Too Hurt to Stay: The True Story of a Troubled Boy’s Desperate Search for a Loving Home

by Casey Watson

  ‘I’m sure some lessons have been learned there,’ John chuckled.

  ‘Honestly,’ I said. ‘You are such an optimist, John.’

  ‘Only thing to be in my line of work,’ he countered. ‘Speaking of which, there’s one other thing on my “things to nag Casey about” list.’

  ‘Oh-oh. I’m not liking the sound of that.’

  ‘But I’m going to nag you about it even so. The next agency social. Couple of days away. You’ll have already had the flyer. Look, I know I bang on about them endlessly, but it’s not just to drag up the numbers. I think it would be really useful for you and Mike to attend.’

  ‘Still not liking the sound of that, John …’

  ‘I know it’s not your sort of thing,’ he said. ‘Honestly, but can’t you give it a try? Honestly, I think you’d enjoy it. Much more than you think you will. Almost all of the other specialist carers are going to be there, and, well, you know … a problem shared is a problem halved and all that. It would be good for you to chat with others in your shoes.’

  John was spot on. It wasn’t my sort of thing. Well, not up to now, at any rate. I knew I was probably being silly, but since I’d started fostering I’d always felt a little bit intimidated by the other carers I’d encountered. They all seemed to be so, well, posh, I suppose. Where my own roots were unashamedly working class, they had tended to come from professional backgrounds like teaching, psychology and positions in the police force, because those were the places where most of the recruitment was done. It wasn’t so much that I felt judged by them, just that I wasn’t one of them. I was also – still am – quite a private person, really, and had never, truth be known, felt the need. But I took the point. When you worked at such a challenging job, pooling experiences and advice made good sense. ‘I know,’ I said guiltily. ‘I did get the invite and everything. It’s just that we’ve been so busy lately and …’

  ‘Casey, so’s everyone else. Please come. Give it whirl. I know you’ll enjoy it.’

  So that was me told. And he was right. We really should make the effort. Even if only to confirm that it wasn’t our sort of thing. And as soon as we arrived – at the agency’s function suite, which was the venue – I immediately felt exactly as I’d expected I probably would: anxious, intimidated and overdressed. It hadn’t been flagged up as anything particularly grand, but conscious that I wanted to make a good impression I’d made Mike, who’d taken a half day’s leave from work, wear a suit – despite his protests – and had dressed myself in a fitted black dress and faux-fur coat. Mike’s face fell even further than mine, if that were possible, as we scanned the room to see a sea of jeans and jumpers. ‘Great,’ Mike hissed. ‘Now I look like a right berk.’

  ‘Well, how was I to know?’ I hissed back, as we plastered smiles on our faces and prepared to make our entrance.

  ‘Just don’t attempt to do your posh voice,’ he retorted, through gritted teeth.

  I don’t know if he could see our discomfort at 40 paces, but John suddenly appeared, as if from nowhere.

  ‘Oh, look at you,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’ Which I knew would make Mike squirm. But I for one was pleased to see him. I felt much less exposed with him by my side. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s mingle. Oh. You’ll remember Annie, of course, won’t you?’ He pointed. ‘See, she’s just over there. We’ve got a couple of our mainstream carers here today, as well, and I’m pretty sure you’ll recognise a few of them.’

  He bustled us around then, introducing us to various people, and it became obvious that these socials were generally well attended. Pretty much everyone seemed to know everyone else. Except us. John was right. I should really make the effort to come more. Yes, it was tiring doing an endless round of smiling and small talk, but it was silly to miss a chance to catch up with fellow carers, and with my nest at home – bar the children we fostered, of course – empty, it was sensible to expand our social network.

  And we really couldn’t have been made more welcome. It was a good half hour before we had a chance to sit down with coffees. And Annie, spotting us again, immediately came and joined us.

  ‘How are things going with the delightful Spencer,’ she asked us, sitting down.

  ‘Oh, much as you’d expect, I imagine,’ I told her, remembering her warning to us on that first day.

  She smiled ruefully. ‘I wanted to warn you,’ she said. ‘Though I obviously didn’t want to ladle it on too thick.’

  I thought back. What part of ‘he’s like no child I’ve ever met before’ was ladling it on thinly? But no matter. She’d probably forgotten her exact words in any case.

  ‘Judging from the fun and games we’ve had with him, you must have had a pretty tough time,’ Mike suggested.

  ‘You’re not kidding,’ she said. ‘And I did hold back, if I’m honest, because it was so important someone take him. The alternative would have been a children’s home, and none of us ever want that, do we?’

  We both shook our heads. Last chance saloon, that was our house.

  ‘But sometimes you have to be clear-headed about these kids, don’t you? For your own protection. Did John tell you about the knife incident?’ she then said, bringing my musings to a halt.

  ‘What knife incident?’ asked Mike.

  ‘Ah, apparently not, then.’

  ‘But what happened?’ I asked, revisiting uncomfortable memories with Justin, who, in the early weeks of living with us, had threatened me with one.

  ‘Took one of my kitchen knives and went on a rampage, the little sod.’

  ‘You mean he attacked you?’ I said, shocked. I simply couldn’t see Spencer doing that. But then, there’d been lots of things that hadn’t seemed likely when we’d first met him. ‘Surely we should have known about something like that?’ I said.

  But she shook her head. ‘No, no, not me, thank goodness. Sorry, I should have phrased that a bit less alarmingly, shouldn’t I? No, just the house and garden. But that was bad enough. Slashed my furniture, beheaded half the flowers in my flowerbeds. Bored, that was all. He was bored and cross because he couldn’t play out. Just lost it completely. In the end I just had to leave him out there. Leave him to it. Leave him to decimate whatever he could decimate, until he’d worn himself out and had enough. But it was the last straw. He was really far too much for a lone carer. Well, this lone carer, at any rate.’ She smiled thinly. She did look exhausted. ‘Though I’m sure you two are able to manage him a lot better. You know, man in the house, and all that.’

  ‘We should have been told,’ I said to Mike, as Annie went off to speak to another carer.

  ‘Well, there’s John,’ he said, pointing. He was standing a few feet away. ‘Let’s ask him why we weren’t, since we’re here.’

  ‘It wasn’t that bad,’ John told us, once we’d flagged him down and asked him. ‘To be honest, it was only a tiny nick in her sofa. She does tend to over-dramatise,’ he added, lowering his voice a bit. ‘Honestly, it was really no big deal, just a bit of a childish tantrum. I didn’t even know about it till a couple of weeks after he left her. I think she just wanted to claim for a new sofa, to be honest. Not that she isn’t entirely justified in doing so, of course.’

  And it wasn’t just Annie’s revelations that made it seem worthwhile to have gone to the social. The rest of the morning, too, proved to be fruitful. We had a guest speaker come to talk to us about fostering children on the autistic spectrum, which was particularly interesting for us, as parents of a child who had Asperger’s. I liked to keep up to date on new research and was always ravenous for new information about the condition; there’d been such a profound lack of that when Kieron had been growing up. It would also prove useful, I knew, if, as specialist carers, we were asked to care for children with such complex needs. And with more and more kids diagnosed, and getting support now, that was obviously a possibility. Kids on the autism spectrum threw up challenges for the most committed of parents, so when they were born into families that were chaotic and already struggl
ing they often bore the brunt of the dysfunction. Listening to the speaker, it occurred to me that I’d really relish that kind of challenge, as I realised I wasn’t the poor relation to all these professionals, and neither was Mike. We’d actually developed a really useful set of fostering skills between us, which we could put to good use if we were called upon.

  Right now, however, a child with complex needs was already in residence, and I felt a little spark of defensiveness about the way Annie had described him. A sure sign an emotional bond was forming in me. Whatever the challenges he threw up over the coming weeks, our little Tom Cruise/Houdini hybrid could count on us.

  We picked Spencer up from school on the way home from the social and decided, as a treat, to take him to McDonald’s for tea. It would both save me cooking and give us another chance, in neutral surroundings, to talk to him a little more about his behaviour. I explained that John would be coming to visit and would probably like a chat with him, and that he’d be round on Friday evening, after school.

  Spencer looked shocked.

  ‘But how come? I’m going to see Mum and Dad this weekend, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you are, love,’ I said. ‘But that’s not till Saturday.’

  He looked upset now. ‘But I thought I was going for the whole weekend.’

  I had no idea where he’d got this from. Wishful thinking, no doubt. And selective memory, too, after what had happened last time. ‘No, darling,’ I said, glancing at Mike. ‘It’s a day visit. Remember how we said that if the day visits went well we could then talk about going for a sleepover?’ I looked carefully at Spencer, and could almost see him analysing my words.

  ‘No,’ he said, firmly, ‘I don’t remember that. I went to all that trouble last time to stay out of their way, an’ now you’re saying it was all for nowt?’

  Now he sounded like he was about to cry.

  This brought me up short. What on earth was he on about? ‘What do you mean, love, you went to all what trouble?’ Again, I was confused by the way his mind worked. ‘You mean when you ran away?’

  Spencer looked at me and Mike with an expression that seemed to say there was no point in him even trying to explain. He stood up then, his chin wobbling, and, having glanced around to check where it was, pushed his tray away and started towards the toilets. I was about to speak, but Mike placed a hand over mine and I realised Spencer’s silence was because he was wrestling with his emotions. He would hate to cry in public, I knew.

  ‘What d’you think he means?’ I asked Mike, once he’d gone. ‘About staying out of their way?’

  ‘What he says, I suppose,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘There’s clearly more to all this, isn’t there?’

  I nodded. ‘There’s definitely something he’s not telling us … and, oh God,’ I said, suddenly panicked. ‘There isn’t a back door to this place that he could slip out of, is there? Be just great if he –’

  But my panic was mercifully short-lived. Spencer re-emerged at that moment, looking a little more composed.

  ‘Spencer, what do you mean, love?’ I persisted gently, once he’d sat down again. ‘Are you saying you didn’t run away last time you went home? What?’

  He stared down at the remains of his tea for a moment. ‘I swear, Casey,’ he said, finally. ‘If they don’t want me back this time, I’m gonna kill me mum – I am! She swore to me that this was only gonna be for a bit. Till things settled down. She just better want me back this time. I mean it.’

  With that he stood up again, turned from the table, and this time headed straight for the restaurant’s front door. Mike followed, while I quickly cleared up and returned the tray. There’d been no doubt and no discussion when this little boy had come to us. No indication that anything wasn’t as it seemed. It had been taken as a given. Spencer, by his own admission, had put himself into care. It had been entirely at his instigation. Yes, the parents had agreed to it; said they realised it was for the best. But because of what he’d done. Or was it?

  I felt a familiar sniff of intrigue, alongside one of growing anger. Could it be true? Had this whole sorry business been put in motion by Spencer’s mother? Had she actually encouraged her own child to put himself into care? Made some sort of deal with him about it?

  I pulled the door open and followed them both out into the car park. I needed to find myself some answers.

  Chapter 13

  The rest of the week passed without any major blow-ups or incidents, and I resisted the urge to quiz Spencer further about the things he’d let slip in McDonald’s. I had a hunch, and Mike agreed, that to push it would be counter-productive. There was clearly more going on than social services knew, but the answer was not to interrogate Spencer, but to be receptive to what might come out after his next visit, which was going to be happening in a couple of days anyway.

  Spencer himself definitely seemed much more subdued than normal, either because he was anxious about John visiting, or about seeing his parents – perhaps both. And I was grateful, as awful as it sounded to admit it, as it meant he seemed to prefer to stay in after school, rather than endlessly trying to interrogate me about why he couldn’t play out with his friends.

  On the Friday, knowing John would be arriving as soon as we were back, I took some snacks to school when I drove to pick up Spencer. ‘Here you go, love,’ I told him as he climbed into the back seat and passed him the plastic box. ‘There’s some sandwiches and fruit in there for you. You know by now just how long meetings can drag on for, and I thought you might be too hungry to wait for a cooked tea.’

  He tucked in immediately – he’d never lacked appetite – but I could still sense his instant anxiety. ‘It’s not going to be proper long, is it? Proper long meetings make me proper, proper tired.’

  I smiled. He was sounding like a little old man. ‘I shouldn’t think so, love,’ I told him. ‘Not “proper” long. I think John just wants to talk to you about how we can all help you when you start to get angry thoughts about things. You know – to give you suggestions to use, so that you can think before you act and make good choices.’

  He frowned. ‘You mean tell me how to stop being bad?’

  ‘Kind of, I suppose, but you know, Spencer, it’s not really you that’s bad. Inside I know that there’s a really lovely little boy. It’s just that it’s hard for us to see him sometimes, isn’t it? Because the things you sometimes choose to do make you look bad. But it’s the behaviours that are bad, Spencer, not you.’

  He chewed thoughtfully for a few minutes before he replied. He was such a thinker. Always seemed to consider everything said to him. Something that, one day, would stand him in good stead – if he was given the chance to shine, at any rate. ‘Right,’ he said eventually. ‘So will John tell my mum and dad that it’s okay that I do bad stuff, cos it’s not really my fault – it’s just because I have behaviours?’

  ‘That’s not quite how it works, love,’ I said gently, but still firmly. Knowing Spencer as I did now, I wasn’t sure if he was trying to turn this to his advantage, or that he genuinely didn’t understand what I meant. ‘What we all want to do – what we all need to do – is to help stop you from acting out these behaviours. Stop the running away. Stop the taking things. Stop the hurting people. We want you to start making better choices about what you do. That way it will be you – not any of us, you – who decides what kind of boy Spencer really is and wants to be. Do you understand that?’

  He thought again. ‘I think so.’ Then he sighed. ‘But can we have the Chipmunks now, please? I’ve got a headache.’

  I smiled. So that was me told.

  As I’d expected, when we pulled into the drive John was already parked up and sitting in his car, waiting for us. He followed us into the house, trying to engage Spencer in a chat about how his day at the agency had gone. Spencer, I could see, was fast running out of interest, and I realised he was also hopping from foot to foot. But it wasn’t until John paused for breath between anecdotes that Spencer interrupted him, grin
ning shyly. ‘Sorry, John,’ he said politely, ‘I’d like to stay and hear more about your lost diary, honest, but I’m busting for a wee. I gotta go.’

  With that he shot inside and bolted straight up the stairs, leaving John in the hall, staring after him, bemused.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let me get the kettle on, while he gets changed out of his uniform.’

  John followed me into the kitchen. ‘Quite the little charmer, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s in one of his good moods,’ I told him. ‘So you’re lucky. And I was thinking. It’s probably best if I don’t join you. He always seems better one on one – I think you’re likely to get more out of him. Plus I think he’ll take things more seriously if it feels a bit “official”, so I thought you could take him into the living room to chat while I get on with making Mike’s tea.’

  John agreed, but when Spencer came down, in his favourite rugby shirt and a pair of joggers, he looked surprised and a little panicky that I wasn’t to be included. I ruffled his hair and reassured him. ‘No need for me, today,’ I told him. ‘Go on – you’ll be fine.’

  He didn’t look convinced, and John’s carefully crafted ‘stern’ face clearly worried him. But that was good, I thought. He needed to be more fearful of authority. Of the consequences of actions. It wasn’t rocket science.

  Having settled them in the living room, I returned to the kitchen to prepare tea. I’d decided upon tacos and salad – a new family favourite that had been visited on us, as ever, by Kieron, for whom it was the ‘for the moment’ food of choice. Kieron went through phases with foods, always had. When he found something he liked, he would want to eat it daily, and this would go on until he – not to mention the rest of us – grew sick of it. As a mother, when he was young, this had been something of a challenge, but these days it was more of an inspiration to be more adventurous, because Kieron wouldn’t rest until every member of the family had tried whatever his latest obsession was.