by Trisha Merry
Another time, when we were at the supermarket, he shouted at a disabled man: ‘Cripples shouldn’t be allowed in shops.’ The man was understandably very upset, and so were other customers, so the manager insisted I take Gilroy out of the store and never bring him again.
There were many other instances of this kind, and it became increasingly difficult to take him anywhere, or to have anyone round to our house.
It wasn’t just Gilroy who was difficult to deal with. His mother could be even worse – obstreperous was putting it mildly. A few weeks after the episode with the bunk beds, she turned up unannounced, wanting to see him. She knew she had to get permission from Social Services, because Gilroy was on a full care order and his mother was only allowed to have supervised visits. But she ignored this.
She was drunk when she arrived, banging on our front door non-stop, until I came and opened it on the chain.
‘I want to see my f****** boy!’ she yelled.
‘I’m sorry, Kathleen,’ I said in my firmest voice. ‘You know I can’t let you in to see Gilroy without first getting written permission from Social Services. What you need to do is to go down and get them to do you a letter and bring it back here. Then you can come in.’
She swore another string of non-repeatable words at me, so I shut the door, kept the chain on and double-locked it. I checked the back door too, and all the downstairs windows.
As I turned, I saw Gilroy, sitting on the stairs, close to tears. He was a tough boy, who would never have let the others see any chink of weakness in him. But this day, away from the rest of the children, a tear or two trickled down his ashen face, as he sat, rigid, on the stairs. Then suddenly, he seemed to change.
‘Why can’t I see my mum?’ he challenged me.
‘Because she can’t come in without permission from the social workers,’ I explained.
‘I f****** hate you!’ he shouted and stomped up the stairs to his room, where I heard him crashing things about. Not for the first time.
I’d have to deal with that later, because at that moment, there was a loud commotion outside in the street. I peeked out of one of our front windows and saw her having a go at our old friend the milkman, who had just turned up at that moment in his float. She ranted and raved at him, so loudly that Gilroy stopped his destruction, came out of his room and stood at the top of the stairs, listening.
At that moment, his mother took a milk bottle out of one of the milkman’s crates and threw it as hard as she could at our house. Then she threw a few more, and worked her way through all the crates. I think she must have been aiming at the windows, but fortunately she was too drunk to aim straight, so they all broke against the brickwork, streaming milk down the walls, while the jagged pieces of glass fell to the ground beneath.
‘Let me in, you f****** c***,’ she screamed.
I phoned Gilroy’s social worker and told him. ‘She’s gone too far,’ I said. ‘She’s violent, and probably dangerous. We need the police up here.’
‘Oh, don’t do that,’ he said. ‘I’ll come up straight away and sort her out.’
‘I don’t think you’ll be able to. I’m afraid somebody is going to be hurt. I could smell the alcohol when I opened the door, and had to close it again quickly to protect the children. She was swearing and shouting threats at me. She even tried to attack the poor milkman. You wouldn’t be able to get near her, or the front of the house.’
‘You’ve got a back door, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, go out and try to stop her.’
‘How could I do that?’
‘Talk to her.’
‘No,’ I refused. ‘I’m not going out to her. It would be dangerous. She’s absolutely lost the plot.’
By now, with all the milk bottles broken, she started banging on the windows with her fists. Gilroy had come downstairs again and was petrified with fear. Embarrassed too, I’m sure. He was horrified at the fuss his mother was causing. As she battered the hall window, Gilroy edged slowly backwards, leaning against the wall, shrinking away from his mother’s onslaught. That’s a sure sign that a child is traumatised.
The children were all at home, because it was half term, so I took Gilroy by the hand and led him out to the kitchen, at the back of the house, where I had told all the others to stay. I checked again that I’d properly locked and bolted the back door. Then I phoned Mike at work.
‘You’ve got to come home,’ I said. I’m sure he could hear the panic in my voice. ‘And you’ll have to be careful because Kathleen Dobbs is fighting drunk and in a terrible strop, trying to break our front windows.’
‘Have you rung the police?’
‘No. Gilroy’s social worker said not to.’
‘Well, ring them now, straight away, and I’ll be home as soon as I can.’
Just as I picked up the phone to dial 999, I heard the sirens approaching. I went to have a look, as two police cars screeched to a halt at the front of our house. Straight away, they put up a cordon across the road on both sides, to keep curious onlookers out of danger. I went back to make sure the children were OK.
‘It’s all right,’ I told them. ‘The police are here now. So they will keep us safe.’
‘I bet there are at least six police cars,’ said Ronnie in great excitement. ‘We’ll probably be on the News!’
Gilroy was usually our biggest doom merchant, but not today. He edged himself closer to me, with his head down and his eyes to the ground. For once, he was silent. I felt so bad for him. He was in complete shock. How could any parent do this to their child?
Mike and the social worker both turned up at the same time and, when they explained who they were, the police let them through the cordon and signalled that it was safe for me to open the front door and let them into the house. As I did so, I saw to the right a policewoman and two policemen taking Kathleen in handcuffs towards their car.
‘They’ve arrested Mrs Dobbs and are taking her down to the police station,’ explained Mike.
‘I’ve just come in to see how Gilroy is,’ added his social worker.
‘Frightened to death,’ I said.
‘No, I’m not!’ Gilroy insisted, gathering some bravado. ‘I’m not frightened.’
‘No, we’ll all be fine now,’ I reassured him, and all the kids. ‘I’m sure it will all turn out all right for your mum,’ I told Gilroy. ‘Now that she’s calmed down, she’ll be fine. I expect they’ll just ask her some questions, then take her home.’
The social worker gave me a doubtful look, but knew better than to contradict me in front of the boy. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Now that I can see that Gilroy is OK, I’ll go on down to the police station and see if I can have a word with Kathleen.’
It was my turn to be doubtful. But I said nothing. Gilroy had been through enough. He was putting on a brave front, but I knew his brain must be in a turmoil of distress. For once, I felt very protective of him. He was only a child, just six years old. But, when it was all over, it didn’t take him long to regain his usual strength . . . and malice.
A few days later, I was tidying up the children’s rooms when I noticed that Gilroy’s pillow looked very lumpy, so I smoothed my hand over it, but it wouldn’t flatten. I lifted the pillow and found a hoard of knives underneath – table knives, kitchen knives that he must have stolen from downstairs, and a small selection of pen-knives, presumably also stolen from shops or at school. This discovery sent a chill down my spine. And when I looked in his drawers, he had boxes of matches and bits of burnt paper hidden among his clothes.
I was shocked. I took them all away, but what if I hadn’t found all this? What was he going to do? Then I realised . . . it must be a reaction to the incident with his mother and the police. Gilroy had been a desperately unhappy little boy in the days since that happened, even more so than usual. He was obviously disturbed. When he wasn’t being sullen and withdrawn, or hyper and uncontrollable, he was on a mission, trying to find ever more devious ways to upset
or even hurt other children.
The worst thing he did at that time involved our youngest foster-child, Laurel. She was only about eighteen months old, and I remember she was standing at the top of the landing, calling me. Just as I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw Gilroy run up behind Laurel and give her a sharp push that sent her tumbling off the top step and all the way down the stairs, bumping on her bottom, fortunately padded by her nappy, and knocking one arm and one leg hard against the banisters as she hurtled towards me. I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to catch her. It was just instinctive I suppose. I caught her full weight in my arms – fortunately she was quite light, but it still sent me reeling, so I was glad I managed to hold on to her. I knew she could have been hurt very badly.
She wailed at the top of her voice, and the more she wailed, the wider the smile stretched on Gilroy’s face, as he stood looking over the banisters at us. She was obviously hurt, so I phoned her social worker and then I had to take her down to the hospital to be X-rayed.
I had to take all the kids, including Gilroy, down with me to A&E. When they saw the motley crowd of us coming in, they took Laurel through straight away. Fortunately, although she was badly bruised, and they had to put her wrist in plaster for a hairline fracture, nothing major was broken and she had no internal injuries.
When I got them all back home again, I called Gilroy’s social worker and explained what had happened.
‘I think you’d better come round and have a serious talk with Gilroy. It’s not just what happened to Laurel today. There’s definitely a problem here. He’s been hiding boxes of matches and sharp knives in his room. And he’s being spiteful and nasty to the other children. When I’m not looking, I’m sure he does things to them. I hear their cries and see their bruises when he hurts them. I think you need to talk to him.’
Several weeks later, I had a letter asking me to be a witness at Gilroy’s mother’s trial. Apparently, the police had charged her with drunken affray and threatening behaviour, or something like that.
‘Why didn’t you let Mrs Dobbs in?’ asked the barrister.
‘Because when she arrived she was drunk,’ I explained.
The judge intervened. ‘How do you know? Are you an expert on alcohol consumption?’
‘No. But I could tell she was drunk.’
‘You can’t say that, Mrs Merry.’
‘But I can . . .’
And when we got outside, Gilroy’s social worker said, ‘You can’t say that. You’ve got to say that you could smell alcohol and that she couldn’t walk straight and she was slurring her words. But you’re not a medical expert, so you can’t say she was drunk.’
‘For goodness sake!’ I said to Mike that evening, after the kids had gone to bed. ‘What does it matter what words I used? She was definitely drunk.’
‘So what was the verdict?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I couldn’t stay to the end. But I’m sure they must have found her guilty.’
‘Well, as long as she learns her lesson,’ said Mike.
‘Some hope!’ I sighed. ‘I wonder what she’ll get up to next.’
14
Piggy-Bank Raid
Daisy and Paul’s social worker made one of his rare visits to see the children.
‘It’s good to see you, John,’ I greeted him. ‘You haven’t been for ages. Have you come to check whether I’ve murdered them yet?’
‘No,’ he laughed. ‘We have so many cases where foster placements are going wrong these days, but I know Daisy and Paul couldn’t be in a better family.’
‘So does that mean you can have a day off when you should be visiting them?’ I teased him.
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he said. ‘But I have to check up and write a report now and then, that they’re still being fed and watered and that they’re growing well!’
‘You make them sound like plants – if only it were that simple!’
Over the six years Daisy and Paul had been with us, they’d only seen their father about three times, and his last visit must have been two years ago. So it was quite a surprise when he turned up out of the blue one Sunday afternoon, as shifty as ever, with a young lad of about fifteen, who had a look of Paul about him.
‘This is my nephew, Carl,’ he said. ‘The kids’ cousin. Can we come in and see them?’
‘Well, you should have called me to make sure, and then I could have got them into some decent clothes for you.’
‘Never mind about that,’ he said, waving his hand. ‘We won’t stay long.’
I felt distinctly uncomfortable about letting them in, especially as I knew nothing about this boy Carl, but I felt I had to for the children’s sake, so they could see their errant father. I showed them into the playroom to wait, while I went to call Daisy and Paul in. Luckily Mike was home, being a Sunday, so I had a quick word with him, out of the kitchen window, to put him in the picture.
‘I don’t think I should leave Rocky and this young cousin alone with Daisy and Paul,’ I explained. ‘It doesn’t feel right, somehow. What do you think?’
‘No, they don’t even know him, do they?’
‘I don’t think so. They certainly won’t remember him.’ I paused. ‘And there’s something about him that makes me feel . . .’
‘Threatened?’
‘Not quite, but definitely uncomfortable.’ I paused. ‘And I don’t trust Rocky either.’
After all these years of fostering, I had developed a sixth sense about people. And I had a funny feeling about this boy, Carl. A chip off his uncle’s dodgy old block, maybe.
So I tagged along when the kids took their dad and cousin up to see their bedrooms, and showed them all their things. Paul showed him a Lego model he had made, but when he gave it to his father to look at, Rocky managed to break it. Daisy tried to show him her schoolwork, some of her drawings, her knitting . . . but he barely looked at it, preferring instead to sit on her bed and adjust his watch. I left the room for just a couple of minutes, to collect a laundry basket, so I didn’t hear everything they said, but I don’t think I missed much. Then they all came down again and out into the garden. I took out drinks and snacks, then went back to the kitchen to get on with the chores. I knew Mike was keeping an eye on everyone, so I put the radio on while I did some ironing.
At one point, Carl sauntered in and through the kitchen. ‘Just going to the toilet,’ he said with a sly smile.
‘It’s on the right of the stairs,’ I told him.
A few minutes later he came back through and out to the garden again.
Just as I turned the radio off to go out and see them all in the garden, Rocky and his nephew came into the kitchen with Daisy and Paul trailing behind, more or less ignored.
‘We’ve got to go now,’ said Rocky. ‘I’m working at six and I’ve got to take Carl back first. Thanks for the drinks.’
‘That’s OK. But you’ve only been here half an hour. It’s a shame you couldn’t stay longer. I’m sure Daisy and Paul would have liked to spend more time with you.’
‘Next time,’ said Rocky.
‘Any idea when that will be?’ I asked.
‘When I’m up here again, I expect,’ he said in his usual, offhand way.
So we stood at the front and waved them off in Rocky’s wreck of what had probably once been a flashy car. I suppose it would be a collector’s car by now, but it badly needed doing up. It sounded pretty rough as it chugged away, with its rear bumper dropping loose at one end.
Later that evening, when they’d had their baths and were getting ready for bed, Daisy and Paul came running down the stairs, holding their red post-box piggy-bank. They shared it between them and Daisy, always the methodical one, kept a note of the amounts when either of them put money into it, so that they knew what they both had in it. It was usually small amounts, like bits of pocket-money. Or when my father used to come and visit, he always gave every child sixpence or a shilling to put in their moneyboxes. For some reason, one
of them must have picked up the piggy-bank at bedtime.
‘It’s empty,’ wailed Paul.
‘All our money has gone,’ added Daisy, clearly upset.
‘Somebody’s stolen it,’ cried Paul.
‘Come and sit down and let’s think how it could have happened,’ I suggested.
So we sat together at the kitchen table, and I called Mike to come and join us.
‘Are you sure you had money in it?’
‘Yes, replied Daisy. ‘There was two pounds, three shillings and sixpence in it.’
That was a lot of money in those days – more than the cost of a pair of adult shoes – so I could understand their consternation.
‘You must have been saving that for a while,’ Mike said with a look of admiration.
‘When did you last check it?’ I asked.
‘This morning.’ Daisy got out her notebook. ‘Look. I check it every morning when I first get up. I counted it and it was all still there, so I ticked the page, see?’ She showed us her neat writing, with the amounts and each day’s date with a tick against it, the last one being that morning’s.
‘Well done, Daisy. That’s very efficient.’
‘Then I put it away again in a secret place,’ she explained.
‘But we got it out to show Dad,’ added Paul.
‘So it was on my desk. Anybody could have seen it.’
We tried to work out what could have happened.
‘It must have been AJ.’ Paul was convinced.
I had to agree that it could have been AJ, who used to steal things every day when he first joined us; but he seemed to have gradually changed his ways over the five years since then. Still, he had been the first person to come into my mind.
‘I agree. It could be AJ,’ Daisy agreed. ‘None of the others would have stolen our money, would they?’ she said with a sad expression.
‘What about Gilroy?’ suggested Paul. ‘He wouldn’t care. But if it was him, he would probably have broken the piggy-bank too.’
‘That’s true,’ I agreed.
