by Casey Watson
‘Brilliant,’ she said. ‘Perfect. And we’ll obviously sort the finances. I can rush through some allowances so you can get them appropriate clothing, and to go towards paying for the accommodation and so on. So will that work? Is that okay?’
I told her that it would be. ‘And the solicitor? Any idea when he wants to come and see the children?’
‘Oh, yes!’ she said. ‘Of course. Hang on. I’ve got a couple of dates and times somewhere … here we are. How does after school tomorrow suit – around four?’
There’s probably no time that’s a good time to have to sit down with a stranger and try and convince him to do something he’s never going to do. I could only hope that the visit wouldn’t traumatise the children so much that it plunged their behaviours – all bar the sex stuff, so improving – back into the dark days of before.
But in the event, it was short if not sweet. The solicitor was a pleasant-looking man, who looked to be in around his mid-50s, and with a manner that suggested – much to my relief – that he had lots of experience of dealing with kids. However, though he was professional and detached, I could see he was finding the whole business as unpalatable as I was.
It was his role to provide a report to the presiding judge that would set out ‘the needs and wishes’ of all the children, and as they sat, as directed, side by side on the sofa, still in their school uniforms, he explained that it was his job to tell the judge exactly what they both wanted.
‘So,’ he said gently, directing his attention at Ashton, ‘you know that the social workers think perhaps Mummy can’t really look after you properly right now, don’t you?’ He waited, and Ashton nodded glumly. ‘Well, you have a right to tell people how you feel about that. So, let’s say, shall we, that it couldn’t be Mummy. Then who, in the whole world, would you most like to look after you?’
‘Gwandad!’ came Olivia’s immediate reply.
Ashton ignored her. ‘We need to go home,’ he said firmly. His expression was stony, but his eyes nevertheless shone with unshed tears. ‘My mummy needs me because if I’m not there she won’t take her depression tablets, and if she doesn’t take them she’ll get ill and then might die.’
I looked on – my job was only to sit out of the way and observe – as the man noted everything on a sheet of A4. I could see Ashton’s eyes on the growing piece of writing, and could have wept at the hope in his eyes. ‘She might die,’ he repeated gravely. ‘She probly will, mister. If I’m not there to see to her. You have to tell the man that we need to get back now.’ He looked earnestly at the solicitor, who acknowledged him with a nod. ‘An’ tell him,’ he finally finished. ‘We’ve learned our lesson.’
If that was terrible to listen to, even worse was Olivia, so distressed when asked again if there was anyone else she might like to live with that she could hardly get any words out at all. She just burst into tears and tried to fling her arms around the man and cuddle him, sobbing, ‘I need me gwandad! I need him! Please let me go back!’
She carried on then, through gulping sobs, almost all of what she was mumbling unintelligible, and it broke my heart to watch how Ashton could see this was happening, and that the solicitor wasn’t writing down anything that his little sister was now saying. I could tell from his expression how agitated it made him.
The solicitor glanced at me, blushing, and gently prised Olivia from him. ‘Do you want to go and sit over there with Casey?’ he asked her gently. He looked up at me now, and I beckoned Olivia across. She crawled onto my lap, then, her tiny body trembling.
This seemed to galvanise Ashton. ‘Mister,’ he said, rising from his place on the sofa and crossing the couple of feet to where there the solicitor sat. ‘What she was saying is that when the bad mens come and burn Mummy in her bed, she will die –’ He raised his little fist now, and shook it. ‘And we won’t be there to stop it! Tell him that!’
I could have wept.
It was a bit of a mad scramble getting everything for our impromptu trip organized, and a stressful one, too, because I hated doing anything last minute, particularly holidays. Having a child with Asperger’s meant change was stressful, period, because Kieron hated it. So, as a family, we took these things slowly. But we were lucky. When Mike told his boss he needed to take a few days leave from work – and also why – he stepped in with a really kind offer. He had a three-bed static caravan in a holiday park down in Wales. Would we like to borrow it, he wondered? As I’d been trawling the internet endlessly, and finding nothing quite right for either us (or our budget), Mike almost bit the poor man’s hand off.
But my mood was sombre as I started to make lists of what we needed – these poor, poor children; what would ultimately become of them? I also couldn’t get my head round Ashton’s probable parentage. What were the implications of that? Not only psychologically, but genetically, too? As cans of worms went, this one was as dark and slimy as they came.
But, as ever, Riley was on hand to cheer me up. She agreed that Kieron could go and stay at hers, which put my mind at rest immediately. Yes, he was 20 now, but he was still very much my baby, and I knew I wouldn’t relax unless I knew things were calm for him at home, especially as he had a new job to contend with as well. Riley also let me drag her and Levi around town shopping, to get everything from new swimming things to buckets and spades. It really mattered to me that this time away with the children was special. It was only to be for a few days, but in the midst of so much uncertainty, it felt important to concentrate on simple pleasures, and give them the sort of childhood holiday they had probably never had.
Though I had forgotten one important detail. When I collected the children from school a couple of days later, I took the opportunity to pop in and let their teachers know my plans, the idea being that I would explain things more fully to the children on the way home. I hadn’t said anything to them yet, as I wanted to keep things low key, so this was really the first time we’d discussed the idea of a holiday.
But the minute they heard the word, they all panicked. ‘When?’ asked Olivia anxiously, as I herded them to the car. ‘Where, Casey? Don’t you love us anymore?’
I could have kicked myself. How could I have forgotten that Anna had originally told them this was a holiday?
Ashton glared at me as I bundled them into the car. They clearly felt that yet another bad thing was about to happen. ‘Let me explain,’ I said. ‘We are going to go away somewhere nice. All of us. Both of you, plus me and Mike – all of us. To a fun place – somewhere different – just for a few days. There will be swimming pools and playgrounds – maybe even a beach!’ They looked blank. ‘That’s what a holiday is all about. To have fun! And then, when we’re done, we all come home again. You understand?’ But I might as well have been speaking to them in French. They looked so completely puzzled that as I drove us home I wondered just how empty and barren a life they’d really left. I knew this holiday would be a treat as well as a diversion from the court case, but, as Mike and I would find out when we got there, it proved to be to an extent that took my breath away.
They seemed more cheery once Mike got home, armed with all the details, and we were able to sit at the computer and look at the caravan park’s website. It looked as pretty and charming as I’d imagined, and they at last seemed to understand the concept of going there to have fun. I was still staggered. I’d of course come across children who’d never been on holiday, due to lack of finances, but never in my life had I had a conversation with a child who didn’t know what a holiday even was.
Not that Mike was as impressed with my haul of holiday goodies as I was, not least because he had to shoehorn it all into the car two days later, when we at last set off on our great Welsh adventure. ‘Oh, stop moaning,’ I chastised him. ‘Look at their excited little faces!’ So he did, and he softened, and I think, just like me, he realised what a big thing this was. For bit by bit, the children had become childishly excited. And about something good and wholesome and right, for the first time, perhaps, i
n their lives.
I had never been to Wales and I was struck by the beauty of the place, not to mention being struck by our complete inability to pronounce any of the Welsh names on the road signs. Every sign said where it was in both English and Welsh, and as we headed west we enjoyed trying to get our tongues around the latter, which had both the children in stitches. The clear winner was the deliciously tongue-twisting ‘archfarchnad’, which, when we worked out that it was the Welsh word for ‘supermarket’, caused great delight, and even our own version of the game ‘I went to the shop …’, which the children didn’t tire of for miles.
And the caravan park didn’t disappoint, either. Beautifully kept, it sat in big rural grounds near the coast, about ten minutes drive from a beautiful beach. On the site were all the attractions I’d promised and more, and the place was bustling with families with young children. It being school time – we were still a couple of weeks from half-term – they were mostly parents and grandparents with little ones, but that was fine, because these little ones were so much younger than their years in so many ways that the lovely atmosphere suited us perfectly.
And the next few days were largely fantastic. For the first time we saw just what these children could become. What they should become. Simply children, doing the things children did. We took them horse riding and swimming, and even took a boat out, and altogether enjoyed every minute. In fact, the only reminder of the kids they really were came when we took them to the beach on Day Three.
It was really warm for early autumn, so we decided to take a picnic. No childhood, I’d decided, was properly complete without having a picnic on the beach. So we made up a feast (plenty of sandwiches to get sand in), then bundled them into the car, and drove the couple of miles to the coast. It was only when we were trudging across the sand, fully laden, that Mike noticed the kids were acting strangely. We’d just crossed the dunes, which sat in a long strip between car park and beach, and he was huffing and puffing, anxious now to be freed from his heavy load. As ever, I hadn’t exactly packed a ‘light’ lunch.
‘Come on, you two!’ he called. ‘Stop all that dawdling and get a move on. The flipping tide will have gone out before we get to the water at this rate!’
Olivia and Ashton were holding hands, as well as buckets and spades, and stepping gingerly across the belt of pebbles and sand at the dune’s base. I realised they looked nervous and unhappy. ‘What’s wrong, sweetie?’ I asked Olivia, trotting back towards them. To my surprise, she actually looked close to tears.
‘We don’t like it!’ she said, her lip trembling. ‘It’s all wobbly!’
I stared, shocked. ‘It’s only sand, love,’ I soothed. ‘Just sand and pebbles.’ And then the penny drooped, as I gazed at their dumbfounded expressions. ‘Oh my,’ I said, realising the probable truth. ‘Haven’t you ever been on a beach before?’
They shook their heads. I was astounded. I had obviously accepted that they’d never had a holiday. But not even a day trip? An afternoon? Nothing?
It took a good hour to coax them into enjoying it. An hour in which Mike patiently showed them how to make sandcastles – having to first explain that this was just like the sand and water trays they had come across in school; and that you could play with it in exactly the same way – there was just a lot more of it, that was all. An hour in which he took them to the water’s edge and paddled in the foam with them, and persuaded them that it wasn’t dangerous to go in up to your knees. And as I sat and watched, it occurred to me what a big thing it was; to them, such a place must have been a scary unknown. All Ashton asked – perhaps as any other young child would – was if there were any sharks, and if so, might they come out of the sea and eat them up?
But the bigger reminder of their past was to come. Just before lunch, Mike showed them how to play ‘beds in the sand’. Much to their amusement, he set about digging a shallow hole, which he then had Ashton go and lie down in. Next, he had Olivia use her spade to begin to bury him, covering him entirely with a ‘duvet’ made of sand, bar his head and neck, while Mike help me set out the picnic.
About five minutes passed – Mike and I had been chatting – when we realised the family adjacent to us were looking our way and pointing. They were camped on the other side of the now ‘put to bed’ Ashton, and, as Olivia was kneeling on our side, we couldn’t see what they were gesturing at.
I smiled, as you do, as I caught the woman’s eye, but my friendliness was met by a distinctly stony stare, and another gesture: she told her child, a little boy, to ‘come away’.
I was just about to comment to Mike about how rude the woman seemed when he leapt up from the picnic basket, saying an explosive ‘What the …!’, and proceeded to rush over to where Olivia was digging. Mike had sensibly stationed them several prudent yards from where we were to picnic. For all that having sand in the sandwiches went with the territory, there was a definite limit to how much.
But Mike wasn’t smiling, and I was soon to see why. Olivia moved, and it was clear why the woman looked so disgusted. She had not only fashioned a ‘duvet’ for Ashton, she’d also created an enormous pair of sand boobs, complete with nipples, as well as an oversized penis. The latter stood vertically – a feat of engineering – and, given its location, there was no doubt in the world what it was.
Mike wasted no time in laying waste to all three appendages. We didn’t linger long after lunch.
The next day we celebrated the two birthdays. Much as I generally disliked the idea of joint celebrations for children’s birthdays, it was the last day before we were heading home to stark reality, and I wanted them both to enjoy their special days while we were still on holiday, so that at least one birthday memory would be a precious one.
There was a clubhouse on site and, after a word with the site manager, we were able to put on a little impromptu party, complete with cakes for both of them and balloons. He’d also suggested, and I agreed, that it might be fun if other parents with small children on site be invited, to make the thing more of an event.
And it was. We had a lovely afternoon, with music and dancing and party games and presents, and everyone sang ‘Happy Birthday’ twice. We’d brought Olivia’s present with us – a new doll’s pram plus a set of new baby clothes for her favourite ‘Polly’ dolly, and explained to Ashton that his main present – a new bike, which really lit his eyes up – was already waiting for him at home, to ride the very next day. He looked so happy and shocked that I wanted to cry right there in front of him, but then his own face clouded and in a whisper he asked me if, after the party, the two of us could go and feed the ducks.
I knew immediately that there was something else going on here, and it was with mixed feelings that I gathered a little plastic bag of bread. I was so pleased he felt close enough to want to share something with me, but at the same time fearful of what that something might be.
Leaving Mike with Olivia, the two of us set off for the duck pond; a pretty place and, I thought, a very inspired idea. What child doesn’t like to feed ducks?
Ashton was quiet on the short walk, and I wondered what was going through his mind. The court case, no doubt. Perhaps he wanted to know the outcome, and in a big-brotherly way wanted to spare his sibling and ask me alone.
But what he had to say was really nothing to do with what was happening in court. I felt so sorry for him. He suddenly looked so much older than his years.
‘Ashton, love,’ I said, as we sat down on the little bench and waited for the ducks to swim over. ‘Is there something on your mind?’
He nodded. ‘Casey,’ he asked, ‘can we always live with you?’ I was taken aback. This was not at all what I’d expected. Quite the opposite. Both the kids, but especially Ashton, had always been adamant that they wanted to return home. I had to think carefully before answering. It was going to be grim to do it, but I needed to be honest. ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think that’s possible. You see, Mike and I are just temporary carers. And that
means we only have children for a short time.’
He turned and looked me in the eye, and seemed to be digesting this, his brow furrowed, his expression hard to read. As ever, I reflected that it never got easier; this was one part of what we did that I found really challenging; you gave your heart to these kids, and they trusted in your love. Yet had to leave you, even so. Because that was the nature of our work. To help kids, move them on, then help another. But Ashton’s response, when it came, was unexpected. Wasn’t even a response, as it turned out.
‘Casey,’ he said, at length. ‘My granddad touches me.’ He cast his eyes down momentarily. ‘Down there. Down there, where you said people shouldn’t.’ He had started to cry now. ‘An’ I don’t like it. I hate it.’ I folded him into my arms. ‘An’ Casey?’ he went on. He was obviously desperate to get it out now. ‘He makes me sex my cousin as well.’
I took a deep, calming breath. It was imperative I say the right thing here. ‘Have you told anyone else this?’ I asked him.
‘Once I did,’ he said. ‘Once I told my auntie. My little cousin, she don’t like me to sex her. She’s only little. Like Olivia.’
I could have heaved, I felt so sick. The bastard. The utter bastard. I clasped Ashton tighter to me. ‘Love, you can tell me anything,’ I told him. ‘Absolutely anything. But …’ This was important. He needed to be clear on this. However hard it was to say so, because I knew he was telling me something he’d probably never told a soul, I had to make sure he understood what I was about to tell him. I took a deep breath. This part didn’t get easier, either. It just got worse. ‘You know I have to tell Anna about it, don’t you?’ I said slowly. ‘Because it’s Anna who can help us make things better.’
It was as if he’d been stung, he pulled away so abruptly. ‘No!’ he said with vehemence. ‘No, no! Not Anna! She’s an evil bitch. They all are, them social workers!’ His expression hardened. ‘I’m not telling her nuffing!’
