A Boy Without Hope

by Casey Watson

  ‘Blinding me with science now – I get it. Come on, spill, John Fulshaw. Is she an overbearing battle-axe? If so, we need to know.’ I pushed up the sleeves of my top. ‘Forewarned is forearmed, and I need some ammo.’

  John burst out laughing. ‘Oh, God,’ he said, winking at Mike once he’d recovered his composure. ‘I am so going to miss this one! I’m going to miss all of you,’ he added, more seriously. ‘D’you know, I was thinking on the way here – it’s been so many years, hasn’t it? So many children. And your two all grown up – and both now with their own kids. Your grandkids. How is that even possible? And Tyler sixteen now. How did that happen?’

  Tyler had come to us as an eleven-year-old, with a terrible, tragic background: a dead heroin-addict mother, a father who didn’t want him, and, after all sorts of heart-breaking emotional abuse, he’d ended up going for his step-mother with a kitchen knife. I still remembered the day I’d gone to fetch him from the local police station, immediately afterwards. Hard not to, given that, during that first memorable meeting, he’d spat at a police officer, kicked a chair around the interview room, called his stepmother a witch, called another officer a ‘dick brain’ and, for good measure – he was obviously keen to make a good impression – told his social worker to fuck off. Though I didn’t know it as that then – I’d been tickled by him more than anything – what I’d actually felt had been love at first sight.

  ‘He’s going to miss you,’ I told John.

  ‘I’m going to miss him too – a lot. All of you. And’ – he chuckled again – ‘how many house moves has it been now? It really does feel like the end of an era, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, God,’ I said, reaching for the kitchen roll. ‘Don’t set me off.’

  But, of course, he already had.

  ***

  Change. Change is good. Change is necessary even. And, as a resilient foster carer, one might imagine it was something I coped with brilliantly. And, in the main, for most of the time, one would have imagined right, because I did. Especially given that on the surface, our household never had a routine, not in the conventional sense.

  But, deep inside, I knew I shared some of the traits of my Asperger’s son. Yes, I could cope with chaos easily, but only as long as certain things were set in stone. It wasn’t necessarily visible, because my real routine simply hummed away in the background. The forefront of my life could be as messed up as it liked, as long as some things never changed; as long as what really mattered was set in stone.

  Now one of those things, those reassuring rocks, had begun to crumble, and I wasn’t sure this change was going to be one that I could easily cope with. Wasn’t sure, given everything, if I even wanted to try.

  Plus John still hadn’t answered my question.

  Chapter 2

  Because time was short, and he had a lot to tie up before leaving us, we had two days to reflect on John’s bombshell. Which wasn’t really that much of a bombshell – why on earth wouldn’t he get promoted? – but since I’d obviously had my head stuffed deep into the sand, it still took a fair bit of getting used to.

  Mostly I chuntered on, uncharacteristically negative, unable to do the one thing Mike deemed to be the only thing – to stop wondering what John’s replacement was like and simply wait and see. But we both knew there was actually a bit more to it than that, because it wasn’t just a case of whether we bonded with her or didn’t – it was also the timing, coming along at precisely the point when I was seriously considering a change in direction myself. Was this the catalyst that would make me jump one way or the other? It certainly felt like fate had arranged it that way.

  I was also nervous, those words ‘very professional’ running round and round my brain. I had visions of a sharp-suited, shoulder-padded dynamo – the sort of vision of a high-flying, glass-ceiling-smashing career woman that many of us can so easily call to mind. Which was ridiculous. She might equally be gentle and mumsy. Being professional isn’t about the clothes you choose to wear, particularly when you’re in the line of work we were, dealing with messy domestic dramas and troubled, angry children, sometimes in the small hours, having tumbled blearily out of bed. John had certainly done his share of that and it was odds-on that this Christine Bolton would have too.

  But, having worked myself up, I still felt a bit intimidated, so much so that on the day itself I had ants in my pants. Big soldier ants, with big pincers, trying to chew me up. Which was probably why I was so irritable.

  ‘Come on,’ I snapped at Tyler, who was wading through his cereal on slo-mo. ‘You’re going to be late if you don’t hurry up.’ I pointed at the kitchen clock. ‘Look at the time! The bus’ll be here in two minutes, and you don’t even have your shoes on. Arrgh!’

  Being the bright teenager that he was, Tyler had obviously seen this coming. He looked straight past me at Mike, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, reading the paper while waiting for the kettle to boil. He’d had some changes of his own, in his job managing a warehouse, having reached a height lofty enough to delegate some of his duties, one being the relentless ridiculously early starts. For a couple of days a week now, he was still at home at breakfast time.

  Which was presumably why they always seemed to be in cahoots these days. ‘See, Dad,’ Tyler said, ‘I told you she’d be like this, didn’t I? It’s alright though,’ he added, reaching for the offending trainers. ‘My shoulders are broad. Calm down, Mum,’ he said, smiling at me as he leaned down to put them on. ‘The woman will be just fine, everything is sparkly clean, and she won’t fail to be impressed that you’ve got the bone china out.’

  I swiped him with the tea towel. ‘Bone china? As if!’ I huffed. ‘She’s lucky she’s not drinking cheap coffee out of a mug, and for your information, young man, I am calm. Now hurry up and get yourself sorted rather than nit-picking at me.’

  I saw the exchange of raised eyebrows between my husband and foster son and was at least able to manage a bit of a grin myself. They were right, of course. Considering how many years I’d been fostering and the amount of social workers I had met, it made no sense that I was getting so strung up about meeting Christine Bolton. After all, she was simply an agency link worker, like John was, or, at least, used to be, and hadn’t he said that she’d moved over from Liverpool? Yes, he had. So she probably wouldn’t have that clipped, cut-glass accent that usually made me feel so nervous. It was ridiculous of me to get myself in such a state. So why was I?

  ‘Don’t worry, Casey,’ Mike said after Tyler had at last set off for his bus. ‘Remember what I said? If you decide it’s time to hang up your fostering apron, then so be it. That’s completely fine. After all, it’s you who has all the day-to-day stuff to contend with. If you’ve had enough, you’ve had enough and I’ll support you whatever you decide.’

  We had talked long into the night after John’s news about this and I think it was the first time I had ever voiced the notion and actually meant it. I’d even drifted off to sleep thinking that I’d phone my sister, Donna, and ask her if she could guarantee me a few shifts at her tea rooms, Truly Scrumptious. One thing I really lacked these days, especially with my own kids long flown, was the ridiculously simple pleasure of daily adult company. Perhaps it was time to put that right.

  I stared into my posh china cup, which I hated. Truth was, I didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, I loved my job. I loved most of the children that entered our lives, and felt privileged to be able to play a small part in helping them towards a better future. On the other hand, I recognised that I often felt tired and disillusioned with all the red tape.

  Because fostering had changed over the years. That was a fact. Financial cuts meant that social workers these days often barely knew the kids they were responsible for. They might have as many as twenty children on their caseloads and just didn’t have the time to build a meaningful relationship with them, so the all-important trust just didn’t seem to be there. Statutory visits, meant to take place at least every six weeks, often g
ot cancelled at the last minute, which compounded it. As a consequence, relationships, period, just weren’t the same any more. It deeply bothered me that it seemed to be all about counting the pennies out, and less about the actual children.

  ‘I’m still not sure, love,’ I told Mike. ‘I think it might depend on how settled I feel when we meet this new woman. I mean, we’ve been so lucky to have had John for so many years, and that he felt the same as we do. I’m just hoping she’s of a similar mindset, that’s all.’

  ‘And if she isn’t?’ Mike asked

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to see,’ I said. And I meant it. ‘I know I’m impulsive. I know I sometimes act first and think later. But I really will put a lot of thought into it before deciding.’

  ‘Well, that’ll be a first,’ he said. ‘But you know what? I don’t think you’ll need to. This is one of those times where I think your instinct will – and should – lead the way. Hey,’ he added, reaching for the matches so he could light the scented candle I’d dug out. ‘Maybe she’ll be a tea drinker! Then you won’t have to think at all, will you?’

  Which comment made it all but impossible for me not to explode into nervous laughter, when, ten minutes later, our new visitor responded to my usual opening gambit of ‘Drink? Tea or coffee?’ with ‘Oh, tea for me, please – every time.’

  I might have done, too, had John not beaten me to it, along with a jaunty ‘Forgot to tell you, Casey – Christine hails from the dark side.’

  Though in truth, a tea drinker was exactly what she looked like. Which, bizarrely, given my prejudices, was something of a comfort. Yes, she was dressed in a sharp skirt and jacket suit, and there was no denying that she looked ready for business, with her fair hair perfectly blowdried and her big leather laptop case, and the label – Ms C. Bolton – on a folder she’d pulled out, but there was at least something approachable about her that I hadn’t anticipated, enhanced by her soft Liverpudlian accent, and her readiness to accept a chocolate chip cookie, which she dunked in her tea while John went through his spiel. You couldn’t mistrust a dunker, could you?

  Having never been through a change-over of fostering link worker before, I had no idea how these things usually went. Though I didn’t doubt there would be a protocol – there was a protocol for everything. But it turned out there wasn’t – not in my house, at any rate. Such official handing over of responsibilities as needed to happen had already happened. And would continue to do so, John explained, over the next couple of weeks, during which time Christine would shadow him in his various duties.

  And this was one such – no more than an unofficial ‘meet and greet’, really. One where I had the bizarre notion that the poor woman was having to repeat herself endlessly, in a series of thinly veiled ‘pitches’ to John’s stable of carers, as if she was on The Apprentice or something, having to go from house to house, laying out her credentials over endless cups of tea. I wondered how far along the line we were. She certainly seemed to have memorised her script.

  ‘John speaks very highly of you both,’ she said as she daintily sipped her tea. ‘So I’m very much looking forward to us working together. I’m also hoping that both of you might be something of a crutch for me, while I’m finding my way around the way things work here. All those boring procedures and so on.’

  I laughed politely. ‘Likewise,’ I told her. ‘But I’m sure John’s also told you I’m a bit of a scatterbrain, so I doubt I’d be much use as a crutch. In fact, if I’m honest,’ I rattled on, ‘I’m usually the one who’s battling against procedure’ – I grinned at John – ‘more often than the other way around.’

  John spluttered slightly. ‘That’s not true at all, Christine,’ he said. ‘Yes, Casey does sail a little close to the wind at times, as I’m sure she’ll be the first to admit. But as I explained on the way here’ – he grinned back at me – ‘that’s only because she cares. She’s fiercely protective of the children she looks after for us, and will fight tooth and nail to be their advocate if she feels there’s any injustice. But that’s one of her great strengths. Am I right, Mike?’

  Mike nodded. I blushed, feeling Christine’s eyes on me. Feeling scrutinised. I wondered what else they’d already discussed. ‘And I’m sure you’ll soon get the hang of things, Christine,’ Mike said. ‘And you’ll love working over this end. We’re not a bad bunch round here. What about your own family? How are they finding the relocation?’

  ‘No family. Just myself and my husband Charles,’ she answered. ‘He’s an accountant, and he does a lot of work from home, which makes it easier. Which it needs to be, given how erratic my hours can be, of course.’

  She smiled. I smiled back. So it looked like they were childless. Which didn’t make any difference. It shouldn’t, and it wouldn’t. Some of the most remarkable advocates for and defenders of children were able to be so precisely because they didn’t have their own. I judged her to be in her mid-forties or thereabouts. I wondered if it was a case of not wanted, not yet, or not able. Then checked myself – these were thoughts that wouldn’t have even occurred to me had a man been sitting across from me – and that was food for thought in itself. But perhaps being female made it difficult not to have them. As a person blessed (or cursed) with a strong maternal urge, I was always interested in women’s choices, and how they made them. Or, in the case of so many of the kids we had fostered, how those choices were taken away from them. I wondered what had brought Christine Bolton into the world of care and children.

  It sounded as if she had other things to worry about, however. ‘The main thing is that we’re closer to my husband’s parents,’ she said. ‘He’s an only child and his father has Alzheimer’s,’ she explained. ‘Being closer means he’ll be able to help his mum out a lot more. You probably know what it’s like.’ We all nodded, in unison. Was there a family around not impacted by dementia? I counted my blessings that my own parents, both now in their late seventies, had so far been spared.

  ‘That must be tough,’ I said. ‘But, as you say, being closer will make things easier. And here’s hoping you’ll have the space to ease into work gently, so you can get yourself orientated and settled in.’

  At which point John coughed. And Christine Bolton looked across at him. I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I clocked it immediately. I caught his eye.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘does anyone have any questions?’

  Only one unspoken one, I thought. What’s going on? I looked across at Mike, who was rising from his chair, ready to say his goodbyes and head for work. And I could tell he was wondering that too. And when John retrieved his case from where he’d parked it under the table, Mike sat down again. ‘I have,’ he said to John. ‘And it’s “And?”’

  John had the grace to look guilty. Though, actually, not that guilty. Because, given that he was leaving, why would he? He pulled a manila file, smooth as silk, from his trusty bag.

  He looked at me. ‘You don’t have to say yes, Casey,’ he said as he held it up. ‘And I’m not playing games with you, I promise,’ he added, having read my expression (something he was obviously good at) and correctly interpreting it as one of irritation that what he’d been doing was exactly that.

  ‘A child,’ Mike said, nodding towards the unopened file.

  ‘A twelve-year-old boy,’ John said. ‘Name of Miller Green. And this literally landed on my desk only this morning, or of course I’d have phoned you and told you both. We’ve barely even had a chance to have a read through of all the notes, have we?’ he added, glancing at his now professionally grim-faced successor. ‘And I obviously didn’t want to welly straight on into it till you and Christine had had a chance to get acquainted. So …’

  ‘Sounds fair enough,’ Mike said mildly. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘First thing is that this doesn’t sound like an easy one,’ John admitted. ‘So you’ll have to think hard before agreeing to it, okay? And I mean that.’ He tapped the file. ‘This looks like one challenging kid.’

  At which p
oint I’d have normally thought bring it on. I didn’t. ‘So?’ I asked instead. ‘What’s his background?’

  John donned his reading glasses and skimmed through what he’d obviously identified at the key facts. ‘A really sad case, it seems. Poor kid was first known to social services when he was found playing on a railway crossing, adjacent to a busy road, almost seven years ago. Almost naked, etc., etc., police called to investigate, parents didn’t want him – they’re both long-term substance abusers, apparently. The boy’s been in care ever since. But a huge number of placement breakdowns. And I mean huge. From what I can gather, there’s also a pattern. Always seems to feel the need to destroy it almost before it starts.’ John glanced at me from over his glasses. ‘Frequently described as being “difficult to like”.’

  He’d freighted the last three words with heavy, deliberate meaning. ‘And where is he now?’ I asked.

  ‘Currently with a foster couple called Jenny and Martin in another county,’ John said. ‘Martin works away during the week, and Jenny can no longer cope. The boy has been excluded from – it says here – “yet another school, and is not at the moment in education”. Jenny wants him gone as soon as possible. Ideally today.’

  ’Wow!’ I said. ‘I know you’re not trying to put me on the spot, but this really is a decision that needs making, like, now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ John admitted. ‘Though, given what we do know about the boy, and his previous history, plus the fact that he’s currently out of education, we don’t expect you to make a long-term commitment right away. All we’re after is a commitment to giving it a proper shot. See how things go, say, for starters, on a month-by-month basis. Well supported, of course. You know you can depend on that.’