by Casey Watson
Seeing how Sam’s expression changed – that glint of hope; might Tyler be able to go with him? – I could have poked my youngest son in the ribs. In truth I was still anxious about how the day would shape up for Sam and had perhaps subconsciously braced myself, however much I’d put my doubts aside about it, for the storm clouds to gather again.
But the moment passed – not least because I made it clear, with great fuss, that Tyler couldn’t ‘get out of it’ and must, regrettably, resign himself to a day of stultifying boredom, while Sam had a much better day in prospect, doing exactly as he pleased. And in the flurry of last-minute rushing around, there was no time to dwell on what might or might not happen. And, as it turned out, it was Sam who gave me the strongest indication that all would be well, only half an hour later.
He was quiet in the back of the car with Tyler (we were to drop him off and then drive on to pick up the motorway from there), and completely silent from the moment we drove onto his old estate. As we all were when a pair of thirty-something ne’er-do-wells crossed the road in front of us, heads down, hoods up – drug dealers? More than likely. But as soon as we arrived, there was little doubt that he’d been telling the truth when he told me he missed Mrs Gallagher. And when she’d told me how fond she was of him, neither apparently had she.
I’d texted to say we were on our way, and she must have been looking out for us, because no sooner had we pulled up than she was out on her front doorstep and, as Sam emerged from the car, was already trotting down her front path, arms outstretched ready to embrace him.
I’d got out as well, to see Sam in, and while Mike turned the car round, I held the front gate open for him. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Off you pop and say hello.’ And I was heartened – bit of an understatement – to see him run towards her, and fling his arms round her neck as she scooped him up and swung him round. The affection between them was clearly mutual.
‘Oh! Oh! My little darling!’ Mrs Gallagher was shrieking. ‘How are you, my little poppet? I’m missed you so much!’
In response, he hugged her tighter and, like the early-morning mist, my anxieties about the day melted away.
‘Now, you two go and have a fabulous day,’ Mrs Gallagher said to Mike and me, having finally put Sam down. ‘Me and this little fellow will be just fine. We’re going to be baking cakes and buns, and’ – she was talking more to Sam than us now – ‘I’ve even borrowed one of those DVD-thingy machines, and a film from my friend at bingo. Oh, we’re going to have such a grand day.’
‘It certainly sounds like it,’ I agreed as I opened my car door again. ‘We should be back here by eight o’clock latest, if that’s okay? You be a good boy, Sam,’ I told him, planting a kiss on his forehead.
‘Oh, he’s always a good boy, aren’t you, Sam?’ Mrs Gallagher answered for him.
And they were off up the path and indoors before I’d so much as clicked in my seat beat. Perhaps this had been a great idea, after all.
‘I swear I saw tears in her eyes when she saw him,’ I said to Mike as we drove away. ‘God, I really feel so much better now.’
‘Oh wonderful!’ Mike said, as Tyler tittered from the back seat. ‘A poor old woman sheds a tear and that makes you happy. Dear God, I’m married to a sadist!’
He got a punch in the arm, obviously, but it was a relaxed, happy journey. For all his protestations (which I knew were for Sam’s benefit, mainly) Tyler was happy enough to plug himself in and fill the interminable journey listening to some of-the-moment podcast or other – one of his funny ones, it sounded like, because every so often he’d burst out into spontaneous laughter, for what seemed no reason at all.
Which left me free to choose my favourite digital radio station, and drive Mike half-mad singing along to it. And I felt like singing too. I’d set myself up to spend the day in a state of stress and agitation, yet since dropping Sam off, I felt none of it. In fact (though I didn’t actually admit this to Mike, obviously), I half-wished I’d had the confidence to go with the original plan to stay over and collect Sam in the morning.
That wouldn’t now be happening, obviously, but perhaps it was still the right thing; Sam wasn’t mentally prepared for an overnight stay now in any case, even if he had packed sufficient for a month. But it certainly gave me confidence that we might do it down the line a bit, if things went as well as I hoped. The main thing, though, was that it left me free to enjoy my niece’s wedding without feeling I must endlessly check my phone.
And, needless to say, the day went past in a blur. Despite Tyler’s lack of enthusiasm initially – well, he was sixteen, wasn’t he? – so busy was he having fun with various cousins and second cousins, that I barely saw anything of him all day. And when the time came for Mike and I to leave him in the care of the rest of the family (he was now going to be sleeping on a put-you-up in Levi and Jackson’s room), it occurred to me that it would be quite a big thing for him too, as it rubber-stamped that sense that he was part of the bigger family. Not to mention the fact that the youngsters didn’t need a pair of old fossils like Mike and I cramping their style.
Things were just getting under way for the evening’s revelries when we left, the band setting up as we spent the obligatory half-hour saying our goodbyes. But even though we were running late, the days were now getting longer, so the sun hadn’t quite set when we pulled up again at Mrs Gallagher’s house.
I was really looking forward to seeing Sam again, and to an extent that surprised me. I got attached to almost all our foster kids (it kind of goes with the territory) but given that he hadn’t lived with us that long, the pull he exerted was slightly unexpected. As was my insistence on us stopping at a service station on the way into town so we could buy him a bag of sweets and a can of pop as a special treat.
‘Like he won’t already be high on sugar from all the cakes he’s been baking,’ Mike quipped as we stood on the front doorstep. ‘And you want to throw E numbers into the mix too? That one Prosecco must have gone to your head.’
I was just giving him a shove when the door opened and, rather than the person we’d expected – i.e. Mrs Gallagher – we found ourselves face-to-face with a giant of a man. A young man to whom I was technically more face-to-waist. He was that enormous, and I knew instinctively that it must be Mrs Gallagher’s son Sean.
He had a sweet, guileless smile, and a gap between his front teeth. ‘Hullo,’ he said cheerfully, then raised a hand and waved to us, even though we were standing no more than a foot away from him.
‘Hullo,’ we parroted back in unison. ‘I’m Casey and this is Mike,’ I added. ‘And you must be –’
‘Sean!’ I became aware of Mrs Gallagher hurrying along the hall to join us. ‘Sean, love, what have I told you about answering the front door? Off you go,’ she added briskly. ‘Back into the lounge please, there’s a good lad.’ Then, to us, as her son shuffled smilingly backwards as instructed. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She looked and sounded flustered. ‘Please do come in. This has all been a little unexpected. He wasn’t supposed to be here till tomorrow morning, but one of his key workers has gone off sick, and, well … Dear me …’ She waved us in and shut the door.
‘It’s fine,’ Mike said, glancing at Sean, who was still hovering in the living-room doorway, blinking at us. ‘But you must have had your hands full. I do hope Sam’s been good for you.’
Mrs Gallagher placed a hand on her son’s enormous chest and pushed him firmly back into the living room. ‘Oh, he’s only been back half an hour,’ she said, pulling the door to and shutting it firmly. I half-expected her to call out ‘Sit, and stay!’ as she did so. ‘Just took me by surprise, that’s all, but Sam’s been a little angel. We’ve done all kinds of things together – had the grandest time today, he has. Come on,’ she added, beckoning. ‘He’s just out in the back garden. This way.’
She led us through the kitchen – where a wire rack of iced fairy cakes sat on the worktop – a
nd on out through the back door, into the garden, which was as neat and well-tended close up as it had been from the bedroom window. A very far cry from Sam’s old garden-in-name-only next door. I wonder how being so close to it had worked out for him.
‘He’s such a lovely, lovely boy,’ Mrs Gallagher said as she led us out onto the dusky patio. ‘And he’s had a fine time, haven’t you, Sam?’ she added. ‘Can’t wait to come back, can you? Now then, here’s Casey and Mike, come to take you home.’
But I knew right away that something was wrong. Because Sam wasn’t listening. He was too busy counting. Sitting crossed-legged on the grass, where the lawn met the patio, counting out marbles, in rows of ten, from a big green string bag.
‘Hey, Sammie boy,’ Mrs Gallagher said, ‘anyone in there? Look who’s here for you. I told you they wouldn’t be long. Didn’t I promise? And here they are.’
Sam looked up now, only briefly, but long enough for me to note his drawn expression. ‘Sixty-six, sixty-seven …’ he said, focusing on his marbles once again.
Mrs Gallagher looked stressed, despite the smile in her voice. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she said, even though neither of us had indicated that we were. ‘It’s just this thing of his. He’ll stop counting when he gets to one hundred. Sorry,’ she said again, tapping him on the shoulder to hurry him along.
I felt sorry for her. She’d obviously been sent into a spin by the unexpected arrival of her son. And off the back of what had probably been a very tiring day for her.
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I said. ‘We already know what he’s like with his counting. Don’t we, Sam?’ I added, smiling. But he didn’t even look up at me. ‘We’ll just hang on till he’s done, then we’ll get straight off and leave you in peace. Thank you so much for doing this for us. We really appreciate it.’
‘It was entirely my pleasure,’ she said, but her tone didn’t quite match her demeanour. It was obvious she was keen to see Sam gone as well. ‘Look now,’ she said to him. ‘Come along now, we’re all ready. Don’t worry about putting them back in the bag, love,’ she added. ‘I’ll pop them all back once you’re gone.’
Now Sam did look up, but was already putting the marbles back in the bag again. And so rhythmically and intently that none of us, it seemed, felt it appropriate to try and stop him. Instead we stood and watched as all one hundred were returned to the bag. Sam stood up then and, without saying anything to anyone, simply brushed off the seat of his jeans and came and stood beside me. I was aware of his hand snaking round my back, and of him grabbing a handful of my jacket.
Feeling uneasy now, as if something fragile might explode at any moment, I decided not to prolong things, and groped for the hand so I could clasp it in my own. I then led the way back through the house, leaving Mike in my wake, and while he took possession of a selection of yet more cakes from Mrs Gallagher, I gathered up Sam’s coat and bag, one-handed, in the hall.
‘I have to go find something to cook for my big lump of a son now,’ I heard her say, with a forced, tinkling laugh. ‘Eats like a fecking horse, he does.’
‘Well, there’s certainly plenty of cake at least,’ I heard my husband quip back. And all the while, Sam held on tightly to my hand.
I led him down the front path to the car, and opened the kerbside back door. ‘Let’s get you in the car, sweetie,’ I said. ‘You must be tired and hungry, I know we are.’
‘Night, Sammy!’ Mrs Gallagher called, bustling down the path to wave us off.
‘I just want to go to bed,’ Sam said quietly, as he climbed into the car.
‘He says goodnight!’ I said for him. ‘And thanks again!’
And he didn’t say another word all the way home, no matter how hard we tried to engage him.
True to his word, Sam didn’t want any tea – though he admitted he hadn’t had any. Or a bath, or a story. Just bed. ‘Give him time, love,’ Mike said once we’d regrouped downstairs and changed our clothes. ‘I know he said he was keen to go, but we knew a part of that was because he thought it would make us happy, didn’t he? In the event it was probably all a bit too much, too soon. Let’s see what tomorrow brings, eh? Onwards and upwards!’
And perhaps he was right, but I couldn’t see it. It felt too much like backwards and downwards. But why? What had happened? What was going through his mind? I could only hope that, come the morning, he might tell us.
Chapter 21
I’d been right. Backwards and downwards seemed to be the order of the day. So much so that, while I’d assumed Sam was just tired and anxious after his day with Mrs Gallagher (for whatever reason), when he was still pale and listless all through Sunday, I began to wonder if he was going down with some sort of bug. He was off his food, too, which made it seem even more likely.
More worrying, however, was that he seemed to be shutting down on us, barely speaking to any of us, bar monosyllabic answers, and avoiding being in any of our company. And this after a period of such intense clinginess, with me, particularly, that it felt as if I was being punished. Yet, I couldn’t seem to get through to him to ask him why.
‘Look, Sam,’ I said, trying to get something out of him on Sunday evening. ‘I put all those extra stars on your chart. Did you see? So now I need to know how you’d like to spend them. Have you any ideas yet?’
In response, I got a shrug.
‘We could go out for a special dinner, or something,’ I tried. ‘Maybe to one of those pubs, like we went to with Colin that day. Remember the one with the play area and the ball pool? And we could ask Riley and Kieron to bring their kids along, too, so you’ll have other children to play with. How about that? What do you think?’
What Sam most resembled was a child who wanted nothing more than to cry his heart out at this terrible news. ‘I’m tired,’ was all he said. ‘Can I go and lie down?’
‘It’s a bit late for a lie-down, love,’ I pointed out. ‘It’ll be bedtime in a couple of hours.’
‘Can I go to bed early instead, then?’
‘Okay,’ I said, sighing. Perhaps we needed to leave things till the morning. ‘But do try and think of something nice, sweetie, won’t you? You’ve been so good and we want you to enjoy all the points you’ve earned.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I will try, I promise.’
But him fulfilling that promise showed no sign of happening when he got up, still pale and uncommunicative, the next morning.
Perhaps he did have a bug, which was compounding whatever was going on inside his head. Everything felt harder when you were physically under the weather, after all. But though he allowed me to take his temperature, when I said I was worried about him, it was normal. So he wasn’t sick – well, not that kind of sick. So, what to think? And what to do?
Once again, Mike counselled that we should give it more time; that the whole episode had obviously been too much too soon. He also pointed out that, since Sam had always been a complicated child, perhaps this was just more of the same with him.
‘You wait,’ he reassured me when we spoke on the phone at breakfast time on Monday morning. ‘Now everything’s back to normal, and he knows he’s safe and staying put, he’ll bounce back to his old self and you’ll be muttering about being careful what you wish for – specially once he’s back to running around like a maniac and chucking Lego all over the house.’
But there was a feeling of doom growing in the pit of my stomach, and I couldn’t seem to shake it. What precisely had happened? I needed to understand. I needed chapter and verse. So waiting wasn’t an option – I needed to be proactive, doing something to try to fix the situation. So I decided on a strategy – to pretend that I wasn’t noticing this change of behaviour. To ignore the ‘go away’ signals, and carry on regardless.
Starting now. I headed upstairs. ‘Get dressed then, kiddo,’ I said, smiling and pottering around his bedroom, straightening up various toys and books. ‘Flame needs a nice
long walk. He’s been missing you and I promised Mrs Pegg we’d go and collect him for an hour today. So come on, chop-chop, we don’t want to be late.’
I then left the room, giving him no chance to voice an objection, but hung around outside the door until I could hear evidence of him getting dressed. And thankfully, my idea bore fruit. Within minutes he was downstairs in his dog-walking get-up, but though he was with me in body, he wasn’t in spirit, because though he spoke politely enough to Mrs Pegg, and made a big fuss of Flame, it was like going on a walk with a shop mannequin; a silent child who’d obviously accepted that he must accompany me but couldn’t bring himself to engage in any way with me. Even Flame must have noticed the difference in his buddy’s mood – where Sam was usually dashing about, throwing the ball and charging after Flame when he ran for it, today he was just like the ball-throwing doohickey – sending balls for him to fetch, like an automaton.
And when this persisted into Tuesday, and I was seriously considering taking him to the doctor’s anyway, it was only the advice of Christine and Colin (both of whom I’d called with an update, and who were both confident that this would pass) that stayed my hand. He would, almost certainly, give up punishing me eventually. Because that, they both felt sure, was what he was doing. So we’d called it wrong (I noted and was grateful for that ‘we’). He’d recover from it eventually, and in the meantime I mustn’t worry unduly. Just let nature, not to mention the police investigation, take its course. Just keep an eye on him, etc., etc.
But perhaps they’d been right, because, finally, at Tuesday teatime, there was a breakthrough. Sam had joined us for tea, which in itself was encouraging – since returning home, he’d been avoiding eating at the same time as we did. He also wellied into his food.
