A Boy Without Hope

by Casey Watson

  ‘Well, that’s ever so good of you,’ I said, ‘after what he did to your windows. Is there a lot of damage?’

  ‘Nothing the insurance company won’t deal with promptly, and you know, I’d never tell Miller this, but I had always planned on putting new windows in anyway, so not such a bad thing, after all.’

  I wasn’t going to argue. To my mind, it was a very bad thing, and one he shouldn’t be rewarded for, but if Miller wanted to stay and Mavis was happy about it, then she was right, it would give us a real break. And precious time for me to decide if this was what I really wanted for us all. Something that was hard to do when Miller was actually with us. Distance would give me clarity – something I was sorely lacking. Time out might help me regain my perspective and compassion for this child.

  So I told Mavis it was fine and that I’d ring social services in the morning, and she said she would do the same so we could have our plan officially sanctioned. I also said that I’d get some extra things packed up for Miller, more clothes, some toys and games, and his bits and bats of toiletries – if he was staying for a few days, he’d need more than he had there. Mike could then drive over with them later that afternoon.

  ‘And his suitcase,’ Mavis had said. ‘The one he keeps under his bed? He’d be particularly glad of that, he tells me. I believe it holds all his very precious things. Oh, and he also mentioned a little toy train?’

  And in the mention of it I felt a fierce little pang of regret. Had she now become Casey to my Jenny?

  ***

  ‘Well, let’s hope he stays the whole week,’ said Tyler firmly. He’d returned from a sleepover with Denver to find me in Miller’s bedroom, having had Mike give him the lowdown on what had happened. ‘I’m not being awful, Mum, but it’s just so stressful when he’s here. It’s like we all walk on eggshells wondering what he’s going to do next. Gotta be honest,’ he added, picking up Miller’s pages full of numbers, ‘he is one creepy kid.’

  And he didn’t even know about what had happened with the wasps. ‘I know, love,’ I said, as I added to the pile I’d made of clothing. ‘D’you have a spare backpack I can use to put all this lot in maybe? He’s already taken my little cabin bag with him.’

  ‘I think I might have,’ he said. ‘But why don’t you just use his own case?’ He pointed to where it was peeking out from under the bed.

  ‘Already full,’ I said, pulling it out. Then remembering to rummage under his pillow for his little train. That was a thought, I realised. That he hadn’t taken it with him. So perhaps he really had thought he’d be able to resist being taken there. Or, more likely, I decided, given everything that had happened since, he’d just failed to grab it in the heat of the angry exchange with Mike. Well, he could have it now, at least, I thought, popping it on top of the clothes pile.

  But that suitcase. I remembered back to the knife and the lighters. Did I really feel comfortable sending his little box of tricks across to Mavis? Given his violent act of smashing her windows, and his threat to stab her with the resulting broken glass, who knew what his plan was now he was there?

  Perhaps I should first satisfy myself as to what was in it. No, I didn’t have a search warrant, but I did have good cause. He might well have other worrying items in there as well.

  It was padlocked, as per, and I knew he’d have the key. But it was a cheap, tiny combination padlock. More a deterrent than anything. And, at Tyler’s suggestion (‘Mum, he’s hacked into our flipping internet, so we can “hack” into his case’), I managed to prise apart the zip pulls to which it was attached in moments.

  And, to put it in Ty’s exact words, ‘What the hell?’

  Because beneath the innocent-looking contents I’d glanced at on several occasions – the tennis ball, the framed photograph, a sheaf of magazines and comics, a Premier League club scarf and a pair of pristine football boots, there was a piece of hardboard, under which there was more. A lot more.

  There were printed-off pictures that I shuddered to even look at; the sort of images that, in news reports about shootings or war zones, no broadcaster would ever, ever broadcast. Plus a six-pack of matchboxes, still wrapped in their cellophane, a pair of what looked like surgical scissors, a pair of tweezers and a dozen or so small plastic takeaway containers, which, on closer inspection, were full of dead insects.

  ‘OMG,’ Tyler gasped, as he prised the lid off one of them, to find it half full with wasps. There were moths too, and spiders. Even a box full of dead bees. And in one, which Tyler opened, something flat, beige and furry. ‘Mum, don’t look,’ he said, putting the lid back on swiftly. ‘I think this is the remains of a hamster. God, it’s sick.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, Mum, what is wrong with him?’

  I felt sick. And tried to think back to his notes. The stricken rabbit I remembered, but didn’t I also read somewhere about one carer having bought him a hamster and it escaping? Yes, I was sure I had. Dear God. And to here.

  I watched Tyler press the lid home on the box and its long-deceased occupant.

  And felt the lid being put on for me too.

  ***

  Even then, having removed all the more grisly contents from Miller’s case, as I put the ‘innocent’ items and, and added the clothes and things I’d gathered, I wasn’t done with him. Not quite yet. This was more evidence, or so my mind ran, of the urgent need for help. For a swift and robust psychological intervention. For help. As in help. As in now.

  And I would have doubtless carried on along that more dispassionate line of thinking, had it not been, moments after I’d taken the case downstairs, for hearing Tyler, from upstairs, shouting, ‘God! Mu-um!’

  He was down the stairs before I could go up to him, guitar in trembling hand, fuming and tearful. ‘Look what he’s done!’ he said. ‘Look! The little shit!’

  So I looked. And saw that all six strings on Tyler’s guitar had been cut. He’d also scraped his initials into the wood of the body – ‘MG’ – so we’d be left in no doubt. I wonder if he’d known his parting shot would be just that? A parting shot.

  Because after a long and difficult chat that night, Mike and I came to a decision. It wasn’t an easy decision – how could it ever be, given the way Miller had come to us? But the only one we could make, for us as a family.

  ‘So we’re both decided then?’ Mike asked, after our long, miserable talk. ‘We end this placement, no matter how much pressure they put on you to change your mind?’

  I nodded sadly, finally accepting that we had no choice. Things weren’t going to change in the short term – I just couldn’t see it – me! – so if Miller were to stay, it would mean making changes. And us as a family who’d be having to make the changes, to accept life Miller’s way, to run with the daily madness and mayhem, to coax him through perhaps years of psychological interventions, and, even if he was in school, he would always be at the centre of my professional universe. But also in my home, in the centre of my family, and that was a price I was no longer willing to pay.

  So, on Monday morning, Christine Bolton was my first port of call. I had no stomach for chatting to Libby about our ‘little monkey’, so I called Christine as soon as I knew the office opened. I then poured my heart out, in the ensuing conversation, trying to convey just how difficult looking after Miller was, and how it hurt me to admit it but we’d simply had enough. She listened and I talked, and I talked, and I talked, knowing I was just trying to offer reasons in mitigation of our decision, but doing so anyway, despite knowing I didn’t have to.

  ‘Casey,’ she said, when I finally stopped talking. ‘Stop. You don’t need to justify your decision, to me or anyone. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised that you’ve managed for this long. I know I haven’t known you for long, so forgive me if I sound presumptuous, but I never thought Miller was the boy for you, not really. You’ve done so well with Miller – you really have – but, well, the cards were on the table from day one. He can’t do long term and he won’t. It’s as simple as that. I didn’t want to t
read on toes by speaking out at the beginning, but he was never going to be suited to a family situation. You only needed to look at his history to know that.’

  ‘But I just feel so bad,’ I said. ‘Here we are, doing exactly what Miller predicts all foster carers do – giving up on him. It will just reinforce his view that nobody wants him, that nobody cares. That nobody loves him.’

  ‘Forgive my bluntness, Casey, but that’s all true. They don’t. Which is not to say society should, or has, given up on him. Just that, for some kids, other solutions, other situations, need to be found. If there’s to be any hope of that sad state of affairs being corrected, that is. You know, I was a bit bemused that you seemed so keen to take him on, to be honest. I mean, I know it was an emergency situation, which tends to colour things. But, given your lovely family, and not least your commitment to your youngest son, Tyler, I was genuinely shocked that you were so keen to take him on.’

  Where did I start? Because I was already doubting that I was in the right frame of mind? Because John was leaving? Because I wanted to prove to his successor that I was some kind of fostering superhero slash legend? Because I was trying to prove that to my flagging self?

  I said nothing. I suspected she had wondered that already. Worked it through in her own mind as I’d bristled in front of her. She said nothing either. And she’d called Tyler my son. Not my foster son. My son. And in that instant I knew we would become friends.

  Instead she said, ‘Look, Casey, I have a germ of an idea. A bit radical and before I tell you, I need to speak to some other people. Can you give me half an hour and I’ll ring you back?’

  So I waited, and while I waited I took delivery of some new guitar strings, put a wash on and hauled the vacuum cleaner upstairs. I also found the link to a brilliant local Alzheimer’s support group that I’d meant to pass on to her a couple of days back and hadn’t. In short, got my day back on track.

  And when she called back, it turned out that her plan was pretty simple. That, for the foreseeable, and with the amazing Mavis’s full agreement, she and I would simply swap roles. What Miller thought of the arrangement I could only guess at, obviously, but spared the responsibility of wondering how to deal with it, I could only give thanks that it wasn’t my problem. Well, at least till the weekend respites I was happy to agree to. One in two weeks’ time and, then, because Christine felt it more sensible, once a month, going forwards – though with some flexibility, to fit in with Mavis’s dog-show commitments.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I believe Mavis might be perfect for him. No, it’s not what she originally thought she’d signed up for. But she’s on her own, and can give him 100 per cent of her attention. And she tells me there’s nothing he can do that will faze her. Did you know, by the way, that when she retired from full-time police work in her forties, she volunteered for a couple of years in a facility for the criminally insane?’ Christine chuckled. ‘So she doubts Miller will be able to drive her insane. Early days, of course, but she’s not worried in the least about how she’ll handle him – as she says, she doesn’t have anyone else to worry about, does she? And I have a hunch she’ll be able to do some good.’

  It was a genius plan, I thought – another borderline miracle. Cometh the hour, cometh Mavis. It also meant that Miller wouldn’t feel so rejected; might feel he’d got things the way he wanted them, even. We would see. And at least he’d be granted some proper help from CAMHS.

  And, of course, it left us free to take on another child. Full-time, if we wanted.

  Which I did want, I shocked myself by thinking. I clearly wasn’t done yet.

  ‘But not just yet,’ Christine said. ‘Casey, I know I’m not your boss, exactly. But, as you might have realised, I am bossy. And I’m telling you here and now that you are taking a couple of weeks off. And now I’m off as well. D’you ­real­ise it’s almost ten in the morning and I haven’t even had my second cup of tea yet?’

  ‘Ugh. The devil’s drink,’ I said laughing, as we said our goodbyes.

  Some things are set in stone, after all.

  Epilogue

  Today’s fostering is more fluid than ever before, I think. It has changed so much over the years that I’ve been doing it, and though budget cuts and new regulations often mean that we carers often get the thin end of the wedge, the changes have meant that we have become a lot more flexible in our approach. We have to be, because the children coming into care today are far more complex than the children I was asked to foster all those years ago.

  Take our situation with Miller, for example. They say all political careers end in failure, don’t they? But what they don’t say, and perhaps shouldn’t, is that sometimes fostering placements end in failure, too. At least, that’s how I saw it for the first weeks after Miller officially ‘left’ us. That I was a failure, because I’d failed to keep my promise to him. I also thought hard about ending my own ‘career’ in fostering. If I couldn’t make a difference, however small, then what was the point?

  Happily, Mike had a stern word with me and told me to stop being self-indulgent. I might be able to work miracles on a furred-up kettle, but there were no miracles in fostering. Just the daily slog of doing your best – with training, the right spirit and a heck of a lot of patience – and accepting that sometimes things didn’t work out. I also accepted Christine’s patient lectures about the importance of prioritising my family, too. For someone who’s never had the chance to bring up her own child, she has spades of parental wisdom. She’d have made a lovely, lovely mum.

  And who knew? So far, our shared arrangement has worked out. There is no pressure and the logistics of it are more or less left to us carers. If Mavis has plans for Miller on a particular weekend, she phones in advance and lets us know, and similarly if something comes up for us, we give as much notice as we can and rearrange. It also means that even if we’ve had Miller one weekend, if Mavis is having a struggle with him, she can ring us and ask for us to do an extra night or two.

  And, to our delight and surprise, Miller seems to be thriving with this set-up. One might think that someone with such an appetite for control, would hate the uncertainty and the constant moving around, but he really doesn’t. It seems he actually prefers to be in the midst of chaos. Organised chaos at least, at least when he’s not in school, whose routines and order, and dependable structure, he seems to love. Nowt so queer as folk, eh? But perhaps the whole ‘family as gold standard’ idea isn’t for everyone. When not in school, he is definitely still a paid-up member of the resistance, and this must be linked directly to his childhood. No matter how we professionals think that order and structure is the only way for some of these kids, it clearly isn’t. They rebel against it because it isn’t their norm; confrontation is their ‘comfort blanket’ and they still crave it, no matter how bad it seems to us.

  So I’m very grateful for Christine Bolton’s little flash of inspiration that day on the phone, because it has changed Miller almost beyond recognition. He still has his off days and no doubt he always will, and he still tries to control most situations when he can, but in himself, we can all see how much happier and less wound up he now is. We even saw an example of this last Christmas. Miller came to stay with us the weekend before and we’d arranged with Mavis to give him his gifts at that point, and she’d said he could open one of them while he was with us. His choice was a mobile phone (no surprise there!), which he was ecstatic about, truly thrilled – I even got an extremely rare hug. But what touched us most was his gesture towards Tyler.

  He’d brought two Christmas cards with him, one for us and the family, and one just for Tyler, which he made him promise not to open till he’d left. Which he did, and as I watched him do so, to my surprise, he had tears in his eyes. It read:

  Dear Ty

  I hope you have a lovely Christmas and I bet Casey and Mike get you a well nice present. I wish I could buy you what I want to get you, Ty, I promise I do. And one day, when I’m rich through my hacking and stuff, I will ge
t you the best new guitar that money can buy, I swear down! I have done a lot of bad things, and some of them to you and your family but my biggest mistake was cutting your guitar strings. I wish I had never done that. I wish I could take it back. If I could pick a brother it would be you. Merry Christmas and see you in the New Year.

  Miller x

  Oh, and I should add that Miller’s handwriting, always erratic, was a dream to behold. Mr Hammond was (is) clearly doing a great job. And the best news (well, once we’d dried our eyes over the card) was that, as I write, he is top of the waiting list for a boarding place. So it’s within touching distance. Keep your fingers crossed for him.

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