Читать книгу Just a Boy: An Inspiring and Heartwarming Short Story - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 8

I managed to get hold of Marie straight away.

‘I’m sorry I’ve not called you yet,’ she apologised immediately. ‘I know John’s put you in the picture – at least, I assume he has – has he?’

‘Yes, yes,’ I answered. ‘It’s –’

‘It’s just that the hearing was scheduled for p.m. rather than a.m., so I don’t have any news yet, and –’

Now it was my turn to interrupt. ‘I do,’ I said, getting straight to the point. This was no time for chit-chat. ‘Jenson’s absconded from school.’

Marie groaned. ‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘So I’m assuming he’s gone to do what he admitted was the plan: meet up with his sister and head home to see Mum.’

‘And of course, she might already be on her way home from the hearing by now, too. I need to get round there. We need to get round there …’

‘Absolutely. So if you can let me have the address?’

Marie reeled it off for me. I didn’t need to write it down. It was local, and I knew it. I just made a mental note of the house number.

‘Okay,’ I said, pulling off my apron. ‘Thanks. I’ll get going, then. Let’s just hope it doesn’t become unpleasant. And what should I say to her if I get there before you?’

‘Which you probably will, because I’m bound to get stuck in traffic. Just keep it light. Tell her who you are and that you were worried about him running off. Tell her you don’t know any more than that. I think that’s the best way.’

This was actually the truth, I thought, as I jumped in my car and fired the engine. And Marie didn’t know much more because she hadn’t yet been told the outcome of the hearing. It was perfectly possible the judge had decided to let the children go home. Either way, Marie had assured me that she’d find out before she got there.

Jenson’s estate was a big sprawling one, built in the fifties or sixties; certainly at a time before everyone had cars. Every road I drove down had a ribbon of them on either side, all of them listing a little, looking like rows of sleeping animals, half up on the pavement, half in the kerb, leaving just a sliver of road to squeeze my car through. I had to park way past the house, which was showing no signs of life – but which perhaps wouldn’t, given this was a sunny early summer afternoon. I hurried back and headed up the front path – there was a gate, but it too was listing – but my knocks on the blue-painted front door produced nothing but an empty echo, which reverberated down the equally empty hallway I could see through the heavily frosted glass.

Not that this meant anything. He wasn’t going to answer the door, was he? If he was smart, which I thought he was, he would have been keeping an eye out. He would want to see who was out there before risking revealing himself. And if he didn’t like what he saw then he would simply lay low – with or without his older sister.

There was little I could do except wait for Marie to arrive. And then, presumably, for Karen to show up. I stepped back from the door and scanned the street. Jenson could be anywhere. He’d probably have dozens of friends he could go to. It was a huge estate, and one I knew well from my days as a school behaviour manager. I used to visit families here regularly, as part of my job involved visiting troubled kids in their home settings and talking to their families about how they could help their kids better. I’d sit and discuss strategies, talk about boundaries and discipline, then I’d help them create reward charts – I’d always come armed with stars and stickers – to help them try and curb their teenagers’ less delightful behaviours.

It seemed a long time ago, now, and in some ways it was. I’d been fostering for almost half a decade now; some very intense years.

I was just reflecting on how much my life had changed since I answered that fostering agency ad when I became aware of a ‘psst!’ sound close to me. I turned to see a woman on the doorstep of the neighbouring semi, silently beckoning that I should step a little closer.

She wore one of those old-fashioned wrap-around aprons that look like dresses, and drew a finger to her lip as I approached. ‘Are you one of the social workers?’ she wanted to know.

I shook my head, and keeping my voice low to match hers I explained that, no, I was Jenson’s foster carer.

‘My name’s Casey,’ I added. ‘Do you know something about his whereabouts?’

She cocked her head back. ‘The lad’s in my garden,’ she told me, ‘waiting for his mum to get home. Playing with my dog. He loves my Sabre, he does. I expect he’s missed him.’