by Casey Watson
But speaking to Sylvia from his old children’s home provided reassurance on that point.
‘Oh, no, that’s fine,’ she reassured me, when I called her on the Friday morning. ‘He’s been on lots of holidays. Somewhere among his things are all his photo albums – I remember packing them. You’ll find them in one of the cardboard boxes.’
Which wouldn’t be difficult. There were just the two of them, Georgie not much doing possessions, bar whatever his current obsession was – in this case stones.
‘Get them out and go through them with him,’ she counselled. ‘There are all sorts of pictures of him: on the beach, at the funfair, eating ice cream. Just go through them and explain that you’ll be doing similar things.’
And it worked a treat. I sat him down with the pictures and explained we were going on holiday, and I was amazed at how quickly he got the idea. ‘Georgie and Jenson and Casey and Mike going on holiday. Not Sylvia, not Franklyn, not Jenny and not Alistair. Georgie and Jenson and Casey and Mike.’ He kept chanting it to himself all day.
Jenson, on the other hand, had never been on holiday. He’d been on days out at the beach and visited a holiday park a friend was staying at, but had never in his life stayed even overnight at anywhere seasidey, and I felt a real pang of anger, thinking of his mum swanning around the Med with her boyfriend and leaving her kids home alone.
But as usual Jenson’s grin drove the bad thoughts from my head. He was beside himself. He really was beyond excited.
‘Will Simon Cowell be there?’ he wanted to know. ‘’Cos if he is I’ll show him my moonwalk. Oh my God. I could be on Britain’s Got Talent!’
Which had me bursting out laughing, as well as being confused. ‘Why on earth would Simon Cowell be there?’ I spluttered, as he pirouetted round the kitchen, practising his routine. ‘What in heaven makes you think he’d turn up there?’
Logic, it seemed. Well, an illogical kind of logic. He’d seen The X Factor, and seen the bit where the acts went to the judges’ houses, and for some reason he had got it into his head that Simon Cowell’s beach house was part of a holiday park.
‘An it’s in Wales,’ he said, with the confidence of a boy who had his facts straight.
‘Barbados,’ I corrected. ‘I think his beach house is in Barbados.’
‘I know it is,’ he said, tutting. ‘Which is in Wales.’
But there was scant time to get out the atlas and give Jenson a geography lesson, as, the boys primed and the washing done, it was a case of get packing, and after an early start – and a backtrack to return home for some all-important stone that had been forgotten – we arrived at the holiday park just after lunchtime that Saturday.
And as we explored the park and its facilities, a hunch I’d harboured turned out to be true. Just as I’d thought I’d remembered from our last visit there, it seemed Jenson might have his chance to show off his moonwalk after all, if not to the man himself, at least to his fellow holidaymakers.
‘Look,’ Mike explained, as we showed the boys the club house, ‘this is where we’ll probably come most evenings. They have a mini disco every night for the youngsters and a different entertainer every evening.’ I was already liking the sound of it myself. A whole week away from routine and telly and the same old same old, plus sun, sea and sand, and entertainment on tap. Bliss.
‘Oh, and look at this, Jenson,’ Mike then said, pointing to a poster.
Can you sing like Rihanna? it asked. Can you dance like Michael Jackson? If so, we want to see you at the Hippo’s Den, on Thursday at 5 p.m. Junior talent-show rehearsal – acts to perform Friday at 6 p.m. Guest judges and great prizes to be won!
‘You see?’ said Jenson, punching the air. ‘It might be Simon Cowell coming!’
‘I don’t know about that,’ I replied, laughing. ‘But they must have known you were coming. Who’d have thought they’d be looking for Michael Jackson impersonators?’
‘Love,’ said Mike, ‘have you ever been to a holiday camp, here or in fact anywhere, where they haven’t had a Michael Jackson something going on?’
‘But I’ll need some music and a hat!’ Jenson said, realising his key props were non-negotiable.
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Mike reassured him. ‘I’m sure they’ll be able to provide a backing track. And when we pop into Swansea to pick up some bits and bobs later, I promise we’ll track you down a trilby.’
Which, after a couple of days of relaxing, going to the beach and eating ice cream, was exactly what we did. The campsite was much busier than we remembered it, but that was probably to be expected. We were in the thick of the school holidays and everyone seemed of the same mind as we – wanted to enjoy the best of the weather before the summer was over and done with and it was time to start buying pencil cases and school uniforms.
And I was pleased to see that Georgie, too, seemed to be having a good time. Though it was obvious from the outset that Jenson would be in his element, the sheer number of people and the massive amount of noise and activity all around us could, I knew, pose a major problem.
But it seemed it was sound that had the most potential for causing distress to him, as I realised when I found him one day, sitting, rocking, with his hands clamped tightly over his ears, on a garden chair that he’d parked round the back of the caravan.
I was about to ask him what was wrong when I checked myself. Perhaps I should try and imagine what it might be myself. And as I watched and listened, it slowly became apparent. I could hear what sounded like a young Elvis impersonator practising coming from the open door of the club house, I could hear shrieks coming from the swimming pool, and regular loud splashes, I could hear shouts form the adventure playground and bursts of unrestrained laughter – all the noises you’d expect to hear when children were having fun. All perfectly normal, of course, but also such an assault to Georgie’s senses. It was then that I remembered something I’d read about children with autism, and how sound – certain sounds – could be extremely painful for them.
Feeling once again guilty for not having remembered it earlier, I gently encouraged Georgie to go back inside the caravan, shut the doors and windows and switched on the fan. He immediately relaxed then, and reached for a box of dominoes to play with, preferring, as ever, to do something solitary.
Mike at this time had taken Jenson swimming. In fact, it was the third time this week. It was obviously too noisy for Georgie and far too busy, but when Jenson had explained to us that he’d never been taught to swim it became Mike’s major mission for the week to rectify that situation, and have him managing a width by the end of the week.
And it had turned out to be an illuminating business. After the second lesson, Mike had explained to me the previous night, once the boys were in bed, Jenson had got himself into a right state. Embarrassed at being the only 9-year-old with armbands, he’d kept insisting that he could swim without them, and, frustrated to keep failing, had stomped off and said he didn’t want to learn any more.
Calming him down with the offer of a glass of pop and a pizza, Mike had sat him down and explained that, just as you couldn’t run before you could walk, you had to learn in stages, which took time. At this, Jenson had promptly burst into tears, and though he obviously found it hard to articulate exactly why it made him feel as he did, he was finding it hard because it made him think of how his little sister died, and though he wasn’t exactly afraid of the water – that much was obvious – it was as if somehow he was going against his mum by even learning, because she told him he must never go swimming.
‘God,’ Mike had said to me, ‘it’s so complicated, isn’t it? And he must have thought we were trying to make him face his fears or something. Poor lad. It had never even occurred to me.’
We’d both agreed, though, that it was still something he should pursue. As long as Jenson was willing to stick at it, they should keep pushing on, because in doing so he was facing his fears, which was no bad thing, as well as strengthening the bond he and Mike had de
veloped. What with the football and now the swimming they had really grown close, and making attachments (this attachment, and any positive attachment, for that matter) could only be a good thing for a latchkey kid like Jenson. These were things that would stand him in good psychological stead longer after he was no longer with us.
But it was the talent show that was Jenson’s major preoccupation, and by Thursday afternoon you really would have thought he had ants in his pants, he was hopping round so much with impatience. As promised, Mike had found him a very fine hat. Encrusted with black glitter, which seemed to get everywhere in the caravan, it was the perfect trilby shape, à la Michael Jackson. He had perfected his routine – which he was doing to Billie Jean – right down to the very last thrust. And it was very good. I was almost as excited as he was.
‘Nooo, Casey!’ he said, when I suggested I might accompany him to his rehearsal. ‘You can’t show me up. Mums and dads don’t come!’ He turned to Georgie. ‘You can come,’ he said. ‘But you and Mike can’t, Casey. You’ll have to stay in the clubhouse and wait to see it till tomorrow.’
So that was us told. And, of course, we wouldn’t dream of ‘showing him up’. I was even tickled to be bracketed in the mums and dads category, and pleased that we’d been able to quietly put him in a position where he had to temper our enthusiasm for being there. To tell mums and dads they couldn’t come, you had to first be in a position where they were desperate to see you perform, after all. Which for some kids – Jenson among them, I didn’t doubt – wasn’t a feeling they had the luxury of often.
And I was pleased when Georgie nodded his agreement to Jenson’s plan. And as the Hippo’s Den was a room off the club house, and could be entered only via it, I didn’t have to stress, as long as we found ourselves seats close to the main entrance, about him getting agitated and wandering off unnoticed.
Or so we thought. With two coffees and a chance of a bit of peace and quiet, in a now relatively child-free club house, we were so busy enjoying some us time that the time seemed to fly by. My main concern, given the large number of kids seeming to be involved, was that Jenson would be crushingly disappointed if he didn’t win.
Mike disagreed. ‘You know, I think he’ll be fine with it,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he’ll care where he’s placed in the competition, just as long as he gets his moment in the spotlight and a big cheer for doing it. He just needs the adulation, that kid.’
Even so, I couldn’t help cross my fingers that he would storm the place, that he would be the best and that he would get that coveted first prize. I was still locked into my typical stage-school mummy thinking (picturing Jenson taking the winning bow, to massed cheers of approval) when I was disturbed from my thoughts by a young girl, tugging at my sleeve. This was a girl I recognised called Ruby, who’d palled up with Jenson and was staying in the caravan opposite ours.
‘Casey,’ she was saying. ‘You have to come quick. It’s Georgie. He’s stuck on the roof and he might die!’ She was obviously quite distressed.
‘The roof?’ I answered, as shocked as she was frightened. ‘What roof? How on earth did he get up onto a roof?’
Mike got up, as confused as I was about how Georgie could have slipped past us. But it seemed he hadn’t. We’d been wrong about there only being one exit to the Hippo’s Den. There was also a fire door at the back which, though ordinarily closed, obviously, someone had decided, due to the heat generated by such a big crowd of excited performers, to open up, to let a bit of air in.
And what had happened, as Ruby explained as we followed her in and out of the fire door, was that Jenson had apparently decided – for reasons that seemed entirely in keeping with the little scamp – to climb onto the roof of the shower block, just adjacent to the building, and do an impromptu extra performance to the small crowd of kids below.
Not that he was up there right now. No, that was Georgie. He looked absolutely terrified, and was groaning as well as rocking, while just below him, standing on the small wall that was adjacent to the block, teetered Jenson, obviously trying to coax him down.
‘Jenson, what’s going on?’ I wanted to know, while Mike started to climb up to the roof, using the route that he’d presumably used, via the wall and one of the toilet cubicle windows.
‘Oh Casey, I’m so sorry!’ Jenson said immediately. ‘It’s my entire fault he went up there. I just wanted to climb up and do my dance for everyone, and he just followed me. I didn’t tell him to. I just turned round and there he was!’
‘To do your dance?’ I spluttered. ‘To do your dance up on a roof? Jenson, are you stark staring mad?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I’m really really sorry. I jus’ didn’t think. I – I just never thought he’d follow me. Why would he do that?’
‘Sweetheart,’ I said, exasperated. ‘That is not the point at all! This isn’t just about Georgie – it’s about you! You might have fallen and hurt yourself too! What were you thinking?’
‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘I just … I just …’
‘Wanted to show off,’ I said, fixing my gaze on him and frowning. ‘Which could very nearly,’ I added, watching with relief as Mike had hold of Georgie, ‘have ended up with a nasty accident, couldn’t it?’
To which Jenson had the good grace to blush.
Mike had by now got hold of Georgie and carefully helped him down to me. And as I took his arm I was at least grateful, given the small crowd around us, that Georgie seemed so stunned now that he didn’t even seem to think of freaking out.
That being the case, and the shower block having been a comparatively low building, and with Jenson being – for once – so completely apologetic and contrite, once I’d reassured a traumatised campsite rep (who’d been in the toilet when it had happened), I decided I would take my mother’s least-said-soonest-mended attitude, and say nothing further about the incident. Jenson had had a fright, and that had been enough to teach him a lesson. And he had also apologised, which spoke volumes about his progress.
Though I should have probably felt more disapproving than I actually did about the swelling band of fans he’d got as a result of it.
‘Yo, Jenson,’ said one, as we headed back to the club house later, ‘you da boss!’
Jenson was already half way through his joyous air punch before he thought better of it.
Every foster kid is special, and we have cherished memories of every one of them that will stay with us, but that Friday-night talent show – starring our mini Michael Jackson – is definitely high up in my personal top ten.
Jenson wasn’t ours, but I don’t think either of us could have been more proud-parent excited, when, having given a faultless performance, he bounded back to sit with us to await the verdict from the pretty young compère.
‘And in third place …’ she called out. Not Jenson. He screwed his eyes up. ‘And in second place …’ Not Jenson. He clamped his hands over his eyes.
‘And in first place …’ I don’t think any of us breathed at that point, including Georgie. ‘It’s our very own Tarzan …’ We shrieked so loud at that point that she had to shout his name over us.
The cheer that went up then really couldn’t have been more gratifying, and the applause was as sincere as it was deafening. And boy, did it go on. It continued right through him leaping up to go and collect his prize, right through his moonwalk across the stage to be presented with it, and right through his return, triumphant and beaming, bearing his certificate and ten-pound voucher to spend in the shop.
It was still ringing in my ears as he sat down beside us and then thought better of it, stood up again and threw his arms around us for a group hug. And Georgie let him. I was a complete blubbering wreck.
Chapter 21
I had half-expected to return home from holiday to an email or message from Marie Bateman or John, telling me that there’d been progress on the situation with Karen. But there was nothing, and as the days passed I became increasingly concerned, as John had pr
omised me everything would be sorted by the start of the new term. And, more importantly, this was what Jenson had expected too. So it wasn’t surprising that he was beginning to get itchy feet. He’d not physically seen his mum and sister for some weeks now.
‘What’s she playing at, Casey?’ he asked me one day. ‘I told her about my stifficate and that I’d bought her a photo frame out of my voucher money, an’ she swore it would only be a few days before I’d be moving back home.’
At least the telephone contacts had continued twice weekly and, as far as I knew, had been going really well. But I so felt for him. Since we’d come back, and he’d been so full of pride, every day had chipped away at him a little more. We’d all felt a bit flat – you always tended to after a good holiday – but for Jenson it really was a dispiriting whump back to earth. Handily, however, I had called Marie for an update, and knew that the new child-protection hearing would be any day now. Perhaps then we would have news – positive news, fingers crossed – as it seemed Karen had decided to give ‘love of my life’ Gary the heave-ho. But with her clearly so fickle in matters of the heart, I didn’t dare tempt fate by offering Jenson any false hope.
‘I’m sure it’s all happening behind the scenes, sweetie,’ I assured him. ‘These things all have to be done properly.’
‘But what things have to be done?’ he bleated. ‘What do they have to do? Mum’s said she’s sorry an’ she won’t do it again. So what do they have to do?’
Put like that, I was hard pressed for an answer.
And I understood his impatience. I’d have been the same myself. So I tried to keep him busy with lots of activities, of which swimming, now he’d mastered the basics of doggy paddle, seemed the most important of the lot. It would be so good, I reasoned, to send him home having acquired a new skill that he could feel proud of. And I made a mental note to remind Marie about the issues around him learning. If Karen was going to have the support of a regular social worker, one of the things they could begin to tackle was the tension in the relationship between Jenson and his mother. It was probably too optimistic to hope that she might begin to take him swimming herself, but him doing so might at least open up a line of communication – get her to try and face her fears as well.
