by Casey Watson
Quite apart from the ridiculous picture she was painting – of this random girl, running a mobile branch of the local booze shop, dispensing dubious cans of strong cider – her choice of word made me laugh out loud. Violated? Where had she dredged that one up? Violated, by fruity cider? She really was quite the drama queen. I had to give her that. Even if she was trying to take us for utter mugs.
‘Okay,’ I said, having already decided to keep a cool head and run with it. ‘So then what? How did you go from, um, being forced to consume alcohol, to wandering the streets at ten o’clock at night, when you were meant to be home?’
Keeley shook her head as if in disbelief. ‘Well, duh!’ she said, shaking her head in apparent astonishment. ‘We were drunk by then, weren’t we? We didn’t know what we were doing.’ She glanced at Mike, then looked at me. ‘Casey, honestly, you mean you’ve never been drunk?’
Thankfully, Tyler appeared in the kitchen just as the question had been asked. Which both saved me from having to engage further in such a silly discussion and provided a timely pause, before Mike left for work.
‘Well, Keeley,’ he said, adopting her own style. ‘As you might say, whatever. Whatever the reason, I told you last night that your actions have consequences, and, guess what – they’re here. You come straight home from college tonight. No hanging around with friends. You can have a night at home for once, about which I don’t expect you to argue. And if you do – either to me now, or to Casey later on, tonight’s night in will be extended to a week in. You understand.’
‘What?’ Keeley gasped. ‘You mean I’m grounded? But I apologised!’
Mike nodded. ‘Yes, you have. And we’ve accepted your apology.’ He reached for his coat and began putting it on. ‘And just as I and Casey have done that, so you should accept the result of your actions graciously. Think on it. Chalk it up to experience. If you then learn from your mistakes – that’s the point, here – and make a different choice next time, then you will have actually proved that you’re sorry, won’t you? It won’t just be empty words. So let’s see,’ he said sternly. ‘A night at home won’t kill you, anyway.’
Mike kissed me and Tyler goodbye and left, leaving Keeley with her mouth open and a bit of an atmosphere, which Tyler was quick to try and lighten. ‘Porridge and syrup, anyone?’ he asked, smiling as he held out a bunch of sachets. ‘Lots of syrup. Though I reckon it’s a bit late to try and sweeten Dad up.’
He then smiled, clearly pleased to see Keeley’s frown turn to a grin.
‘You should go on the stage, you,’ she said, batting him on the arm. ‘And go on, then, O King of the Microwave. I’ll join you. But don’t blame your dad. I know I’m pretty high maintenance.’
Hmm, I thought. Spoken like a woman of the world. ‘Glad you’ve noticed,’ I said, deciding there was no point in being off with her. As Mike had made clear, the ball was in her court now. To follow up her words with appropriate action. Which she either would or wouldn’t do. I hoped she would.
‘And like Mike said,’ I went on, ‘a night at home won’t kill you. So when you see your friends today make sure they know that, okay? In fact, it wouldn’t hurt if you showed willing by staying in a bit more anyway, love. If you want to do your best at college you are going to need your sleep.’
Keeley nodded contritely. ‘But they’re still good for the party at the weekend, right?’
Ah. The party. Well, the ‘party’ in inverted commas really, given that, apart from Keeley’s new friends, it was going to consist of just the family, essentially, plus Denver (of course) and, if they felt up to it, my elderly mum and dad. Though I had at least come around to the idea of the two girls from college coming, as it would make it more fun for the youngsters.
Though not too much fun, I thought, mentally filing the previous night’s shenanigans. ‘That’s a thought,’ I said. ‘I trust the girl who foisted the alcohol upon you so scurrilously isn’t one of the ones you’ve invited, Keeley.’
‘God, no,’ she assured me. ‘She’s a complete hoe.’
Tyler’s splutter of amusement wasn’t lost on me. In reality, I knew it was unlikely that she even existed. Keeley was more than capable of knowing cider from Ribena, after all. Still, again, I ran with it.
‘Good. And, yes, provided that you settle down and do as we’ve asked you, they can come. But I can promise you that if there’s another incident between now and then the whole thing will be cancelled. Understood?’
Keeley saluted and grinned at Tyler as he passed her a bowl of porridge. ‘Aye aye, captain,’ she said. ‘Message received and understood.’
Received, yes, I thought. We’d have to wait and see about the rest.
Whether because she was super-sorry or just super-shrewd, Keeley’s behaviour over the next few days was exemplary. On her actual birthday we celebrated with a family meal at home, at which it seemed almost possible, according to Mike, anyway, that the real Keeley been taken by aliens in the night, and replaced with a trained replicant, such a vision of mannered loveliness was she.
The day had also brought presents. Presents from all of us, of course – new trainers, a silver locket, a scarf and gloves set, a retro sweet tin – and she’d also been given gifts by her new best friends, Gemma and Katy from college, which made me feel much better disposed towards them. And, slightly bizarrely, to my mind, a card and TopShop voucher from Steve and Zoe Burke – the last thing in the world I would have expected. But perhaps Keeley’s foster sister Jade had been involved. They couldn’t see each other, but the bond was clearly still strong between them.
‘Guilt money,’ Keeley said darkly, as she prised the plastic card off to check the amount. ‘But money’s money, eh? Very happy to spend this.’
And soon the weekend rolled around and the party was upon us and, like anyone anywhere who’s had a trouble-free week, I was not only looking forward to it, but, given the Keeley we’d been seeing over recent stress-free days, didn’t so much as devote a second to contemplating how things might go wrong.
Which made me doubly cross with myself when they did.
The evening, without question, had been a success. All the family round, my elderly mum and dad included, and defying their years by being the ones doing the most dancing to the eighties playlist I’d so carefully constructed. The house was rammed – so much for the modest gathering I’d first mooted, with both relatives and friends and a few of our party-minded neighbours – spilling out everywhere, with the usual high-decibel nucleus in the kitchen.
And, as young people tend to when at multi-generational gatherings, the youngsters at ours had immediately formed their own clique, with their HQ in the fairy-lit conservatory.
And more fool me for not worrying what they might be up to. I was lost in conversation with my sister Donna in the living room when Kieron came up and yanked on my dress sleeve. He looked worried. ‘Mum, I think you’d best go check on Tyler,’ he whispered. ‘If I’m right, he’s been drinking. Or he’s taken something,’ he added, lowering his voice further. ‘Him and Denver. They’re both acting really odd.’
Tyler? Taken something? That I definitely couldn’t believe. He was no angel – and I didn’t come down in the last shower of rain, either – but doing that, at a party, at home, with us all there? With my mum and dad there? That I wouldn’t believe. But drinking? Perhaps. Kieron hardly touched alcohol. It ‘upset his brain’ was how he’d put it when he’d tried it. He wasn’t teetotal, but he was certainly no boozer, so he’d be bound to be concerned.
‘I’m sure you’re wrong, love,’ I told him as I followed him through the house. ‘He might be daft at times, but he’s not stupid. Probably just high spirits – that and having the girls here – which is making both boys a bit silly. If he’d wanted a beer, which is fine, he’d have asked Mike or me for one.’
So much for Mrs Confident About Everything.
Because one look into the conservatory, where all five youngsters were still gathered, proved me wrong. Tyler and De
nver had indeed been drinking, and a good deal more than one drink apiece, by the look of them: they were both sprawled on my wicker sofa, giggling like ten-year-olds.
I thought instantly, and anxiously, of cannabis, seeing that. Perhaps Kieron had been right after all. But I’d have smelt it, and couldn’t – and I had a good nose for it after years working in a school. No, they were just giggling because they were silly teenage boys, being dangled on a string by three street-wise, sassy girls, at least one of whom chatted up grown men (to put it politely) for pocket money.
My gaze naturally moved to the three girls in question, who were gathered by the doors into the garden, each with a wine bottle in their hands. As in a whole bottle apiece, and all were more than half empty, and, to my utter astonishment, all the girls were smoking as well. Yes, they were making a vague effort to blow their smoke outside. But they were still smoking in my conservatory. Indoors. Couldn’t be bothered to actually go outside. They were smoking in my house.
Which, respect-wise, was the biggest slap in the face of all. Not because they were doing something they knew they shouldn’t – a zillion teenagers have done similarly when their parents have been away – but because they were doing it knowing full well that our whole family were in the house. Setting me up as the gullible idiot they so obviously thought me to be.
‘You three!’ I barked. ‘Put those cigarettes out right now!’
I glared at Keeley’s friends, then. And gestured to the wine bottles. ‘Did you two bring those?’
‘Oh, Chrrrrist!’ Keeley drawled drunkenly. ‘Here we go.’ She let the words hang for long enough to make it clear to her new buddies that I had previous in the business of being an old bag. ‘We are all sixteen!’ she snapped back at me. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed. And you’re not their mother. Or my mother, for that fact. Chrrrrist. We’re just having a bloody drink. What’s the big deal?’
Her prettiness had disappeared completely. And her eyes, which were reddening, challenged me so forcefully it was almost as if she was willing me to hit her, and I had to quash an urge to slap her cheek for that. I balled my fists. ‘Not in my bloody house, you aren’t,’ I said instead, before marching across to Tyler, who was gazing at me dozily from under half-closed eyelids. ‘And what do you think you two are doing?’ I asked, planting my fists on my hips now. ‘Why would you do this, Ty?’
Tyler hiccupped before answering. Then looked sheepish. ‘I dunno,’ he said, slurring the words. ‘But it’s not her fault, Mum, seriously.’ Except he couldn’t manage ‘seriously’. Only ‘sirrrush-ush-ush’, which caused Denver to collapse into another fit of giggles. Which then sent Ty off again as well.
God, I thought miserably, give me strength.
I turned around. Kieron was still standing in the doorway behind me. ‘Love,’ I said, ‘can you get these two up to Ty’s bedroom for me, please? And call Denver’s mum for me? Let her know he’ll be sleeping over? The pull-out’s made up. Put him on that.’
‘With absolute pleasure,’ Kieron said, making it clear as he did so that he intended it to be one – and that he wasn’t exactly planning on being gentle with them either. He was a kind soul, my Kieron, but I could see he was angry – upset, more than anything, that the boys had let me down.
‘Make sure they both drink some water,’ I added, as he hauled them up and frogmarched them back through the kitchen. The three girls meanwhile just stood and watched this, looking bored. It took me straight back to my days dealing with the difficult kids in school.
‘So, ladies,’ I said, feeling my anger welling further, ‘now to deal with you. I am –’
‘I don’t fucking think so,’ Keeley interrupted, with such bile that it made me wince, as she reached into her handbag for her packet of cigarettes. ‘Come on, girls,’ she said, gesturing with a nod that they should follow. ‘Let’s fuck off outta this shit-hole, yeah? I’m up to here –’ she touched her forehead and looked at me again pointedly. ‘Up to here with the bloody goody-goody act, seriously.’
She then made to pass me, to go inside. And then, presumably, out – the new, improved Keeley having already disappeared.
‘Don’t you dare leave this house,’ I warned, blocking her with my arm. ‘You’ve been drinking and are not in a fit state to be off wandering the bloody streets. I mean it, Keeley,’ I said, dropping my arm again to test her. I expected her to move, but, thankfully, she stayed put. ‘I’m telling you now,’ I said coldly, ‘if you defy me and leave I’ll have no alternative but to call the police.’
This seemed to decide her – she actually sneered, and I felt my heart sink. What the hell should I have said instead? ‘Good luck with that,’ she said, making a cutesy bye-bye sign with her hand as she ushered the girls past me. ‘You think they’ll care? I’m sixteen.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘They’ll just laugh at you.’
And then she was gone. So were her lovely new friends. And my Tyler and Denver were drunk and being put to bed. And I now had to go out and face all those faces. All those sympathetic looks from my well-meaning family. And – a dead cert – a very pointed one from Mike. Happy, happy birthday to me.
How does the song go? The one about it being a party and being allowed to cry if I wanted to.
That was the one. I sat down, and I did.
Chapter 11
As a foster carer, it’s good practice not to leap before looking. To try, wherever possible, to mentally count to ten, and to take stock of a situation before reacting to it. To take time to break down all the seemingly insignificant actions that ultimately led to the current crisis, whatever kind of crisis it might be.
Over the years, taking stock before acting had become second nature; not necessarily at the time – not always possible in the heat of an angry moment – but certainly as soon as possible after the event, and before taking any precipitous action, or, most importantly, making over-emotional entries in my log.
There was an exception to this, however, and that was during the first couple of weeks of any long-term placement, when I’d use my log almost as a personal diary and commit to it as reactively as I felt.
During this period, as well as recording all the things you’d expect – such as ‘a good day today for A’, or ‘B got up on time and without fuss’ or ‘discovered that C doesn’t eat breakfast, and has been hiding food in their room’ – I also include all my own thoughts and feelings and frustrations, so I have a clear record not just of the child’s emotional state, but also how the two of us are getting on, as well as a fuller picture of the daily routine. I turn every happening of note into a little story.
The reason for doing this is simple. Life as a foster carer can often be so hectic that the really important things can easily be missed. The little things said, the little flashpoints that might have happened, the moments when a child’s psyche was suddenly exposed in an all-too-brief glimpse. Such insights into a child can so easily be lost in the white noise of adjustment and settling in; all potentially valuable pieces of the complex jigsaw that can get lost forever.
And though John and various social workers know it’s one of my little idiosyncrasies, I don’t do it just to please myself. It also has the potential to give future carers something more tangible to go on than just a series of detached-sounding reports.
Finally, of course, it helps the child, too. If some insight into their make-up can travel with them – bad or good – others caring for them can hopefully care for them all the better, adapting more readily to the real child behind the mask.
I’m not sure how long I sat in the conservatory snivelling, only that I’d just about dried them when my eyes saw a space where a pot plant should be. It wasn’t anything grand. Just an orchid from a supermarket, almost all the flowers dropped now. But it had been a present from my oldest grandchild, Levi, back in the summer, and he’d been at great pains to tell me, having looked it all up on Google, that if I hung on to it, only watering it very, very sparingly, it should at some point grow a new crop of blooms
.
Yet it was missing. And a short investigation soon revealed that someone at some point had knocked it off the little side table. It was now lying on its side, half out of the pot, in the corner.
I picked it up and, though it bore no obvious scars (orchids are pretty tough buggers, after all), just the fact of it having been swept away, even if unwittingly, set me off feeling sorry for myself all over again. Did I really have the mental energy or the will to deal with Keeley? She was beginning to really rile me – one minute all sweetness and supplication and sorrys and the next throwing it back into our faces. And she’d been horrible, truly horrible, when drunk. Really nasty. A phrase came to me. In vino veritas?
Which was true of almost all kids in the care system, my good self hurried in to tell my tired self. I’d dealt with far worse and for far longer. But my tired self kept peddling the same line, over and over. Keeley was sixteen now, and perhaps the consensus about her was right; that she was probably beyond the kind of help we could offer.
Perhaps I should take her at her word, too, and simply leave her to roam the streets. Report it, yes, of course. Alert EDT, obviously. But leave any police involvement, or otherwise, to them. Go to bed, in short, and leave her and her cronies to it. As she had also pointed out, I wasn’t her mother.
And for a while that was exactly what I did. I blew my nose, I emerged, we all made light of Keeley’s adolescent ‘flounce’, and everyone was quick to reassure me – from Mum and Dad down to my grown-up niece Chloe – that it was no more than typical sixteen-year-old behaviour. That Ty and Denver would both be pretty sheepish come the morning – by which time, of course, Keeley would have long since come home and gone to bed, having grown cold, having run out of phone signal or wanting food.