by Casey Watson
He was as appalled by the very prospect, let alone the excruciating business of having to role play with an Oscar-worthy female trainer. But it was important – and little did we know quite how important. In just a couple of years he would find himself having to do just that with our second foster child, Sophia – one of the most challenging and tricky situations he’d yet tackled.
In truth, thinking back to that, I was now feeling very slightly guilty. Perhaps I should have prepared them after all. I’d get a ticking off from my daughter, I didn’t doubt. Except, pulling my phone out, I could see I might not get there anyway. The display showed the call was from school.
It was Andrea Cappleman. ‘I imagine you’re sick of hearing from me, Casey,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid we’ve had another incident with both your boys, and I need you to come and pick Jenson up.’
‘I knew it couldn’t last,’ I said, sighing, as I reached for my car keys. ‘Go on then. What’s he done to him this time?’
‘To Georgie? No, no. Nothing. Far from it. No, it’s a bit more complicated than that. Only just unravelled the details, but I’d be grateful if you’d just come up for Jenson. He’s in a bit of a state, and there’s really no point in him going back into class once lunch is done.’
It would be lunchtime right now, of course. ‘No worries,’ I said. ‘I’ll come right away.’
I should have expected it, of course. After what had happened over the weekend, Jenson was bound to be unsettled and agitated. But I was also exasperated. This kicking-off thing really needed addressing. He must surely have considered the potential consequences of his actions. He was due a contact phone call. He had football planned with Kieron for the next weekend. He had his new DS game. Had he been on our behavioural programme, all these privileges would, potentially, have been lost. That was how it worked. That was why it modified behaviour. That’s how children regained control of their self-esteem. If there was one thing I should do today, I decided, as I pulled into the school driveway, it was to get Jenson with the programme, as it were.
Jenson himself was the first person I saw when I arrived in school, having been buzzed in by the school secretary. As he would be, as he was stationed on the miscreant’s chair, which was right outside Andrea Cappleman’s office. Her door was slightly ajar.
‘You’ve gotta just come in with me,’ he told me sullenly, as he rose from the chair. He was still crying, in an exhausted, I give up, kind of way. I thought back to the cheeky chappy we first met that day in the garden, entertaining us all with his Michael Jackson impressions; now he just looked like Hercules – a boy with the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.
Which apparently he did have. ‘Now, then, Jenson,’ Andrea Cappleman said, as we reconvened on two chairs in her office. ‘Come on, dry your eyes and pull yourself together. We’ve had our chat and that’s the end of it. Come on –’ She plucked a tissue from the box on her desk. ‘Buck up and blow your nose.’
Jenson took the proffered tissue and began scrubbing at his cheeks with it. ‘So,’ I asked, ‘what did happen? He’s been fighting again, I take it?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Andrea Cappleman said. ‘And, as I’ve made clear to Jenson, it really has to stop. We’ll be breaking up for the holidays soon, and the last thing I want is to have to exclude any of my big boys from all the fun things we have planned. Eh, Jenson?’
Jenson duly nodded.
‘But what about?’ I said, directing the question at Jenson.
‘About Jenson thinking he’s a one-man vigilante band,’ Andrea Cappleman said and, as Jenson wiped his eyes, she flashed me a quick smile. ‘Which is something we do not have in this school.’
‘Vigilante?’ I asked, confused.
She nodded. ‘Yes, and I absolutely understand why he feels he needs to do it. I do, Jenson, and I applaud your sense of right and wrong, as well. But taking matters into your own hands – and then brawling in the playground – is not the way we get our problems solved.’ She turned to me. ‘So we’ve made a pact,’ she said. ‘Jenson knows, don’t you, that any time he sees anyone bullying Georgie, what are you to do, Jenson?’
‘Tell a teacher,’ Jenson mumbled.
‘Exactly,’ Andrea said. ‘And –’
I raised my hand. ‘Hang on a minute. I don’t think I’m up to speed here. Who exactly has been fighting and bullying who here? I’m confused.’
She sighed. ‘It’s one boy in particular – the boy Jenson laid into today, of course – but to be frank with you we do have an unfortunate little gaggle of them to deal with. Year Six boys – often gets this way at this time of year. They’re all ready to move on to high school – and a power of good it does them, too. To go from being king-of-the-hill now to the lowest of the low come September. But in the meantime we’re having to be super-vigilant. Georgie’s mostly left alone, bless him, but this particular boy seems to have it in for him.’ She directed her gaze at me. ‘There are, sadly, some ongoing issues …’ She trailed off, obviously not wanting to elaborate, but I knew that look – as with most bullies, there would be something at the core of it, some upset at home he was acting out about in school.
Not unlike Jenson, in fact, I thought. But I was about to hear something completely unexpected. ‘And of course, Jenson,’ said Andrea Cappleman, ‘who is obviously Georgie’s BFF and loyal protector, has been getting somewhat hot under the collar these past couple of weeks. And we have spoken about it before, and we’ve agreed that fighting is never acceptable, but today it’s just all boiled over, and it has to stop.’
I could tell by her tone that she was trying to ensure she got the balance right. Yes, he needed to be disciplined, but still to know he held the moral high ground. A tricky balance, but she seemed to be managing it. I could almost see the change in Jenson’s physical demeanour as she explained to me that this boy and his gang had been cruelly taunting Georgie in the dining hall, calling him a freak for only eating quiche, rice and sweetcorn every lunchtime and then, with his little gang, physically bullying him as well, pulling his hair, calling him a girl and pinching bits of sweetcorn off his plate and throwing them.
The teaching assistant, who by now had noticed something was happening, had apparently intervened and told the boys to take their trays and go and sit somewhere else. This done, and with the teaching assistant now sitting with a frightened Georgie, Jenson, infuriated, but knowing he mustn’t get into trouble, had watched and waited till the boy and his crew had gone out into the playground, where, furious that they hadn’t even been properly disciplined (which they hadn’t, as the extent of their bullying hadn’t at that point been spotted), took matters into his own hands and given the boy a proper pasting.
Naturally, the dinner lady, not knowing any of the background, had promptly dragged Jenson off to the head’s office, and, as she would do, had simply reported what she’d found: that he’d set upon the boy in an unprovoked attack.
‘An’ that’s what always happens!’ Jenson protested now, suddenly more animated. ‘Just like last time, and the time before, when he said he was gonna push Georgie’s head in the litter bin, and like every time. An’ I’m sick of it!’ He turned to me. ‘An you as well, Casey!’ he threw in for good measure. ‘I never told him to get those stones! Never!’
‘All right, Jenson, enough of that,’ said Andrea Cappleman, pushing the tissue box towards him. ‘Don’t start getting yourself worked up all over again. No one is blaming you today, are they? And I’m sure Casey is very proud of you for being so loyal to Georgie. But, as we’ve agreed, there must be no more of this fighting. It’s not the way, okay?’ She smiled then. ‘Right. End of lecture.’
‘Well,’ I said as I stood up, ready to take Jenson home. ‘This has all been something of an eye-opener, I must say. And I think I have an apology to make to you, Jenson. I had no idea you were looking out for Georgie so well. And Mrs Cappleman is right. I am very, very proud of you. And so will Mike be, when I tell him.’
I opened
my arms then, and Jenson surprised me by throwing himself into them, and as I kissed the top of his head it felt almost like I might burst, he was hugging me so tightly. Too much emotion for a Monday, I thought. Way too much emotion. ‘But no more fighting, okay?’ I said. ‘Promise?’ And Andrea Cappleman and I exchanged grins.
‘Quite,’ she said to Jenson. ‘Now, then, tomorrow is a new day. New day, and new strategy, because I don’t want to have to send you home again. Because you know what?’ Jenson blinked at her. ‘We miss you!’
‘Come on then, kiddo,’ I said, as I opened the car door to let Jenson jump in. ‘Let’s get you home and cheered up a bit. Don’t forget Mum’s calling at teatime and we don’t want you sounding all gloomy when you talk to her, do we? She’ll think I’ve been doing some of my ninja karate moves on you or something.’
This produced a laugh. ‘Fat chance, Casey,’ he said, buckling up. ‘You’re way too tiny to put anyone down, you are.’
‘Oh, fighting talk is it?’ I said, starting the engine. ‘You’ll rue saying that, my boy, and that’s a promise!’
And we both laughed and joked almost all the way home, but at the same time I felt absolutely awful.
And I wasn’t done with being reminded how I’d messed up with Jenson. No, it was true that I couldn’t have known what had really been going on at school – How could I? Nobody had told me! – but I’d never been one to make excuses for myself, and I wasn’t about to start now.
When the call came from Karen, just after six, as pre-arranged, I suggested Jenson go in the garden to chat to her. Mike was busy deleting the viewed Countdown listings on the Sky planner, Georgie just having watched one, and the boy himself had headed upstairs with his tin of precious stones. I followed him up with a basket of washing I’d just brought in off the washing line, and once I’d put it down by the airing cupboard door, ready to fold and put the towels away, I noticed Georgie humming to himself and gazing out his bedroom window.
His hair seemed to grow like wildfire – it was at least a couple of inches longer than when he’d come to us, and as I went into the room, stepping carefully over the row of stones at the entrance, I wondered how they’d dealt with it at the children’s home. Did they sneak in and hack a length off while he slept?
He turned as I approached, and I was shocked when he made eye contact. ‘Casey,’ he said. ‘We love Jenson, don’t we?’
It was very, very rare for Georgie to look any of us in the eye, so I knew that this must be important.
‘We do,’ I agreed, as his eyes slipped away again. ‘We love Jenson and we also love Georgie.’
‘Jenson is a good boy. He likes green and he is a good boy,’ he said, turning once again to look out of the window. ‘Jenson likes green stones and Georgie likes white stones. Jenson needs a present today. Jenson isn’t bad. Jenson is a good boy.’
I followed Georgie’s gaze, and that was when it hit me. His bedroom was at the back and it looked down over the gardens. Our garden, and – God, of course! – our next-door neighbours’ garden. Where, spread below us, was their perfectly appointed and beautifully planted rockery, with all its alpines and slabs of York stone, and neat arrays of different-coloured gravel. All those stones, laid out so neatly. So enticingly.
I had no way of knowing it for certain, but it didn’t matter. It seemed so obvious now that, had I a spare leg, I would have kicked myself, hard. Jenson hadn’t told Georgie to go in there. No one had. He had done it entirely by himself.
I left Georgie to it, then, and took myself off to the bathroom. I was stunned at my stupidity, stunned by my lack of insight, and staggered, truly staggered, that what had always seemed so natural – my ability to read kids – had so utterly deserted me in Jenson’s case. I could hear him in the garden below, laughing as he talked to his mother, and the sound of patio chairs being moved – probably Mike, pottering about. And, alone with my thoughts – how on earth could I have failed him so badly? – I sat down on the edge of the bath and cried.
Chapter 19
I felt so much better when I woke up the next morning. Better and also energised. Having redefined my role in supporting both Georgie and Jenson, everything suddenly seemed so much easier. It was mad, really, I thought, how the mind worked. All the time I had convinced myself Jenson was one type of child, I had only allowed myself to work with him in a certain way. A simple shift in focus and it was as if the world had opened up again, and I could only now begin to see the big picture. It had been a tough lesson to take on board, and one I was determined not to forget.
The rest of the week passed without incident. And not least because the change in Jenson was palpable. No words were said; we discussed neither the death of his little sister nor his feelings about what happened (that was something I knew I shouldn’t force) but it was as if he could tell I felt differently about him; that I understood him better, which was true.
I was therefore looking forward to the following weekend. The forecast was glorious, both weather-wise and home-wise – free from the permanent undercurrent of anxiety about having to be braced for potential flashpoints between the boys.
But they were going to be there whether I was braced for them or not, as, on Saturday morning, I was about to find out.
‘Mum?’ said Riley, calling me first thing that morning. ‘Get the kettle on. I’m on my way over with Jackson. David’s taken Levi to his dad’s to do something manly like fixing cars, so I thought I’d come to yours a little earlier.’
I got the coffee on and mugs out, smiling as I did so. There was no day, however lovely, that couldn’t be made lovelier by the addition of my daughter and little grandson. And today did look like being a lovely one, definitely. Mike had gone into work for a couple of hours, and as soon as he was back he’d promised the boys he’d take the pair of them to watch Kieron play football, and perhaps have a knock around themselves, while I went into town with Riley and Jackson. Jenson was particularly excited about seeing Kieron, I knew, because only the other evening he’d told him he was a brilliant footballer and that there might be a chance for him to join the junior team.
He came clattering into the kitchen now – clattering being the operative word: he was already suited and booted for football, right down to the new football boots Mike had bought for him.
‘My, you’re keen, love,’ I said, laughing. ‘Mike won’t be back for another hour yet!’
‘Does it look good, Casey?’ he wanted to know, grinning as he struck a pose for me, then throwing in a short moonwalk for good measure. Which was good to see, but not that good, I decided, remembering the boots, which were studded.
‘A lot better than my kitchen floor’s going to look, matey, once you’ve finished scraping those studs across it!’ I scolded. But I was still smiling. When he was being like this, smiling became infectious. ‘You know what you look like?’ I told him. ‘A mini Kenny Dalglish.’
‘Kenny what? Who the hell’s he?’
‘Less of the “hell”, love, if you don’t mind! He’s a famous footballer. Played for Liverpool, back in …’ I shook my head, seeing Jenson’s blank expression. ‘Oh, never mind. I’m getting old. You won’t have heard of him. Hi, sweetie,’ I added, seeing Georgie come in as well. ‘You all right?’
Georgie pointed to the cup cupboard.
‘Are you thirsty? I asked him, saying the words slowly. I was on something of a mission to get him to actually ask for the things he wanted. He certainly had enough vocabulary. I was sure he just pointed to pictures because that was what he’d got used to doing, both in school and obviously in the children’s home.
He nodded. ‘Georgie is thirsty,’ he agreed. ‘Milk please.’
‘Good boy,’ I said, filling up a beaker with milk. ‘So, what do you think of Jenson today, eh?’
Georgie glanced at Jenson, who was once again posing in his footie kit.
‘Jenson is a good boy,’ Georgie said at length. ‘And Jenson has very shiny hair today.’
I laugh
ed as Jenson, also giggling, ran his hand through his mop of hair, as if modelling in an advert for shampoo. Then he gestured to the back door. ‘You wanna come outside,’ he asked Georgie, ‘and kick my ball around with me?’ And to my slight surprise Georgie smiled at him and nodded.
I watched them play for a few minutes, listening to them through the open patio door, and being amused, as Jenson tried to explain the business of tackling other players, and how as long as you were going for the ball and not the person it was completely acceptable to knock people over. Jenson understood now, as well as Mike and I did, that you had to be careful about the words you used with Georgie as, because of his autism, he took everything so literally. Only a couple of days earlier we’d had the makings of a proper scream-fest, just because Jenson had told us a joke in the car on the way home from school. It wasn’t the joke itself; it was the fact that he finished up by saying that when he told it to Mike later he’d ‘probably laugh his head off’.
It never crossed my mind but, of course, this had been playing on Georgie’s mind ever since, and when Jenson repeated the joke over tea, and Mike duly started laughing, Georgie clamped his hands over his ears and promptly burst into tears.
It had taken a while for any of us to work out what was wrong with him. It was only when he kept pointing to Mike and whimpering that the penny finally dropped. And once it had, and we’d gently probed the cause of his distress, he managed to explain that he was really expecting Mike’s head to fall off.
I tried hard over the next few days to explain such figures of speech to Georgie. I tried to explain how when you said when you were so hungry you could eat a horse you didn’t actually plan to eat one – you’d just have your tea. I tried to explain that when people said it was raining cats and dogs it didn’t actually mean the sky was full of animals, just that the rain was so heavy it felt like it must be something more than just drops of water. But the more examples I tried to come up with, the more ridiculous and illogical it all seemed – even to me! How on earth did our language become so bizarre? And if it felt that way to me, how must it feel to someone like Georgie, whose use of language was so concrete and literal? The world and the people in it must feel like such a strange and scary place to him. And though I got precisely nowhere in my quest to get him to see beyond the literal, in looking at things through his eyes I learned something at least. And I was soon to have a rather more graphic illustration of how simple was Georgie’s way of seeing things.
