Groomed

by Casey Watson

  But I’m not one for waiting around for things to happen, and there was no way in the world that either Mike or I could go to bed. So once the house was quiet and still – and Mike had gallantly agreed to do the remaining clearing up – I went and got my laptop, and went back into the conservatory, threw a blanket around my shoulders and tried to get my head straight.

  Mike, predictably, was a mixture of natural concern and justifiable anger. He’d already run through what he planned on doing, which was to completely re-establish and strengthen the boundaries, and if Keeley didn’t like it – or, indeed, stick to it – he wanted to make clear that she was welcome to move on somewhere else.

  I knew he meant it as well. Sixteen was a million miles from eleven or twelve in terms of what role we as foster carers could play. Not if that role was being repeatedly rejected. ‘So if she wants to keep living with us,’ he’d added, ‘then everything needs to change. Her choice, love.’

  As indeed it was. And she was on extremely thin ice. He laid the blame for Tyler and Denver’s behaviour at Keeley’s feet too. Which was fair enough again. Yet, reasonable though it was – and I knew no one would judge us – I just kept coming back to my default position, that the key to helping Keeley lay in further unpeeling the layers and getting to grips with the little abandoned girl within. The little abandoned abused child.

  So I sat and read – there was nothing much else to do while we waited. (And wait we would; though he’d offered I didn’t want Mike driving round the streets like a kerb-crawler, looking for her again.) I read all the correspondence between John and me, and the emails exchanged with Danny. I read through all the attachments again – the important information that always filtered through at the start of a new placement, in this case Keeley’s school records (scant now), further information about her birth family (very little) and a few notes about her previous placement plans, which told me nothing I didn’t already know.

  Then, finally, having learned nothing new of note, I went back to my own daily log sheets, so I could revisit the early days after her arrival:

  Day four [though every log was dated, I always worked like this – from arrival day to whenever]. When Keeley finally emerged from her bedroom it was almost noon and she was in a foul mood. I tried my best to cheer her up but the more I tried, the worse her behaviour became. I was feeling really stressed by this point as we didn’t seem to be making any headway, or at the very least, taking one step forward and two steps back. I yelled back at her to go back upstairs (cross with myself for yelling – she always seems to be able to goad me into yelling back at her – shouldn’t happen!) and to come down when her mood had improved. She then turned to the fireplace and spent some time with her back to me, apparently looking at all the photographs on the mantelpiece. Then, without warning, she picked one up and hurled it across the room – not towards me, thankfully – smashing the glass and damaging the frame. I struggled to keep my temper – not least because it was the one the kids had given me for Mother’s Day, of all the grandkids, and the fact that it was a gift made it doubly infuriating. I went to chastise her – sternly but calmly (a lot more calmly than I felt!) – but she barged past me and ran upstairs, yelling profanities at me all the way. I really can’t say at this point if the placement is going to last. It feels harsh to be saying so this early on, but I’m not sure it’s working. Nothing seems to be working.

  I looked at the entry again, remembering the scene and the day. I remembered feeling furious and then, uncharacteristically, even tearful, as I’d picked up the shards of glass and gathered them into the dustpan, and saw that some of the little diamantés in the frame had fallen out.

  I remembered too that I looked into the faces of my four grandchildren and had one of those thoughts every foster carer experiences from time to time, questioning whether I needed or wanted such a disruptive and negative influence in my house.

  But now I revisited the scene in my mind and saw it slightly differently. Nothing had changed about it, but my perspective had begun to. How must it feel to be Keeley, seeing those happy untroubled faces smiling out at her? Seeing a mantelpiece crammed with the starkest of contrasts – evidence of the history of a functional happy family? Difficult at best. Almost as if they were all lined up there just to rub salt in her wounds. And on top of the ‘rogues’ gallery’ she’d leafed through, so she could get to know us better … Perhaps it just made her feel worse.

  In truth, I could have had those thoughts then – I even might have. After all, part of our training is to always keep in mind that children aren’t born evil – they are damaged by people and circumstances beyond their control. And many a child had lashed out in my living room before that. It went with the career choice. But now I thought about the picture she’d chosen to take out her anger on and it suddenly seemed such a deliberate choice. My four grandchildren, her four siblings. An emotional kick in the teeth if ever there was one. That was so obviously the photograph she would choose. God, they were even almost matched in age!

  I was deep in my reverie, reading on, trying to see between the lines of type, when a sound heralded Mike popping his head around the door. ‘All done,’ he said. ‘So, what’s the plan going to be with madam? It’s gone one.’

  I could see he’d softened towards Keeley now – well, just a little. Probably just the responsible parent in him kicking in. It’s one thing to know that you don’t have to officially worry about an older foster child, quite another to switch off the worrying switch. Even if no one would hold us responsible if anything happened to her, what parent wouldn’t feel responsible?

  ‘I don’t know,’ I began, closing the lid on the laptop.

  ‘I think I should have a drive around,’ he said. ‘I can’t not, love. I don’t suppose you know where her two friends live, do you?’

  I shook my head miserably. What a crappy parent I was! I hadn’t even thought to ask that. I suppose I just assumed that, given her age, I wouldn’t need to know these things like that straight away. I’d barely registered them as friends, let alone knew anything about them – well, apart from their penchant for disrespect and cheap wine. I stood up and shrugged off the blanket.

  ‘Well, I’ll just have a drive around in that case,’ he said.

  I followed him back into the kitchen. ‘And I suppose I’d better get on and phone EDT and report it. Even if you do find her, we need to make this official and get it on record, don’t we?’

  ‘And prepare for a long night ahead,’ Mike said wearily. He stretched his arms above his head, then held them out towards me. ‘God, I’m tired,’ he said, pulling me in for a hug. ‘Are we getting too old for this lark, you reckon?’

  He was right, as my instinct had already told me, given the amount of wine the girls had already consumed before they’d left. And was he right about us getting too old for all this hassle? Right then, it certainly felt that way.

  He headed out and I trudged off to phone EDT. The lady who answered was friendly and efficient and took down the details with calm detachment. It was a box-ticking exercise, and both of us knew it. What time did she leave? Have you reported it to the police? Can you keep us informed if anything else happens? Will you please phone back and let us know as soon as you have a police log number?

  I answered the questions with as much enthusiasm as they’d been asked and, before hanging up, assured her that if Keeley wasn’t home within the next half an hour I would get on to the police. I then went upstairs, on tired legs, to check on the boys, who were both sleeping soundly, Tyler sprawled in his bed, Denver curled up on the pull-out, looking like butter wouldn’t melt. With my own bed a no-no, at least for the moment, I then wandered across the landing into Keeley’s bedroom. Not to snoop around. Just to stand and survey her tiny temporary kingdom, which was chock full of her stuff – though, as ever, very tidy. Her expensive make-up, all stacked neatly in its compartmentalised Perspex tray. Her array of designer perfumes arranged in a perfect semi-circle, in front of, and refl
ected in, the triple mirror on her dressing table. The freshly ironed pile of branded hoodys and T-shirts, still on the tub chair, and waiting to be put away. So much stuff, and yet … I glanced around me, and thought of Tyler’s room. So little. All this expensive stuff and yet so little emotional wealth. No family photos, no quirky snaps of her and her friends. No silly notes, no greeting cards – bar the few she’d had from us – no materially worthless but oh-so-important ticket stubs or lanyards, as Tyler had. Despite her many belongings, this room was void of anything that suggested a normal, happy teenager resided in it.

  I was back downstairs, in thoughtful mood, and just debating whether to make myself another coffee and risk what little sleep I’d have time to snatch, when Mike reappeared, empty handed.

  ‘Time to call the police, love,’ he said, going across to the kettle to make the coffee decision for me. ‘I don’t doubt she’s spark out at one of her friend’s places by now, but we might as well crack on. Do you want me to do it?’

  I shook my head. ‘You make the coffee and I’ll go and do it.’ I managed a wan smile. ‘And I’ll see you on the other side.’

  And it was as long a job as experience had long since told me it would be. A full ninety minutes of answering questions, going through a set format for dealing with situations such as this, when a vulnerable young person has gone AWOL. And despite her age, Keeley was still classed as vulnerable, which meant that the usual response – to wait until twenty-four hours had passed before acting – was replaced by a concerted effort to aid any search for her, which left me embarrassed once again as I had to confess that, bar such physical descriptions as I could manage, I didn’t know the first thing about the two girls she’d gone off with. I didn’t even know their surnames, let alone their addresses. I could doubtless find out, in time – a call to Gary Clarke would sort that – but it was almost two in the morning by the time we were done and they’d need more than ‘three sixteen-year-old girls had flounced off’ to start ringing all and sundry in the small hours. For all we knew, it was just as Mike had already predicted, that Keeley was asleep on a pull-out in someone else’s home.

  At 2.30 a.m. and feeling defeated, we crawled up to bed, taking our mobile phones with us – definitely not aids to restful sleep – as we waited for news, or, usually worse, a sharp knock at the door.

  It was just gone 5.00 a.m. when I finally took the call. Feeling as if I’d only just drifted off, I was confused by the noise at first, but then, fearing the phone’s trilling might wake Tyler and Denver, I quickly stretched out to grab it, desperately hoping it was good news.

  It was. The police officer was quick to reassure us. ‘We have a very tired, very cold and very contrite young lady with us,’ he told me. ‘And she wants to know if it’s okay to come home.’

  Chapter 12

  With the news that Keeley was safe and being returned to us, Mike, who was bleary-eyed and doughy-faced when I woke him, turned full circle and was immediately cross again. And I got that. How many times did the average parent go through that same emotional process? Something happens, a child vanishes, some other crisis befalls them – and, as a parent, you worry yourself sick, don’t you? And then, when all’s well, your feelings turn on a sixpence. Worry turns to relief, and with the relief comes a jolt of anger – that they’ve had the audacity (or the stupidity, more often) to put you through the trauma of having to worry yourself sick in the first place. So instead of feeling better, what you mostly feel is furious. Well, at least for a little while.

  ‘You’d better deal with her on your own,’ he said, once I’d shaken him awake and given him the fuller picture. ‘Or I might not be responsible for my actions. I certainly don’t trust myself to stay calm.’

  And I agreed with him, both privately and then verbally. And again when he reiterated what he’d said to me earlier – that perhaps we were getting too old for all this stress.

  The policeman who’d called me turned out to be a burly thirty-something and, unbeknown to Keeley, who was on the doorstep in front of him, with a bit of a twinkle in his eye. Which was remarkable, given that it was close on six in the morning, but I recognised someone who seemed to be happy in his work, which meant it was lucky it had been him who picked her up.

  He ushered Keeley in before him (she was entirely without a hint of twinkle) and while she dived into the downstairs loo he followed me into the living room, where, once he’d refused coffee or tea (he was about to go off shift), he told me, in hushed tones, in case she heard us, that I didn’t need to worry because he’d read her the riot act, in no uncertain terms, and was confident he’d hammered his point home. ‘We’ve had a fair few tears,’ he added. ‘And between you and me I’m not without sympathy for the lass. Seems her so-called mates weren’t that matey after all.’

  ‘Do you know what she’s been up to?’ I asked, keeping my voice low as well.

  ‘Not a lot, by all accounts – well, if what’s she told me is actually true. The usual hanging about aimlessly’ – he mentioned a faraway park – ‘well, till they hooked up with a couple of lads – deadbeats the pair of them, and both known to us, it turns out, and the four of them pretty much buggered off and left her.’

  ‘What, the girls did?’

  ‘It appears so. Oh, and, for future reference, Mrs Watson, one of those girls – the one called Gemma? She’s known to us too. Not exactly a hardened wrong ’un, but, well, you know how it goes with these youngsters. She’s in foster care herself. Bit of a silly girl. Easily led. So she certainly has the potential to be. Anyway, at least you have this one home finally, for your sins.’ The toilet flushed then. ‘So you can finally get off to bed at least,’ he finished.

  ‘Some hope,’ I said wryly. ‘But thank you so much. We really appreciate it.’

  ‘No thanks necessary,’ he said, as Keeley appeared in the doorway. ‘For one thing it was Keeley here who found us, not the other way around. And’ – he touched my arm – ‘we’re all in this together, aren’t we? And just you shape up, young lady,’ he added, looking sharply at Keeley. ‘Do as this long-suffering lady tells you, you hear me? And remember what I said. We’ve got better things to be doing than acting as a taxi service. Much more important things to be doing. So next time we pick you up you’ll be coming back to our accommodation for the night. Remember that.’

  Keely tried out a scowl but I could see her heart wasn’t in it. She looked grey and, for a moment, I thought she might throw up. Vulnerable minor. The official term popped into my head. ‘What d’you say, Keeley?’ I snapped, even though I wasn’t by now feeling very snappish.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. And as her chin lifted, I saw the glint of tears tracking down her face.

  Hmm. Sorry after the act. Again.

  I sat up with Keeley for another half-hour after the policeman left. I knew Mike would be up soon, but since she was so subdued and contrite I wanted to hear for myself how the night had panned out. If what the officer had said was true, I had gained an unexpected new perspective. Far from being the cocksure, independent young woman she purported to be, was Keeley – now I’d finally observed her in the new light of peer relationships – actually suffering from a bad case of ‘needing to be liked’ syndrome? Were her new friends (Keeley had made much of how many friends she had since day one) actually treating her with disdain?

  If I’d been unimpressed by their lack of respect in a stranger’s home earlier in the evening (how was it still the same evening? My eyelids told me differently) I was doubly unimpressed by the way they’d apparently dumped her when a more exciting prospect had emerged in the shape of two apparently dodgy lads.

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ Keeley insisted, through a veil of snivels, sobs and tears – the stock in trade of many a miserable sixteen-year-old girl before her. ‘I just didn’t wanna go with them, okay? I could have, but I didn’t want to.’

  ‘That’s not what you told the policeman.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’

  ‘Yeah well wh
at, Keeley?’

  ‘Yeah well what was I supposed to say? I needed to get home, didn’t I?’

  ‘So you gave him a sob story. Said they’d dumped you. That’s a very nice way to treat your friends, I must say.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Can I go to bed?’

  ‘No, you can’t, Keeley. You’ve kept me and Mike up all night and you can stay up a bit longer. So, how come no one was out looking for Gemma and Katie?’

  ‘Because Gemma told her foster mum she was staying over at Katie’s and Katie told her mum she was staying over at Gemma’s, obviously.’

  She was getting chippy now, trying to bat me away. But I wasn’t having any of it. ‘There’s no “obviously” about it, Keeley. Does it occur to none of you that it’s not on to carry on like that? Suppose something happens to them? You don’t know these lads from Adam, do you?’

  ‘Trust me, I don’t want to,’ she huffed. ‘Look, can I just go to bed? I’ve said I’m sorry, haven’t I?’

  ‘Saying you’re sorry isn’t the universal panacea, Keeley.’

  She looked at me balefully, her big eyes smudged with tears and mascara. ‘Well, what else am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Stop behaving like a bloody child in the first place!’

  I didn’t mean to swear. Not the best thing to slip out, given the amount of times I pulled her up on it. But it had popped out and I couldn’t now pop it back in. But what did it matter, really? We were way past that now. ‘Seriously, Keeley, it seems to me that you are determined to mess things up for yourself. It’s almost like you actively want to push us to the limit. Is that what you want? For me to call Danny in the morning and ask him to have you moved on somewhere else? Yet more strangers? Because right now you’re this close’ – I put thumb and finger together – ‘to that happening, believe me. You’re sixteen now, after all, as you keep on reminding us. And if you don’t want our support, then you only have to say so. Believe me, if you’re that hell bent on your whole “offskies” plan, maybe we’d better put it in action right now.’