Too Hurt to Stay: The True Story of a Troubled Boy’s Desperate Search for a Loving Home

by Casey Watson

  ‘She just looks so much older than I expected,’ I said to Mike, as we sped along. ‘Mind you, with five kids to look after – and with one of them being Spencer – well, I guess that probably ages you, doesn’t it? But whatever her age, she just looked so haggard, don’t you think? Not at all what I expected. Do you think she might be ill?’

  ‘No one’s said that, have they?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not to my knowledge. And they don’t look badly off or anything, do they? Except she looked, well, just so dishevelled. Which is a bit weird when you think of all that designer kit Spencer has …’

  ‘Who knows what goes on, love, eh? I dare say we’ll learn more as we go, though in the meantime …’

  We’d just turned off the A road into the mall. ‘Ooh, shops!’ I cried with glee, mentally switching gears. I would put Spencer firmly out of my mind for a few hours.

  * * *

  As always happens when you try to fit a quart into a pint pot, there weren’t sufficient hours in the day to do everything I’d planned to, and it was nearer half past by the time we pulled back up outside the family home. So yet again I was braced for a frosty reception as Mike raised his hand to press the doorbell.

  Spencer’s mum, however, must have already seen or heard us. The door opened just as Mike’s finger touched the buzzer, though this time she only opened it a fraction. Looking at her, I decided it wasn’t rudeness we’d seen earlier, just a complete absence of social skills. She looked blankly at us both.

  ‘He’s gone,’ she informed us.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Gone where?’

  Now she shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, her voice becoming slightly more animated, as though my asking such a question was just plain stupid. And that my incredulous expression was too. ‘He lasted half an hour and then he was off,’ she explained.

  Which was no use to anyone. ‘But –’ I began saying to her. But what? I thought grimly, with the image of yet another two-hour police search of all the neighbouring wheelie bins.

  She looked at me with the same needled but slightly glazed expression, and as she exhaled in what was presumably exasperation at life generally, I got a powerful whiff of alcohol on her breath. ‘We couldn’t stop him,’ she said defensively. ‘If he says he’s going, then he’s going. What am I supposed to do? Pin him to the ground?’

  Mike had smelled it too, I knew. ‘I can’t believe this,’ he said irritably. ‘Is your husband there, Kerry? Because I think I’d like to speak to him.’

  Yes, I thought crossly. Me too.

  Chapter 9

  It was almost as if Spencer’s father had been hiding behind a doorway, listening. No sooner were the words out of Mike’s mouth than he appeared in the hallway, a tall, fit-looking man, with arrestingly blue eyes. As he smiled I immediately registered how different he seemed to his wife. He looked younger, for a start. Smarter. Altogether less dishevelled. He smiled apologetically.

  ‘Danny,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m so sorry about all this.’ He proffered his hand. ‘You must be Mike. It’s good to meet you at last,’ he added. ‘Casey, hi.’ He shook hands with both of us while his wife looked on blankly. ‘Spencer’s told us lots about you,’ he continued. ‘Well, in the short time he was here, that is …’

  He made a small gesture then – a slight roll of the eyes, aimed loosely in his wife’s direction. It wasn’t an irritable gesture, just one that seemed to say, ‘Well, you can see how it is, can’t you?’

  ‘I’d hoped the lad would have come back of his own accord by now,’ he went on, leaning out to scan the darkening street. ‘But, well, as you can see …’ He tailed off, now, and sighed heavily.

  I suddenly felt dreadfully sorry for him. He was obviously distressed and trying to make up for his wife’s rudeness. Which made me soften towards him. ‘It’s not your fault,’ I said. ‘If Spencer was determined to run off, then I imagine there wasn’t very much you could do about it. We had a similar experience two weeks back, to be honest. In the end we had to call the police.’

  Spencer’s father looked panicked then, as if the suggestion suddenly made everything more serious.

  ‘The police? Do you think we should ring them, then?’

  Mike had already pulled out his mobile from his pocket. ‘I’ll call them now,’ he said, turning to walk back down the front path, pressing numbers as he went.

  I turned back to Spencer’s father. ‘Have you any idea of where he might have gone?’

  Danny shook his head. ‘He could be anywhere. He knows these streets like the back of his hand. Believe me, if he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be.’

  His wife, who had remained silent throughout, now spoke. ‘I’m going to see to the baby,’ she said tonelessly. ‘There’s nothing I can do out here, is there?’

  She sloped off, then, without so much as a word in my direction and, once again, I got the impression she’d had quite a lot to drink. Her husband’s expression seemed to confirm it. ‘Look, I’m really sorry …’ he began again.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get this sorted out.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ he said. ‘Honestly. It’s been so tough for my wife just lately, what with me working such horrendous hours at the hospital – I work at the local general – but you probably know that. And we’re so short staffed, and, well, what with everything with Spencer … him being so, well, difficult … it just makes us feel so hopeless. You know, as parents. We feel so lucky that there are people like you and Mike around …’

  He trailed off yet again, clearly upset. I sympathised. He seemed like a well-meaning man in a very bad place. I wondered if his wife’s drinking was a root cause or just a symptom of something else. She was clearly troubled. Depressed? Or did she have mental-health problems? Hard to tell. It felt like there was a great deal more to know about this family. But as I’d suspected – and had now seen for myself – something was far from right. It was just a case of finding out what that something was.

  Mike came back then. ‘They’ve told us to head home,’ he announced to both of us. ‘Said they’ll send a car out now and that they’ll return him to us as soon as they pick him up.’

  ‘Bet that’s the last thing they could do with on a Saturday evening,’ I answered. ‘Having to drive an eight-year-old runaway an hour and a half home.’

  I felt slightly bad as soon as the words were out – it felt so barbed a comment. It hadn’t been meant that way, but that’s what it had sounded like, I realised. As if I was pointing out that the Herringtons could now close their front door and get on with their evening, leaving the problem very squarely in our laps.

  But if he thought that, Danny Herrington didn’t react to it that way. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said sincerely. ‘Really. To put you to all this trouble. Oh, and you’d better have his backpack.’ He picked it up from the hall floor. From somewhere in the house I could hear small children giggling. A happy sound. A normal family sound. Which right now felt so wrong.

  ‘Forget it, mate,’ Mike said, taking it. ‘It’s our job. It’s what we do. We’ll give you a call when he’s returned to us, just so you know all’s well.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that,’ Spencer’s dad answered. ‘I really would.’

  ‘Well, that was weird,’ Mike observed once we were back in the car. The police had told us to call the EDT as well, which I’d do as soon as we were on the road home. ‘Weirder than weird, didn’t you think? You know, standing on their doorstep, organising the return of their child to our house. If they can find him, that is, the little bugger.’

  But for all his words, I knew Mike thought the same thing as I did. Poor little bugger, having a mum so totally out of it that she didn’t even seem to care that her eight-year-old boy had run off and could be absolutely anywhere. I tried to get inside her head – imagine myself in that situation with my own kids – and couldn’t. I sighed. Pointless to try. In the scheme of things, compared with some of the mothers of kids w
e’d fostered, her probable inebriated form of neglect was comparatively benign. At least she wasn’t torturing him or sexually abusing him.

  As far as we knew, at any rate. ‘I felt sorry for the dad,’ I told Mike. ‘He was obviously trying to protect her. Maybe he’s had a bit of a job on trying to hold things together. You know, the way she is and everything.

  ‘But surely they must have half-expected this to happen?’ I went on. ‘Surely he would have, at least? Given Spencer’s history – well, you’d have thought they’d have locked the doors, wouldn’t you? All feels a bit pathetic, you know? A bit insubstantial.’

  ‘Maybe he’d been out when we arrived, and it happened before he got home, or something.’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘Or just maybe they’re not fit to parent him,’ Mike finished. He laughed. ‘It’s been known, love. There’d be no need for the likes of us, otherwise, would there?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said, dialling EDT.

  It would be a further two hours after getting home before we were reunited with our little Houdini, who was standing sheepishly on the doorstep, dwarfed by a big burly policeman.

  ‘Spencer,’ I said firmly. ‘Where on earth have you been?’

  The constable ran a hand over Spencer’s hair. It was so silky it was like no one could ever resist it. ‘Found him sauntering around his estate, didn’t I, kiddo? I think he knows he’s in bother, Mrs Watson, don’t you, lad?’

  Spencer looked up at me with huge eyes. He looked exhausted. I saw Fluffy Cow was clutched in his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Casey. I just didn’t know what time it was.’ He stepped into the hall.

  ‘Well, I guessed that,’ I said, as we followed him into the kitchen. ‘You were gone for hours. Didn’t you realise how upset and worried we’d all be? Your mum and dad were going out of their minds.’

  Spencer’s expression was clear. This didn’t impress him one bit. He even snorted before answering. ‘No they weren’t!’ he said indignantly. ‘They don’t even care.’ He flopped down on a kitchen chair and lay his arms on the table, then put his head down on them, as if to endorse this. The policeman patted him, while Mike reached for the kettle.

  I pulled up another chair and sat beside him. ‘Love, you can’t keep doing this,’ I said gently. ‘It’s dangerous. You’re much too young to be out, especially with the nights getting so dark now. And of course people care, and that includes your mum and dad.’

  Spencer lifted his head, then, and I could see his cheeks were wet. He rubbed at them crossly, as if not wanting the policeman to see them. ‘No they don’t! I was saying how I’ve been such a good lad – I had a picture in my pocket for my mum, and everything, but she didn’t even look at it.’ His voice cracked, and now he’d started really sobbing. ‘She just said, “Later, Spencer. I’ve got to see to the others.” Just like always.’

  ‘Oh, love,’ I said, pulling him towards me for a cuddle. ‘I’m sure she didn’t mean it to sound bad. She’s just frazzled. She must be so busy … what with five kids to look after …’

  ‘Four,’ Spencer corrected, his voice angry. ‘Only four.’

  I didn’t know what to say to that. I just had to let him cry. Cry it out while the policeman, who’d turned down the offer of a coffee, was shown out by Mike.

  He came to sit with us too, then, while I sat and rocked Spencer. He cried for a good ten minutes, but, eventually, he was spent. He sniffed loudly, and wiped his face with the back of the hand that held his puppet.

  ‘That’s the way, mate,’ said Mike. ‘Dry your eyes. Feeling a bit better now that’s out of you?’

  Spencer nodded. ‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘Just a bit tired. Can I get my ’jamas on?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, standing up. ‘Then I’ll get you some supper, shall I? You must be starving.’

  Spencer too climbed down from the table. Then shook his head.

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ he said to both of us, looking suddenly much brighter. ‘I’m full of scraps.’

  ‘Scraps?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, grinning now, as if locking on to a happier memory. ‘Scraps from the chippy. He’s sound, the man there is. He always gives me free bags of scraps. With lots of vinegar. I always tell him Mum forgot to give me dinner, and he’s like, “You’re like the kid who cried wolf, you – I never know whether to believe you!” But then I wink and he winks and he gives me a bag of scraps.’

  Artful Dodger? Oliver Twist? Combination of both? It didn’t matter. All I knew was that our Spencer was one singular little boy. He had this weird capacity to turn his emotions on and off. One minute in bits, and for what seemed very good reasons. But the next? I watched him trot upstairs with Mike to get his pyjamas on. It was as if he no longer had a care in the world.

  Chapter 10

  I couldn’t work out if the two things were related, but after the disastrous home visit and Spencer’s upset about his parents, the next couple of weeks were reassuringly calm. He seemed to settle with us more and accept how things were, and to embrace the routines we’d put in place. This was key, I felt, to getting him to accept the idea of having boundaries. I even allowed myself to think we were making progress.

  John Fulshaw agreed. Spencer was regularly earning all his points now, and when I called John to discuss progress in early October he agreed he could move up to the next level. Spencer was thrilled. This level held the promise of something particularly important: earning points now meant he could buy ‘peer time’, the opportunity to see friends outside of school.

  There was one boy, called Adam, who lived on the street next to ours, with whom Spencer had struck up something of a friendship. He’d obviously not yet been allowed peer time at this point, but had got talking to Adam before the school run every morning, as the local kids tended to congregate outside our house, and I’d recently started allowing him to sit out on the front wall and wait for me. It had been something of a risk after all the nonsense at his own school, but I’d decided to risk it, in order to give him a chance to rebuild trust, and so far it had paid off. He seemed more interested in striking up friendships with the local boys than hotfooting it off down the street.

  Because I knew about Adam, I now agreed that for an hour after school every day Spencer could play out not only on our street but also on Adam’s, though absolutely nowhere else. I also made clear that time-keeping was key.

  ‘If you’re late back,’ I explained, still mindful of his history of absconding, ‘then there’s a very clear consequence in place. The next day you’ll lose however many minutes that you were late by, okay?’

  Spencer nodded happily, digesting this. Then he frowned. ‘But what if I don’t realise what the time is, or something?’

  I already had this covered. I produced a cheap watch I’d bought for him in town. ‘That won’t happen,’ I told him, ‘just as long as you keep this on. It’ll also help you with telling the time, won’t it?’

  ‘Wow, Casey – thanks!’ he said, seeming once again thrilled. ‘That’s so cool. An’ I won’t be late, ever!’

  Spencer, to my delight, was true to his word. Over the next couple of weeks we had a new routine up and running. We’d get back from school around four, and while I made a start on tea he’d go upstairs to change out of his uniform and tidy his bedroom. Having eaten, he’d then be allowed out between five and six, after which he’d come in and get started on his evening routine: pyjamas on, homework, then TV or computer time. And even though I still had my reservations about an eight-year-old being allowed out on the streets unaccompanied – particularly since the nights would soon begin to draw in – it was really encouraging to see things going so well.

  However, that wasn’t a worry at the weekends. On Saturdays and Sundays the local streets were full of children, and we were able to let Spencer play out earlier in the day. And it continued to go well. I was pleased to see, from the way he chattered on about everyone, that he seemed to make friends quickly and easily. However, the one
friendship I was most keen to encourage was a family one; I so wanted him to have a positive relationship with Kieron, who I felt could be such a helpful ally to him. Kieron had been so helpful with previous children we’d fostered, and it still upset me that the incident with Spencer stealing my necklace meant he hadn’t bonded with him yet. So one Saturday morning, when I’d planned lunch in town with the kids, I suggested to Spencer that it would be nice if he came with us.

  ‘Oh, but I’ve planned on playing cops and robbers with my mates today,’ he told me.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘You can still have your hour playing out. I’d just like you back here by twelve o’clock, that’s all, so we can all do something together for a change.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, though not looking entirely convinced that my plan for ‘lunch out’ would be the highlight of his day. ‘I promise. Twelve o’clock,’ he agreed, waving the wrist with the watch on. ‘So I’d better get going, then, hadn’t I?’

  Riley had been dropped off by David, and was just coming up the path with the children as Spencer left. ‘He’s in a rush,’ she observed, as he scurried past her to meet the small congregation of kids clustered a few doors down. I explained that I’d asked him to come to town with us, and why.

  ‘I hesitate to tempt fate,’ I said as we went into the kitchen for a coffee, ‘but I’m really pleased with his progress just lately. It’s so good to see him integrating so well with the local kids. It’s all happened so much quicker than I’d expected.’

  And this was unusual. Children in care didn’t tend to make friends easily. Even without the psychological problems many of them had, it was difficult, being uprooted from your normal environment, and it took time to build the confidence to make new friends. Riley shook her head, though. ‘I’m not surprised at all, Mum. He’s hardly like your average eight-year-old, is he? He’s so street-wise and worldly, they’re all probably in awe of him. And you know how hierarchical children can be – they probably see him as some sort of hero.’