If Only He'd Told Me

by Mia Marconi

  I helped him pack and as he left I gave him £50, just like I would have done to any of my own children, but that night I received a phone call from the camp asking me to come and pick Brody up. He had smashed all the other kids’ lockers open and stolen their money. ‘Even the Army can’t contain him,’ I thought. They wanted him to come home but this time I knew I’d had enough.

  ‘I can’t pick him up,’ I said stiffly to the sergeant, ‘and my partner is working. Social services will have to deal with it.’

  When Lottie arrived at the barracks, the police were there and she spent two hours filling out paperwork. When she finally brought Brody home I asked for a meeting and said that, as a family, we were not happy taking Brody to Italy as he was becoming more and more unpredictable.

  Lottie saw my point but her boss didn’t. She told Lottie to tell me that I was expected to take him with us. I was adamant and knew I had reached breaking point. ‘I can’t risk my family’s safety any longer,’ I said – I can be stubborn when I want to be. ‘We are not taking him with us.’

  I couldn’t believe the words had come out of my mouth, but now they had a sense of relief crept into my bones. We were going on holiday without Brody and that was that. I allowed myself a small smile.

  Social services took me at my word and the next day Brody was sent to stay with my lovely friend Kathy. Kathy is a short-term foster carer and Brody would stay with her until we came home.

  I broke the news to Brody, who went berserk and told me he didn’t want to live with us any more anyway. I’m sure it was all bluff and bluster, but if a child says something like that I have to report it.

  I called Lottie and told her what Brody had said. She spoke to her boss, Trudi, whom I expected to say that social services would talk to Brody and explain to him the seriousness of what he had done, but instead of backing me up and telling him that he had to take responsibility for his actions, she said, ‘Well, if that’s what he wants …’

  I thought this was a recipe for disaster: now Brody knew he could do exactly what he wanted and not face any consequences. He could cause havoc and just walk away and leave a horrific mess behind. But the decision had been made. It was out of my hands. Brody would leave us permanently and he would leave immediately.

  It was quite late by now, so the girls put the younger children to bed. I packed up Brody’s belongings – not in black bin liners like when he’d arrived, but in his rucksack and another case we had bought him for when we went on holiday. By the time I handed Brody’s bags to Lottie, the kids were all asleep.

  Lottie was ready to take him away. ‘Bye, Brody,’ I said. Brody looked at me with undisguised hatred and I shivered. He turned and left without saying a word and I thought that would be the last time I ever saw him.

  That night he moved to Kathy’s, where he stayed until the morning before absconding. After he was found, he was then moved out of the area so that he was nowhere near our house.

  Placements mostly break down when foster carers are absolutely exhausted and no one is listening to or supporting them when they need it most. I felt as though I was in that position now. This is not always the fault of the social worker, and Lottie had been fantastic, but she could not overrule her boss Trudi, who seemed not to have grasped the situation. Or maybe she knew something I didn’t. She had only seen Brody on two occasions but had taken the decision that after six years it was time for him to leave us. All I had asked for was respite care so that we could go on a family holiday; I hadn’t wanted Brody to leave permanently, but the situation had escalated and Brody was now losing his home. I thought it was a bad move at the time, but honestly, with hindsight, although I couldn’t swear it was the right choice for Brody, I think Trudi made the right choice for us.

  Even so, I was devastated. I had looked after a hundred children by the time Brody came to live with us. Some had stayed months and years and some just days and weeks, but in all that time only one placement had broken down. At the time, I had been distraught and consumed by ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’, and this time was no different.

  Now Brody had gone, and the funny thing was, the day after he absconded, Trudi left social services herself.

  The next morning I explained to the kids that Brody was not going to live with us any more. There was silence for a minute while they took in what I was saying. Ruby, Isabella and Alfie were delighted, while Martin, Francesca and Lucia were sad. But we’d had years of police coming in and out of our home, and the worst thing was that we had become used to it. That was no way to live, I thought, and not what we wanted.

  ‘What, he’s never coming back?’ said Ruby.

  ‘Never?’

  ‘What, never, ever, ever?’ said Alfie.

  ‘Never, ever, ever.’

  Alfie turned away and smiled to himself with relief. I knew I would need a long chat with him, but for now Italy was my priority.

  My news had not had as much impact as it could have as we were all excited about the holiday and ready to leave for the airport, but I could tell by everyone’s faces that, whether they were happy or sad, they were definitely relieved.

  Brody had dominated my life for six years and without me realising it he had stripped me of everything. I would never have been able to give Brody enough. No matter how much I gave him, he wanted more. He was a powerful presence, one that deafened me to the alarm bells and the warnings of my friends and family.

  I was physically and mentally wrecked, so much so that I actually felt ill. My body, my mind and my heart were exhausted from the constant torment that I had given up on a child. Nothing had ever felt so wrong, and the impact was taking its toll.

  I thought about all the children who had been part of our family and who had left happy, with a chance of living a fulfilled, normal life, and I felt a failure. It was a feeling like no other: heavy, overwhelming, destructive. I had given up on a child and I had no idea how I would come to terms with that. It didn’t matter that I kept telling myself how impossible Brody had been and how I – and my whole family – had tried everything. Good foster carers before and after me had all tried and we had all failed. So I consoled myself with the thought that Brody just wanted to be at home, however awful it was, and no one was going to derail him from his first and final destination.

  As we boarded the plane I could feel a lightness around my shoulders, as if ten tons of bricks had been lifted. I felt so light I could have flown myself if I’d had wings. When you are surrounded by stress and chaos it becomes the normality of your life, and it’s not until you escape its grasp that you realise what a powerful presence it was and how it drained everything from you: your courage, your spirit, your faith. My character, which had always been so strong and buoyant, had become weak and broken.

  I looked at my family. We all looked frazzled and lifeless. Our batteries were flat. Most of all we needed to be far away from anything that reminded us of Brody. We needed to recharge in peace.

  The plane landed, the cabin doors opened and as we began to descend the steps to the runway, that familiar heat hit us like someone had just opened the oven door. All at once, our faces came alive.

  The four-week holiday that we took every year near my dad’s old home was a healing experience for us all and it could not have come at a better time. I slept for almost a week and each time I tried to get out of bed my legs buckled. I just had to give in to rest.

  Martin and the kids brought me cups of tea and I got up for meals, but after I had eaten I would feel the exhaustion hit me like a tidal wave and would sleep again for another eight hours.

  It was on the eighth day that I finally woke up feeling refreshed. I was up and back on my feet, taking part in family life again. It was slightly alien at first as I learned to give the other children attention and to take time for me – something I had been unable to do for years.

  Martin and I, always the best of friends, sat in silence, hand in hand, and watched the sea. We had missed each other and were rekindling ou
r love and friendship. I read with the kids and swam and laughed with them. We did simple things like eat pizza on the beach at midnight, collect mussels from the rocks and pick oranges and figs from the trees, and we did it together without the pervasive presence of Brody demanding all of my attention. How had I allowed Brody to take over my life, I asked myself? Where had it gone wrong? I had no concrete answers.

  We had family chats about Brody, although not for long periods of time – I didn’t want that. This was our time and Brody was not going to spoil it for us.

  None of us hated or judged Brody, which might sound strange, because we realised that life was hard for him. What we mostly felt was sorrow and relief. I had been waiting for a turning point with Brody, a chance to help him move on with his life and build a strong foundation, but the opportunity never came. At the beginning of the holiday I felt nothing but guilt about this, but by the end, once I’d talked it all through with Martin, I felt free. I was finding myself again.

  Chapter Seven

  It was about a week after we got home that I sat in Alfie’s bedroom on his bed, handed him a cup of hot chocolate and began to talk to him.

  ‘You have to tell me what has been going on. You don’t need to be scared – Brody’s gone and he’s not coming back, but I know he’s been bullying you and you need to tell me everything.’

  Alfie broke down, shaking from head to toe, crying like I had never seen him cry before. I held him for what seemed like half an hour, until his sobs subsided and he was able to talk.

  ‘When Brody first arrived, Mum, I was so excited to find out about his hobbies and he was excited to find out about me. It was great when I discovered we both liked football and I loved him straight away. It was like having my best friend around every day.

  ‘Remember, we were at different schools at first, and I would rush home to see him and then we would go off in the garden for hours. It was like having a brother.

  ‘Then he changed. I could never understand why he got angry with you. I hated it when he was abusive and it made me feel angry, but I knew that I was just a kid and there was nothing I could do.

  ‘I don’t know why but when Brody started at secondary school he got worse. When he came home from school he used to take all his anger and frustration out on me. He would take things from my room, then hit me when I asked for them back. Mum, it was like he was constantly trying to overpower me.’

  I felt completely cold and went as white as a sheet. I began to feel sick as Alfie continued his story.

  ‘He got so competitive, Mum. He would repeat over and over and over again, “I’m a better footballer than you. I’m a better runner than you. I’m a better cricketer than you.” When you and Dad weren’t around he made horrible comments. He said I was useless, ugly and an idiot. He was always trying to put me down, but he was clever and called me names when he knew no one would hear. No matter how hard I tried, he just treated me as though I was a problem.

  ‘Most of the time I just let it go over my head, but sometimes I got so frustrated I cried myself to sleep.’

  I felt a single tear start to creep down my cheek.

  ‘I don’t know what’s happened to me, Mum. I feel like I don’t exist any more, that nothing I do matters and that no one is interested in me. I don’t know why I’ve let him get on top of me.’

  Alfie went on to say how he could see that Brody running away was upsetting me and how he really felt for me having to spend so much time driving round the streets looking for him. He told me how when the police visited, which was on a regular basis, he used to hide upstairs.

  ‘Why?’ I asked him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Just scared, I guess.’

  I looked at the anxiety etched on my son’s face and felt the heat burn my own. I held him tightly and told him that he didn’t need to worry any longer, because Brody was NEVER coming back into our house.

  ‘You never have to see him any more, Alfie.’

  ‘What about at school?’ he said.

  I felt numb. I had forgotten about school. How long would it be before another school was found that could take Brody? Months, as it turned out.

  So things got worse before they got better, and the effect on Alfie was awful to watch. He had more days off sick, his work was beginning to suffer and he became more and more withdrawn.

  Although Brody had moved to another foster family outside the area, it was three months in the end until they found him a new school.

  At school, he showed no compassion for Alfie. There was no respite from the taunts and torments – in fact, the bullying got worse. He continued to call Alfie names – ‘sissy boy’, ‘gay boy’ – and threatened to beat him up. Alfie is not a fighter. Even though it was clear he was going to be tall, and his height would have intimidated some, he hated violence and avoided it at any cost.

  He faked every illness going, even a broken leg at one point, and the majority of the time I kept him at home because I knew what was happening at school. When he did go to school he would be constantly calling me on his phone, asking to come home, and I would often go and pick him up. When he made it to the end of the school day I made sure I collected him, but I didn’t go to the front gate, I waited round the corner. The last thing Alfie needed was Brody calling him ‘Mummy’s boy’ or ‘pansy boy’. But the day finally came when Brody moved schools and at last Alfie was free.

  Once Brody was out of Alfie’s life for good, Martin and I made a concerted effort to help Alfie rebuild his confidence. We had plenty of one-on-one time with him, we had his friends for special camping sleepovers in the garden, we took him to the cinema and then for pizza afterwards, and all the time we pointed out his achievements and the strong points in his personality. Little by little I could see his confidence returning until eventually he rejoined the rough and tumble of family life.

  I knew why Brody had targeted Alfie and why he had made him his whipping boy. He could not accept that his own behaviour was his own fault and he needed someone to blame. Alfie was the obvious choice. Brody was in denial, and did not know how to take responsibility for his actions. Nothing helped him or had any effect. Not the sanctions, not the love and attention, and not Alfie’s friendship. All had failed. Brody had failed and he knew it, so he took it out on the one person he knew would not fight back.

  Deep down Brody wanted everything Alfie had: a mum and dad who loved him unconditionally, sisters he could have a close relationship with, a clean home and an extended family that could be relied upon. Instead, his family lived in squalor, all his sisters were pregnant by the time they were fifteen, his mother had a drink problem, his father was abusive and his extended family consisted of his mother’s ex-partners as far as I could work out.

  After he ran away from Kathy’s, Brody went to live with an elderly couple whose children were grown up and had left home. I liked them but wondered how they were going to deal with his energy. Each morning, Brody was instantly wide awake as soon as he opened his eyes and was full on until he went to sleep. His days consisted of constant demands for pats on the back and attention. Brody was like the Duracell bunny; his battery never ran down. By this time, however, I had no energy left to worry about it. It was out of my hands, and alongside the regret all I felt was relief.

  It was six months later when I heard that Brody had been moved from the old couple’s home. He had hit one of the grandchildren and she had fallen and broken her arm. Once he had left, the grandchildren had all said how he had been bullying them, but not one of them had said anything before. Bullying was part of Brody’s survival kit – it was rooted in his psyche, planted there long before he came into care, and I wondered if he would ever control it or whether he would become just like his dad.

  Chapter Eight

  The following New Year’s Eve, at exactly midnight, the phone rang. I was expecting it to keep ringing with various family members who were not at my house calling to scream, ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR!’ I picked up the phone and for a momen
t could not make out the voice. The family were singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in the kitchen at the tops of their voices, so I took the phone into the garden. It felt rude to say, ‘Who is it?’ so I stayed quiet and waited for the caller to speak.

  ‘Are you having another party?’ the caller said.

  I sat on a garden chair in shock, looking at my house full of people laughing and dancing as I recognised Brody’s voice.

  ‘Is that you, Brody?’

  ‘Yes. Who did you think it was?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t heard from you in a while. How are you?’

  ‘I’m doing well, Mia. I just wanted to say Happy New Year to you and all the family.’ I stayed silent for a minute while I took this in.

  ‘I really am so happy you called,’ I said eventually. ‘It’s the best start to a new year I could have.’

  Brody giggled. ‘I’ll call you soon, Mia. Gotta go. Me mates are waiting.’

  ‘Bye, Brody. Take care of yourself.’

  ‘Bye, Mia.’ Then the line went dead.

  I sat in silence looking at the big oak tree at the bottom of my garden, taking time to realise just how beautiful it was. I took a deep breath and smiled as I felt my heart expanding with happiness. It was great to hear from him because, despite everything, all I wanted for Brody was a happy ending.

  I walked back into the hum of our party and looked at all the children dancing and laughing. These were moments that I cherished, but there was something else. That one phone call meant that I had made a difference to Brody. I had taught him to forgive. The last time I’d seen him he’d given me a look of such unadulterated hate that I was in no doubt I would never hear from him again. Now, a year later, Brody was at a place on his road where he felt safe enough to call me.

  Intermittently from then on I received the odd text from him. ‘Hi Mia, its Brody. How r u? It wld be grt to c u.’ After the first one I told social services and asked if I could see him.