by Casey Watson
I pulled up outside the house and asked Jenson what he’d like for tea. I would find out soon enough, no doubt. Or wouldn’t. Either way, what would be would be.
Because I hadn’t been expecting to hear anything from anyone again till the following morning, when the house phone rang later I was sure that this time it had to be my mother. I hadn’t even heard it, in fact, because I was clearing up the dinner things while listening to my favourite fifties and sixties golden-oldie radio station. As this was generally the signal for anyone else in the house to scarper, I whacked it up loud and invariably sang along.
So the first I knew of the call was when Jenson appeared in the kitchen doorway, just in time to catch my interpretation of a jaunty Sandie Shaw number.
‘Oh!’ I said, seeing him and turning the radio down. There was something of a shocked expression on his face, and I felt slightly self-conscious to have been caught jigging around – or what did they call it now, throwing shapes? – in my kitchen. And judging by the way he was looking at me, so did he. ‘Sorry, love,’ I added, wiping my hands and taking the phone from him. He gave me a priceless head shake and returned to watching TV with Mike.
‘Casey?’ It wasn’t my mum. It was John Fulshaw. ‘Sorry to call you at this hour,’ he said. ‘I know I’m making something of a habit of bothering you just lately. I was going to leave a message on your mobile. But then I realised I’m going to be tied up in a meeting till lunchtime tomorrow, and I really need to run this by you as a matter of urgency.’
My ears pricked up. Did this mean Jenson was about to leave us? Or had the situation worsened in some way? But he’d used the words ‘run by you’, which didn’t seem to fit either.
‘What’s happened?’ I said, intrigued.
‘Nothing’s happened exactly. It’s just that we have a bit of a dilemma. We have this boy, you see, Georgie –’
‘Another boy?’ I was confused now. And then something struck me. Was this something to do with Jenson’s family? Was this the little one the neighbour had attested to?
‘Another boy,’ John confirmed. ‘To be honest, we have had you and Mike in mind for him for a while now.’
‘Oh!’ I said, re-jigging my train of thought completely. This was obviously a different boy. A potential foster placement. ‘So he’s one of the ones you mentioned the other day, is he?’
‘Exactly,’ confirmed John. ‘Except it’s looking like we need to place him sooner rather than later. He has his problems, Casey – this is going to be something a bit different for you.’
‘In what way?’ I wanted to know. I was even more intrigued now, prickle on the back of the neck intrigued.
‘He has a degree of autism, to be precise about it. A fair degree of it. Which presents its own challenges, as I’m sure you’re aware.’
Which I knew it did and would. But there was obviously more to it than that. I was most interested to know why he’d been placed in care. ‘What’s his family situation?’
‘There is none. No family. He’s been in children’s homes since he was a toddler. Very young mother. Still in her mid-teens. Simply couldn’t cope with him. And, from what I’ve seen of the file – to be honest, I’ve barely scratched the surface – the family weren’t supportive. Well, you can imagine the scenario, can’t you? Without that kind of support it must have been a big ask for her. So, sadly, the girl put him into care herself.’
I took a moment to digest that, and to wonder how it must have felt. What a tragedy, for all concerned. ‘Oh, John, that’s so sad …’
‘Isn’t it? But also a fact of life, unfortunately. But don’t run away with the idea that this is a kid with a load of baggage. He’s been in the same children’s home since he was 2 and knows no other life. And is a contented little soul, by all accounts. Well, was. That happy state of affairs might not continue. As I say, the home’s closing down, and he needs a new one pronto. They’ve been looking for a long-term foster home for him for a while now.’
‘What, as in us?’ Long-term foster care wasn’t in our remit. Our job was to provide short placements – no more than nine months or so, usually, to set the behaviourally challenged kids up so they were fit for long-term fostering.
‘No, no,’ John said. ‘That was never the plan, obviously. He’s 9 – same age as Jenson – and he needs somewhere he can stay till he’s 18. In an ideal world, at any rate. So in the meantime we’d earmarked you and Mike as perhaps the perfect interim placement. With your understanding of Asperger’s – and I know it’s not anywhere near the same degree of disability – we thought you’d be better placed to take care of him than most. And best of all, he’s local – and we’d like to keep him local, if at all possible. It will be enough of an upheaval leaving his home as it is, without changing his whole environment as well …’
‘And you don’t think another children’s home is the answer?’
‘I wish! Because he is perfectly settled. Funny, isn’t it? That the very things that make children’s homes less than ideal for most kids mean they’re perfect places for children like Georgie. He loves the routine, loves the privacy, and loves the institutionalised nature of it. And he hates change, obviously. But since this whole drive to try and move kids into family situations … Sounds crazy, but they’re becoming as rare as hens’ teeth. Ones that can accommodate a child like Georgie, at any rate.’
Which was true. Children’s homes had become deeply unpopular in recent years. And with good reason – the statistics regarding the life chances of kids who were raised in them made for depressing reading in the extreme. But John was spot on – a child such as he was describing, with their complex needs and lack of emotional challenges, could often thrive in such an institutionalised environment. Plus he had obviously never known a family of his own.
‘So,’ I said, ‘what’s the matter of urgency in this equation?’
‘The home is closing imminently – they’ve moved it forward a couple of weeks. Which means that, ideally, we need to place him now, this minute. Bless him – he’s the only kid left in there, Casey.’
My heart melted, hearing that. The poor kid. He must be scared witless with all that upheaval going on around him. And to be the only child left – it must be horrible. And, of course, I thought immediately of Kieron.
‘How severe is his autism,’ I asked John, ‘in practical terms?’
‘Well, I remember reading that he’s in mainstream school, supported by a specialist teaching assistant, so that says a lot. And knowing you and Mike, I’m sure there’s nothing you can’t handle. I can call in tomorrow, if you like, and we can run through the paperwork in more detail, but I thought that with Jenson probably off your hands within the week it might be doable. Just a short overlap with the both of them …’
‘It’s okay,’ I said, ‘you don’t need to do a big sell. Of course we’ll take him, John.’
He chuckled. ‘Hadn’t you better speak to Mike first?’
So I did speak to Mike, and, of course, he did his usual Mike thing.
‘Are you sure you can manage both of them?’ he said. ‘It could potentially be quite challenging. If this kid’s used to being alone, and being in a home, he might find that difficult.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I’m sure there won’t be anything that’ll faze me. Not with a couple of 9-year-olds.’
Mike gave me one of his old-fashioned looks. He knew as well as I that he could name at least two boys we’d fostered – no, three, come to think of it – who fitted that description. And there had been plenty to faze me. To faze both of us.
‘And remember,’ he said, playing up to his established role of calmer-downer, ‘autism is not the same as Asperger’s, Case.’
‘I know that!’
‘And what if they don’t get on? You’ve considered that scenario, have you?’
‘Of course I have,’ I countered. ‘And we can cross that bridge when we come to it. Anyway, why must you always think of the worst?’
‘I’m g
lad you mentioned that,’ Mike said, ‘because it might be a bridge we have to cross. Suppose Jenson turns out to be with us for longer than we thought? I’m just trying to make you see all the angles, love, that’s all.’
Which was fine. That was his job, and it was good that I had him to do it. But, at the same time, I had my job. To look always on the bright side. And, being well practised now in such situations, I had answers good and ready for all his supplementary questions as well.
‘After all,’ I said gaily, when Mike finally allowed me to call John back, ‘how difficult can two little boys be?’
Chapter 8
‘Say yes and worry about the details later’ is probably a good mantra for life generally. But not in every case, perhaps. Maybe, sometimes, it is the fools who tend to rush in. Had I been one, I wondered, having been so quick to rush in here? Because pleased though I was to be able to make John’s day – and I clearly had – almost as soon as I started speaking to him about Georgie I began to feel anxious as well.
He had explained that, in this case, a prior visit would be counterproductive, not only because logistically it would be difficult to arrange at such short notice, but also because with change being so upsetting for the boy it was in his best interests if they left it till the last minute.
‘So I was wondering,’ John was saying, ‘if you could email me a few photos of the family. Ideally in some home locations, so he can get a look at the environment as well. We’ve got you and Mike’s mug shots on file somewhere, of course, but a few family snaps – of the whole clan, ideally; everyone he’s likely to come into contact with – would be a good and less unsettling introduction.’
I agreed that I would. ‘And at the same time I’ll pop some notes over for you,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a few already and I’m pleased to be able to tell you that he’ll be arriving with a comprehensive care plan.’
He chortled, having said this, and I could hear the irony in his voice, because that would be a very welcome change. How many times had we taken on children with almost nothing about their history to go on? Too many. Oh, the notes were always ‘on their way’ or ‘in the process of getting updated’ but more often than not they simply failed to materialise – or, even if they did, came in such dribs and drabs that by the time we read that this or that event or incident had happened we didn’t need telling – because we’d already seen it in action for ourselves.
But, thankful as I was that this time we’d have a bit more to go on than just a couple of measly A4 sheets of not-very-much, it was still sinking in that we might be biting off more than we could chew here. For starters, the poor child would probably be terrified. Would I have the skills to be able to comfort him? Would I be able to even understand what he needed?
I mentally shook myself. Of course I would. And if I didn’t, I could learn. After all, I might feel slightly unequal to the task, but what were the alternatives? Someone who’d probably feel every bit as much out of their depth, but who didn’t even have the benefit of being close to Georgie’s school. Or, worse still, the prospect of being pushed from pillar to post in a series of short respite placements.
No, we’d be fine, I told myself, and told John as well. ‘But what about Jenson?’ I finished. ‘How d’you want me to play it with him?’
John seemed surprised. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that aspect,’ he said. ‘In all likelihood they’ll only have to rub along for a couple of days.’
He probably didn’t realise the irony of those words any more than I did. Rubbing along, after all, meant one thing – friction.
Relaying all this to Mike after Jenson had gone to bed, I was pleased to find myself beginning to feel as relaxed about that aspect of it as John had. ‘So I’m not going to make a big thing of it,’ I told him as I climbed into bed. ‘I’ll just run it by him over breakfast, I think. He might even find it a welcome distraction. You know – divert him from fretting about his mum.’
And I was of exactly the same mindset the following morning, which had dawned to be another beautiful spring day. So much so that I even decided we’d have our breakfast on the patio: boiled eggs, which I was just bringing to the table when Jenson appeared.
‘Oh,’ he said, intrigued to see the outside table laid. ‘We eating out here then?’
‘Indeed we are,’ I answered, pouring him a tumbler of orange juice. ‘It’s called al fresco.’
‘Al what?’
‘Al fresco,’ I repeated. ‘It’s Italian. Italian for eating outside. Anyway, crack on,’ I quipped, as he reached for his teaspoon. ‘I’ll go and fetch my coffee and the toast and cut you up some soldiers.’
Jenson grinned. ‘Brill,’ he said. ‘Mum always makes us soldiers. You haven’t forgotten you’re going to ring up today, have you?’
‘No,’ I called back, as I went back inside to fetch the toast for him. ‘Soon as I’ve dropped you off, don’t worry.’
He’d taken the top off his egg by the time I got back outside, and was waiting patiently for the bread to dip into it. That was one thing, I mused, as I cut toast into fingers. At least she bothered enough to make him soldiers.
‘Oh, and by the way,’ I said, as I passed the hot buttered toast to him, ‘I have some news.’
‘You have?’
‘Not about you. It’s some other news. You know you’re only going to be with us for a short time?’
Jenson nodded, and had the good grace not to say ‘thank goodness’. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ve been speaking to our boss, John, on the phone. And he’s asked us if we’ll take on our next placement early.’
Jenson looked confused. Of course, I thought. Silly me. He wouldn’t understand that concept, would he? ‘The next child,’ I explained, ‘that we’re going to be having longer term. Do you remember me telling you that that was what we usually did? Have children for a few months to do our special training programme? Well, this is the next child we’re due to have, and as we’re going to have him a little early, it means that for a few days at least we’ll have both of you living with us.’
Jenson digested this along with a mouthful of egg.
‘So it’s a boy?’ he said.
‘It is.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Almost the same age as you.’
‘Older or younger?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is that he’s 9.’
Jenson considered this as he ate. ‘An’ is he gonna share my room with me?’
‘No, no. He’ll have his own bedroom. We wouldn’t expect you to share a room.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Yeah, but will I have to share my DS with him?’
‘Heavens, no. That’s yours, Jenson! So, no – not unless you want to let him. But I imagine he’ll have his own toys, don’t you?’
Jenson continued to dip toast into the top of his egg. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Georgie.’
‘Georgie?’ His brows furrowed. ‘As in Georgie-ee?’
‘I know – it does sound a little bit like a girl’s name, doesn’t it? But it isn’t. It’s –’
Jenson had paused with a piece of toast halfway to his mouth, dripping yolk.
‘Careful,’ I said. ‘Don’t want to get egg yolk on your school trousers.’ But he didn’t seem to be aware of the toast now.
‘Georgie?’ he said again. ‘Georgie who? What’s his surname?’
‘Umm,’ I thought, trying to recall. ‘Umm, let me see … Georgie Smart, I think. Yes, that’s it.’
‘Georgie Smart?’ he spluttered, dropping the toast back onto his plate now. ‘Georgie Smart?’
Yes, I said, surprised. ‘Why? Do you know him?’
‘Know him?’ he said, looking mortified. ‘Of course I know him! Everybody knows him! He’s a dummy! He’s not Georgie Smart, either – he’s Georgie Not-so-smart!’
Well, what a turn up, I thought. ‘Jenson,’ I said. ‘Does Georgie go to your sch—’
But he wasn’t listening. He was too busy looking mort
ified. ‘Are you saying he’s going to live here? Here, in this house?’
I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes he is. So he goes to your school then?’
Jenson groaned. ‘But he’s such a retard! All the other kids will take the piss! He can’t live here!’
I needed to rein this in. ‘Jenson, it’s not a case of “can’t”. He is. And I’d be grateful if you’d stop making such unkind comments about him.’
‘But he is,’ he persisted. ‘An’ he’s scary. He says all this weird shit –’
‘Jenson!’
‘But he does. He’s just crazy. He can’t come here. No way.’
He was pushing his chair back now, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Jenson,’ I began.
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,’ he said wretchedly. Then he stomped off back inside the house.
Great, I thought, pushing my own chair back and following. Shouldn’t John have known something like this? No, perhaps not, I conceded. I really couldn’t expect every tiny detail of every child to pop into his brain every minute of every day, could I? It probably wouldn’t have occurred to him to even think about it. There must have been any one of a dozen primary schools either boy could have gone to. It was a big area, well populated. What were the chances? But I hadn’t thought about it either, more was the pity.
By now I could hear Jenson banging around upstairs, and it occurred to me that potentially I had something of a situation here. He was off to school now – Georgie’s school – after all. Their paths might cross. He might say something. The complications were stacking up.
‘Jenson,’ I said, putting on my stern face as he stomped back down the stairs. ‘Listen, I know this isn’t ideal for you – I doubt it is for Georgie either. In fact, I know it’s not – but it’s what’s happening, and I’d like to think you can be mature enough to make the best of it. Who knows, once you get to know him a little, you might even find something positive to be able to say to him, mightn’t you? And as we both know, it’s only likely to be for a few days. Okay?’
