by Cathy Glass
It was Adrian, now aged twenty and home from university for Christmas, who went to answer the front doorbell when it rang at five minutes to two, while Lucy and Paula immediately came out of their bedrooms and down the stairs.
‘Adrian, good to see you!’ came Max’s voice, no longer that of a little boy but a man.
‘Max! Good to see you too, come in.’ As I entered the hall the boys were warmly shaking hands.
‘Max! Look at you!’ I said, going up to him.
‘Hi, Cathy,’ he said. ‘Great to see you again.’ Smiling broadly, he kissed my cheek and then presented me with a beautiful bouquet of flowers.
‘Thank you, they’re lovely. But you shouldn’t have done that. How kind.’
‘A rather late thank you present for looking after me,’ Max said. Physically he was so different, but he was still the kind-hearted and good-natured lad I’d known all those years ago.
‘They’re lovely. You remember Paula?’ I said as she arrived at the foot of the stairs.
‘Yes, of course. But not like this,’ he said with a laugh.
She smiled, a little embarrassed, and they kissed cheeks.
‘And I have another daughter now. Meet Lucy.’
Max looked slightly puzzled, but I Iet Lucy tell him, as I thought she would. ‘Adopted,’ she said as they kissed cheeks too.
‘Oh wow,’ Max said. ‘So am I.’
It was Adrian’s, Paula’s and my turn to look confused.
‘Didn’t you know Bet and Harry adopted me?’ Max said.
‘No, I didn’t. But that’s fantastic.’
‘Yes, about two years after Mum passed. They thought it would give me greater security.’
‘It does,’ Lucy readily agreed.
‘Let’s go through to the living room,’ I said, for we were still in the hall. I turned and led the way.
‘I remember this so clearly,’ Max said, glancing around as we went. ‘And you guys.’
‘I remember you being here clearly,’ Adrian said. ‘Although you looked a bit different back then.’
‘I did,’ Max laughed. ‘Very different.’
We went into the living room where Paula and Lucy settled on the sofa and the boys sat in the easy chairs. I said I’d make us a drink and asked them what they’d like. They all wanted tea. I left them chatting and took the flowers into the kitchen, placed them in a vase of water and then filled the kettle. As I made the tea and arranged the sponge cake and mince pies on plates, I could hear them talking about university life. Adrian asked him why he’d chosen Cambridge and Max replied that he’d wanted to study philosophy and they offered a really good course, and that many famous philosophers had studied there. Max’s manner wasn’t at all boastful, which it could have been considering the intellectual nature of the subject he’d chosen to study and that he’d been accepted by a top university. He sounded as down-to-earth and stoical as I remembered him being as a child, just wiser, and more mature and confident. Paula asked him what he would do with his degree, which had rather crossed my mind, as there was no career in philosophy as far as I knew. Max replied that he hadn’t decided on a career yet but enjoyed the subject and a philosophy degree was a good basis to go on to train for a career in law, teaching, media or business.
I carried the tray containing the tea and side plates in first and set it on the coffee table, then returned for the plates of cake and mince pies. I handed each of them a cup of tea and a side plate and then offered round the cake and mince pies, to Max first as he was the guest.
‘What can I tempt you with?’ I asked him, proffering the plates enticingly. Then I had the uncomfortable feeling that I shouldn’t be encouraging him to eat these foods when he’d clearly done well to shift all the weight and keep it off.
Perhaps he saw my dilemma, for he said, ‘They look lovely, Cathy. I’ll just have one mince pie. Thank you.’
I then offered the plates around before taking my tea and slice of cake to an easy chair. The young people were now talking about Christmas and Max was admiring our tree.
‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ I asked him.
‘I’ll be at home with my parents for Christmas Day. Then I’ll try to see as many of my family as I can before I have to return to uni. But there are a lot of us now. My sisters all have families and then there are Bet and Harry’s children and grandchildren. Last count, I had fifteen nieces and nephews – it may be more now!’
We laughed. Adrian helped himself to another mince pie and offered the plate to Max, but he refused.
‘So your sisters are all doing well?’ I asked. ‘They must be in their late twenties now.’
‘Yes, Summer and Paris are late twenties, Kelly is thirty-one. I’ve got some photos on my phone if you’d like to see them.’
‘Yes, please,’ I said.
Setting his cup and saucer on the coffee table, Max took his phone from his shirt pocket and I went over to where he was sitting so I could see.
‘Can we look too?’ Lucy asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ Max said.
Lucy, Paula and I grouped around Max and Adrian leant over from his chair so he, too, could see. ‘This is a recent family photo,’ Max said, bringing the first photo onto the screen. ‘It was taken this summer before I went to uni. There’s Kelly and her three children,’ he said, pointing. ‘That’s her husband. There’s Paris, her husband and their two children. That’s Summer and her two boys. Her husband isn’t there, as he had to work. The others are some of Bet and Harry’s children and grandchildren.’
‘What a lovely family gathering,’ I said. Although there were so many squeezed into the photo and it had been taken from a distance, so it was difficult to make out individual features.
‘Here’s a better one of Kelly and her children,’ Max said, pulling up the next photo. ‘Bet says Kelly is the spitting image of Mum.’
‘Yes, she is,’ I agreed, looking at the photo of Kelly.
‘She’s got Mum’s weight problems too,’ Max added reflectively. ‘I worry about her most of all. She’s always at the doctors and already has to take tablets for high blood pressure and cholesterol.’
I nodded solemnly. It was sad. Kelly would know only too well the risks she was running if she didn’t lose weight from the tragic example of her mother.
‘This is Paris,’ Max said, moving to the next photo.
‘She looks very well,’ I said. This photo was of just her, dressed up, hair styled and I guessed ready to go on a special night out.
‘She had one of those gastric bands fitted and it helped her lose weight,’ Max said. ‘The doctor told her that they didn’t normally do them in people as young as her, but given what happened to Mum and that Paris had tried dieting but was already showing signs of type 2 diabetes, he put her on the waiting list. She had the operation eighteen months ago and has lost over six stone. There’s still a lot of willpower involved if you want to lose weight, even when you have a gastric band. She’s done well.’
‘Yes, she has,’ I agreed. ‘Very well.’
‘And this is Summer, her husband and their children,’ Max said, bringing up the next photograph. ‘I see her the most. Although she’s still struggling with her weight, she’s determined her children won’t go the same way and watches carefully what they eat. She’s strict with them, as Bet was with me.’
‘They look good,’ I said. Two very healthy-looking boys with cheeky grins stood either side of their parents, although Summer was clearly still badly overweight.
‘The rest are group photos and some of uni,’ he said, flipping through them. He came to the end and closed his phone.
‘Thank you. It’s lovely to see you are all doing well,’ I said. The girls and I returned to our seats.
‘I have Bet and Harry to thank,’ Max said. ‘They encouraged me in my studies and also kept me on a diet until I was old enough to do it myself. Bet used to say it was tough love and sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind, as kids don’t always know w
hat’s best for them.’
‘Very true,’ I said with a smile. ‘Bet is a lady after my own heart. Do you ever see your father?’
‘Only in the street. He says hello sometimes, but that’s it.’ Max shrugged. ‘As they say, you can’t choose your family.’
‘I did,’ Lucy put in, meaning she chose us by asking me to adopt her. I threw her a smile. (I tell Lucy’s story in my book Will You Love Me?)
Max stayed for over two hours, talking generally and keeping us amused with tales of university life, including his first attempts at learning to ride a bike. I was pleased to hear he had made friends and socialized with them when he wasn’t studying. Eventually he said he needed to go but promised to keep in touch. I offered to give him a lift home, but he said he’d prefer to walk to the bus stop as it was good exercise. We all saw him to the door, where I gave him an envelope containing a book voucher. ‘A little something to go under your Christmas tree,’ I said. ‘It’s not very imaginative, but it should come in useful.’
‘Thank you, that is kind. I’m sorry I didn’t bring you guys anything.’
‘Seeing you again is a gift in itself,’ I said, and he kissed my cheek.
He then said a warm goodbye to Adrian, Lucy and Paula and I opened the front door. The temperature had dropped as the sun had set and the air was very still. Max glanced up at the sky. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed,’ he said. ‘The conditions are perfect.’
‘A white Christmas!’ Paula exclaimed excitedly.
‘Snowball fight!’ Lucy added.
Max smiled. ‘Have a good Christmas.’ Then he paused on the doorstep. ‘Do you remember it was Christmas when I Ieft you to return home?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I said.
He looked thoughtful. ‘Strange life, isn’t it? Well, thanks again for everything.’ He turned and with a small wave began down the path.
We watched him go. No longer the self-conscious, chunky, uncoordinated boy we’d said goodbye to all those Christmases ago, but a healthy, personable and confident young man who’d overcome a difficult start in life to do well – thanks to Bet, Harry and Max’s own determination and willpower. Fantastic. Well done, Max.
For the latest on Max and the other children in my books, please visit www.cathyglass.co.uk.
Suggested topics for reading-group discussion
Why do you think the child’s contact must always take priority over a foster carer’s family arrangements? Is that fair?
What challenges does Cathy face when she tries to change Max’s diet to a healthier one?
Obesity is indirectly the second-biggest killer in Europe and America after smoking. Are governments doing enough to help families like Max’s? If not, what more could be done?
The paediatrician believes that allowing a child to become morbidly obese is a form of child abuse. Is she right? Do you blame Max’s parents? Is Caz any less culpable because of her past?
How does obesity affect Max physically, emotionally and socially?
Max’s teacher, Mrs Marshall, likens Max to the Roald Dahl character Matilda. What do you think she means by this?
Caz only finds the courage to separate from her husband when she is faced with losing all her children into care. Discuss the reasons that might have kept her in an abusive relationship for so long.
Jo, Max’s social worker, confides that she is thinking of resigning from her post and becoming a foster carer. What are the similarities and differences between the two roles?
Cathy refers to forming an ‘unlikely’ friendship with Caz. What do you think she means by this?
The ending of the book is both sad and uplifting. Discuss in respect of Max and other members of his family.
If you’ve enjoyed this book, read this exclusive sample from The Darkness Within, the new thriller by Cathy Glass (writing as Lisa Stone).
Chapter One
It was always worse when he’d had a beer or two. That Feeling. Hot, urgent and raw, tearing through him. Making him restless, argumentative. Angry. It was as though something or someone took control of him, forcing him to act badly, to be nasty and cruel. It happened when someone had a go at him, took the piss or said something he didn’t like.
The feeling was there at other times too, Shane had to admit, but it was worse when he’d had a drink. It didn’t take much; just a few beers. He wasn’t an alcoholic, but it lowered his guard enough to allow his anger to come to the surface.
It was because of his childhood, Rosie said. They’d moved in together four months ago, and on the whole she was sympathetic. In some respects, she was too understanding for her own good. She was a good person and he liked her, even told her he loved her when she asked. But why didn’t she realize that the kinder and more understanding she became, the easier it was for him to overstep the mark?
It almost incited him to do it. Yet she continued to be understanding despite what he did to her: hitting her, making her scream, cry out and beg for mercy. Afterwards he knew that it wasn’t the gentlemanly way to act, but when he was angry and out of control he didn’t care a fuck for the gentlemanly way.
Anger, resentment, the feeling that he wasn’t good enough brewed together in an unwholesome concoction and made him act as he did. He sensed that others felt he was inferior to them; that he was uneducated, stupid, and fair game to laugh at. That was the worst feeling – that they were laughing at him, especially when it was someone he knew taking the piss. It made him so angry that he couldn’t be held responsible for his actions. This had got him into trouble many times and then recently he’d smashed a bottle and glassed his best mate, Kevin, which had put him in prison. They’d been drinking and telling jokes and Kevin had told one which he hadn’t immediately grasped. Kevin had laughed and called him a dickhead. The others had laughed too, which didn’t help, but he expected more from Kevin, being his best mate. Then before he realized what he was doing he’d smashed the top off a bottle and had ground it in Kevin’s face.
He looked at Rosie now, cowering in the corner of the bedroom, the one that was theirs since he’d moved in. Why she’d let him move in he wasn’t sure, but he was pleased she had. It was kind of her, but then Rosie was kind. He could admit that even now when she’d got on his nerves and made him hit her. Had she been a horrible bitch, a slag, like his mother, he could have better justified hitting her. He’d gone to his mother’s house first on his release from prison but she hadn’t wanted him. No surprise there; she’d never wanted him, not even as a baby. The shrink he’d seen in prison had said his mother could be part of his problem – his anger stemmed from her lack of nurturing and ultimate rejection of him. But it couldn’t be helped. No one was perfect; not his mother or even Rosie for all her kindness and forgiveness.
The bedroom had been decorated in pale pink when he’d first moved in. ‘Yuck,’ he’d said to her when he’d first seen it, and she’d laughed.
‘Jesus!’ he’d exclaimed as he’d looked at her collection of china dolls in period costumes arranged on a small satin-covered chair. ‘Dolls in my bedroom! What do you take me for? A nancy boy?’
He’d told her the dolls would have to go, but she hadn’t understood to begin with because they were still there for another two days. Then he’d got angry that she hadn’t done as he’d told her and he’d thrown the dolls and the chair across the room.
He might even have thrown Rosie, but he wasn’t sure. He’d been in a really bad temper at the time. What normal bloke has dolls in his bedroom? He’d asked her nicely to remove them, and he’d had a couple of beers that night when he’d hit her so he couldn’t be held entirely responsible for his actions. Perhaps on another day when he’d been in a better mood he might simply have asked her again to remove them. In any event, the dolls and the frilly chair had gone, together with the flowery duvet cover and the matching pillowcases. She’d heard him the first time when he’d told her to get rid of those, and together they’d chosen plain white.
He liked white, it was pure and vi
rginal, which made him feel good and think happy thoughts. The only problem with white – as it turned out – was that it showed every mark, and the bloodstains never completely disappeared. Even when Rosie scrubbed the stains over and over again and used bleach, the blood spots greyed but were still faintly visible. Once white was damaged it was spoiled for ever.
Now he saw her gaze shift to the fresh spots of blood on the duvet cover. ‘Sorry,’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘It’ll wash out.’
‘No, it won’t,’ he said. ‘You’ve ruined it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. Seeing her cowering in the corner, apologizing with her face covered with blood, reignited his anger. He felt nearly as hot and uncomfortable as when he’d discovered that all the beer had gone from the fridge. He’d only had a few bottles and had been expecting to find more. It was a Saturday night for fuck’s sake, and if a bloke couldn’t have a few drinks on a Saturday, what was the world coming to?
It was Rosie’s job to shop, to buy what they needed and restock what they were low on. But she hadn’t bought more beer or vodka because of some silly discussion they’d had after the last time he’d hit her about him drinking less. He couldn’t remember agreeing to that, it seemed highly unlikely, so he’d been bitterly disappointed at the lack of alcohol. He’d been anticipating a pleasant Saturday evening in with Rosie – a few beers, a takeaway, and then sex. He liked having sex with Rosie but she’d ruined it all. When he asked where the beer and vodka were she reminded him of his promise. It was the wrong thing to say; his disappointment had exploded into anger and he’d hit her. He hadn’t meant to split her lip and send splatters of blood across the white duvet cover. It had just happened.
He appreciated that she wanted space now. After they’d argued and he’d hit her she usually needed time alone to wash her face, clean up the flat and change her clothes, so that when he returned all evidence of their disagreement had gone. She would cover the bruising on her face with make-up and all traces of blood would vanish. He didn’t like any reminders of what he’d done.
