by Rosie Lewis
He’d shot off then, probably grateful to get out from under my feet. But he’d been right. I was so nervous that I actually felt physically sick. I’d never been so nervous about a new job, ever. Probably because this was going to be like no other new job. Because it wasn’t just a job, it was a whole lifestyle. This was not nine till five, this was twenty-four-seven. Gone would be our cosy evenings in, cuddled on the sofa, just me and Mike together, and gone would be the lazy weekends we’d begun to start enjoying since Riley had moved out and Kieron had turned nineteen. There was no turning back, though. I’d said yes. I was committed. He’s only eleven, I kept telling myself sternly. He’s been through some bad times. It was just the lack of knowing what that was so worrying.
I reached the bottom of the staircase just as Mike reached the door. I took a deep breath. This was it, then.
‘Hi Justin!’ I said brightly as the door opened to reveal him, accompanied by Harrison Green, Justin’s social worker, who’d brought him along for our initial meeting the previous Tuesday. I hadn’t been sure about Harrison when I first met him; he seemed a scruffy sort of character to be a social worker, to my mind. In his mid-fifties, he had a mop of unruly, greying hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in a long while, and a generally unkempt air about him. But perhaps that was what long-term social work could do to you. I’d got little sense of what Justin himself was like on that occasion, other than that he was surly, a little awkward around us and a little lacking in all the normal social graces. Offered a biscuit, for example, and he’d immediately pounced on the plate, taking as many in one hand as he could get his fingers round, and immediately stashing half in his trouser pockets. But his lack of etiquette was hardly surprising given his situation, was it? So I wasn’t concerned about such small, trifling details. Not at all. Those sorts of things could all be learned. It was the deeper stuff, the psychological damage, that most concerned me. Could the manifestations of that damage be unlearned? That was what was key.
One thing that had happened was that we’d been given more background to chew over. While Mike had been showing Justin around our home that day, Harrison had taken the opportunity to fill me in on more of the details of his own.
‘The truth is that he’s attacked a number of his carers,’ he’d told me gravely. ‘With both fists and with kitchen knives, apparently.’ He’d paused then. ‘He’s also threatened to take his life on a number of occasions, and did once actually try to hang himself. From some goalposts on the school playing fields.’
I’d listened in shock, mentally storing everything up so I could recount it all back to Mike later. It was then, too, that Harrison had passed on the news that Justin seemed to have a particular aversion to women with black hair. But he’d also been positive about the potential for his future progress. Justin’s current situation had been as much to do with the carers as him, it seemed. According to Harrison, at any rate, they were too inexperienced to deal with Justin’s refusal to accept boundaries. And boundaries were what he needed more than anything.
I’d not been convinced, at the time, that Harrison had really thought we’d be any better. He had a world-weary air about him that seemed to suggest otherwise. John’s words about last-chance saloon came flooding back. Were Mike and I considered to be Justin’s? Might our first placement be already doomed to failure?
I tried to dismiss the idea, telling myself I was being silly. We were last-chance-saloon fosterers – that was the whole point of the programme we were there to implement. But looking at Harrison now I sensed little had changed. That Harrison wasn’t holding out a lot of hope, deep down. Just needed somewhere to place the child, and fast.
‘Come on in,’ Mike said warmly, standing aside to let them all enter. Justin did so with a fair degree of confidence compared with his last visit, I noticed, pulling Harrison along behind him into the living room.
‘Is that all he’s got?’ I asked Harrison, following them, and gesturing to Justin’s single battered suitcase. Yes it was big, but it still seemed very little in the scheme of things. Could it really contain all he had in the whole world?
‘Um … er, yes,’ Harrison replied, looking slightly flustered by my question. He seemed preoccupied with an agenda of his own.
And he was. ‘I don’t have much time, I’m afraid,’ he told us. ‘We’re going to have to get the paperwork sorted out quickly, as I have to be somewhere else pretty soon … but you’re alright,’ he said, turning to Justin, who’d now sat down on the sofa. ‘Looking forward to it, son, aren’t you?’
Justin nodded, and managed to come up with a wonky half-smile. ‘Is it okay if I put the telly on?’ he asked me.
‘Course,’ I said, happy to see he really did seem okay, and so much more relaxed than he’d been with me last time. I smiled, feeling the tension drain away from me a little too. ‘Just not too loud, though, okay?’
Harrison, on the other hand, was making me cross. ‘Shall we go into the kitchen to complete the forms?’ he asked me, visibly anxious to be making a move out through the door. It was as if he really couldn’t wait to leave.
‘Only one suitcase,’ I persisted, as I led him through to the kitchen, while Mike went to show Justin how to work the TV remotes. ‘I’d have thought a child who’d been in care as long as he has would have amassed loads and loads of stuff.’ I did, too. This wasn’t just whimsical thinking on my part. One of the things we’d covered during training was about kids in care and their various possessions. Kids coming straight from a bad home environment often have very little. Neglected and abused they often have owned very few things, and, in many cases, what little they do have tends to be hung on to by their families. Children already in care, on the other hand, do have possessions, often lots of them, because carers are given funds with which to buy them.
Harrison seemed irritated at being sidetracked from his paperwork. ‘Yes, well,’ he said, shuffling them. ‘Justin doesn’t really do “looking after things”. Hence he travels light. So, then. Here are the care plans …’
We went through them, and it was almost as if we were purchasing a car and he was the harried salesman handing us the log book, the deal done. I offered drinks but, no, he really did have to get away, and to be honest I was happy to see the back of him. His attitude towards the whole business of handing over Justin was getting up my nose every bit as much as his crumpled-up suit and musty smell.
Justin came into the kitchen immediately Harrison had left, his expression looking relaxed for the first time since we’d met. He was quite a stocky boy. Tall for his age, too. I’m five feet tall and he was only half a head shorter. He had thick, coarse blond hair, which seemed to grow upwards from his scalp, rather like a character in a cartoon who’s just been electrocuted. And he was smiling now, which immediately softened his stony features. He wasn’t an unattractive boy when he wasn’t on his guard. One job, I mused, would be to work on that smile of his. And, hopefully, soon see much more of it.
‘I’m glad he’s gone,’ he said to me, matter of factly. ‘Is it nearly dinner time yet?’
I looked at the kitchen clock. It was only just coming up to eleven-thirty in the morning. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘I suppose we could always have an early dinner, if you’re hungry …’
He shook his head ‘Oh, I’m not. I just want to know what time we’re having it,’ he answered, in the same straightforward tone. ‘Oh, and what we’re having.’
‘What we’re having?’
Now he nodded at me. ‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you can hang on just for a little bit longer, I was going to phone my daughter Riley and my son Kieron – they’re both really looking forward to meeting you, Justin. And we’ll just be having a pasta bake, or something.’
‘Twelve, then?’ Now Justin did begin to look a bit flustered. ‘And will it be pasta bake? Or might it be something else?’
‘What was all that about?’ asked Mike, once I’d reassured Justin that, yes, it would be twelve and it
would definitely be pasta bake, and, satisfied now, he’d gone back to the living room. Mike chuckled. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t offer him a menu!’
It was good to hear my husband’s familiar and reassuring words – the sound of sanity, the sound of normality. Probably just what this child needed in his life. But, just to be on the safe side I set to work on our unexpectedly early lunch anyway, while Mike went to call Kieron and Riley and tell them the coast was clear. We’d arranged for them to come only once Justin was safely with us, in order that we didn’t overwhelm him.
As I chopped onions, I could hear Mike in the hall chuckling some more. ‘Just make sure you ask for pasta!’ he was telling them.
You’d be a fool as a foster carer, particularly our kind of foster carer, to let yourself be lulled into a false sense of security, but for a minute or two after Mike had finished talking to the kids, I felt hopeful that this would all work out well. Okay, so Justin seemed to have some anxieties about food, but then, after all those years in care and going from place to place, it would be strange if he hadn’t picked up a few foibles along the way. I could see why food would have been something he’d possibly have to fight over in the different hierarchies of children and pubescents that existed in every new children’s home he was billeted in.
But it wasn’t the only foible he had, of course. I’d forgotten about the one we had already been warned about.
She’s gorgeous, my daughter, and I love her to bits. She’s welcoming and friendly, with a really bright personality, and had been so enthusiastic about the whole idea of us fostering. So when she and Kieron arrived she seemed as anxious as we were to make Justin feel like he belonged. When we were seated, the promised pasta bake steaming in the centre of the table, she sat down beside him and leaned towards him conspiratorially. ‘Welcome to the mad house,’ she said, grinning.
She then made a move, as if she was about to ruffle his hair, but even before she could lift up her hand to do so, Justin had slammed himself against his chair back and given her a really stony stare.
‘Sorry, mate,’ she said, shocked. ‘I was just being friendly’, but Justin ignored her, leaned forwards again and helped himself to a large portion of the pasta. I made a mental note that in future perhaps I’d need to serve the portions myself, in the kitchen.
We ate in an uncomfortable silence for some minutes, and I watched my daughter’s face begin to redden. She was clearly so embarrassed and my heart really went out to her, and Mike, noticing too, tried to lighten the atmosphere by engaging the boys in conversation about football.
Justin wasn’t interested, though, and continued to eat in silence, a silence becoming more noisy and intrusive by the minute as we all digested what had happened.
‘Is David coming round?’ I asked Riley eventually.
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Not till tomorrow. He’s working today …’ She tailed off because Justin was staring at her once again. ‘David’s my boyfriend,’ she explained to him. ‘We live just round the corner. He’s looking forward to meeting you, too, Justin.’
But once again it seemed Riley was the devil incarnate. ‘What time is tea, Casey?’ he asked me, ignoring her. ‘And what are we having to eat?’
I could feel Mike begin to bristle beside me. ‘Justin, Riley was speaking to you, mate,’ he said quietly. ‘And we don’t know about tea yet. We’re only just having dinner.’
‘It’s okay, Dad,’ Riley said. ‘It’s fine. It really is. I’m always quiet around people I don’t know too.’
Justin scowled at her and once again turned to face me. ‘Is it okay if I take my stuff to my room now?’
‘Go ahead,’ said Mike. ‘I’ll come up and check on you in a bit.’
‘Oh, my God! How rude is that kid?’ Kieron observed, once we’d heard Justin’s tread on the stairs. My lovely Kieron, who finds it impossible to see bad in anybody. He looked at his elder sister. ‘He sure doesn’t seem to like you, Riley!’
Riley frowned. ‘It’s probably just because of my black hair.’
‘Your black hair? Why?’
She glanced in my direction. ‘Mum told me. He’s got this thing, apparently. Has this thing about hating women with black hair.’
Kieron glanced at me too, looking shocked. The word ‘hate’ didn’t really exist for him. ‘I know,’ I said, having completely forgotten all about that. Of course! ‘But we’ve also got to remember this is probably a bit too much for him. We have to be patient and give him a chance to settle in.’
Mike got up and began clearing the plates. He was shaking his head as he went out to the kitchen.
While Mike manfully tackled the washing up, I went outside with Riley for a cigarette. I’d been trying to cut down, in preparation for giving up, but right now I really needed a quick nicotine boost. I reassured my daughter that things could only improve; that it would take time, but that once we got to know Justin a little better it would all become easier and less stressful for us all.
She didn’t look convinced – Riley was someone who liked to be liked and I could see that, even though she understood about the black-hair thing, she was still shocked and confused by Justin’s very obvious rejection of her – so I just hoped what I was saying would turn out to be true.
I could still hear plenty of banging and clattering in the kitchen, so I accepted a sneaky second cigarette, feeling the strain of the morning start to ebb away. Justin’s food issues, at least, were something we could definitely address, and as for his thing about black hair – well, I was sure once he got to know us as real people, that would lessen too.
I was just stubbing out the cigarette when Kieron came to the back door to find me.
‘Mum!’ he said, looking shocked. ‘You have to come!’
I started. ‘Come where? What’s the matter?’
‘Dad’s just been up to check on Justin and …’ He seemed completely stuck for words. ‘And his room is … well …’ He frowned at me, looking anxious. ‘Come on. Just come up and see for yourself.’
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© Rosie Lewis 2014
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