by Casey Watson
‘Here,’ said Mike, passing me the phone as soon as I’d come down. ‘You might just as well get the latest as me.’
I took the phone, smiling to myself – Mike was in the middle of watching something on telly. Which he wouldn’t want to miss. ‘John,’ I said. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘You’re clearly in a good mood. Which is good.’
‘I know I say it all the time, John, but that sounds ominous,’ I answered.
‘Only slightly,’ he reassured me. ‘It’s really just an update. It seems young Carley has been pulling the wool over all our eyes.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘In what way?’
‘As in she’s tried to throw us off the scent, the little minx. Seems nothing in this whole business is as it seems.’
‘Go on,’ I said, intrigued.
‘Well, it’s all down to the quick-wittedness of the other foster family, really. Call it what you like – invasion of privacy, snooping, an outrageous bit of shameless spying – but when Carley left the family laptop unattended yesterday they saw an opportunity to do a bit of sleuthing.’
I chose to call it quick thinking. Good on them … ‘And?’ I asked.
‘It was a gift; she’d dashed upstairs to answer her mobile, which was in her bedroom …’
‘You mean she didn’t have it duck-taped to her person?’ I asked incredulously. ‘What kind of 13-year-old is she?’
John laughed. ‘Well, that was the gift. Her phone was on charge, so on this occasion, no, she didn’t. And the other gift was that she was logged into her Facebook page.’
‘A gift indeed!’
‘Exactly. So foster mum – I wish she was local; she sounds like my kind of woman – had a quick click and established she and Mum had been messaging each other …’
‘And?’
‘And the most important one, for our purposes, anyway, was the one which said “Be back on Sunday – with my Malaga tan. Landing in Manchester about 7.”
‘What, as in today? As in tonight? As in she’s – I checked the time – only just landed?’
‘Indeed she has. This message was sent only the day after we picked the kids up.’
I thought for a moment. ‘But why would she tell you she was coming home next week, then?’ I asked John. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘It didn’t to us, either,’ John agreed. ‘But then Marie made the point that she probably didn’t know quite what to do. Perhaps she panicked. Or perhaps the opposite. Perhaps she had a really cool head on her shoulders, and decided the best plan was to intercept her mother before social services could speak to her. Which does make sense. It would give her a chance to give her the lowdown, and time for them to concoct some sort of story. Or perhaps another explanation is that there’s been contact between them since they were taken into care and Mum has curtailed her fortnight’s break as a consequence. Anyway,’ he added, ‘who are we to second guess the workings of a teenage girl’s mind? We’ll find out soon enough, though. Because Marie’ll be there to meet her.’ He paused. ‘And, of course, arrest her.’
The protocol in such situations is straightforward. Assuming everything went to plan, there would be a police officer at the airport and, while Jenson was putting on his pyjamas upstairs, his mum Karen would be in the process of being arrested – in all probability for wilful neglect. She’d then be released on bail – also normal in these circumstances – and ordered to appear in court at the next available hearing, which in all likelihood would take place the next day. She’d also be informed that her children had been taken into care, though not where they were. She’d also be told not to contact them. Instead she’d be granted supervised contact only – again, within the next day or two.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So what’ll be the situation now with Jenson?’
John pondered, and I wondered if I needed to say anything to him at all, really. As far as Jenson knew his mum wouldn’t be home till the following weekend, after all. Was there anything to be gained from muddying this issue tonight? I didn’t think so. Best to wait and see how things panned out. I said as much.
‘Actually, I think yes,’ John said. ‘On balance, I think you should tell him. Best to be straight with him. Just explain that she’s come home a bit early and that he’ll be able to see her in a day or two.’
I agreed I would. But if his mum’s early return was to prove a surprise to Jenson, it was as nothing compared to the surprise I had coming.
Chapter 6
Though John’s news had come as something of a surprise to me and Mike, it seemed that wasn’t the case for every member of the household that evening.
Having relayed the gist of things to Mike (having first given him an opportunity to record what was left of his programme), I asked him to get Jenson out of the bath and ready for bed, while I got some crumpets and a hot drink organised downstairs and decided how to best broach the subject.
Jenson had seemed reasonably accepting of things all weekend – at least, if his mood had been anything to go by, that would have seemed to be the case. He’d asked us barely anything about what had happened and what might be happening to him, and had at no point seemed more than very mildly upset. I’d put it down partly to bravado and partly down to circumstance. If this holiday was typical of the way his mum ran her family, then perhaps her absences were something he was used to. And if being whisked away to stay with strangers was something he wasn’t used to, perhaps the compensating factors of free toys and some attention were sufficient for him to maintain his equilibrium.
I’d keep it simple, I decided, as I heard him thunder, in typical 9-year-old fashion, down the stairs, presumably following Mike’s directive. Just give him the facts and keep it light, I decided. Tell him he’ll be seeing his mum soon.
‘Sit yourself down at the table,’ I told him, as I popped two crumpets in the toaster. Crumpets were a big thing in our house; our first foster child, Justin, had always loved them, and the habit of getting them in for our foster kids had stuck. ‘I just need to have a little word with you,’ I added. ‘That’s all.’
Jenson sat down at the kitchen table and looked expectant and slightly nervous. ‘Have I done something wrong?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘No, not at all. No, it’s nothing for you to worry about.’
‘Mmm,’ said Mike, joining us at that moment, ‘they smell good, love. I hope you’ve got enough there for me as well.’
‘Well, if you’re very good, I might have,’ I said, pulling out the first two. I turned to Jenson as I buttered them. ‘It’s just that we’ve had a phone call from John, love. You remember John? The man who brought you here?’ I passed him the crumpets and popped two more in the toaster.
‘Yeah, I do,’ Jenson said, taking the plate. ‘What did he want?’
‘Well, I don’t know if you knew,’ I said, watching for his reaction, ‘but your mum got back from holiday tonight …’
Jenson’s expression changed immediately – and to a configuration I knew well, because I’d been around kids for a long time. Ah, I thought. Ah. ‘Did you know anything about that?’ I asked him mildly.
He was taking a bite from one of the crumpets, and shook his head as he chewed it.
‘You didn’t know?’ Mike asked.
‘No,’ Jenson tried to say from behind his mouthful. He swallowed. ‘No,’ he said again.
Which denial should have come out as a ‘Yes’. I was sure of it. Because a blush was creeping steadily across his cheeks now.
‘Jenson,’ I said, ‘remember what the rules are in this house. We tell the truth. All the time.’ I kept my gaze on him.
‘I didn’t –’ he began.
‘Jenson,’ Mike said. ‘The truth, now, kiddo.’
This seemed to work. His expression changed again, this time to one of resignation. ‘I didn’t know she was goin’ to be back, honest, I didn’t! Just that I had to go meet our Carley. That’s all she told me.’
‘Go and
meet her?’ I asked him, confused. ‘Meet her when? Meet her where?’
‘Last break tomorrow,’ he said. ‘She was goin’ to come an’ fetch me,’ he admitted.
‘Fetch you from school?’ Mike asked.
‘No, not school. I was s’posed go an’ meet her round the corner.’
‘But from school? In school time, you say?’
Jenson nodded.
I pulled the second pair of crumpets from the toaster. Mike was ready with his plate, even before I started buttering them. ‘And then what?’ he asked Jenson, still keeping things conversational and non-confrontational.
Jenson shrugged. ‘An’ then … I dunno …’
‘You were going to meet up with Mum?’
He shrugged again. ‘Dunno.’
‘When did you arrange this?’ I asked him.
He eyed the rest of his crumpet, seeming unsure whether to finish it. ‘Sweetheart, eat it up,’ I said. ‘It’ll get cold. Like I say, you’re really not in trouble. We just need to know what’s been going on, that’s all.’
Jenson chewed as instructed while I passed Mike his two. ‘Was it last week?’ I said. ‘Before Marie – you remember the lady from social services – came?’
Jenson nodded. So it seemed they’d already planned their reunion! No wonder he’d appeared so relaxed about everything. This stay was going to be nothing more than a weekend mini-break for him! ‘But what were you planning to do with Carley tomorrow, Jenson?’
‘Go home,’ came the immediate response. ‘Go home with Mum.’
I sat down now, with a big mug of strong, steaming coffee. So he did know his mum was coming back. Had all along, it seemed. ‘But sweetheart, I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that,’ I said gently. ‘Because your neighbour –’
‘She’s just a nosy old bat,’ Jenson said with feeling.
‘Kiddo, I know it’s hard,’ Mike said, patting Jenson’s forearm. ‘But it’s not that simple, I’m afraid. Because your neighbour called social services – and not because she was being nosy – because she was worried about the both of you – well, that means they have to have a little chat with Mum first. You can’t just go home as if nothing has happened …’
‘But nothing has happened!’ protested Jenson. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve been a good boy since I been here with you two, haven’t I?’
And wasn’t that just the nub of it? This poor kid thought it was all about whether he’d done anything wrong. Not his mum – not the one who bore the guilt in all this. No, he was just worried that he might not be able to go home if we gave a poor account of his behaviour with us. Which was sad. Just so sad.
‘Yes, you have,’ Mike reassured him. ‘Very good. But it’s not about that, Jenson. They have to chat to your mum to make sure she … well, that she understands how to look after you properly. They need to be sure she’s not going to go on holiday and leave you and your sister on your own again. Which is why –’
‘So you’re telling me I can’t go home?’ I could see Jenson’s chin start to wobble, as the reality of the situation was beginning to sink in. Bless him, he was 9. He shouldn’t have to deal with all this.
‘Not that you can’t,’ I tried to reassure him. ‘Just not tomorrow, that’s all. But you’ll be able to see Mum – they’re going to call us in the morning and you’ll probably at least be able to see her on Tuesday, and then –’
‘But they can’t do that!’ Jenson interrupted, scraping his chair back. His eyes were swimming and he was struggling not to cry. ‘They can’t tell my mum what to do, and neither can you!’
‘Jenson, son, calm down –’ began Mike.
‘You can’t!’ Jenson shouted now. ‘And neither can some shitty judge! I’m off home tomorrow and you can’t stop me!’
‘Jenson,’ I said, rising as well, ‘calm down, love. You’ll be seeing Mum very soon. It’s like Mike said …’
‘Fuck you!’ he shouted, the tears flowing down his face now. ‘Just you keep out of our business, okay? I’m off home, and if you don’ let me, my mum’ll come round here and she’ll kick your door in. She will, you know!’ he added. ‘Don’t think she won’t cos she will! She’ll kick your fucking door in!’ At which point he rushed out and thundered back up the stairs. We heard the bedroom door slam moments later. Mike picked up his uneaten crumpet and inspected it.
‘Well, that went well, didn’t it?’ he remarked drily.
I woke with the dawn the next morning, and my first anxious thought was that Jenson might have absconded while I slept. When you’ve previously fostered a child – as we had – with a habit of absconding, the anxiety about a child doing so really never goes away. But when I crossed the landing and peeped in he was still in there, curled up and sleeping soundly, so I quietly pulled the door closed and headed downstairs to brew some coffee.
Not that it wasn’t still an issue. I didn’t doubt the only reason Jenson was still with us was that he was still committed to plan A – to meet up with Carley as they’d arranged. So the first thing I’d need to do once I’d dropped him at the school gates would be to follow him in – at a suitably discreet distance – and go and speak to Andrea Cappleman.
We’d left Jenson to calm down a bit the previous evening before going up to him, and when we had finally done so he’d already been fast asleep. Which meant that by the time I went to wake him, an hour and a half or so later, he would have slept for a solid twelve hours.
But it seemed he hadn’t. Not quite. Because when I went in to him he was already awake, washed and dressed – even if it was in his tatty old uniform. But he obviously had washed, which was gratifying to note – there were tendrils of damp hair clinging to the back of his neck. Not that I could see a great deal of him. Though he must have heard me knock, he didn’t turn around to greet me. He just remained standing with his back to me, staring (presumably moodily) out of his bedroom window into the street.
‘How you doing, sweetheart?’ I asked him.
He ignored me.
‘Love, I know you’re upset,’ I said. ‘Of course you are. But we’ll get all this sorted out, I promise.’ I was aware that I had to choose my words very carefully – no promises about when he’d be back home with Mum because I had no idea when that might happen. Or even if, in fact. The grim possibility was always there, sitting on my shoulder. I knew nothing of this family or what had happened before with them. And nor did social services. But now they did know, there was no telling what they might uncover. It didn’t look likely (Jenson didn’t bear the hallmarks of an abused child) but the possibility was there, even so.
But that was all it was. A slim possibility. I must keep positive, and so must he. ‘In fact, the first thing I’m going to do,’ I said ‘just as soon as I’ve dropped you off at school, is going to be to call Marie and find out when’s the absolute soonest you can see your mum, okay? And as I say, if not today, then –’
‘But will you?’ he asked me, finally turning around now. His face was pinched and wary, and I had to keep remembering I was a stranger to him. ‘Will you really?’
He sounded so forlorn and world weary about it, as if he’d been let down by adults all his life. Which perhaps he had. How would I know? I knew almost nothing about him either.
‘Of course I will,’ I said, making a cross on my chest with my finger. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die, see?’ This seemed to help convince him. ‘But, Jenson, love, could you please put your new school stuff on for me? You’d look so much better if –’
‘Do I have to?’ He sighed. ‘It’s all so geeky, that stuff. An’ it’s scratchy, too. I feel so much more comfortable in me own stuff.’
Which was a plea that I did have some sympathy with, much preferring my usual combo of loose top and leggings to anything starchy or formal or buttoned up. But I persisted anyway, because uniform was one of life’s realities. And growing up was all about accepting life’s realities, which was why parenting was all about introducing them. ‘It’ll soften up,�
�� I promised. ‘Just as soon as you start wearing it. And besides,’ I added, having had a moment of inspiration, ‘just think how lovely it will be to look so smart for your mum. She’ll be well proud of you.’
He weighed this up and eventually seemed to accept it. ‘Okay,’ he said, grudgingly. Then his eyes widened slightly. ‘An’ what about my DS, as well? I could take it to school, so’s I’d have it with me, then I can show it her –’
I shook my head. ‘No, you can’t, love. You know the rules.’
‘But not to get out in class or anything,’ he persisted. ‘Just to keep in my bag till I see Mum, an’ that.’
I shook my head a second time. ‘Love, those sorts of things aren’t allowed in school, are they? You know that. Tell you what, though – how about I pop it in my bag so that when I come and pick you up, if it does turn out we can take you to see Mum this afternoon, then we’ll have it ready, yes? That a plan?’
That was a plan, he agreed.
And when he came downstairs to eat his breakfast, he seemed quite pleased with his new look. I could tell by his little swagger as he walked into the kitchen, and by the way he carefully arranged his hair in the mirror first, unaware that I could see him through the open door.
‘You look like the bee’s knees!’ I observed as he appeared, ready for inspection. I could tell he was slightly self-conscious now, bless him. ‘No I don’t,’ he said. ‘I probly look more like a spice boy. That’s what Gary, me mum’s boyfriend, would call me in all this kit. What’s a spice boy, anyway, Casey? Do you know what it means?’
I almost burst out laughing. ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ I laughed. ‘But it sounds just fine to me.’
Though, just to be on the safe side, I made a mental note to ask Kieron. You never knew with boy-speak, after all.
Spice boy or otherwise, Jenson had gone into school happily enough, and promised me faithfully that he wouldn’t do anything silly. I didn’t know if I could trust him on that point, obviously, and, given the circumstances, I perhaps shouldn’t, but, having seen the deputy head and filled her in I at least felt confident she’d make the necessary staff aware of the situation so that they were alert to the possibility that he might.
