by Casey Watson
‘I’ve already agreed we can meet Spencer,’ he said. ‘So what is it –’ he met my eye – ‘that you’re after now?’
‘Honestly,’ I said, crossing the room to fling open the curtains and let in the sunshine. ‘I’m just being nice, okay, grumpy drawers! Look, I’ve made all your favourite things for you, as well. Even those fancy sausages with bits in that you like.’
He nodded. ‘I can see that. So, go on, what are you after?’
I grinned. ‘Well, I was thinking, since it’s such a lovely day, that we should, I don’t know, go out somewhere, maybe.’
‘As in where?’ he said, picking up his cutlery and tucking in.
‘Oh, I don’t mind. Anywhere you like, love,’ I answered. ‘Just a day trip. You know me. As long as there are some shops, I don’t mind.’
‘Ah,’ he said, spearing a piece of sausage and waggling it, ‘what you really mean, then, is that you’d like me to take you shopping to buy stuff for a kid that we haven’t even met yet. Am I right?’
‘Well …’
Mike laughed. ‘Honestly, love,’ he said, ‘never become a con-woman. Subterfuge is not one of your finer attributes.’
So I was busted. But I didn’t care, because for all his sarky comments Mike was happy enough with my plan. So we drove to a pretty village about 20 miles away, had a walk and a lovely pub lunch, then hit the gorgeous little high street, which was full of two of my favourite things, charity shops and toy shops. So while Mike, bless him, trudged uncomplainingly behind me, I was able to pick up bargains galore.
At eight, Spencer was only a little younger than Ashton, our last boy, so I worked on the basis that he would probably enjoy similar things. I bought a pile of books, some Lego, new jigsaws and a few puzzles, as well as restocking the box of craft items I liked to keep in the house. And though he raised his eyebrows on more than one occasion, Mike refrained from passing judgement on my probably over-the-top haul.
And to my delight, the rest of the family indulged me as well. On the Sunday (so much for living the quiet life once your kids leave …) we had the whole family over for a big roast. Kieron and Lauren, Riley and David, plus my two gorgeous grandsons, all of whom seemed happy to accept the reality that I was always at my happiest when I had a child to look after, however much of a challenge that child might turn out to be.
‘Mind you,’ commented Kieron as we sat down at the table, ‘have you noticed how differently she does it these days, sis? You remember how she was when I pinched that lolly when I was little? How she dragged me back to the shop and made me give it back and apologise in front of everyone? And then I got grounded as well?’
‘Quite right, too!’ I chipped in.
‘Yeah, Mum …’ He lifted a finger to forestall me. ‘But imagine if one of these foster kids did that. Oh no, it would be all, “Oh, dear me, that’s not acceptable behaviour. I’m afraid you lose ten points today, dear.”’
Riley snorted. ‘So this is since Mum became Scottish, then, is it?’
I laughed too. Whenever Kieron did a ‘Mum’ impersonation, for some reason he always made me sound just like Miss Jean Brodie, adopting this bizarre, high-pitched, Scottish twang. ‘Hey, you two, don’t mock, okay?’ I retorted through my giggles. ‘I have to do that. It’s called guidelines, and I have to follow them. It’s not the same as with your own kids.’
We were all falling about laughing, but this, in fact, was true. Where I’d come down like a ton of bricks with my own two when they were little – that was what parenting was all about, wasn’t it? – it was different with children who had profound behaviour issues, and who were way past the point where being marched round to apologise to someone would be of any benefit at all. Indeed, for some kids it would be counter-productive. These kids needed a whole different approach if they were to make progress. And a structured one, of the kind we’d been trained to deliver. The children would indeed earn points for good behaviour, and once they’d earned them they could then spend them on privileges. It was all about modifying their behaviour to make it acceptable, and in such a way that they could see the benefit in this. If they did as they were asked they would enjoy a nicer life. It really was as simple a lesson to learn as that. And when delivered within an environment that was warm and supportive, the programme was so far proving to be a great success.
And that was what it sounded like this little boy needed, I mused, as, before going to bed that night, I popped in to open Spencer’s bedroom window and fluff up the pillows on the bed I had already made up. Love and boundaries. We could certainly give him that while we had him. Though I’d obviously have to watch out for that comedy Scottish accent.
* * *
For all my excitement, I was still nervous when I woke up on Monday morning. Didn’t matter how much I looked forward to getting these foster kids, there was always that anxiety about the first meeting with them because you never knew what to expect. The child could absolutely hate you from the start, or you’d click; you’d make a connection at that point or you wouldn’t. Not that I worried unduly. Spencer was our fifth child now, so the one thing I did know was that I didn’t find it difficult to put feelings aside. As a foster carer your job was to put differences aside, to care for the children you took on regardless of how they were towards you, and get on with the job at hand. Luckily, so far, though it had been rocky in places, I’d formed a strong attachment with the previous children we’d looked after. I hoped today was to be no exception.
Mike was also a little bit nervous. I could tell. He’d taken the morning off so we could meet Spencer together, and my plan was to be that after a quick slice of toast we’d give the house a once-over before our visitors arrived. But he was having none of it. ‘For goodness sake, Case!’ he snapped. ‘The whole house is bloody spotless. Can you put down the Mr Sheen and just chill till they get here? Polishing the grain off the bloody banisters won’t make them get here any sooner.’
I knew better than to argue at such a sensitive time, so I reluctantly put my duster away. And they were on the doorstep not half an hour later anyway. It was what I’d come to expect as the usual posse. I ushered them all into the dining room for the meeting, and John Fulshaw, our link worker, made the introductions. There was Glenn Gallagher, Spencer’s social worker, and his temporary carer, Annie, and last but not least there was Spencer himself, half hidden by his carer and looking terrified.
‘Hello sweetie,’ I said to him, proffering my widest smile. ‘Goodness, you’re a big boy for eight.’ Despite his nervousness, I could immediately see that this went down well – being called ‘big’, in my experience, always did with boys of his age. He looked sweet, too. A poppet. Not at all what I’d imagined, with a silky mop of toffee-coloured hair and eyes that went with it. Amber and melting, heavily lashed and wide. But as well as being cute he also looked fit. A solid lad, who looked a little bit older than his years. Well nourished and, at least superficially, well cared for.
‘Hi, Mrs Watson,’ he answered shyly.
‘Oh, call me Casey,’ I told him. I pointed. ‘And this is Mike, okay?’ I could see as they shook hands that Mike’s first impression was the same as mine. That, like me, he had warmed to this sweet little boy. And he was polite too, carefully pulling a chair out for his carer, Annie, and waiting to be asked before sitting down himself. And when I poured tea and coffee and offered him milk and biscuits, he immediately asked her permission. ‘Would that be okay?’ he asked. A good sign.
‘Of course, love,’ she said. ‘And then after you’ve had them, perhaps Mike could take you on a tour of the house, eh?’
So far, I thought, so not at all what I’d expected. Where on earth was this evil, feral child we’d been expecting? In fact, the start of the meeting went so well and so chattily that it began to seem surreal that this child was in care. There was lots of laughter too, as Glenn went through a few of Spencer’s likes and dislikes, even joshing with him: ‘Oh, and by the way, Spencer particularly loves sprouts. Don’t you, mate?’ Spen
cer wrinkled up his nose in disgust.
‘So,’ said John, finally. ‘How about that tour, then? Okay, Mike?’
‘Absolutely,’ Mike agreed, rising from the table. ‘C’mon, lad,’ he said to Spencer. ‘Let me show you and Glenn around.’
But perhaps I should have sensed something. Because it was only a matter of seconds before the atmosphere changed completely, Annie turning in her seat to speak to John directly. ‘Now then,’ she said, looking agitated. ‘You do know that I need to know today, don’t you?’ It took me a second to work out what she was talking about. But it soon became clear. ‘That was the deal, you remember? If they don’t want him –’ she had the grace to glance in my direction as she said this – ‘then you do understand I’m not prepared to wait for you to find someone else, don’t you?’
I was shocked. And so, I think, was John. We all knew Spencer’s placement with Annie was only temporary, but she seemed almost aggressive about demanding to be shot of him. ‘Annie, you know today’s only an introductory meeting,’ John said levelly. ‘And I certainly never promised you an answer today. Casey and Mike have only agreed to consider it.’
Annie heaved a decidedly heavy sigh. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she said, addressing me now, ‘I know I shouldn’t be pushing, but I really can’t cope with kids like this any more. Years ago, then fine. But these days I’m on my own, and sadly …’ She finished then, punctuating her words with a resigned shrug.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to seem presumptuous, but, well, he seems okay to me. I mean he’s obviously on his best behaviour, but the real child always …’
‘Oh, don’t let his “little angel” act fool you!’ she answered, her tone sharp. ‘This kid, believe me, is one of a kind. He’s like no kid I have ever met before in my life. No, honestly,’ she added, obviously seeing my sceptical expression, ‘I can’t begin to try and describe what I mean, but there’s definitely something not right about him, trust me.’
This brought me slightly up short. I’d had as much said to me before. About Justin, the first boy we’d ever fostered. And we’d done well to heed the warning. Though everything worked out in the end, we’d certainly been through the mill with him. But if that was the case with Spencer, so be it. Annie didn’t know it, of course, but her words made no difference. I’d decided to take him the minute I saw him. And I was 99 per cent sure Mike felt the same. Even so, it was good – and I braced myself mentally – to have some insight that was not at first apparent.
The others came back then, and we rounded off the meeting by gathering a little more logistical info. We were told Spencer’s likes and dislikes, and that he attended a special school that was geared to children who had difficulties in the ‘mainstream’. I knew what this meant, from the years I’d spent in education myself. It was flowery language to describe an institution for the sort of kids who’d been kicked out of regular schools, and probably more than one, too. I glanced at John. We didn’t comment. We didn’t need to.
But even with that knowledge on board, I just couldn’t believe that inside this child lurked a little monster. Once again, as he left, he was unfailingly polite, thanking us both for having him and saying how nice it was to meet us. ‘An’ I really hope you decide to let me live here,’ he finished, ‘cos I love that bedroom and your enormous big telly.’
‘He seems fine,’ whispered Mike as we stood on the doorstep and waved the car off.
‘I know,’ I whispered back. ‘He’s just so cute. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘You even need to ask me?’
So we didn’t make Annie wait. We called John back the same afternoon. We’d happily take him off her hands the following Monday.
Chapter 3
Spencer’s suitcase was bulging.
Which was something that immediately struck me as symbolic. The last kids we’d fostered had arrived with barely anything; just a tatty old bin bag containing clothes that looked like rags. Yet the battered, broken doll that had also been buried in there was as precious to little Olivia as would be any other cherished toy. The luggage a child came with, as I was fast learning, spoke volumes – the things a child dragged from placement to placement meant everything to them. Be it a favourite photograph, a special toy, or a crumpled letter from a loved one, these belongings were often the only attachment a child had, and gave them a sense that they were still a part of something wider than the place where they had currently ended up.
‘Good grief, Spencer!’ Glenn exclaimed, as he dragged the case over the doorstep. ‘Come on, own up. You’ve smuggled the kitchen sink into here, haven’t you?’
Spencer glanced up at me as if expecting to be reprimanded. ‘I got lots of stuff,’ he explained. ‘But it’s mostly just my trainers and all my games for the DS that’s making it heavy.’
I didn’t know what a DS was, and said so. Spencer obligingly got the portable game console out of his backpack to show me, while Glenn commented that of all the things in Spencer’s life this was the one thing he couldn’t live without.
I smiled and nodded while he shyly showed me all the things it could do, but it was an indicator that I’d been at this job for a while now that my immediate thought was a cynical one: this would be my bargaining tool. Sad though it was, to be able to modify the behaviour of challenging children, such a tool was your most potent weapon. It was the things they loved most that they would be most motivated to stay in line for, so the DS would soon have a subtle change in status. Spencer would have to see it as a privilege and not a right.
But that was for writing into Spencer’s behaviour plan, not for today. Today was all about welcoming him to our family, and trying to quell his understandable anxiety.
And he did look terribly anxious today. Because my kitchen and dining room were separated only by an archway and an island of worktops, I could keep an eye on things while everybody settled at the dining table, and I rustled up the drinks and biscuits. It had become something of a ritual, this, I realised, since I’d begun fostering. The dining-table meetings and the round of refreshments, the wide-eyed child, the various official adults, the slight edge of formality. I watched Spencer take his seat beside Glenn, his social worker, and how he pulled it close enough so that the two of them were almost touching. I also noticed he had something in his hand that I’d not seen at first. Perhaps he’d pulled it out of his pocket.
‘Who’s this, then?’ I asked him, as I brought the tray of coffees in, plus the usual array of biscuits, which he eyed but didn’t touch. Close up I could see it was a glove puppet.
‘Fluffy Cow,’ he said. Which seemed apt. That’s what it was.
‘Fluffy Cow is Spencer’s favourite toy, isn’t it, mate?’ Glenn explained. ‘He likes to take it to bed with him, don’t you?’
I could see Spencer stiffen slightly. ‘I don’t play with it or owt,’ he said. ‘It just stays on my bed.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Here, love. Help yourself to a biscuit. And I tell you what, we’ve got to do a whole load of boring paperwork. So how about you take Fluffy Cow up to see your new bedroom? There’s some new toys up there for you, so you might like to have a little play. But only if you want to,’ I finished. ‘It’s entirely up to you.’
Spencer looked at Glenn. ‘You won’t go or anything, will you?’
‘Course not, son,’ he said. ‘And I’ll give you a shout if we need you.’
‘Okay, then,’ said Spencer, sliding back down off his chair and, clutching his beloved puppet, slipping noiselessly from the room.
Bless him, I thought. Poor little lad. I really, really couldn’t fathom this.
* * *
The file Glenn handed out was a small one. Small but to the point. It made for grim reading. Spencer, as we’d known, was the middle of five children. He had a brother, Lewis, who was ten, a sister, Sammy Lee, nine, then two younger siblings, five-year-old Coral and a three-year-old called Harvey. Their parents, Kerry and Danny, were both in their thirties and ap
parently had no misgivings about Spencer coming into care. In fact, they’d been clear on this when they’d been interviewed by social services. As things stood they had decided to wash their hands of him. They said he was out of control, wild and ‘feral’ – that damning word again – and that they considered him to be a risk to both himself and others, and that they felt they’d reached the end of the road.
As was usual, a risk assessment had also been completed, and the finding was that as Spencer was a persistent petty offender priority had to be given to minimising his chances of re-offending and heading towards a life of teenage crime.
Once again, I was struck by the disparity between what I was reading and what I was seeing. I also wondered, as I read on, what kind of parents would feel able to hand over one of their five children to what could only be described as complete strangers, whether sanctioned by the council or otherwise. Why this ‘one bad apple’ attitude, that seemed to permeate through the paperwork? Were they worried that if he stayed he might ‘infect’ his brothers and sisters? How could you make such a chilling judgement about your own flesh and blood?
I glanced around the table as I finished reading, and John caught my eye. His expression was sad, and I could see he felt the same as me.
He shook his head slightly and slowly took off his reading glasses. These were new, and I made a mental note to compare notes with him about them later. I had just started needing to use them myself. ‘Well, there’s not an awful lot here, is there?’ he said, pointing to the file. ‘But what we do have makes it clear that Mr and Mrs Herrington, here, seem to think we can wave some sort of magic wand, sort their kid out and hand back some new, improved version, don’t they?’
Glenn nodded. ‘I got that impression too. Though I think – well, I hope – they now realise it’s really not that simple. That said, the plan is still to do that, pretty much. A few weeks or months with Mike and Casey on the behavioural programme, and lots of visits home so they can actually see progress. Then overnights, then weekends, then – well, all being well, we’ll have the family reunited at the end of it.’