by Casey Watson
Happily they agreed to my cheeky request, and I trotted off, my day already lifted.
It was Levi’s third birthday in November, just a few weeks away now, and my main aim while I was out was to pick him up some presents, so after I’d done my banking I had a lovely half hour choosing the sort of gorgeous little clothes for him – funky jeans and tiny chinos – that Riley wouldn’t dream of splurging so extravagantly on herself. I wouldn’t myself normally, but I was actually feeling a bit flush at the moment, having recently kicked my longstanding smoking habit, with the little ones being my main motivation.
With that in mind, I also popped into the chemist’s and picked up some more herbal cigarettes; they were pretty foul but so far I’d managed to stay on board the wagon, so it was in a jaunty mood that I finally arrived home.
But it seemed Kieron and Lauren’s was less so.
‘Get the kettle on!’ I shouted as I came in through the front door, only to have Lauren pop her head out from around the kitchen door frame, her index finger held against her lips.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘Kieron’s on the phone to school,’ she whispered.
‘To what school?’ I asked, confused.
‘To Spencer’s school,’ she explained, as I followed her into the living room, where Kieron was just now hanging up. His face was a picture of anguish.
‘What’s wrong, love?’ I asked, fearing something dreadful had happened. Had Spencer run away again? Had some harm come to him? What?
Kieron shook his head sadly. ‘You know your chain?’ he started. ‘Your one with the gold musical note, that Dad bought you?’ I nodded. ‘Well, they called to say Spencer’s teacher has just found it in his tray – his tray at school. And seven pounds, as well.’ He looked vexed now. ‘Mum, where would he get seven pounds from?’
‘My chain?’ I parroted back at him, as I began to take it in.
Now Kieron’s expression changed. ‘Mum, it’s not rocket science. He’s obviously stolen it from you, hasn’t he? And the money. He must have decided to start hiding the things he steals there instead. They’re going to give them back to you when you go and collect him. Mum,’ he persisted, clearly upset, ‘why is he doing this?’
‘I don’t know, love,’ I said, putting my shopping bags down finally. ‘Because he can, I suppose. Because he just can’t help himself. Because he’s troubled. There’s always a reason, deep down.’
‘No, Mum,’ Kieron said, ‘there is no reason to steal. None at all. It’s just horrible. Why does he do it?’
There was no answer I could give him that he could accept, and that was that. I felt for my son and understood how hard he found all this. He was a grown man now but, with his Asperger’s, there was so much that still confused him. As well as hating change – which had always distressed him, since he was tiny – he found it genuinely emotionally difficult to process ‘bad’ and aberrant behaviours. Which our foster kids, unfortunately, tended to display in spade loads.
I saw Lauren slip her hand into his and squeeze it to reassure him. I worried about Kieron constantly – what mother wouldn’t? – but his girlfriend was a godsend. I wasn’t really religious but it seemed some deity must have had a hand in bringing someone to us who was so uniquely capable of understanding and coping with all the idiosyncrasies that made Kieron Kieron.
And he’d blossomed so much since they’d been together. They’d met at college and since then he’d really found himself a focus. Though he loved music and was still a keen amateur DJ, he’d now taken a part-time job in the café my sister owned, supporting himself while he trained for his chosen career as a youth worker. He’d really thrown himself into this, and was now shadowing a senior youth worker, and was also volunteering at a local youth club, where he was currently starting up a football team.
But seeing him now, I really worried about his choice of career. I had spent a long time pointing out to him that some of the children he’d come across in work would have problems, some as severe as the children we fostered, and he kept repeating that he was just fine with that. But he obviously wasn’t. I could see that so clearly. Spencer’s stealing had really upset him, and I hated to think he was embarking on work that had the capacity to make him so distressed.
‘Love, don’t worry,’ I said now. ‘I will deal with it. What you need to get your head around is that Spencer’s lacked rules all his life. He’s never had boundaries, which is why he doesn’t understand them. But trust me, love, by the time he leaves us he’ll be a completely different child.’
Kieron, I could see, was now relaxing a little. ‘I hope so,’ he said, ‘because I can’t be doing with stealing, Mum. Mucking about’s one thing. But stealing’s so bad.’
‘Stop worrying,’ Lauren said, putting her arm around him now. ‘You know your mum – she’ll soon lick him into shape, just like she always does. By the time she’s done with him, you wait, he’ll be a proper little angel.’
‘He’s more like a little devil at the moment,’ Kieron huffed. ‘An Oliver Twist.’
I shook my head. ‘You mean Artful Dodger, don’t you? I already thought that.’
‘Well, whatever,’ said Lauren. ‘But not for much longer.’
I laughed with them, of course, but I wasn’t sure I shared Lauren’s confidence. I mentally rolled my sleeves up. I’d just have to hope she was right.
Chapter 7
I continued fretting about Kieron all the way to school. I knew I shouldn’t over-dramatise, but his reaction had unsettled me. His upset on hearing about Spencer’s latest antics had been a bit over the top, even for him. Much as I didn’t want to interfere or put him off, I sensed he had too much on his plate. What with managing his part-time job, and the youth-worker training, not to mention his determination to run this football team of his, I wondered if he was in danger of becoming overloaded. I really must, I told myself, as I waited for the school’s electronic gates to open, make some space to spend a little bit more time with him and Lauren. And that went for Riley and David as well, up to their eyes in work and looking after their little family. I’d been much too preoccupied since Spencer had arrived, and needed to focus my energies a little more on my own family.
Mr Gorman and his little charge were walking down the corridor, coincidentally, just as I arrived in reception. ‘Ah,’ said Mr Gorman, ‘I gather your son’s told you about our, erm, news?’
I nodded and looked at Spencer. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘what’s all this about, then?’
Spencer’s expression was defiant. ‘I never took ’em, Casey,’ he said. ‘I just found ’em in my bag when I looked in it. But they won’t believe me. They never do, this lot.’
‘Excuse me, young man, less of that talk,’ Mr Gorman said. He handed me an envelope. ‘It’s all in there,’ he said. ‘The necklace, plus the seven pounds in cash. What can I say? I suppose it’s best if I leave things with you now?’
‘Yeah,’ Spencer moaned. ‘So that means I get kept in again. Like I’m a pet, or something. I’m sick of this. No one ever believes me!’
He was still raging to himself as I steered him to the car, though once strapped into it he evidently decided it was pointless. His only words in response to my questioning were to insist again that he’d done nothing wrong.
Which was fine. It left my mind free to wander back to my own son. By the time I was home I had made up my mind. Sending Spencer to his room to get changed out of his uniform, I took my phone into the conservatory, along with one of my herbal cigarettes, and dialled John Fulshaw’s number.
‘Hi, Casey,’ he answered cheerfully. ‘How are things going, or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ I answered, ‘but since you have, I shall tell you.’ I then spent ten minutes recounting all Spencer’s latest misdemeanours, up to and including the latest pilfering. ‘Anyway,’ I concluded, ‘what I was ringing to ask was if it would be possible to arrange some respite care for the coming weekend. Just Friday, after school
, round to the Monday would be great. I know we haven’t had him long yet, but …’
‘Casey, slow down, and stop worrying. There’s no need to justify yourself, you know that. I know he’s been extremely challenging. God, it might not have been long, but he’s certainly kept you busy. It’s no wonder at all that you feel you need a break.’
‘It’s not so much me,’ I said. God knew, I’d dealt with challenging children and then some over the years. ‘It’s the family, really. I feel they need more of a piece of me right now. Kieron’s got this new job, which is really stressing him out, and, well, as you know, Riley’s got a new baby and everything. It’s all just been a bit full on, really, just recently …’ I was rambling on a bit, but I sensed that was no bad thing anyway. It was necessary for John to know how much I needed this. And he clearly did.
‘Consider it done,’ he reassured me. ‘Well, as good as. I’ll have to speak to Spencer’s social worker, but I do have a couple who might do it. They’re at a loose end right now, so if they don’t have any plans …’
I uttered a silent thank you as I hung up the phone. I was confident John would come through with his promise. And if it couldn’t be this weekend, I was sure it would be the next one, which would be fine. It was just really important that Mike and I spend time with our children and grandchildren without Spencer – not to mention various belongings’ whereabouts – being the number one topic of conversation.
I’d just gone back into the kitchen when the boy himself trotted down, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and asked if it was okay to watch TV. It irked me slightly to say yes, given his latest misdemeanour, but this was using up points he’d already earned yesterday, so I had no choice: the system was the system. Initially it had felt like a flaw in the programme, but actually it wasn’t. It was one of its strengths. The whole point was that it put the child in control. Instead of heat-of-the-moment punishments, quickly administered, soon forgotten, the system of earning points allowed space to reflect. When a punishment came later – as would be the case with today’s pilfering – the child had the result of their actions better reinforced. As they sat bored without their privileges, as Spencer would do tomorrow, they could better appreciate the wisdom of thinking before acting, before potentially spoiling yet another day.
Having installed him in the living room I got on with pulling out the ingredients for tea, but it was only minutes later when the phone rang. It was John again.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Sorted. Pack him a bag for this weekend. It’s a Mr and Mrs Pemberton and they’re happy to take him straight after school. Glenn will collect him and deposit him, and all you have to do is go to pick him up late on Sunday, if that’ll work for you?’
‘It’ll more than work, John. That’s brilliant. Thanks so much for doing this. So I send him to school Friday packed and ready then, am I right?’
It seemed I was. John went on to explain the directions, and also instructed me to give them a ring, before Friday, just to fill them in about Spencer’s routines. The Pembertons lived on a farm, an hour’s drive away. A rural idyll, I thought. Perfect. I mentally began planning our weekend. Then I picked the phone up again and dialled Mike’s work number, keen to tell him the good news and also to prepare him. We could then tell Spencer together, over tea.
Respite care is a basic part of fostering, understandably. When your job is so full-on – as it often was, particularly with our kind of fostering – it’s important that there’s a system in place that gives the carers a break if they need one. Up to now, however, it hadn’t been something I’d felt we’d needed. So far, we’d hardly ever made use of it.
So I didn’t feel too bad as we sat down to eat our cottage pie. We’d have a couple of days off, to spend with family, and Spencer would have a small adventure. And on a farm, too, which would be such fun for him. John had told me the Pembertons were a really nice couple, who’d make Spencer’s stay with them great. And that’s how I billed it when I told him.
‘Guess what, Spencer?’ I said to him, as I picked up my cutlery. ‘You’re going on a bit of an adventure this weekend.’
Spencer had started scooping peas up with his fork. Now he stopped and eyed me suspiciously. ‘What, me?’ he said. ‘Even after I’ve been bad and nicked that stuff?’
Ah, an admission at last. Probably the only one I’d get. I mentally filed it, for my journal. ‘Yes, you,’ I said brightly. ‘Though, to be truthful, it’s also a little break for Mike and me as well.’
‘What, you’re coming too?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘No, it’s just you. We’ll be staying here.’
His expression clouded. ‘Are you sending me away?’
He looked upset now, and I glanced at Mike, hoping he’d reassure him. ‘No, we’re not sending you away, Spencer. You’re just off on a little holiday. Glenn’s going to pick you up after school on Friday, and take you to stay on a farm for the weekend. Won’t that be fun? Like a little adventure. While Casey and I have a rest. Then we’ll come and get you and bring you home again on Sunday night.’
Spencer digested this news along with a couple more forkfuls of peas. He seemed to like eating this way. Plough through the veg first: get them out of the way. Then he looked up at Mike again. ‘Like with pigs and all that?’
‘I imagine so. And maybe other animals, too. And lots of fresh air.’
‘Okay,’ he said, nodding. Then he put his head down and tucked into the rest of his tea. So far so good, I decided, so roll on the weekend. And the week then really did seem to fly by. I was in good spirits, knowing I’d have a clear weekend with the family, and booked a table for us all at one of our favourite restaurants, a steak house the kids had loved since they were young. With any luck, David’s mum would babysit for a couple of hours, too, so we could all relax and enjoy a few drinks.
Spencer too seemed in a cheerful, obliging mood. When I picked him up from school on Thursday he came out brandishing a huge picture. ‘For Mr and Mrs Pemberton, this is,’ he told me proudly. ‘Look, see, this is a tractor, cos they’ve got them on farms, and these are the chickens … do foxes kill chickens, Casey?’
‘Um, yes they do, Spencer. Sometimes …’
‘I knew that!’ His little face was suddenly animated by indignation. ‘But Mr Gorman said they didn’t and that I couldn’t paint dead chickens. I wished I had of …’
I shook my head in wonder at this strange little lad. ‘Perhaps Mr Gorman was right, love,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he just meant that the picture would look nicer for the Pembertons if it didn’t have any dead chickens in it.’
‘Aww, yes, I s’pose …’ he agreed, smiling his angelic smile at me. ‘Can I take my art things to the farm, do you think? Then I can paint the real chickens, can’t I?’
‘Which won’t be dead, we hope, eh?’ I agreed, laughing.
The next morning, however, his mood was more sombre, and I was stunned, as I went to leave him at the school reception, when he suddenly wrapped his arms around me, completely without warning. It was the first time he’d done something so spontaneous and affectionate. ‘I’ll miss you, Casey,’ he said, his voice muffled as his face was pressed so close against me. ‘I’ve left Fluffy Cow outside your bedroom door.’
‘Have you? Didn’t you want to take him?’
I felt him shake his head. ‘I want you to look after him while I’m away. Can he sleep in your bed till I come back?’ I was really shocked, and found a lump begin to form in my throat. Then I reminded myself this was two days on a farm, not a Second World War evacuation, for heaven’s sake. ‘Of, course,’ I said. ‘Of course he can, and, listen, you mustn’t worry. You just have a lovely time there, okay?’ I bent down then and kissed the top of his head, and, seemingly satisfied, he let me go and backed away down the corridor, waving before turning to head off to his classroom. I watched him go. From the back he looked such a sorry sight, bowed slightly under the weight of his enormous bulging rucksack. He turned again, at th
e end, to wave once more.
What a funny little thing he was, I reflected as I drove home. What sort of home life had made him what he was – so street-wise and swaggering, so accomplished in the ways of thieving, yet so vulnerable and so young for his age in other ways. I would find out, no doubt – well, get some idea about it, eventually. For now, though, I switched gear – this was a weekend for family. Out of sight, I decided, out of mind for a bit. He’d probably do likewise, and have a ball.
And we did have a wonderful weekend. Mike and I spent the Friday night with a takeaway and a couple of movies, and after a blissfully relaxed day with Riley and the babies, our Saturday-night family meal was just wonderful. It was so nice to just sit and laugh and swap anecdotes and reminisce, and also to reassure myself that Kieron seemed just fine. Perhaps I worried unduly. He seemed both relaxed and happy, regaling us with stories about his travels – and travails – with his youth worker, and the ongoing challenge of getting his footie team up to scratch.
Come Sunday morning, I even woke up with a slight hangover, something I’d not ‘enjoyed’ for quite a while. But for all the headache – soon dispatched with a couple of ibuprofen – I also felt happy and recharged. ‘Ready for action again?’ I asked Mike, who seemed similarly chilled.
‘Oh, if we must,’ he joked, winking.
And it seemed we would need to be, and sooner than we’d thought. I’d planned on doing a big family roast late afternoon, but it seemed that my plans were about to change. My mobile phone rang while I was plating up some scrambled eggs and bacon. Mike rummaged in my handbag and pulled it out for me.
I read the display as he passed it to me. John Fulshaw. What did he want? It was Sunday. Then it hit me. John phoning was likely to only mean one thing …