Daddy's Boy

by Casey Watson

  Copyright

  Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates,

  have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

  HarperElement

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published by HarperElement 2016

  FIRST EDITION

  © Casey Watson 2016

  A catalogue record of this book is

  available from the British Library

  Cover image ©Shutterstock.com

  Cover layout ©HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

  Casey Watson asserts the moral right to

  be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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  Ebook Edition © April 2016 ISBN: 9780008142704

  Version: 2016-04-15

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  If you like Casey Watson …

  Casey Watson

  Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Mike groaned as he heaved our bulging suitcase from one of the carousels in baggage reclaim at our local airport. ‘Back to grim reality,’ he moaned. ‘Goodbye sunshine, hello grey British skies.’

  ‘Oh, stop being so melodramatic, love,’ I said, laughing, shaking my head at his hangdog expression. ‘It’s not even June yet. We still have the whole summer to look forward to! Just be grateful we’ve been able to have this little break.’

  I took the laptop bag from him while he tried to guide the misbehaving case through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ area without looking shifty. Personally, I did feel grateful – enormously so – for our impromptu mini-break in Minorca, which had been a last-minute bargain, courtesy of my mum and dad, who’d just sold their caravan and treated us as a surprise.

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ Mike grumbled. ‘There’s Tyler off to another footie camp, and you’ll be doing fun stuff with the grandkids … And there I’ll be, as bloody per, nose to the grindstone at work, while you guys have all the excitement.’

  I grinned as we emerged into arrivals. I knew he was only trying to wind me up. Though he was right, of course. Tyler was off to his football camp – his second one this year, in fact. He was becoming quite the little footballing superstar. Or, as he put it, the ‘next Gareth Bale’, whoever he was.

  And, no, I didn’t have any ‘proper’ job to go back to, not in that sense, because my job was being a foster carer (and Mike’s second job as well, if we were going to split hairs), so there were times when I was between jobs, and this was one such.

  I knew it wouldn’t be for long – it never was – but he was wrong about the ‘excitement’ part. Yes, it was true. I had time to indulge the grandkids. We had four now, all living close by (my daughter Riley’s three, plus son Kieron and his girlfriend’s brand new baby daughter, Dee Dee), so there was never a dull moment in that regard. But much as I loved being a nana, there was always a part of me that didn’t feel quite right when I wasn’t fostering. Yes, I could keep myself busy, and time with grandkids was always to be cherished – but I was still only 49 and when I didn’t have a foster kid in, I very quickly felt very old and very useless.

  And ‘having a foster child’ no longer included Tyler. Yes, that was what he was, officially, because that’s how he had come to us, but it no longer felt like that – couldn’t feel less like that, in fact – because, for one thing, we were committed to care for him permanently now and, for another, it just didn’t. He felt like ours.

  And, as Mike had pointed out, he’d be off on Monday morning anyway, in pursuit of footballing greatness. No, all things considered, I decided as we headed in search of our car, I rather hoped we’d get a call sometime soon.

  Because it had, by now, been quite a while. Our last long-term foster child, Flip, had left us a couple of months ago, and apart from a brief and eventful placement involving an eight-year-old boy called Connor, it had all been a bit quiet on the western front. I knew that was partly because of the mini-break (it wouldn’t have been appropriate, or even workable, to book a holiday abroad with a new foster child just installed), but now we were back I had ants in my pants.

  No, I thought, as we made the short journey home, much as I couldn’t wait to see my family, I was also crossing my fingers that a call would come from our link worker, John Fulshaw, pretty sharpish. I said as much to Mike.

  ‘Glutton for it, you are,’ he said. ‘You do realise, Casey, don’t you, that most women would love a nice long break from looking after kids?’

  ‘Oh, give over,’ I said. ‘You miss having a rowdy house just as much as I do.’

  ‘I’m just saying,’ Mike said. ‘Be ca–’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ I interrupted. ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

  Which made us both laugh, because those half-dozen words had been said by one or other of us so many times now, and, almost without exception, they’d proved to be the right ones, as well.

  When you spend a fair few of your waking hours in the company of little people during the school holidays, it’s odds on that, when a phone goes, it’ll be one of them that answers it. And so it was that, come the Sunday morning – the beginning of the late spring half-term – Marley Mae, Riley and David’s youngest, aged two-going-on-seventeen, sashayed to my smartphone, and also managed to unlock it, before I’d even properly heard it ring.

  There are few things more arresting than being at the wrong end of your forties and realising that your grand-daughter can work your technology better than you, despite being only just properly out of nappies. And what she couldn’t quite manage, her older brothers certainly could. Though, on this occasion, their help clearly wasn’t required.

  ‘Gangad! It’s me, your cheeky monkey!’ Marley Mae shouted gleefully into it. ‘We’re having yoghurt and crisps!’

  I gently removed the phone from my grand-daughter’s iron grip. ‘Hey, love,’ I said. ‘How are you doing? Bearing up?’ Mike had not only to go into work, but had to do so a day early due to staff sickness. About which he wasn’t terrifically happy.

  ‘Hey, love, yourself,’ came the response, along with a chuckle. ‘And – hmm – Gangad? Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  Not Mike then. ‘About blinking time, too,’ I said, mouthing ‘It’s John!’ at Riley. She raised a thumb. Then another. ‘Tell him he’s a lifesaver,’ she added, loud enough so he could hear. She knew exactly what I was like.

  ‘No, that’ll be you,’ John corrected. ‘Well, you and Mike, to be more precise. And before you ask, I mean it. Well, if you’re up for it, that is. It’s another emergency one, so I’m rather putting you on the spot here. A boy that needs a berth by tomorrow.’

  ‘What, you mean respite care?’

  ‘No, not quite that. He’s not coming from another fo
ster family. He’s coming straight from the family. Currently with an aunt …’

  ‘Oh. Not in care at all, then?’

  ‘Not quite yet in care, no. Well, actually, yes, in care, unless something radical happens in the next few hours, which, frankly, I doubt. And, yes, I know this isn’t really one for you two, but you know what it’s like in the school holidays – horrendous. What with carers on holiday and one thing or another, and it’s sod’s law that we always get emergencies in.’

  ‘I suspect the two might be related,’ I observed, eyeing Levi and Jackson, just at the start of what looked like being fisticuffs over what game to play next.

  ‘I suspect you’re right. And it does leave us in the rather unfortunate position of not always being able to get the matching quite right.’

  ‘Which means you want to send us someone you wouldn’t normally send us? Again?’ I added, in case he’d already forgotten that our last child had been one of those as well. Only for a weekend, to be fair. But it was something of a full-on weekend. When what we really wanted – well, to be accurate, I really wanted – was a new child with whom I could try to ‘add some value’; one of the last-chance-saloon kids we’d been originally trained to foster.

  ‘It’s fine, John,’ I finished, already intrigued despite myself. ‘You know me and Mike. Always up for a challenge. Something different doesn’t scare us. Bring it on.’

  ‘I know that,’ he said, ‘which is obviously why I called you. And it is something rather different. He’s only five.’

  ‘Five?’ I said. ‘Wow. You’re right. That is different.’ In fact, I couldn’t recall when we’d last taken in a child that was so young.

  ‘And it’s not just the age, Casey,’ John went on. ‘Oh, and his name is Paulie, by the way. And he’s no ordinary five-year-old. Not by a long chalk.’

  With the boys upping the decibels I took myself out to the garden. ‘Go on,’ I said, as I sat down on one of the patio chairs, the better to hear him.

  ‘Well, for starters, don’t worry – this is going to be a very short placement. Few days or so. Couple of weeks, tops.’

  ‘How can you know that for sure?’ I asked. Because it’s always prudent to ask that.

  ‘Because there are only two outcomes happening here,’ John explained. ‘He’s either going home, back to his family, which is what everyone is hoping, or to a longer-term placement, possibilities for which are being looked into as we speak.’

  I understood that and my heart sank a little. That meant they weren’t even considering us for the job. Which was understandable, I supposed. This wasn’t our sort of placement, as he’d already mentioned, and our role would be to simply provide a stopgap. Which was fair enough. Mike and I were specialist carers, after all, employed to look after a very niche set of children. Usually older ones; kids who’d been through many placements before us, and were now deemed to be ‘unfosterable’. This was an extremely hard tag for them to carry, but it existed nevertheless. And, sad to say, it was a tag that was beginning to fit an ever growing number of kids in care. Which meant carers like Mike and me – carers who’d been trained, at some expense, to know how to handle such challenging children – would be somewhat wasted if they routinely sent us sweet, biddable five-year-olds.

  And even though I then remembered what he’d also said about ‘no ordinary five-year-old’, I couldn’t imagine a five-year-old who would require specialist carers like us anyway.

  Except today, when there was a crisis. And we did have a bed. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘And that’s fine. Yes, of course. We’re free. Why not?’

  ‘So you won’t mind me bringing him with me tomorrow morning? I mean, I could come on my own first, run everything by you … But, to be honest, it would help a great deal if I could just bring him with me, and you could take him …’

  I laughed. ‘Sight unseen?’

  ‘Kind of,’ he said. ‘And no commitment to buy, obviously.’

  And though we both laughed, we also both knew that sort of stuff was all nonsense. The intention was to bring him and leave him with us, end of. And that was fine too, because I couldn’t imagine any five-year-old child who could be so difficult that I’d feel obliged to slam the door in their face. Except there was something in John’s tone … And I knew John very well now.

  ‘You say like no ordinary five-year-old,’ I said. ‘John, is he really that bad?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘At least, let’s say I have a strong indication that he might be. And, look, I know we usually have time – time for you and Mike to make your minds up and discuss things. But in this case we don’t. The pressure really is on. He’s with an aunt for tonight, as I said – the mum’s sister – but she already has five children and will not keep him beyond that. And he can’t go home. Or to a home. So you really are our only hope.’

  ‘Flatterer,’ I said. And I smiled as I agreed. After all, for heaven’s sake, he was five.

  Chapter 2

  Belatedly, I worried slightly about Tyler. Now we had Tyler permanently, who was thirteen and a half, any fostering decisions we made had to include him, even though it had always been understood that we would continue to take in children for our programme.

  But, in fact, he was very relaxed. ‘I’ll be gone tomorrow anyway,’ he pointed out, ‘so I’ll barely even see him, will I? And he’s only five,’ he added, echoing my own thoughts.

  Mike, perhaps predictably, was slightly more cautious. ‘If John says he’s trouble, then I imagine he is trouble,’ he said when he did phone, later on that afternoon, to let us know he was on his way home. ‘But it’s up to you, love,’ he added. ‘And like you, I’m struggling to imagine just how bad a five-year-old can be. Anyway, I won’t be able to be there if John’s bringing him round tomorrow morning, so I’m going to have to trust your judgement on this one anyway – well, such as it is.’

  At which we both laughed. Well, he laughed, and I made a note to punch him later, but what stayed with me was what he’d said just before that. That if John had said that, then it had to be true.

  In the short term, however, I had to think of practicalities. Although my house was, of necessity, pretty well geared up for my very young grandchildren, the spare room we kept for foster children didn’t really feel like a home from home for a child that was so young. Back in the day – before Tyler – we had two rooms for fostering so, me being me (i.e. ever the little house elf), we had one done up to be very boyish and one very girly to cover all eventualities. Since Tyler had moved in permanently, however, that was no longer an option, so the one spare room was neutrally decorated, to suit boy or girl. Surveying it, however, it was clear that it suited neither that well.

  But I wasn’t short of books and games and toys and character bed sets so, once Riley and the kids had gone and Mike, Tyler and I had finished our makeshift, just-back-from-holiday Sunday tea, I went up and did what I could to make the room right for a little lad of five, down to the rather elderly Bob the Builder duvet cover that hadn’t seen service since Kieron was young.

  I was just finishing off when John Fulshaw called again, to let me know that, assuming we were still happy to help him, he’d be round with Paulie around nine the following day.

  ‘Epic,’ Tyler said, looking in on his way to bed. ‘I can give him the once over and size him up for you before I go. Make sure he’s safe.’

  I laughed. ‘Size him up? Safe? Ty, he’s five, not 15. I don’t think size or safety will be much of an issue here, do you?’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ he said, narrowing his heartbreaker eyes. ‘You just never know.’

  And, given some of the stories I could tell about some of the kids we’d been asked to care for, I had to concede I knew what he meant. It was true. You just didn’t ever know.

  I couldn’t help but think back to that when John’s car pulled up the following morning. And, in doing so, found myself grinning. There was nothing to worry about here. In fact, far from it. And it seemed Tyler was having a d
ouble take as well.

  ‘Whaaaat?’ he whispered, as we stood in the front window and watched as John unbuckled the child from his car seat. ‘Casey, are you sure that’s even a him?’

  John carefully placed the child on the pavement, then, as if handling fine china, and I had to accept that Tyler did have a point. The boy was tiny! He barely looked more than a toddler, and a somewhat androgynous one at that. I knew that long hair was currently fashionable with both sexes, and that some mums liked letting their little boys’ hair grow. But this child looked not so much like Little Lord Fauntleroy as Little Miss Muffet. Indeed, with his blond ringlets, it was only his outfit – denim jeans, trainers and a baseball jacket – that gave any clue to his gender.

  Telling Tyler to close his mouth, I made my way to the door to greet them. ‘Hi, John!’ I said brightly before squatting down in the hall and smiling at the child before me. ‘And this must be Paulie. Hello, sweetheart,’ I said warmly. ‘I’m Casey. And this is Tyler,’ I added, gesturing behind me. ‘Gosh, you’re a big boy, aren’t you? What are you, six or something?’

  Lame, I know, but it was mostly instinctive, my hunch being that his diminutive size was probably one of the things he routinely got teased about. I then decided to stay down where I was for a response. And, boy, did I get one.

  Eye to eye, as well, because, of course, we were at eye level. He looked me straight in the eyes and, had he not been the age he was, I would have been convinced he was sneering. ‘Are you stupid?’ he wanted to know. ‘I’m five!’ He then looked up at John, who was obviously squirming. ‘I told you I’m not stopping with no bloody woman,’ he said. ‘They’re all thick. Where’s the daddy?’

  Now it was my turn to have my mouth hanging open. I stood up again, not knowing quite how best to answer. This kid was just five? Was he being operated by robots? ‘You’d better come in,’ I said, raising my eyebrows – both to signify my surprise at his unexpected point of view, and to let him know that, actually, we weren’t eye to eye at all. ‘If you mean my husband Mike, love,’ I said mildly, while Tyler still gawped, ‘he’s at work. He won’t be back till tonight.’