by Casey Watson
Chapter 2
No matter how diverse the types of children who’d come to us over the years, my modus operandi for welcoming them rarely differed. In the here and now, one thing took priority over all others; to provide them with their own space – a place of comfort, calm and safety.
It had been a long time since we’d opened our home up to our first foster child, Justin, and as I went through my usual mental checklist for getting Sam’s bedroom ready for his arrival, I reflected on just how much our singular job had become an everyday part of our lives. So much so that, these days, I was ready for every eventuality; stocked to the proverbial gunwales with everything I knew I’d need, or a frightened, disorientated child might want. Which meant that today it was a far cry from those anxious days before Justin was due to move in, when I’d run around like a mad thing, decorating, choosing, shopping and fussing over every detail, every imagined speck of dust.
Today, of course, I didn’t have the luxury of time, but it didn’t matter. It was really just a case of making up Sam’s bed, and making everything nice for him. And as he’d bowled in from football training just an hour or so earlier, I also had Tyler, our long-term foster son, on hand.
Though we never thought of him as that, obviously, because ‘son’ pretty much covered it. He’d been with us seven years now. He was part of us for ever.
‘Mum! Where d’you want this stuff?’ he yelled from halfway down the loft ladder. From where I was smoothing the bedclothes all I could see were his legs and feet.
‘In the conservatory!’ I yelled back.
‘What? Really?’
‘Honestly, love, where do you think I’m going to want it?’
‘Very funny. Not,’ he said, staggering in carrying a giant beanbag, which he dumped, along with the brace of cushions I’d ask him to fetch down for me, right on top of the bed I’d just made up.
‘Not on there,’ I snapped. ‘Now there’ll be wrinkles in the duvet.’
‘God, Mum,’ he huffed. ‘He’s a nine-year-old, isn’t he? You really think he’s going to care if his duvet’s a bit crumpled?’
‘That’s not the point,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s a question of standards. Besides, I’ll care. Anyway, thanks, love. Now go on down and tell your dad I’m almost finished, and that I’ll be inspecting his dusting when I get there.’
I got the usual mock salute, accompanied by the usual grin and eye-roll, and as I always did when a new kid was about to be ‘on the block’, I thought back to the circumstances that had brought Ty himself to us – as angry and distressed a kid as you could ever wish to meet. A tightly wound ball of sheer fury, in fact, who’d greeted me (our first meeting had been at the police station where they were holding him) as if I’d been especially bussed in to torment him. A pint-sized harpy, sent to further ruin his already ruined day.
His ruined life, as it turned out. Well, or so it had seemed at that point. So to have got from that to this – to this lovely young man, who made us proud every day – still felt like a minor miracle. In fact, a series of miracles which, whenever times were tough, reminded me of that old, clichéd mantra – that unconditional love and firm boundaries could take you a very long way.
It had been less than eight hours since I had even heard the name Sam, and in around as many minutes I would be meeting him for the first time, too. Starting off on another journey into the unknown. And, as was fast becoming a norm now, with another almost completely unknown quantity; other than the concerns about his behaviour and the fact that he was in care, I knew almost nothing about this child. Because no one in social services did either.
I had a final check around. For all I knew, Sam could hate the Roblox-themed duvet cover I’d chosen. The blue curtains might offend him, and the fluffy yellow cushions I’d had Tyler bring down for him might, given he was unofficially diagnosed as autistic, make him cringe to the touch. And the books and games I had selected from my ever-growing storage boxes might be way out of his comprehension zone. I really was going in blind on this one – again! – and could only hope I’d hit one or two right notes. The rest I’d have to deal with as happened.
‘Casey! Coffee ready, love!’ Mike called up. ‘Dusting done. Car pulling up. Come and join the welcoming committee.’
I closed the bedroom door and hurried anxiously downstairs. I always had butterflies in my stomach when about to meet a new child but today it was accompanied by another kind of anxiety. One that had been sparked when I’d called Kelly to tell her we were taking Sam and she had responded with such gratitude that it was almost embarrassing – as if I’d phoned her to tell her she’d won the lottery. She and her husband Steve had always seemed such capable, pragmatic carers, so I’d been surprised to hear so much emotion in her voice.
‘I cannot thank you enough, Casey,’ she’d gushed. ‘I owe you. I owe you big time.’
‘You owe me absolutely nothing,’ I’d pointed out. And was just about to add that I was only doing my job when my internal censor (not always that reliable, to be honest) shut my mouth, because to do so would be to imply that she wasn’t. At least I didn’t doubt she’d have seen it that way.
Instead I burbled on about it being easier, since I didn’t have little ones to think about, but when I rang off the intensity of her emotion still dogged me. Just how much of a challenge was this little boy going to be? Surely a child of nine couldn’t be that much of a handful?
I said as much to Mike as he handed me my coffee and we prepared, as a family, to welcome our little visitor together – something that mattered at any time, obviously, but particularly with a child thought to be on the spectrum because change can be hard for such children. So to meet us as a single smiling unit – a wall of warmth and reassurance – would be helpful in managing his inevitable anxiety. Something now made much worse, of course, by this second, sudden, unexpected move and the confusion that would inevitably accompany it.
‘Well,’ Mike said, ‘like you always say yourself, love, it doesn’t matter where they come from, it only matters where they’re going. You already knowing Kelly and Steve shouldn’t really make a difference. And it sounds to me, given the situation with his own siblings, that it might not have been the best choice of family set-up.’ He raised a palm. ‘Though, yes, of course I know there probably wasn’t a choice.’
‘What will be, will be, I suppose,’ I said, automatically checking that the kettle was filled enough to make Christine a cup of tea when she arrived. It was scalding. Mike had obviously beaten me to it, bless him.
And it was only to be Christine, which was highly unusual. A child would usually arrive with their social worker, too. But it turned out that Sam didn’t even have a social worker. It had all happened so fast that the emergency duty team (EDT) had taken care of things, and apparently the only member of staff with space on his books – a Colin Sampson – was away on annual leave till the end of next week.
Colin would be assigned to Sam once he was back, at which point we’d all meet, but, in the meantime, if I had any sort of crisis I would have to call on the duty team. I mentally crossed my fingers that that wouldn’t come to pass. Now I’d agreed to take him on, doing my best ‘knightess on white charger’ impression, I would look pretty stupid if I was calling out the cavalry within the week.
More to the point, the poor lad must be traumatised enough.
‘Mum, I see him,’ Tyler said from his station by the window. ‘Aw, he’s dead tiny, he looks really cute. Not sure what he’s up to, exactly – he seems to be marching on the spot – but he definitely doesn’t look dangerous.’
I’d given Tyler the facts, of course. It was important that he knew what we were dealing with. And following the problems our last foster child, Miller, had caused him, I couldn’t blame him for checking Sam out. Things were okay now; on Miller’s respite visits they rubbed along just fine. But every new child was a journey into the unknown for Tyler too.
&
nbsp; And he was right. At first sight, Sam did indeed look very cute. Almost angelic, in fact, with shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair, which hung straight down over his skinny shoulders. And, as Tyler had observed, he seemed to be marching on the spot, while Christine stood by, patiently watching, holding a small suitcase. We all watched him too, till they finally set off down our front path, and I went to the front door to let them in.
Sam was shiny as a pin – Kelly had obviously bought a selection of new clothes for him – and like many a child before him, standing on this very spot, looked every bit as anxious as I’d expected.
‘One hundred,’ he announced, talking to a spot just above his feet. ‘A one-hundred-step path. One hundred steps exactly.’ He then wiped his brow theatrically, and exhaled as if he’d just climbed a very big hill. He straightened the backpack on his shoulders, and tugged on Christine’s coat sleeve. ‘That’s a very long path, Mrs Bolton.’
Though I wasn’t sure what to make of this, that was par for the course. But Christine gave me a quick glance before smiling at him and nodding. ‘It certainly is, Sam, especially when we’ve had to do eighty-five of them on the spot. Sam has a bit of an obsession with the number one hundred, Casey,’ she explained. ‘It couldn’t have been the number five or six, could it, Sam?’
I saw the trace of a smile cross the boy’s elfin features. They’d obviously discussed this. And no doubt Christine would enlighten me later. In the meantime, it had broken the ice, and I laughed as I led them through to the dining area.
Mike was already setting down the teapot, Tyler pouring milk into a mug.
‘Alright, mate?’ he asked Sam. ‘I’m Tyler. Pleased to meet you. Want a drink and a biscuit?’
Sam’s gaze darted towards him, then away again. He shook his head.
‘He’s literally just had his tea,’ Christine explained.
‘Well, in that case,’ Ty continued, as per our usual plan, ‘do you want to come upstairs with me and see your bedroom?’
He held out a hand, and Sam eyed this too. Then, after checking wordlessly with Christine, who nodded an affirmative, began to shrug his backpack from his shoulders.
‘Could you look after my bag, please?’ he asked her politely. ‘It’s a Spider-Man backpack and it’s very, very precious, so you won’t let anyone near it, will you?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Christine assured him. ‘Though why don’t you take it with you? Find a safe place to put it in your new room?’
Sam stood and seemed to think, the bag gripped tightly in his tiny hands. He was extremely slight for nine. Malnourished? Possibly.
‘Am I definitely, like, staying then?’ he asked Christine, in a whisper.
‘Yes, love,’ she said gently. ‘You’re definitely staying. Remember? Like I told you? And I know you’re going to like it.’ She glanced at Tyler, then back at Sam. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Go up with Tyler. See your bedroom, eh?’
‘And mine too,’ Tyler added, extending his hand a little further. ‘I’ve got a PlayStation, and I might just have a Spider-Man game too.’
This seemed sufficient to seal the deal, and though the hand was ignored, Sam seemed happy enough – well, at least not unhappy – to follow Tyler off upstairs.
‘Damn,’ I said to Christine, once they were safely out of earshot. ‘Trust me to spurn Spider-Man for Roblox.’
‘Oh, I really wouldn’t worry. Kelly told me she only bought it for him a couple of days back. He didn’t choose it. The counting to one hundred, though’ – she nodded back towards the hallway – ‘that’s apparently quite a big thing with him. I have no idea why, or whether it has any significance, but apparently he does it all the time.’
Mike handed Christine her tea and we sat down around the table, so we could get all the paperwork done. Though in this case, there wasn’t a lot of it. No history to peruse, obviously, just the usual Placement Plan. Plus a couple of signatures to confirm we took responsibility for any medical issues. And that was pretty much that – no more paperwork than you’d expect buying a second-hand car. Sold as seen. Sign on the dotted line and the child is all yours.
Christine must have read my thoughts. ‘Here you go,’ she said, smiling grimly as she handed me our copy. ‘Far as I know, only one careful owner.’
Joking aside, this was a necessarily serious business. And as Christine began telling us what she did know, I had the usual sinking sense that I was being told an all-too familiar story.
The police had been called to the family home just over a week previously, after a neighbour had alerted them to screams and bangs coming from the house, and of furniture being thrown into the back garden. Upon arrival the police had quickly assessed the situation and, suspecting that the mother was under the influence of drugs, had called social services to attend.
‘So, the two younger siblings were apparently found hiding underneath a bed,’ Christine went on, ‘whereas Sam was found in the back garden, shaking and terrified inside a big dog cage.’
‘Ah, the barking and howling,’ Mike commented.
Christine nodded. ‘Exactly. In fact, if he hadn’t been, they could easily have missed him altogether. And the mother was in such a state – a psychotic state, they realised – that a doctor was immediately summoned as well. When he arrived she was sedated and sectioned under the Mental Health Act and, of course, the children were all placed in care. And with different foster carers, as I mentioned to you this morning, Casey, on account of the other two being so terrified of poor Sam.’
Mike flicked his gaze towards the ceiling. ‘As in this Sam? Who looks like he wouldn’t say boo to a goose? You’d never think it, would you?’
We agreed we wouldn’t. ‘Any more on why?’ I asked.
‘Not really,’ Christine said. ‘Early days yet, and I’m sure we’ll find out more, but one of the children apparently said he thought he was a dog. That he spent a lot of time living in the dog cage.’
‘What is a dog cage when it’s at home?’ Mike asked.
‘Well, like a kennel, I imagine,’ Christine said.
‘Or a crate, perhaps,’ I suggested. ‘You know, like in Marley & Me. Isn’t crate-training a thing? I’m sure I’ve heard of it.’
‘Probably,’ Christine said. ‘Though this one was definitely in the garden.’
‘What about the dog?’
‘No dog. They checked. No evidence of a pet either. They said it looked as though Sam spent a lot of time in there, though. It was decked out with blankets. Scraps of food. A few toys.’
‘And they were genuinely that scared of him?’
‘Apparently so.’
‘But, even given that, it’s still odd that their wishes were so readily taken on board, isn’t it? Hard enough to find one foster family at such short notice, let alone two.’
‘You’re right,’ she said, ‘but I think the neighbour’s comments were taken into account too. She told them Sam was practically feral – I know, you wouldn’t credit it, would you? – and that she’d seen him attack his siblings on more than one occasion.’
I couldn’t be shocked by what Christine was telling me because I’d heard him for myself when I was on the phone to Kelly. No, not the howling, but there was no question that he was out of control. But at the same time, could this really be the same boy? From what I’d seen with my own eyes, he’d seemed no more feral than I was. And I’d fostered near-feral children, so it wasn’t as if I hadn’t seen some.
Which meant nothing, of course; he’d been with Kelly for long enough to have been washed, scrubbed and polished. Except for one thing – it ramped up my compassion for the boy. It affected me deeply to think this little lad’s brother and sister wanted to be away from him in a completely different home. It meant that not only did Sam have the trauma of going into care to deal with (away from his mother, and everything familiar – however grim life might sound for him, i
t was the only one he knew), but he also had the knowledge that even his siblings didn’t want him. Enough to send anyone’s behaviour spiralling out of control.
Christine didn’t stay long. After a quick trip upstairs, to pop up Sam’s suitcase and say goodbye, she left us, promising to let us know as and when she found out any more – though that would obviously be unlikely to happen before Monday morning. In the meantime, it was really just a case of watch and wait. Though in the shorter term, just a case of settling him in and putting him to bed, which, surprisingly, proved as simple a task as it sounded. It had been gone seven when they’d arrived, Sam had already eaten, and after the best part of an hour playing on the PlayStation with Tyler, it seemed that he didn’t even need telling it was bedtime.
‘Am I allowed to go to bed yet?’ he asked when I checked on them.
‘Yes, of course, love,’ I told him. ‘Shall I help you with your things?’
‘I’m okay,’ he said, getting to his feet, as Tyler paused the game. ‘I’m nine now,’ he added. ‘I can do stuff for myself.’
There was no side to him. No attitude. And he didn’t seem to mind me watching as he trotted this room, unzipped his case and started rootling round for pyjamas. (That he’d have everything he needed wasn’t going to be an issue, as I knew Kelly would have diligently packed everything she’d thought he might.)
‘How about a glass of water?’ I suggested, once he’d finally found them.
‘I’m okay,’ he said, briefly meeting my gaze. ‘Night, night.’
My cue to go, then. So I did – only pointing out the bathroom, so he could clean his teeth. Which he did, albeit that I suspected this was a pretty recent ritual. I knew because I lingered with Tyler for a bit – duty done, he was getting ready to go out now – and heard Sam pad across to the bathroom minutes later. ‘Seriously?’ Tyler whispered to me. ‘Feral? If he’s supposed to be feral, what does that make the eleven-year-old me?’
‘Or the sixteen-year-old you, come to that,’ I shot back at him.
