by Casey Watson
‘Is step one of the process,’ I parroted back at him numbly. ‘As you said.’
He shook his head sadly. ‘I’m sure it’s not going to come to that, Casey.’
‘But it could.’
‘Of course it could. We have a duty to all our tenants. As I’m sure you realise. My hands are tied here. We have a duty.’
But which, in the middle of everything, perhaps, we’d forgotten.
I saw him out, drew the blinds against the darkness, then finished cleaning. Then I counted the minutes until Mike arrived home.
Chapter 21
Mike and I talked, long into the night. That our fostering would have such an effect on our local community was something that had never once occurred to us. But now it had, it suddenly seemed so understandable. There was no defence to be made, either. Spencer had caused no end of trouble, and with trouble came bad feeling, and now we knew the extent of it we both felt pretty awful.
It didn’t help that we felt we’d let them all down so badly. Our neighbours had always been so supportive with our fostering. Always so quick to speak to us in the street or at the shops, asking how we were doing, and how were the kids settling in, etc. I felt both stupid and cross with myself that we hadn’t realised this might happen – hadn’t put enough thought into all this.
But our heart to heart extended further than Spencer. He’d be gone from us, at some point, and the problem would be over. But what about after that? What about other children we fostered? With our chosen speciality being to take on the challenging kids, the kids no one else would, there was every chance that, however many kids down the line it happened, we’d get another child like Spencer. Perhaps worse.
‘We should move,’ Mike announced, lying in bed in the wee hours. ‘I mean, I know how much you love it here, but maybe it’s an option we should consider. After all, with our own grown up and gone now … And you know what they say – a change is as good as a rest.’
We both laughed. Rests were never high on the agenda for either of us. If we wanted to rest, fostering would be the last thing we’d be doing. No, Mike was right. Much as I loved my home – particularly my beloved bolt-hole, my conservatory – it was something we should consider. And he made another good point. Many of the other foster carers we’d come across lived in simpler settings, often more rural, with plenty of outside space for kids to explore and less opportunity for getting into mischief – not to mention less density of neighbours to annoy. So, though I never saw us as the sort of people who’d live right out, on farms, keeping animals and growing veg, there was a lot to be said for getting a little bit more rustic.
We agreed I’d call Mr Harris first thing in the morning, and start looking for a new place to live. ‘Not too far out, though,’ I warned Mike before we went to sleep. ‘We’re not about to go all country bumpkin.’
My first job, however, was to write long apologetic letters to every single person on Mr Harris’s list.
* * *
Not that making the decision, for all my initial enthusiasm, didn’t begin to weigh as heavy as the wintery weather. The reality of moving had other implications; we would probably – no, definitely – be moving further away from our children and our two beloved grandsons. It was one of those trade-offs that were so hard to deal with; we loved what we did, but how much were we prepared to sacrifice? I knew I wouldn’t feel happy till I’d sat down and properly talked it through with Riley and Kieron. Though, for the moment, I had enough on my plate. By the middle of the following week, after what felt like days and days of heavy snowfall, the whole neighbourhood was all but snowed in. We were into December now and the heavens had really opened up. It was pointless trying to dig the car out with so much fresh snow falling, so Mike, like so many others, had taken to going to work on foot. And to complicate things further, Spencer’s school had been closed since the weekend, as their heating had completely broken down.
But for all the hassle, it was at least an opportunity. With all the local kids in school, and the rest of the world occupied, it meant we could spend time together, just the two of us, which might just throw up an opportunity for him to open up to me. I was still at a loss to know how he was really coping with the knowledge that his family didn’t want to see him any more. On the surface he only had the two modes of operation – either deny everything, as he’d done with the carrier bags of stuff, or, if caught red-handed, to break down and beg forgiveness and promise not to do it again. It was hopeless.
‘Come on,’ I said on the Thursday, when the snow had stopped falling. ‘Let’s walk to the park, shall we? We could have a snowball fight, if you like.’
‘Yes!’ said Spencer, punching the air excitedly and immediately dashing to and fro gathering hat, scarf and boots. And while he did so I had another thought, and went out to the shed, returning, after braving a possible run-in with big, hairy spiders, with my own booty.
‘Oh, my God!’ he yelped, clapping his hands together, eyes on stalks. ‘Yessss! Oh, my God, you’ve got a sledge!’
I couldn’t help but find his wonderful small-boy enthusiasm infectious. ‘Indeed, I have,’ I laughed, ‘and if you play your cards right you can even sit and ride in it. C’mon, then. I’ll pull you as far as the park.’
Spencer was in his element as he raced out onto the street and lowered himself into the blue plastic sledge. But though he whooped excitedly and we chatted and we laughed and had fun, in the end, for all my plans, we discussed nothing. Despite my best intentions, we had no meaningful or enlightening conversations. But, actually, that was okay. Better than okay, in fact, because our couple of hours in the park were some of the nicest we’d ever spent. We were wet and we were cold but we’d had such a glorious, exhilarating and uncomplicated time. We built a snowman and chased after one another pelting snowballs. All in all, just old-fashioned childish fun, really. And, trudging home, hand in hand, giggling and salivating over the prospect of getting our hands around mugs of hot chocolate, it occurred to me that we could be mistaken for any normal mother and son.
It was a bittersweet feeling, and when Spencer squeezed my hand tightly and looked up and smiled it was all I could do not to scoop him up and make him the promise that it would be okay, that I did care and that I’d never let him go.
Which surprised me. I was shocked at the strength of my emotions for this crazy, mixed-up kid, and, I realised, very afraid for his future.
But with more snow came more potential for my little oasis of calm to be buried in a fresh blizzard of aggro. By the end of the week the local schools had closed too, and the streets were full of excited youngsters building snowmen and playing games, and since Spencer had behaved so impeccably since the previous weekend I naturally had no choice but to let him out to play, however anxious I was about him annoying someone else.
And so he did, and after watching him for a while from my kitchen window I set about making a big beef stew and dumplings for tea. Just the thing in this weather, I thought, as I chopped veg, with the radio blaring Christmas songs beside me.
I let him have longer than his usual hour, as well, figuring that with the snow to keep him innocently occupied there was little likelihood of him getting up to mischief. How horribly wrong could I be?
By five, I called him in. He was wet through and shivering. But happy. ‘Off upstairs,’ I said, ‘and straight out of those wet clothes. I’ve already run the bath so you can hop right on in. And you can change into your nightclothes when you’re finished.’
‘Have you?’ he said, through chattering teeth. ‘Thanks so much. That’s wicked. Brrrr,’ he finished, rubbing his hands together like a little old man. ‘Just what I need. What’s for tea?’
‘Stew and dumplings,’ I said, smiling as his eyes lit up further. He loved my stews. ‘Now, get off up there. You’re dripping on my carpet!’
Spencer trotting happily off upstairs, I then went back into the kitchen to pop the dumplings in the saucepan. Mike would be through the front door any minut
e, I calculated, which meant we could sit down to eat in half an hour.
And he did, right on cue, as I tidied the worktop. First I heard the door go and then the familiar sound of him banging his boots against the doorstep, to shake off the snow. But what I heard next was completely unfamiliar. To my consternation there seemed to be some sort of row starting up. I could hear male voices, several of them, raised and getting louder. Whatever was happening, they were clearly very angry.
I dashed into the hall to see Mike in the doorway, being confronted by three very angry-looking men. I felt a surge of fear – and compassion; I felt so sorry for my poor husband, standing on his own doorstep, in his stockinged feet. He looked so vulnerable. Yes, he was a big man, a tall one as well. But he’d be no match for three angry men.
They were all talking over one another, swearing and shouting, but one thing I did pick up was one of them saying, ‘You either sort that fucking kid out, or we’ll take it out on you!’
I came up behind Mike. ‘You go back in the kitchen, love,’ he told me.
‘No way,’ I said. ‘I want to know what the hell is going on!’
Seeing me standing my ground seemed to have a calming effect. Either that or at least one of the mob on my doorstep had some old-fashioned values about kicking off and swearing in front of women. One of the men, at least, managed to calm down sufficiently to explain what it was that they were so furious about.
As night follows day, it was Spencer. He’d apparently been inserting big stones into snowballs, then throwing them at various neighbours’ windows. Oh, God, I thought. Why? Why, why, why, why? And it seemed that, in one case, he’d done substantial damage, having shattered someone’s living-room window. Which was bad enough in itself, but made immeasurably worse by the fact that the man’s elderly mother had been sitting on the sofa at the time, and could so easily have been badly injured by the flying glass.
Thankfully the poor woman, though very shocked, was unharmed, but once again I had to stand, shame-faced, while Mike trotted out the usual story about Spencer, about how he was a troubled boy, in care, and only with us temporarily, and how we’d of course pay for the replacement of the broken window. There was very little else we could do.
As we turned to go back in, we both saw Spencer on the stairs. He was halfway down them, wrapped in a towel, shivering and looking terrified, obviously drawn down by the sound of the commotion.
‘Get back upstairs,’ I said, glaring at him. I was so angry and upset by all the aggression on the doorstep that by now I was shaking. ‘Go back upstairs, get your pyjamas on,’ I snapped. ‘And then come straight down for your tea.’
He did as I asked, without comment, and I went and joined Mike in the kitchen. He was leaning his hands against the sink, staring out into the night sky. It was so unfair. He really didn’t need to come home to all this after a hard day at work.
I went and checked the stew, then started laying the table.
‘I’m so sorry, love,’ I said. ‘This just isn’t on. And I don’t know about you, but I really can’t face having yet another mealtime ruined …’
He turned around. ‘You’re absolutely right, love. He’ll start babbling on about his innocence and how one of his friends did it, and we’ll get absolutely nowhere apart from halfway up the bloody wall. No, you’re right. We’ll make it clear. No discussion. End of subject. Deal with it tomorrow, yes? Speak to John … Honestly,’ he finished, ‘this is getting out of hand now. I’m bloody fuming. I thought that guy was going to get stuck in, I really did.’
Spencer, however, seemed to have no intention of doing likewise. I dished out the tea, put his plate in front of him, and Mike made it clear as I did so that, yes, he was in trouble for throwing his stone-encrusted snowballs, and yes, that was what the men had come about, but that, no, we weren’t interested in what he had to say about it. We’d deal with it tomorrow once we’d spoken to John about what the consequences might be. And through all this, Spencer said nothing. He just hung his head, looked contrite and nodded where appropriate, realising that to argue his point would be fruitless. Or so I thought. It was to turn out that his quiet, appeasing stance might have been much more to do with a sense of relief about having not been caught out doing much worse.
‘I’ll come round and take him off out for swimming and lunch, then.’ It was a couple of days later and, following my latest chat with John, this was Penny on the phone. Despite the threatened cutbacks, and the fact that Penny had been taken off ‘Spencer duties’ for the time being, John had felt that this new development warranted bringing her back in for a few extra hours.
And though Penny taking Spencer off on one of her outings felt to me a little bit like he was being rewarded for his bad behaviours, rather than punished, I wasn’t arguing. Who knew? Maybe one of John’s main motivations was to give me a little breathing space as well. Which was very welcome. With his school still closed and the roads still too treacherous for driving, I was beginning to feel less like Spencer’s jailor, and more like we were doing time together. All my warm maternal feeling from the week before was melting fast. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps he was so good at being a ‘wrecker’, as he called it, that to try to do anything to set him on the right path was pointless. Maybe I should just stop my ‘fussing’ and let him get on with it.
‘That’ll be great,’ I said, feeling guilty for mentally cheering. But I was at my wits’ end and I knew I really needed the break.
I decided, once they’d gone, that after I’d done my housework I’d walk round to Riley’s. Suddenly, I really didn’t want to stay in my own house. It might have just been a reaction to being snowed in, of course – after all, not being able to jump in my car and go to town was definitely losing its novelty. For one thing, it would soon be Christmas and, despite a bout of internet shopping, I didn’t feel I’d had a chance to prepare anything yet. By this time I had usually put up my tree and decorations, and would normally be hugging myself with excitement every time I thought about it, and looking forward, with the same sort of thrill as a child, to the upcoming family celebrations. But as for this year … It seemed all wrong to want to escape. I’d always been so happy and house proud. And now my beloved home really did feel like a prison; a place – and a neighbourhood – I wanted to flee from.
I’d been so worried about Riley’s reaction to us moving, but when I’d called to talk it through she’d been incredibly supportive. ‘Mum,’ she’d said, ‘do it! It’s a brilliant idea. A fresh start, a nicer area … what’s not to like?’ I loved her youthful lack of sentimentality, and hoped I’d soon feel likewise. But best of all was that she added that if we did move some distance then she and David would simply do likewise.
‘Really?’ I’d said.
‘Of course,’ she laughed. ‘You think I’d lose my free childcare? No, seriously,’ she went on, ‘we’ve been thinking about moving out a bit anyway. Levi will be school age before you know it and we want to live somewhere where there’s nice schools.’
But the cheerful spirit that accompanied my chilly trot around to my daughter’s was to be dissipated only an hour after I arrived there.
It was Penny, calling my mobile, and immediately apologising for being ‘about to completely ruin’ my day. She then went on to explain why that was.
They’d been swimming, apparently, but it still being too early for lunch they’d made a detour to the large department store in town, as she wanted to pick up a few bits. Spencer, she told me, had been somewhat reluctant about going in and, half an hour later, it became obvious why. She was calling me, she told me, from the store manager’s office, the two of them having been accosted by a store detective about a bout of shoplifting Spencer had indulged in the previous week. And there was no question of him wheedling his way out of it either, as they had it all on CCTV.
‘So could you head home, d’you think?’ she asked. ‘Because they’ve called the police, and the plan is, once they’ve dealt with matters here, for us all to mee
t up together at your house.’
My day ruined, I put the phone down and promptly burst into tears. Was there no end to this child’s criminal activity? How had he done all this? When had he done all this? I could only imagine that in his one hour of daily freedom he had managed to run the five minutes into town, with me believing that he was playing with Aaron on the next street. Hard as it was to believe, they had the evidence, so he must have. Was he some kind of impulsive kleptomaniac, as well? I brokenly and clumsily tried to explain things to Riley, and having done so regretted it – she was livid.
‘Enough!’ she said. ‘Mum, you cannot go on like this. There are jobs and there are jobs, and I know you love yours, but I can’t bear to see you and Dad suffering all this. God, while his parents’ – she literally spat out the word ‘parents’ – ‘just swan off and wash their hands of him. It’s wicked!’ She paused for breath, and snatched a tissue up. I duly blew my nose. ‘And it’s not just that,’ she went on. ‘This kid is clearly not normal, so he obviously needs some other sort of intervention, some sort of professional help that you and Dad aren’t qualified to provide. It’s not fair on either of you and it’s not fair on Spencer. They need to do something!’
‘They are trying …’
‘Then they need to try harder. I will not have my mother put through this all the time.’
It took a good 15 minutes to calm Riley down and convince her that I was okay now. Then I trudged home again, actually grateful for the cold, crisp winter air, and called Mike on my mobile to fill him in. He’d been on an early shift anyway, so said he’d be home, and in fact cheered me no end by beating me to it, and brandishing a hot coffee on the doorstep.
But caffeine alone, I decided, wouldn’t be enough, so I also broke out my pack of emergency cigarettes – about which Mike, bless his heart, never so much as made a murmur.
Within ten minutes the latest posse were all assembled. If there was one constant in our lives as foster carers, it was this: that they would be punctuated regularly by meetings with people. The cast would change – social workers, policemen, care professionals – but the event itself, actually, didn’t much. Hot beverages and biscuits, grim expressions and manila folders. And today’s was to prove no exception. Today’s attendees – Mike and me, Spencer, two police officers, Penny – gathered round the dining table at which the star of the show was a particularly arresting-looking manila folder.
