A Dark Secret

by Casey Watson

  ‘I like everything,’ he said, sitting down again.

  ‘So, if I add a trip to the cinema, a new toy, a takeaway … and how about a movie night? Curtains shut, so it’s like the cinema, and with popcorn and everything.’ I glanced up from my scribbling. ‘Those things sound alright to you?’

  But Sam had stopped laughing suddenly, and was staring at my list now. I didn’t know why, or what I’d said, but something had definitely just happened to create a change.

  I touched his arm. ‘What d’you think, love?’

  He turned his gaze to me. ‘What do I have to do?’ he asked, his voice now low and quiet. ‘Do I have to count to lots of one hundreds?’

  Again, I filed his words away to ponder over later. But in the meantime I was at least pleased to notice that he was beginning to understand there had to be a trade-off. ‘No, silly,’ I said, smiling. ‘No counting needed. But, yes, you are right in that to get things you first have to earn them. I’m sure you’ve learned all about that in school?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I s’pose,’ he said, but his enthusiasm was definitely on the wane now.

  I reached for a second sheet of paper. ‘So,’ I said, ‘now we have to make another list. Of how you could get to have all those things. But, come on, you help me – what do you think you could do?’

  He was still looking at me with that odd, anxious expression, and I feared that the whole process might be derailed any moment – that he’d lose his rag, declare things ‘rubbish’ and generally kick off.

  But he didn’t do anything. He just sat there looking sad. ‘I don’t think I want to do anything,’ he said eventually. Then he thought for a moment. ‘Or, maybe, I could run to the shops for you?’

  It had come out of leftfield, creating a vivid image. Of little Sam hurrying down the street carrying a list and a Tesco bag for life. Such a simple thing to do, in a happy, secure childhood. And it touched me. Made me feel sad too.

  It was also a discussion for another day – one down the line a bit. He was nine and an unknown quantity, so it was also a safeguarding issue. ‘No, nothing like that,’ I said, ‘though it’s a lovely idea, Sam. No, let me think. I was thinking more of things round the house. Like, how about, I know … making your bed every morning?’

  He nodded. ‘Then maybe being quiet in your room until you hear an adult get up, perhaps? Brushing your teeth twice a day? Taking out the rubbish bags to the bins?’

  I was writing as I spoke and I could see Sam eyeing the list, and I could tell by his expression – which was approaching incredulous – that he thought this was far too easy a trade.

  It also seemed to cheer him up from whatever had upset him. ‘I could do all of that,’ he said. ‘Easy. And I could wash up, and dry up, and help put the pots away,’ – now we’re rolling, I thought – ‘and I’m good at digging. I can dig the garden up for you if you like.’

  I had another vision – of my flower beds, and how well they might fare under his enthusiastic ministrations. ‘Well, I think we’ll leave the garden till it’s properly springtime,’ I told him. ‘But if you’re happy with all the others, I think that would be brilliant. So,’ I said, sitting back a little, ‘now we have what we need to play the game. The list of things you’d like, and the list of things you can do to help you get them. So now we come to this chart –’ Like a Blue Peter presenter, I reached for the one I’d prepared earlier.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said, his interest piqued. ‘What’s the lines for?’

  ‘These are rows and columns,’ I explained as we pored over it together. ‘We put the tasks down on this side, and the days of the week up here, and every time you complete one, we mark it with a tick. Well, not a tick, but a star’ – I reached for them – ‘like this. Then we count up all the stars and check the list of treats, and you can chose those you’ve earned enough stars for. Then we do exactly the same the next week, and the next week, and the next week. Maybe change the treats, if you decide there are other things you’d like to earn. But that’s pretty much how it works. Does that make sense?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think so.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It will make more sense when we’ve filled in all the boxes. Shall we do that now?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he enthused, ‘so I can start straight away. Easy peasy!’

  It wasn’t quite as simple as that, obviously, because nothing worthwhile ever is. And, down the line – well, assuming all went roughly to plan – it would, of necessity, become more complicated. He could only ‘earn’ the TV and Xbox once, obviously, so at some point he’d have to understand that, in order just to keep them, certain tasks would need completing regularly. Which could create another crisis (it had done so with Justin) and that would need to be managed too, when it came to it – but it was important that we did, because it was another important step on the road to a child taking ownership of their own behaviour.

  But that was for later. For the moment it was sufficient that we were sitting companionably at the table, and that Sam was embarking, willingly, on the all-important first step – engaging with a process that could reap huge rewards for him, and which would occupying him productively and, hopefully, as a by-product, help his more negative behaviours to melt away a bit.

  At least, that was the theory …

  Chapter 6

  By the middle of the second week – i.e. the one after the weekend we’d pencilled in that precious mini-break – I was busy pencilling ticks in my head. Not actual ticks – the ‘ticking’ took the shape of coloured stars stuck on Sam’s chart – but little ‘pride’ ticks because, despite my realistically low expectations, Sam had surprised both me and Mike by proving us wrong. Because the chart seemed to be working, at least after a fashion. Yes, he was still at times the sort of child that inspired pipe dreams of that precious mini-break, but there was no denying that every morning I had a ‘sort of’ made-up bed, that Sam ‘sort of’ brushed his teeth and that, most days, at least, he seemed genuinely eager to get all his ‘very important’ jobs done. Yes, his overly zealous contribution to washing the pots meant that I had already lost one milk jug, one cereal bowl and two mugs, but I figured that, compared to the havoc he’d already wreaked, a few items of old crockery were acceptable collateral.

  And, contrary to his previous attitude to breakages (mostly ‘stuff them’), he had begun to care about the consequences of destroying things. ‘I don’t get struck off, do I?’ he’d asked anxiously the first time he smashed something.

  ‘Struck off?’ I asked, wondering at the curious turn of phrase. ‘No, sweetie, once you get your star, you keep your star,’ I told him. ‘We’ve been over this, remember? And you’re doing a great job. Just try to go a little slower and you’ll be fine.’

  And he’d take it on board, and he’d try to be careful, and for periods during the day it was possible to forget that this was a child with a whole host of challenges to face; one to which a ‘one step forward, two steps back’ mantra still very much applied. That we might just be in a honeymoon period.

  Because he was also, in this new incarnation, extremely endearing – as if he’d been bussed in especially, to become the poster-boy for the points programme. Which he took extremely seriously, and in unexpected ways, such as his approach to the business of staying quiet in his room till an adult was up and about.

  Because, to my surprise, the early morning howling had ceased right away. Which obviously made me question the purpose of the behaviour. Perhaps it hadn’t been a self-soothing mechanism, after all. Perhaps it was more akin to the sort of ‘happy babbling’ Kieron used to do in his cot when he was a baby.

  It was only by chance, a few days in, that I learned differently. I’d risen early – before Mike – fancying a long, leisurely bath, before those with places to be hogged the bathroom. And was just crossing the landing when I heard a low, slightly worrying, gurgling sound coming from S
am’s room. Alarmed – was he choking? – I went straight across and pushed the door open.

  ‘Sam?’ I whispered to the mound that was hidden under the duvet. From the shape of it, he seemed to be up on all fours, with his head buried under the pillow.

  Up close, the sound was no less alarming. Was he retching? Was he vomiting? ‘Sam?’ I tried again, touching the mound now. ‘You okay, love?’

  He must have felt me because the duvet was immediately flung aside.

  His cheeks were pink, his hair damp. But he was smiling at me. Beaming even. ‘Is it morning?’ he asked me. ‘Is it getting-up time yet?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose it is,’ I said, ‘but, Sam, sweetie, what were you doing? Are you okay? What were those noises I just heard?’

  He looked confused for a moment, before comprehension dawned. ‘I was just quiet howling,’ he answered defensively. Then he looked suddenly crestfallen ‘Oh, no – you heard me! You weren’t supposed to! I still get my telly, don’t I? Cos we never said I had to stop. Just that I had to be quiet. And I was quiet. Oh my God,’ he said, slapping a hand against his forehead. ‘Oh, why did you have to hear me? Why?’

  Here we go, I thought, watching his expression change. Here comes the next meltdown. I could have kicked myself, too. Why did I rush in the way I had?

  Though I knew I was thinking with the benefit of hindsight. I’d only rushed in because I was worried something was wrong. But cometh the hour, cometh the moment of inspiration. Perhaps I should try a different tack?

  I threw my head back. ‘Ah wooooo!’ I went. ‘Ah wooooooooh!’

  Sam stared at me as though I’d gone completely mad. And spurred on by his reaction – or, rather, lack of negative reaction – I tightened my dressing-gown belt and stepped up onto his bed.

  He looked stunned.

  ‘Come on,’ I urged, planting my feet apart for stability. ‘I’m up now, so let’s do some proper howling, shall we?’ I held out my hands. ‘Come on, both of us. And let’s have a bounce while we’re at it. It’s been ages since I had a proper bounce on a bed.’

  ‘Really?’ he asked, looking up at me doubtfully.

  ‘Yes, really,’ I said, grabbing his hands. ‘Come on – ah woooooooh!’

  And he did. And I reflected on my good choice in divan beds, as it took the strain of my not-so-tiny bouncing, howling body, and we bounced and howled, laughing, for several surreal minutes – at least till Tyler appeared in the doorway.

  ‘What the hell, Mum?’ he said. ‘And I thought I’d seen everything.’

  ‘Tyler, Tyler!’ sang Sam. ‘Come up! Come and howl with us!’

  Tyler smiled at him. ‘I’d break your bed, mate.’ Then to me. ‘Seriously, I really have seen it all now.’

  ‘And that’s all you’re going to see for now,’ I said, jumping down again. ‘Not least because I’m completely puffed. Come on, love,’ I said to Sam. ‘Enough bouncing for today, I think.’

  He let me help him down, as Tyler – with an eye-roll – headed off to the bathroom, then tugged at the sleeve of my dressing gown.

  ‘So am I allowed to howl again properly now, Casey? I don’t get it.’

  I patted his head. ‘Like you said, sweetie, we never said you couldn’t howl – just that you had to be quiet till the grown-ups were awake. And I was awake, so that was fine.’

  ‘So shall we do it again tomorrow?’ he asked, and his face was as eager as a puppy’s. ‘I can knock on your door first, if you like. You can howl with me every morning if you want to.’

  It was all too easy to picture it. And all too easy to see why Tyler told everyone he lived in a madhouse. But I had averted a meltdown, so it was a productive type of madhouse. Well, at least for the moment.

  In the world of fostering, little moments like those really mattered. They were what I fondly called my ‘little bits of happy’, and that morning’s little bit of happy seemed to set the tone for the rest of the morning. By the time Sam’s allocated social worker, Colin Sampson, telephoned me (Christine Bolton had told me to expect to hear from him mid-morning) I was feeling more upbeat than I had at any time since Sam had arrived.

  ‘I’m so sorry about being away,’ he said, once he’d introduced himself. ‘Not an ideal situation, is it?’

  He sounded very young, and a little nervous, too – and I imagined the two were probably related. ‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I reassured him. ‘You couldn’t know, could you? And everyone’s entitled to their holidays,’ I added, determinedly pushing all thoughts of sunshine and sea out of my mind. We would get our mini-break eventually. Besides, spring was definitely springing now, kicking winter into touch, finally, and the morning sun had further lightened my already lightened mood.

  ‘Even so,’ he persisted, ‘I feel bad that you’ve been so unsupported up to now. Specially now I’ve had a chance to get properly up to speed. I’ve just come off the phone to Kelly and Steve. Hmmm. Complicated, by the sounds of it. So, how’s it going with Sam now? Any progress?’

  I looked across at the boy in question, who was sitting on the sofa quietly, looking through the big child’s encyclopaedia that I had dug out for him. It was a pictorial one, filled with pictures and text aimed at much younger children, but he seemed to like it. He seemed engrossed in it, at least. Which was plenty for the moment. I took a couple of steps out into the hallway.

  I lowered my voice. ‘Better than you probably imagine, if you’ve already spoken to Steve and Kelly,’ I told him. ‘Which isn’t to say that there aren’t multiple challenges to be addressed.’ I knew he’d have read my email updates (I had obviously been logging everything, daily and comprehensively) but gave him a quick summary of the main issues anyway; the meltdowns, the sudden rages, the instigation of the chart and so on – not least the early signs that it was having some effect.

  ‘Chart?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, we’re using the old behaviour modification programme we were originally trained for.’

  ‘What, like Pavlov’s dogs?’ So he had obviously studied psychology at some point.

  ‘Kind of,’ I admitted. ‘Though perhaps a tiny bit more complex. It’s essentially a system to help him with his behaviour issues using positive reinforcement.’

  ‘I’ve not come across that yet,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll run you through it when I see you. Though it takes time and perseverance, so don’t expect instant miracles. Plus, we haven’t really left the house with him yet,’ I admitted. ‘It could all go dramatically wrong when we try. But so far, so good. We’ve done a short walk to the park and survived that. So I’m on to the next step – my plan is to address that today. I’m going to take him out for pancakes at my sister’s café. See how he copes with that before we venture further afield.’

  ‘Good plan,’ Colin said. ‘All about little steps, isn’t it? And it does sound as though it’s going better than any of us would have expected, given his background. So, when can I pop round and meet him? Are you free at all next Monday?’

  ‘I am,’ I said, ‘and I was wondering – have you heard anything yet about the possibility of a school for him? The days are marching on, and it can’t be good him being out of education for all this time.’

  ‘I believe ELAC are looking into it as we speak,’ Colin confirmed. ‘So keep your fingers crossed that we get something from them very soon. Perhaps even by the time I see you,’ he added. Then he chuckled. ‘Well, perhaps not – that’s probably just my holiday brain talking, isn’t it?’

  I agreed that it was but, nevertheless, felt quite positive as I ended the call. ELAC – Education for Looked After Children – had avenues into schools for children in care that other ‘mere mortals’ didn’t. And that was because if a child was in care, the normal obstacles to getting them into a school often didn’t apply. Just because they’d been out of education for a while, or had been excluded in the past, didn’t mean they
couldn’t quickly be put on roll at a local primary; schools, or special branches of schools in an alternative setting, weren’t just helping out – they were legally obligated to provide looked-after children with some form of learning. As they needed to be – some of those children weren’t the kind schools would be exactly fighting to admit, after all.

  So, two little bits of happy to start my day with. Progress – a school for Sam might already be on the horizon, and with the chart seeming to be working, and the outbursts becoming less violent and less frequent, I was also puffed up with pride. So much so that I pushed away the tiny thought that popped into my head: my mother’s voice whispering, ‘You know what pride comes before, don’t you, Casey?’

  ‘Come on then, kiddo,’ I said to Sam, as I returned to the living room and grabbed my bag from the back of the chair. ‘Let’s get our coats on and get on the road. I promised you pancakes at a café once I’d had my phone call, and that’s what we shall have.’

  He nodded towards the television, which was now on, the book having been discarded. ‘But I’m watching Fireman Sam now,’ he said plaintively. ‘Can’t we just stay in?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, immediately clocking signs that a meltdown might be imminent. ‘We could do that, I suppose, but equally, we could pause it where it is, go to Truly Scrumptious, get pancakes with strawberries and chocolate, stuff our faces, and then rush back to finish off watching Fireman Sam afterwards?’

  It was touch and go. His body was already stiffening as I watched him – a kind of physical ‘hum’ of trapped energy. Then he started to shake, head to foot, and his hands bunched into fists. But at the same time I could tell he was trying to contain it; breathing deeply, in and out, just as Mike had shown him several times, and eventually succeeding in keeping the lid on himself. At least for the moment. ‘Okay,’ he said finally. ‘As long as we’re quick. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight …’

  He continued to count – strands of his hair, it seemed – as I helped him into his coat. And continued to do so, as we went out, and he climbed into the car.