uncomplicated-seeming little boy, there was a part of me braced for something darker. He put me very much in mind of Spencer, a boy of around Jenson’s age that we’d fostered the previous year. A boy so feral – for all sorts of complicated reasons – that it had been a job keeping him under our roof and safe. For much of his time with us – and he was with us several months – we’d had to keep him almost under house arrest. And when he did get out … well, suffice to say that we’d been in our present home just six months, and the reason we’d had to move here (which was fine – we loved our new home and neighbourhood) had been directly related to little Spencer. We’d not been asked to go – our landlord was very understanding about our fostering, but after over a decade in our street, our neighbours had actually got a petition together to have us moved, so numerous were the crimes of theft and vandalism and bullying that the cherubic-looking Spencer had carried out. We’d dubbed him a ‘one-person walking crime spree’ and the description had been accurate. It had been one of the biggest reliefs of our short fostering career that his not inconsiderable family problems had been addressed, and with it, his behaviour as well. He was now back with his mum and, well, so far so good …
No, I thought, Jenson couldn’t possibly be as challenging as Spencer.
But he was going to be a little challenging – we should expect that as a matter of course. Given the school’s warning, the knowledge we already had of his truancy and the fact that, like his sister, he probably thought he should still be at home, we’d be naïve not to see the potential.
And go to school he must. Marie had called us mid-evening, after Jenson had gone to bed, and confirmed what she’d suggested was the case when they’d left us; that they felt it best that Jenson stick to his usual routine, and that meant – seeing as Friday was a school day – going to school. It would be no great hassle, either, because Jenson lived only a couple of miles from where we did, so his primary school was close to our old house. It was also a school I knew well.
Marie also told me the school were fully conversant with Jenson’s circumstances, and that they’d be expecting him – well, expecting him-ish, his attendance being generally erratic.
Not while he’s with us, I thought, as I went to knock on his door the following morning, just after Mike had had his breakfast and set off for work.
‘Morning, sleepyhead!’ I said brightly, as I knocked and pushed the door open. ‘It’s your alarm call – time to get up for school!’
I watched Jenson rub the sleep from his eyes and do a double take at his unfamiliar surroundings, and got the same pang of pity I invariably did faced with a small child, in a strange place, looking bewildered. He shuffled up to a sitting position. His hair was sticking up at all sorts of odd angles, and I wondered whether he’d be amenable to getting it cut.
One thing at a time, Case, I thought to myself, as my eye caught Jenson’s open holdall. He’d taken himself off to the bathroom for a wash the night before, and, bar giving him a bath towel – he didn’t have one – and showing him how the shower worked, I’d agreed to let him have some autonomy. It was his first night, after all, and I didn’t want to smother him. I hadn’t heard the shower, but I’d decided not to push it. If he didn’t scrub up in the next twenty-four hours, then there might be a bit more personal hygiene supervision, but for now I’d give him the chance to show me he could take care of himself.
He’d obvi
ously pulled out some pyjamas, but it seemed that was all. The bag lay in the corner of the room, sprouting unidentifiable bits of clothing. Unpacked it definitely hadn’t been. Taking in the scene, I realised that we were certainly in for a change here. Jenson was a million miles away from our last placement Abigail, a young girl with obsessive compulsive disorder who had been scrupulously clean and tidy. Totally different circumstances, of course, Abigail having been a child carer looking after her severely disabled mother. Jenson, on the other hand, clearly looked after no one – and that obviously included himself.
More alert now, he followed my eye, the notion of ‘school’ having kicked in. ‘I don’t wanna go today,’ he said decisively, wriggling back down under the covers. ‘I just wanna be left alone,’ he added theatrically.
‘Not up for debate, I’m afraid, love,’ I said firmly. ‘But it’s Friday, at least – last day before the weekend,’ I added. ‘And then you’ll have two whole days off, won’t you? So come on. Washed and dressed, please. Or would you like me to help you?’
That had the desired effect. He sat upright again. ‘I’m not a bloody kid!’ he huffed indignantly. ‘All right. I’ll get dressed, then. I’ll be down in a minute, okay?’
‘Okey dokey,’ I said, smiling as I left him to it. ‘Oh, but less of the “bloody” if you don’t mind. House rules, remember?’
I went back downstairs and set about laying out some breakfast: cereals, milk, sugar, a jug of juice. True to his word, Jenson was down with me just a few minutes later, and though he’d clearly not had time to wash, again I didn’t push it. Coaxing him into the shower – and not taking no for an answer – would be on my to-do list for this evening.