Just a Boy

by Casey Watson

  By lunchtime, I was happy that we were getting things organised, so, leaving Mike and Kieron painting – they’d found a big tin of blue emulsion, left over from when we’d decorated for our first foster child, Justin – Riley and I made a trip into town for some bits. I knew it wasn’t really necessary, but the word ‘neglect’ kept jumping out at me, so even if they would be with us only a short while I was determined these poor little ones would find the experience a positive one. It would take no time at all to grab some bits from all the local charity shops: books to read, toys and jigsaws, soft toys and dolls – just some kiddie paraphernalia to help make them feel at home.

  Riley and I were just staggering back in through the front door with our haul when the phone rang. As promised, it was the children’s social worker.

  ‘I’m Anna,’ she told me. She sounded young and very professional. ‘And I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you’ve agreed to help us out. John’s told us so much about you and Mike, and we really don’t know what we’d have done without you. And I have to tell you …’ I mentally braced, because the tone of her voice had now changed markedly, ‘… that the situation’s become somewhat more urgent.’

  I wasn’t sure what she meant. In the world in which we worked we were used to pretty much everything being urgent. Well, if they needed something, anyway – it didn’t necessarily work in reverse. ‘More urgent?’

  ‘In that we’ve had to give the parents notice. That we’re going to be removing the children in the morning …’

  ‘The morning? You mean tomorrow morning?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ she answered. ‘We would have moved them today, but of course it was only fair to give you notice …’

  ‘But what about the pre-placement meeting? We know absolutely nothing about them.’

  I should have expected this, I thought ruefully as I waited for her answer. In theory, before a child is placed with a foster family, there is a defined process – a formal meeting, in which all concerned parties are present, so that social services can give the new carers some background and so that a plan of action for the child or children’s future can be put in place. But in practice … Hmm, I thought, we’d been here before, hadn’t we?

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘to land the two of you in it like this. We will, of course, arrange an urgent meeting with you, once you have the children, then we can tell you both everything we know.’

  I could almost hear her holding her breath, waiting for me to argue. But I’d committed, and these kids needed a temporary home, now.

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, thank you so, so much,’ she answered. Rather worryingly.

  After a fitful night mostly spent making mental lists, the following morning found me sitting in my garden, drinking in its glorious summer scents. It was looking – and smelling – particularly gorgeous, as Kieron had cut the grass for me, and Lauren had done some weeding. It would be the perfect place, I thought, for these poor, sad little children, to run around and let off some steam.

  I still knew barely anything despite speaking again to John the previous evening. He’d backtracked just a little on his original grim announcement; having found out more, he now assured me they didn’t have too many serious behavioural problems. They were just two frightened kids, who, for no fault of their own, were going to have to be taken away from their parents. I couldn’t begin to imagine the circumstances – and there were just too many potential reasons for me to try – but what John had told me (well, as far as he’d been made aware, anyway) was that they simply couldn’t cope with taking care of them.

  So sad, yet, tragically, so common. I breathed deeply, my eyes taking in all the violets, pinks and yellows – and, as I made an impromptu shopping list for Mike to take to the supermarket for me, I could only wonder, and hope, that things would be addressed sufficiently that at some point those parents could have them back.

  This was central to what we did – we tried to provide hope for the future. Hope that either families would be reunited or, if that wasn’t possible, that the children concerned could at least be equipped with some life skills to get them through, and then hopefully placed permanently, with carers who’d give them a fighting chance of happiness.

  Bob was bounding around the lawn as I sat and philosophised, and seeing him brought a smile to my face. They’d love our dog; no-one could fail to, because he had such a lovely temperament. Kieron had sprung him on us all, out of the blue, almost two years back. He’d been languishing in a rescue centre, abandoned and unwanted. I grinned to myself. Rescuing waifs and strays seemed to be a Watson family trait.

  ‘You done yet?’ It was Mike, come to join me in the garden. ‘Only, if I’m going to get there and back before these little ones arrive, I’d better scoot.’ He surveyed the list I passed him with growing consternation. ‘Bloody hell, love! You sure we need all this lot? We don’t even know the kinds of foods they like yet. Wouldn’t it be better to hold off on some of this until they’ve got here?’

  ‘Mike, all kids like that stuff,’ I answered. ‘And don’t stress me, not today.’

  He gave a mock salute. ‘As you wish, Your Majesty.’

  ‘And hurry,’ I chided, grinning. ‘We haven’t got all day!’

  As it turned out, we had barely an hour before the car drew up outside, only moments after Mike had returned, laden with bulging supermarket carrier bags. The cupboards had been pretty bare, what with us being away, so it had been a mad rush to get everything put away. Mindful of how scared the children would be, I shooed both Kieron and Bob back out into the garden, so they could meet the whole clan in less intimidating stages – Riley and her partner David wouldn’t stop by with Levi till tomorrow, so the kids would have a chance to settle in and get to know their new temporary home first.

  Mike went outside to greet them and to help them with their stuff – our last child had had about half a dozen cases – while I finished pulling cups out of the kitchen cupboards. By the time I’d returned to the hall, he was already back, however, clutching just the one small suitcase and a bin liner. The children themselves were following along behind him, with a man and a woman, the latter being Anna, I imagined.

  Finally they were all gathered on the doorstep in a huddle.

  At which point, I should have ushered them all immediately in, but even I – and I have seen a lot in my time – had to take a second, just to process the sight of them.

  John had been wrong. The word ‘neglect’ didn’t cover it. These poor little ones looked feral. I took in filth – so much filth that it almost looked tattooed on their scraggy limbs – matted hair, almost in dreadlocks, and rags, in the main, for clothes. Their expressions were wide-eyed and terrified and hollow, and they clung to their carers like baby monkeys to a mother; even as I watched the man try to disentangle himself from the boy, I could see just how tightly the gnarled brown hands gripped on.

  The smell hit me next. It was so fetid as to be indescribable, and it was all I could do not to cover my mouth with my hand. You can read Dickens, watch Dickens and visualise his descriptions, but these children, looking every inch like kids from a Dickensian orphanage, smelled bad in a way I’d never before imagined.

  But the thing that most struck me, as I smiled my best smile and welcomed them inside, was the head lice they had in their hair. I’d seen lots of head lice, at the school where I used to work. And like most mums, I’d deloused my own from time to time. But these were lice like I’d never seen them before. As I leaned down to give the little girl a welcoming cuddle, it hit me. There were so many, and they were so active, that her hair looked alive. The more you gazed on it, the more you saw what a seething mass it was. A virtual lice-metropolis had established there.

  No, I thought, again. The word neglect really didn’t cover it. I glanced at Mike and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. What else were we about to uncover?

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  Chapter 3

  Spencer’s suitcase was bulging.

  Which was something that immediately struck me as symbolic. The last kids we’d fostered had arrived with barely anything; just a tatty old bin bag containing clothes that looked like rags. Yet the battered, broken doll that had also been buried in there was as precious to little Olivia as would be any other cherished toy. The luggage a child came with, as I was fast learning, spoke volumes – the things a child dragged from placement to placement meant everything to them. Be it a favourite photograph, a special toy, or a crumpled letter from a loved one, these belongings were often the only attachment a child had, and gave them a sense that they were still a part of something wider than the place where they had currently ended up.‘

  Good grief, Spencer!’ Glenn exclaimed, as he dragged the case over the doorstep. ‘Come on, own up. You’ve smuggled the kitchen sink into here, haven’t you?’

  Spencer glanced up at me as if expecting to be reprimanded. ‘I got lots of stuff,’ he explained. ‘But it’s mostly just my trainers and all my games for the DS that’s making it heavy.’

  I didn’t know what a DS was, and said so. Spencer obligingly got the portable game console out of his backpack to show me, while Glenn commented that of all the things in Spencer’s life this was the one thing he couldn’t live without.

  I smiled and nodded while he shyly showed me all the things it could do, but it was an indicator that I’d been at this job for a while now that my immediate thought was a cynical one: this would be my bargaining tool. Sad though it was, to be able to modify the behaviour of challenging children, such a tool was your most potent weapon. It was the things they loved most that they would be most motivated to stay in line for, so the DS would soon have a subtle change in status. Spencer would have to see it as a privilege and not a right.

  But that was for writing into Spencer’s behaviour plan, not for today. Today was all about welcoming him to our family, and trying to quell his understandable anxiety.

  And he did look terribly anxious today. Because my kitchen and dining room were separated only by an archway and an island of worktops, I could keep an eye on things while everybody settled at the dining table, and I rustled up the drinks and biscuits. It had become something of a ritual, this, I realised, since I’d begun fostering. The dining-table meetings and the round of refreshments, the wide-eyed child, the various official adults, the slight edge of formality. I watched Spencer take his seat beside Glenn, his social worker, and how he pulled it close enough so that the two of them were almost touching. I also noticed he had something in his hand that I’d not seen at first. Perhaps he’d pulled it out of his pocket.

  ‘Who’s this, then?’ I asked him, as I brought the tray of coffees in, plus the usual array of biscuits, which he eyed but didn’t touch. Close up I could see it was a glove puppet.

  ‘Fluffy Cow,’ he said. Which seemed apt. That’s what it was.

  ‘Fluffy Cow is Spencer’s favourite toy, isn’t it, mate?’ Glenn explained. ‘He likes to take it to bed with him, don’t you?’

  I could see Spencer stiffen slightly. ‘I don’t play with it or owt,’ he said. ‘It just stays on my bed.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Here, love. Help yourself to a biscuit. And I tell you what, we’ve got to do a whole load of boring paperwork. So how about you take Fluffy Cow up to see your new bedroom? There’s some new toys up there for you, so you might like to have a little play. But only if you want to,’ I finished. ‘It’s entirely up to you.’

  Spencer looked at Glenn. ‘You won’t go or anything, will you?’

  ‘Course not, son,’ he said. ‘And I’ll give you a shout if we need you.’

  ‘Okay, then,’ said Spencer, sliding back down off his chair and, clutching his beloved puppet, slipping noiselessly from the room.

  Bless him, I thought. Poor little lad. I really, really couldn’t fathom this.

  The file Glenn handed out was a small one. Small but to the point. It made for grim reading. Spencer, as we’d known, was the middle of five children. He had a brother, Lewis, who was ten, a sister, Sammy Lee, nine, then two younger siblings, five-year-old Coral and a three-year-old called Harvey. Their parents, Kerry and Danny, were both in their thirties and apparently had no misgivings about Spencer coming into care. In fact, they’d been clear on this when they’d been interviewed by social services. As things stood they had decided to wash their hands of him. They said he was out of control, wild and ‘feral’ – that damning word again – and that they considered him to be a risk to both himself and others, and that they felt they’d reached the end of the road.

  As was usual, a risk assessment had also been completed, and the finding was that as Spencer was a persistent petty offender priority had to be given to minimising his chances of re-offending and heading towards a life of teenage crime.

  Once again, I was struck by the disparity between what I was reading and what I was seeing. I also wondered, as I read on, what kind of parents would feel able to hand over one of their five children to what could only be described as complete strangers, whether sanctioned by the council or otherwise. Why this ‘one bad apple’ attitude, that seemed to permeate through the paperwork? Were they worried that if he stayed he might ‘infect’ his brothers and sisters? How could you make such a chilling judgement about your own flesh and blood?

  I glanced around the table as I finished reading, and John caught my eye. His expression was sad, and I could see he felt the same as me.

  He shook his head slightly and slowly took off his reading glasses. These were new, and I made a mental note to compare notes with him about them later. I had just started needing to use them myself. ‘Well, there’s not an awful lot here, is there?’ he said, pointing to the file. ‘But what we do have makes it clear that Mr and Mrs Herrington, here, seem to think we can wave some sort of magic wand, sort their kid out and hand back some new, improved version, don’t they?’

  Glenn nodded. ‘I got that impression too. Though I think – well, I hope – they now realise it’s really not that simple. That said, the plan is still to do that, pretty much. A few weeks or months with Mike and Casey on the behavioural programme, and lots of visits home so they can actually see progress. Then overnights, then weekends, then – well, all being well, we’ll have the family reunited at the end of it.’

  I glanced at John again. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘So he’s to do the full programme then, is he? You do realise that could take up to a year.’

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ John said. ‘The intention is obviously to get him back home as soon as possible. I was thinking he could do a more scaled-down version of the programme, focusing mainly on his behaviour, and leaving out all the day-to-day mundane stuff, because it seems clear there’s not much point in a child like him earning points from brushing his teeth and putting his dirty laundry in the right place.’

  ‘Ahem?’ I said pointedly.

  John rolled his eyes at me. He knew full well he was being wound up. ‘I mean obviously he’ll still be expected to do all those things. Just not earn privileges by doing them, was what I meant to say.’ I nodded, satisfied. ‘Which means it’ll be more intense, of course,’ he finished, ‘but hopefully that bit faster to implement. After all, he’s young, compared to most of the kids we put on the programme, so I’m hoping we’ll be able to nip things in the bud and turn him around.’

  This was a fair point. The older the child was, the more ingrained their behaviours tended to be, and since older kids invariably came with more emotional baggage too (particularly if they’d spent a long time in care) it was a more complex business all round. Spencer was different. He’d only just come into the care system, so John’s thinking would hopefully turn out to be sound. And yet, for all that, he had still been cast as an outsider – by everyone around him, by all accounts. He was so young but had already been disowned by his parents, had a history of petty offen
ces and was a pupil at a special school. How had this young boy managed to get to this place, when the rest of his family were essentially so sound? It didn’t stack up. Quite where was this monstrous child? There must be a lot more going on here than I could see.

  We spent another 15 minutes or so going through the rest of the paperwork, and throwing around a few ideas about how to tailor the programme to suit Spencer, then Glenn called him down to say his goodbyes. He looked no less anxious as he came down the stairs to say farewell, and it was clear that even in the short time they’d been acquainted they seemed to have quite a rapport. This was a bonus, as our paths would cross often during this process, and it helped enormously if Mike and I had a rapport with him too.

  And there was plenty to like. In his late 20s, I estimated, Glenn seemed both positive and enthusiastic, two qualities that a career in social services could often extinguish all too quickly. You saw too much that you wished you hadn’t, had to make too many difficult decisions and worked in a sector that could often be thankless; damned if you took a child away, and damned if you didn’t. Spencer was fortunate, I thought, to have Glenn on side. And though professional in approach, he also looked approachable. With his jeans and his shades and his cool designer T-shirts, he was the sort of character that kids wouldn’t be intimidated by, which would help them open up to him, which mattered.

  And it wasn’t just Glenn who had an eye for designer kit. When I went upstairs with Spencer to help him with his unpacking, the first things I saw were five pairs of expensive-looking trainers, all pristine and laid in a neat row against the wall.

  ‘Wow, I said. ‘Look at these. You certainly like your trainers, don’t you?’

  Spencer nodded. ‘I love ’em. But I only wear this make, because this make’s the coolest.’ He looked at me anxiously, then. ‘Mrs Watson?’