by Casey Watson
I wasn’t worried about the chewing itself – our doctor had told us it was quite common in people with Asperger’s – but I was definitely worried about the welfare of my son. Our decision to foster could only work long term if it didn’t adversely affect our own kids, after all.
‘I know,’ I said to Mike. ‘I did notice it. Let’s hope it’s something that will settle once she’s been to see her mum. Maybe it’s the thought of it; maybe it flips some mental switch … We’ll have to keep our fingers crossed, won’t we? But I’m definitely going to go into Sherlock Holmes mode in the morning. And if I find out they’re holding stuff back …’
‘You mean Monday,’ Mike said. ‘We’ve got the whole of the bloody weekend to get through yet …’
To our great relief, however, Saturday started well and carried on without any incidents. In fact, better than well, even, as Riley came over, and made a sustained effort to get to know Sophia better, regaling her with tales of her new school – both Riley and Kieron had been pupils there – and a lowdown on the best and worst teachers. Kieron had already called Riley to fill her in on the dinner-table mutterings, so she obviously knew which topics to avoid.
After a light lunch the three of us headed off to town and, as it was snowing again, we left Levi in the care of Mike and Kieron. Kieron usually played football on a Saturday afternoon, and Mike took him, but with the match having been cancelled because of the weather they were just as happy watching it on TV instead. Plus, Mike pointed out, he had to get his grandson into football nice and early. But perhaps I should have realised the calm and order wouldn’t last. Sophia had been with us just four days now – even if it felt so much longer – and every one of them had involved some sort of drama.
When we returned, laden down with Sophia’s school uniform and stationery, it was to find my evening had been hijacked by the boys’ continuing football plans. After dinner – I’d made a hearty stew and dumplings, which were devoured in no time – Kieron explained that it was pretty much a life-and-death situation that they be allowed to see the Liverpool match highlights, having not been able to see two games at once earlier.
‘But supposing I’ve got something I want to watch?’ I argued. ‘Last time I checked, it was me who’s been on the go all afternoon, not to mention whipping up your cordon bleu dinner …’
Mike laughed. ‘I did point that out to him, love, honest. Only fair. And this dinner is incredible, by the way. Best stew in the universe.’ He winked at Kieron.
‘Oh, go on then,’ I said. ‘I can see I’m outnumbered. I have stacks of ironing to wade through, in any case. Well, unless – Sophia, is there anything you’d like to see on telly? That would take it to stalemate.’ I grinned at Mike.
She shook her head. She’d just finished wiping her plate clean with a last slice of bread. If I could do one thing right for her, I thought, it would be to feed her. ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said brightly. ‘Got to sort out all my new school stuff. And I’ve got a DVD I want to watch anyway. Not that I don’t like football,’ she added, looking coyly at Kieron. ‘All those men running around in shorts and stuff.’
I tutted as I stood up and started to clear the table. ‘You’re much too young to be thinking about men in shorts, madam! Now, come and give me a hand with the dishes before you disappear.’
‘We’ll do them, Mum,’ Kieron offered. ‘Only fair, after all …’
But I said no. Getting to know a child, I’d always found, invariably seemed to happen most naturally in those little pockets of opportunity when you were doing something else. I headed off with Sophia into the kitchen.
‘Do you look like your mum?’ I asked her, once we’d got the washing up under way. She’d been talking about some of the things they used to like on TV when she was younger, so this seemed a good time to delve deeper.
‘I suppose so,’ she said, shrugging. ‘A bit. We’ve both got blonde hair and blue eyes, but I’m taller. Actually, people often used to think we were sisters.’
I passed her a plate to dry up. ‘Bet your mum loved that,’ I said. ‘I always do when people mistake me and Riley for sisters.’
‘Though I’m prettier than she is. And I don’t think we do.’ She continued to wipe the plate for a few moments. ‘But she still had more boyfriends.’
This brought me up short. What an odd thing for a 12-year-old to say. ‘But you’re only young, love,’ I said. ‘Bit early for boyfriends, isn’t it? Plenty of time for them as you grow up.’
She turned to face me, looking deadly serious. ‘But I am grown up. I have boobs and everything, don’t I?’ I certainly couldn’t argue with that. She was incredibly well developed for her age. Physically, at any rate. I smiled at her.
‘Thing is, love, it’s not just about your body developing,’ I said gently. ‘Just because you develop physically, doesn’t mean your mind and emotions keep pace. Sometimes it’s hard when you look older than you are –’ She seemed to like hearing that, I noticed. ‘– because people expect you to be more mature than you can be … or even should be. As I say, plenty of time for boys in a couple of years or so.’
But though I smiled as she skipped off to her room, seemingly satisfied, the little niggle of unease in my mind began to itch. She was so much a child in a woman’s body. And with her circumstances, her condition, her tragic orphan status, well, she was vulnerable to all sorts. And her provocative manner around men was disturbing. How did she get to be that way at such a young age?
I’ve always hated ironing. In contrast to all the other domestic chores – and I knew I was borderline obsessive about my housework – ironing was the one that I tended to let pile up. So my ironing pile was generally teetering by the time I got to it, and tonight was no exception. Still, once I got under way, it at least gave me some ‘me-time’. I’d do it out in the conservatory, lost in my own little world, listening to my favourite golden oldies radio station, with the consolation of at least having the odd sneaky fag break without anyone in my family nagging me. Which they did, almost constantly, about when I was giving up. Mike had, a couple of years back, and was now one of those evangelical ex-smokers, and, to be fair, I had too, for a while. But it always seemed like something stressful came along to derail me, and I’d be back to square one, puffing away. I’d have to set a new date, get stocked up with those wretched inhalators. But not yet. Not right now, with so much on my plate.
I’d just finished my cigarette, and was back to about the sixth of Mike’s shirts when Kieron popped his head around the door. I’d been at it for an hour now, and had lost track of time. ‘Hello. You okay, love?’ I asked him.
‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘I think you need to come and get Sophia. Dad’s going to go mad in a minute.’
I put the iron down. ‘Why? What are you on about? Where is she?’
‘She’s in the living room, dressed like a hooker, Mum, honest. And she’s all over Dad. It’s so embarrassing!’
I came round from behind the ironing board and followed him back into the house. I could hear Mike even before we got in there. ‘Look, I told you,’ he was saying. ‘And I won’t tell you again. Get back over there. I want to sit on my own. And while you’re at it –’ By now we’d both entered the room. ‘You can get those ridiculous things off and put on some of those pyjamas Casey got you!’
I was gawping by now, because I couldn’t believe my eyes. Sophia was getting up now, on seeing me, but had been perched on the arm of the sofa, close to Mike, with her hair once again curled and her face plastered in make-up: deep-red lipstick, blue eye shadow, mascara. But it was what she was wearing that most grabbed my attention. She had on a short, see-through red-and-black flimsy nightie, trimmed with red satin, beneath a matching satin dressing gown, which was unfastened. Kieron had been right. She did indeed look like a hooker.
‘What on earth do you think you’re playing at, young lady?’ I asked her.
‘Oh, God!’ she flounced. ‘You lot are all so strait-laced! I was only teasing
…’ She looked across at Kieron. ‘Oh, just look at your face! I’m only teasing,’ she said again, sweetly.
‘Move it, Sophia,’ Mike said. ‘Like Casey said. Now! And you can stay up there till you’re fit to be seen, too.’
‘Jesus!’ she said, before stomping from the room. ‘What is wrong with you all?’
Mike was the most wound up I’d seen him in a long time. Pacing the room, pushing his hand though his hair. This had obviously really affected him, and I didn’t know what to say. ‘You’re going to have to sort this out, Case,’ he said quietly.
‘She’s mad, Mum,’ Kieron said, plopping down on the sofa. He was looking pretty agitated too. ‘Honestly, she’s mad. Who’d do that?’
‘Do what, exactly?’ I asked. ‘What was she doing?’
‘Coming on to Dad,’ Kieron said. ‘Like really going for it.’
‘She was even trying to tickle my bloody neck!’ Mike added. ‘We really do need to sort this,’ he went on. ‘And fast. This is potentially dangerous territory. We’ve got to protect ourselves here.’
He was right, of course. We’d covered this sort of thing in training. Damaged children could display lots of inappropriate behaviours, inappropriate sexual behaviour being one of them. And it was a potential minefield for carers in a fostering situation, because damaged children could also make damaging allegations. Mike was right. We had to nip this in the bud. But just as the serious nature of what was happening was kicking in, we were startled by an unexpected explosion of laughter from Kieron.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he said, trying and failing to stop the giggles; in fact he looked like he’d wet himself if he carried on much longer. ‘It was just so funny! You should have seen Dad – he was beetroot! I actually thought he was going to burst into tears!’
‘It’s not funny, Kieron!’ Mike barked, but then his mask slipped away, and he too started laughing hysterically. Which started me off. I just couldn’t help but join in. But even as I laughed I couldn’t quite believe what was happening. This wasn’t funny. So how was it we were all in this state? Was this girl going to drive us all insane?
We all composed ourselves eventually and, thankfully, Sophia didn’t reappear. When I went upstairs to check on her, and make sure she took her meds, she was as meek and childlike as could be.
Nevertheless, we’d have to sit down and spell out the ground rules in the morning and, once she was at school, I’d also go into her bedroom and confiscate all her unsuitable nightwear. She could have it all back when she went back to Jean, and not before.
Which made me think about Jean’s breakdown. Were jigsaw pieces falling into place here?
In any event, Monday couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter 7
I woke up on Sunday thinking something quite unusual. I woke up and wished it was Monday. Had it been Monday, I could have gone downstairs and rang John Fulshaw’s office, and maybe got some guidance – not to mention information – with which to arm myself before tackling Sophia. As it was, I would just have to get up and get on with it, even though what I really wanted to do was pull the duvet over my head and hibernate for the rest of the winter.
I got up, though, because the day wouldn’t sort itself out, taking care not to wake Mike, who needed his lie-in. He seldom got to sleep in, even at weekends; there was always someone needing him to pop down and sort something out at the warehouse. Best let sleeping dogs lie for a bit, bless him.
But when I came out on to the landing it was to hear the sound of the shower already going and, above that, the cheerful sound of Sophia singing. I shook my head as I went down the stairs to make my coffee; it was like she had the ability to pull a switch and forget everything that had gone before that moment. I tried to imagine myself in her shoes – after all she’d been through, and now dumped in an unfamiliar home, with unfamiliar people, and knowing she was likely to be getting yet another rollicking … yet nothing seemed to faze her at all.
Defence mechanism, maybe? But perhaps she should be fazed. She wouldn’t cope in the world unless she learned certain behaviours were unacceptable; and sexual behaviours in particular. Coming on to grown men was a dangerous business. She could get herself into all sorts of worrying situations. If ever a child needed a guiding hand, she did, and it felt like no one had so far stepped up to the plate.
So be it, I thought, taking my coffee and cigarettes into the conservatory for a think.
By the time I came back in, a few minutes later, Sophia was in the kitchen, dressed, and looking in the cereal cupboard. ‘Morning, Casey!’ she said brightly, her smile guileless.
‘Morning,’ I said back. ‘And I’m glad you’re down bright and early, because you and I need to have a little talk, love, don’t we?’
Now she grimaced, and then rolled her eyes. ‘Look,’ she said, as she gathered up the cereal box and a bowl and spoon. ‘If it’s about last night, I’m sorry, okay? I was only trying to have a bit of fun. Just bored, that’s all.’
I joined her at the kitchen table. ‘Love, it’s not okay. It will never be okay for you to carry on like that around grown men. And I think you already know that, as well, don’t you?’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘And like I say, I’m sorry. And I promise I won’t do it again if it upsets you.’
That brought me up short. Not so much the words as the subtle but definite emphasis she’d placed on the word ‘you’.
‘Sophia,’ I said, ‘you didn’t upset me. You upset them. You made yourself look a bit silly, and you also made them embarrassed to be in the same room with you. You don’t want that, surely? For them to feel uncomfortable around you?’
She flushed pink now, under her tan, which immediately made her seem closer to her real age. She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said in a smaller voice now. ‘I don’t. Can you tell them both I’m really, really sorry?’
I told her I would, and that that would be the end of the matter, and decided to myself that this was what the girl needed – for the child in her to be teased out and reinstated. The sexual precocity and manipulative behaviour went hand in hand, I thought. What we needed to reclaim was the remainder of her childhood, by putting some secure boundaries in place.
And so far, so good. Because the rest of the day went so well that by the time it was Monday morning I felt confident once again that we could make headway.
I was going to drive her myself that morning, but had agreed that from the Tuesday she could walk across the field, alongside all the streams of other children who passed our house on the way – it was on one of the main routes to the high school. I was quietly pleased she’d been keen on doing this, too. I’d envisaged a few days – if not longer – when she wouldn’t have the confidence to strike out on her own in that way. I was also pleased that she seemed to be taking responsibility for her medication. She’d taken her morning pills at breakfast and carefully packed the day’s supply into their special bag and put it in her backpack. I would be taking in the school’s emergency injection kit myself.
‘There you go, love,’ I said, handing her the packed lunch I’d made for her. ‘And there’s some peanuts in a separate bag in there, in case you get tired or have PE.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘But you’re not going to take me right in, are you? I don’t want the other girls to think I’m a baby.’
‘No, of course not,’ I reassured her. Poor love. Must be pretty hard for her, changing schools again. ‘I’ll just take you to the office so you can meet Miss Summers and then I absolutely promise I’ll leave you to it.’
I didn’t need to outstay my welcome anyway. I’d already had a long chat on the phone with Rachel Summers, Sophia’s class teacher, and we’d run through all they needed to be aware of in relation to the Addison’s. They’d never come across it either, but I knew I could trust the school to look out for her anyway. Not only had they risen to the challenge of my last foster child, Justin, they also knew me – well, many of them, anyway – as before fostering I’d worked
there for several years. I’d run ‘the unit’, the informal name for my pastoral care classroom, where I’d take on the school’s most challenging and demanding children, trying to get to the root of their behavioural difficulties and turn them around so they could make the most of their time in school. I’d had all sorts over the years, from the bullied to the bullies; all the kids that, for whatever reason – and it was normally related to difficult home lives – were struggling to find their place in the world. It was that job that had ultimately led me to fostering, as I realised that, though I loved it, I could do so much more on a one-on-one basis, taking care of one child at a time. I dropped Sophia off at school without incident, fifteen minutes later, and decided that since I now had the luxury of a day off I’d pop round to Riley’s and see what she was up to. After the intensity of the last few days it would be good to do something normal – even if it was just to tag along when she went shopping.
It was also good to get my hands on little Levi.
‘This is early for you, Mum,’ Riley observed as she reached for the kettle and I reached for Levi.
‘I’ve just dropped Sophia at school so I thought I’d take the opportunity to see how my little baby’s doing.’
‘Not as little as I’d like to be,’ she joked. ‘Not with all the baby blubber. But still your baby, if it makes you happy.’ She was such a wag, my daughter.
We didn’t go into town in the end, Riley having decided it was too cold, so, as was normal, I somehow ended up spending half the morning helping with the washing and the ironing and with having a proper clean of the bedrooms and bathroom. Not that I minded really; I enjoyed making things sparkle and shine, and had the bonus of some quality time with her and Levi. That said, it was still lunchtime before I came back downstairs.