Breaking the Silence

by Casey Watson

‘So why did he?’ I asked him.

  ‘I never said to! I didn’t!’

  At which point Georgie started up all over again. ‘Jenson said! Jenson said! Georgie clever!’ he kept repeating, between screams.

  I turned to Jenson, conscious of the appalling racket we were creating. ‘Just go upstairs,’ I told him, ‘while we try to calm him down, will you?’

  And as Jenson ran past me, his look of outrage was so powerful that it was a miracle I didn’t fall down on the spot.

  Predictably, once Jenson had gone, Georgie did stop. And once again it happened as abruptly as it started. He put the stones down on the table, again – one at the end of the row he’d just created, and one slightly aside – the one for Jenson. That done, he then began picking them up again, one by one, and placing them, in some seemingly random but probably exact order, in his tin.

  ‘Sweetheart, you mustn’t go out of the garden on your own,’ I told him. ‘Do you understand? It’s dangerous for Georgie to go out alone.’

  ‘Dangerous,’ Georgie said, nodding, though still absorbed in making adjustments. ‘Rockery dangerous. Georgie understands.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Mike, ‘all’s well that ends well. You get your collection back upstairs, lad, and perhaps we’ll all of us go on a nice walk to the woods, eh?’

  I watched as Georgie trotted back inside, oblivious to the emotional chaos he had created. Or, rather, that had been created around him.

  ‘Nice walk in the woods?’ I said. ‘Nice? You know, I knew it. I knew it was too good to be true. He’s obviously sent him over to next door’s garden on purpose, so –’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Jenson,’ I said. ‘He’s obviously put him up to it, hasn’t he?’

  I stopped speaking, because Mike was looking at me strangely. ‘Love, can you hear yourself?’ he said. ‘Hear what you’re saying? Jenson is 9. How can he possibly understand the danger of Georgie going outside on his own?’

  I took this in, and was shocked. ‘Hang on. Are you saying you don’t think Jenson put him up to this?’

  ‘No, I’m not saying he did or he didn’t. We don’t know. Just that he wouldn’t have known the implications – or the danger. And it seems to me that you’re being just a little too quick to blame him.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I said, gobsmacked. ‘I’m just not being naïve. And, if you ask me, this only goes to reinforce what I’ve been thinking. That it’s not going to be possible for me to care for Georgie properly while we still have Jenson living with us as well.’

  Mike’s expression changed to one that I’d seen many times before. ‘Love,’ he said, ‘don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but don’t you think you might be overcompensating just a little?’

  ‘Overcompensating?’

  ‘Yes, for Kieron.’

  ‘What on earth does Kieron have to do with it?’

  ‘I’m just saying that perhaps you’re being a bit over-protective with Georgie, because you worry that you didn’t always get it right when Kieron was his age and –’

  ‘Mike, that’s patent nonsense! I’m just being realistic. Georgie has special needs, and I’m struggling to get my head around them –’

  And then came the look again, which was a bit like a slap around the face with a wet flannel. ‘And what, love? Jenson’s getting in the way?’

  Chapter 16

  After what Mike had said to me I spent the whole night tossing and turning. Was I being too hard on Jenson? My head said I wasn’t. He’d obviously come from a place without discipline and, though he was in a difficult situation – which would obviously affect his behaviour – I was clear that we would be doing him no favours whatsoever if we failed to provide strict boundaries for him. That was our job as foster carers, surely?

  But Mike’s comment, that I favoured Georgie and was perhaps seeing Jenson as ‘being in the way’, rankled. I was only human, and I obviously had a soft spot for poor Georgie, so of course I got upset when Jenson tormented him. But perhaps too upset? I decided to hold off asking John about moving him; I would hate that anyone thought I was showing favouritism between the boys.

  It was clear that Jenson thought exactly that, as well. When I dropped the boys at school the following morning he didn’t say goodbye to me; but then, he didn’t really need to – the way he slammed the car door and marched off up the school drive told me everything I needed to know. And even worse was that Georgie seemed to want to shun me now as well. He had to walk with me, of course – I always took him right in to school, to his teaching assistant – but he seemed determined to stride off in front, as if disowning me, much more anxious to catch up with Jenson.

  Being a foster parent – being any parent – isn’t about being popular, but being this unpopular still brought me down. And when I returned home I knew I’d probably bring myself down even further – I decided I would call John in any case. Quite apart from anything else, we were still in the dark about when – or if – this emergency ‘few days’ placement (now several weeks in) was likely to come to an end. Which was not at all – I told myself – about us wanting to see Jenson gone, but all about him wanting to go home.

  But there was nothing positive to report. ‘I’m really sorry, Casey,’ John said, ‘but it’s still a work in progress, I’m afraid. How’s it going anyway? Must be challenging, looking after a boy like Georgie, even for an expert like you. Are you and Mike managing to cope with him okay?’

  I actually had to bite my lip, hearing that, for fear of adopting a holier-than-thou tone with him. I really liked and respected John, and, to be fair, why would he think any differently about Georgie? He was autistic, which was challenging, but while my head was busy thinking that, my heart had swelled over with a great wash of angry defensiveness, which had come out of nowhere. Couldn’t he see it? It was Jenson who was the one causing the problems!

  I gave myself a moment before answering more rationally. ‘Oh, not too bad,’ I said lightly, ‘considering the mix we have. We’ve had our moments with the pair of them, as you can imagine.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said John. ‘And you’ve been a brick to have both of them. And I know Marie is doing her utmost to sort things out. Set up another contact visit, at the very least. And it’s so annoying – were it not for this fiancé moving in, we would have had the kids both home with Mum two weeks ago.’

  Which was all too depressingly familiar a scenario. ‘Do we know any more about him?’

  ‘I don’t personally,’ said John, ‘but it seems things have come up on his police check. Things involving violence. Which of course creates an issue.’ He sighed. ‘It’s the same old balancing act, Casey, as per always; weighing up the likely risk of him offending again …’

  ‘And what if they decide the risk’s too high?’

  ‘Then it’s Karen’s choice, obviously. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that, eh?’

  So it was a ‘cross that bridge when we come to it’ scenario. It often was. And if it did come to that, it would be Karen who made that choice. Choose the fiancé over getting her kids home? For almost everyone that would be a no-brainer. But, sadly, I’d been around long enough to know the way the world worked. There were women who would choose the fiancé.

  I put the phone down on John with my mood just as low. Which meant there was only one thing for it. Do some cleaning. Some might consider it the raving lunacy of a mad woman, but I knew the best antidote to an uncharacteristically gloomy mindset was, for me, at least, the donning of Marigolds, the application of some elbow grease, and the smell of cleaning fluids pricking at my nostrils.

  By Monday afternoon my house was so spotless it positively thrummed; so much so that by Wednesday, when Kieron came round for tea, brimming with ‘big big’ news (as we liked to say in our house), he could still smell the whiff of solvents in the air.

  ‘You know, Mum,’ he observed, ‘when people talk about the smell that most reminds them of home, almost all of them will say the smell of coffee br
ewing, or a cake baking, or a roast dinner in the oven, but for me it will always be Mr Muscle.’ He clasped a hand to his chest theatrically. ‘Ah, home,’ he trilled ‘where the evocative scent of toilet bleach mingles so beautifully with the sweet scent of window and glass cleaner, offset by a pleasing top note of super-action bathroom mousse.’

  I gave him a playful slap. ‘Okay, so that’s your big big news then, is it? That you’ve got yourself a place at RADA? Stop taking the mick, you meanie! Come on, spill the beans. What’s the news, really?’

  Big, as it turned out. Very big, in fact. Kieron – to my great pride – had managed to bag himself a voluntary position as a trainee teaching assistant at a local primary school, no less. And one in which they would also pay his college fees, so that he could work towards a formal qualification as a teaching assistant as well.

  ‘And they even said there would be a position for me there at the end of it,’ he enthused. ‘A proper paid one. Isn’t that great?’

  ‘Absolutely brilliant,’ I agreed. But at the same time I wasn’t naïve. I knew it would be a lot for him to take on. I was so proud of my son, and how he’d overcome his challenges, but I was also concerned that he didn’t get so carried away that he took on too much at once and overdid it. He already had his youth-centre football team to manage, plus his part-time job at my sister’s café, to help make ends meet. Which was a lot to be juggling, even if you were a strapping young man. Particularly one who was so easily stressed.

  But Kieron was predictably optimistic about how he’d cope. ‘Stop worrying, Mum,’ he chided. ‘I have it all worked out. I’ve already spoken to Auntie Donna, and she said she’ll re-jig my shifts around my school days, and football’s in the evenings, so there’s no problem there.’

  I was just about to remind him about not stretching himself so far that he’d get fed up – with my years in the comprehensive behind me, I knew just how much a ‘short’ school day could take it out of you – when we were interrupted by a commotion coming from the living room.

  We both looked through to see Georgie rocking wildly on the sofa, intermittently screaming and shouting ‘No, Jenson, no, Jenson!’ while flapping his arms nine to the dozen.

  ‘Honestly!’ I said to Kieron, marching to open the French doors that separated us and the boys. ‘I can’t leave them alone for five minutes before Jenson starts winding Georgie up!’

  Which he was clearly doing right now. As I entered the room I could now see him, and see that he was pulling faces, to boot.

  ‘Jenson,’ I snapped. ‘Knock it off, will you!’

  ‘But it’s him!’ Jenson answered, the usual defiant look on his face. ‘He’s being a weirdo again, staring at me and laughing at me for no reason!’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ I said. ‘How old are you? Old enough to be able to ignore something so silly. And anyway,’ I went on, placing a hand on each hip, ‘why is he the one shouting “no”, then? And how many times must I tell you not to call him that, Jenson? For goodness’ sake. Do you want him to kick off? Is that it?’

  ‘But he is a weirdo!’ he persisted. ‘An’ he creeps me out! An’ he’s saying “no” because I keep telling him to stop it and leave me alone!’

  I looked across at Georgie, who, quiet now, seemed to be taking this all in. And, yes, he was indeed staring at Jenson. But as soon as he realised I was looking at him, he started whooping and flapping and saying ‘No, Jenson!’ again.

  ‘Shh, Georgie,’ I said. ‘Come on, now. Enough of this noise. And you,’ I said, turning back to Jenson irritably, ‘for goodness’ sake just ignore him. I have to get tea now and I’d be grateful for a little bit less noise.’

  I turned to go back into the kitchen. ‘What about him?’ Jenson spluttered. ‘Why aren’t you telling him off? Why aren’t you telling him to stop staring at me and being all weird?!’

  ‘I just did,’ I said. ‘I –’

  ‘No you didn’t. You didn’t blame him. You blamed me!’

  ‘Jenson –’ I began. Then I thought better of it. Being blamed was a big thing with Jenson – especially after Sunday. So it would serve no useful purpose to fan that particular fire again now. ‘And you too, Georgie,’ I said, turning to him and gently waggling a finger. ‘No more staring at Jenson, okay, mister?’

  Georgie blinked at me. I had absolutely no idea if anything had registered. But that wasn’t the point. The important thing was that Jenson had heard it, so he could balance that tally of rebukes in his head.

  ‘Right,’ I said to Kieron, closing the French doors again. ‘Where were we?’

  ‘Honestly, Mum,’ he chuckled. ‘You do get worked up over the silliest things.’

  ‘What?’ I blustered. ‘You should try living in this mad house, believe me! Anyway. It’s not silly. There’s nothing big or clever about calling someone a weirdo, Kieron. You, of all people, should understand that. It’s not nice and I’m sick of hearing it, frankly.’

  ‘Honest, Mum. You’re too sensitive. Kids used to call me that all the time at school.’

  ‘Don’t I know it!’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s just the point, Mum. You’d get all upset about it, but I didn’t care. I was weird, compared to them. And they seemed pretty weird to me, as well.’

  ‘Kieron, you are not “weird”.’

  ‘But I am, Mum. Of course I am.’ He looked at me as if I had lost all my marbles. ‘Don’t you remember what that doctor said? That one up at the hospital? All that stuff about me being special, because my brain was wired up differently to other kids’ brains? And how it was because of that that I had all my funny little ways?’ Kieron grinned. ‘He was cool, that doctor. I really liked him for saying that.’

  I was stunned at Kieron’s recall. That was exactly what the doctor had said. And while I had sat there, listening to all the gentle euphemisms, and seeing only challenges and trials and potential problems for my lovely little boy, Kieron had seen things completely differently. Kieron had felt special and understood.

  ‘You shouldn’t get so het up about it, Mum,’ he finished. ‘I know kids shouldn’t call other kids names, but to Jenson Georgie is weird. Scary-weird – much more scary-weird than I was. And trust me, when he does that look of his he even scares me! But he doesn’t care. I bet you. He doesn’t care at all. I never did. You did. But I didn’t.’

  And, God, I did remember. Could remember it as if it were yesterday. How aware I was of other mums whispering about him, how much it hurt when there was yet another party he wasn’t invited to, how much I felt the stares or the giggles or just the plain rejection of it all. My son, the odd one. The outcast. The one no one wanted to play with. Yet Kieron was right. I cared. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to play with any of the other kids anyway. Because they wouldn’t play the games he wanted, wouldn’t play the way he wanted; he’d always rather play alone, with all his ‘funny little ways’.

  And he’d been happy. And nothing had changed, really. He’d come such a long way, growing up, had such a fine set of social skills now. And as long as no one messed with his possessions or his routines, Kieron was as happy as the day was long.

  And he was also right. Having Jenson and Georgie together was like picking at a scab that had long since healed over – so much that I forgot that I still bore the scar. I was looking at Georgie, and I was always seeing Kieron.

  And my son wasn’t finished with his homily. ‘You’re probably making it worse, Mum, to be honest. I’ll bet Georgie doesn’t care. But I bet Jenson does. He probably thinks you like Georgie more than him. And that makes him worse.’

  I reached for the kettle. I needed caffeine. Not to mention a rap across the knuckles. ‘You know what, babes?’ I said to my annoyingly sagacious son. ‘You’re right. It pains me to admit it. But you’re spot on.’

  It seemed incredible to me that ten minutes with Kieron could alter my perspective so dramatically, though having had it altered I felt a great deal better about myself. A great deal better, come to that,
about our little mismatched family, and in particular about poor, beleaguered Jenson.

  Kieron had hit the nail on the head – Georgie wasn’t ‘hurt’ by being teased. Georgie was only hurt by having his physical space invaded, by people trying to make eye contact with him, and by people interfering with or changing his routine. The word ‘weirdo’ sloughed off him like rain off a windscreen. It simply didn’t register. He didn’t have the emotional intelligence. He was, in fact, the living embodiment of the phrase sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me.

  And, if to a slightly lesser extent (I didn’t doubt Kieron could have his heart broken, for instance) Kieron, with his mild Asperger’s, was the same. He could only see the good in people; with only a slight grasp on emotional complexity, he had no reason to see anything in other than concrete terms. If someone called him ‘weird’, it was just a word – a statement of fact to him. A statement, moreover, that he agreed with – unencumbered by any notions of someone ‘being unkind’. He was wired one way, they were wired another. They were in the majority, so he was weird.

  And Georgie, being a great deal further along the spectrum than Kieron, didn’t even use vocabulary in the way ‘normal’ people did. In that, and every sense, his requirements to be ‘happy’ were simple: to feel safe, to have his needs met, to have no one invade that precious space. He had never known family life, so there was no way he could miss it – whereas Jenson, however erratic his parenting, had very much known it, and missed it, and felt bereft.

  All of which I knew. But had forgotten. Temporarily.

  Friday was Mike’s birthday, and, feeling much happier about the boys now, I decided I would organise a babysitter for them and plan a much-needed family night out. Since our own kids would be coming with us, and I didn’t want to call in a stranger, I asked my sister if she’d step in for a few hours. Like Kieron and Riley, she’d been police checked for just this kind of situation, and I knew that if anyone could handle my pair of chalk and cheese 9-year-olds, my no-nonsense capable sis definitely could.