Читать книгу Too Hurt to Stay: The True Story of a Troubled Boy’s Desperate Search for a Loving Home - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 8

Chapter 3

Spencer’s suitcase was bulging.

Which was something that immediately struck me as symbolic. The last kids we’d fostered had arrived with barely anything; just a tatty old bin bag containing clothes that looked like rags. Yet the battered, broken doll that had also been buried in there was as precious to little Olivia as would be any other cherished toy. The luggage a child came with, as I was fast learning, spoke volumes – the things a child dragged from placement to placement meant everything to them. Be it a favourite photograph, a special toy, or a crumpled letter from a loved one, these belongings were often the only attachment a child had, and gave them a sense that they were still a part of something wider than the place where they had currently ended up.

‘Good grief, Spencer!’ Glenn exclaimed, as he dragged the case over the doorstep. ‘Come on, own up. You’ve smuggled the kitchen sink into here, haven’t you?’

Spencer glanced up at me as if expecting to be reprimanded. ‘I got lots of stuff,’ he explained. ‘But it’s mostly just my trainers and all my games for the DS that’s making it heavy.’

I didn’t know what a DS was, and said so. Spencer obligingly got the portable game console out of his backpack to show me, while Glenn commented that of all the things in Spencer’s life this was the one thing he couldn’t live without.

I smiled and nodded while he shyly showed me all the things it could do, but it was an indicator that I’d been at this job for a while now that my immediate thought was a cynical one: this would be my bargaining tool. Sad though it was, to be able to modify the behaviour of challenging children, such a tool was your most potent weapon. It was the things they loved most that they would be most motivated to stay in line for, so the DS would soon have a subtle change in status. Spencer would have to see it as a privilege and not a right.

But that was for writing into Spencer’s behaviour plan, not for today. Today was all about welcoming him to our family, and trying to quell his understandable anxiety.

And he did look terribly anxious today. Because my kitchen and dining room were separated only by an archway and an island of worktops, I could keep an eye on things while everybody settled at the dining table, and I rustled up the drinks and biscuits. It had become something of a ritual, this, I realised, since I’d begun fostering. The dining-table meetings and the round of refreshments, the wide-eyed child, the various official adults, the slight edge of formality. I watched Spencer take his seat beside Glenn, his social worker, and how he pulled it close enough so that the two of them were almost touching. I also noticed he had something in his hand that I’d not seen at first. Perhaps he’d pulled it out of his pocket.

‘Who’s this, then?’ I asked him, as I brought the tray of coffees in, plus the usual array of biscuits, which he eyed but didn’t touch. Close up I could see it was a glove puppet.

‘Fluffy Cow,’ he said. Which seemed apt. That’s what it was.

‘Fluffy Cow is Spencer’s favourite toy, isn’t it, mate?’ Glenn explained. ‘He likes to take it to bed with him, don’t you?’

I could see Spencer stiffen slightly. ‘I don’t play with it or owt,’ he said. ‘It just stays on my bed.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Here, love. Help yourself to a biscuit. And I tell you what, we’ve got to do a whole load of boring paperwork. So how about you take Fluffy Cow up to see your new bedroom? There’s some new toys up there for you, so you might like to have a little play. But only if you want to,’ I finished. ‘It’s entirely up to you.’

Spencer looked at Glenn. ‘You won’t go or anything, will you?’

‘Course not, son,’ he said. ‘And I’ll give you a shout if we need you.’

‘Okay, then,’ said Spencer, sliding back down off his chair and, clutching his beloved puppet, slipping noiselessly from the room.

Bless him, I thought. Poor little lad. I really, really couldn’t fathom this.

* * *

The file Glenn handed out was a small one. Small but to the point. It made for grim reading. Spencer, as we’d known, was the middle of five children. He had a brother, Lewis, who was ten, a sister, Sammy Lee, nine, then two younger siblings, five-year-old Coral and a three-year-old called Harvey. Their parents, Kerry and Danny, were both in their thirties and apparently had no misgivings about Spencer coming into care. In fact, they’d been clear on this when they’d been interviewed by social services. As things stood they had decided to wash their hands of him. They said he was out of control, wild and ‘feral’ – that damning word again – and that they considered him to be a risk to both himself and others, and that they felt they’d reached the end of the road.

As was usual, a risk assessment had also been completed, and the finding was that as Spencer was a persistent petty offender priority had to be given to minimising his chances of re-offending and heading towards a life of teenage crime.

Once again, I was struck by the disparity between what I was reading and what I was seeing. I also wondered, as I read on, what kind of parents would feel able to hand over one of their five children to what could only be described as complete strangers, whether sanctioned by the council or otherwise. Why this ‘one bad apple’ attitude, that seemed to permeate through the paperwork? Were they worried that if he stayed he might ‘infect’ his brothers and sisters? How could you make such a chilling judgement about your own flesh and blood?

I glanced around the table as I finished reading, and John caught my eye. His expression was sad, and I could see he felt the same as me.

He shook his head slightly and slowly took off his reading glasses. These were new, and I made a mental note to compare notes with him about them later. I had just started needing to use them myself. ‘Well, there’s not an awful lot here, is there?’ he said, pointing to the file. ‘But what we do have makes it clear that Mr and Mrs Herrington, here, seem to think we can wave some sort of magic wand, sort their kid out and hand back some new, improved version, don’t they?’

Glenn nodded. ‘I got that impression too. Though I think – well, I hope – they now realise it’s really not that simple. That said, the plan is still to do that, pretty much. A few weeks or months with Mike and Casey on the behavioural programme, and lots of visits home so they can actually see progress. Then overnights, then weekends, then – well, all being well, we’ll have the family reunited at the end of it.’

I glanced at John again. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘So he’s to do the full programme then, is he? You do realise that could take up to a year.’

‘Well, not exactly,’ John said. ‘The intention is obviously to get him back home as soon as possible. I was thinking he could do a more scaled-down version of the programme, focusing mainly on his behaviour, and leaving out all the day-to-day mundane stuff, because it seems clear there’s not much point in a child like him earning points from brushing his teeth and putting his dirty laundry in the right place.’

‘Ahem?’ I said pointedly.

John rolled his eyes at me. He knew full well he was being wound up. ‘I mean obviously he’ll still be expected to do all those things. Just not earn privileges by doing them, was what I meant to say.’ I nodded, satisfied. ‘Which means it’ll be more intense, of course,’ he finished, ‘but hopefully that bit faster to implement. After all, he’s young, compared to most of the kids we put on the programme, so I’m hoping we’ll be able to nip things in the bud and turn him around.’

This was a fair point. The older the child was, the more ingrained their behaviours tended to be, and since older kids invariably came with more emotional baggage too (particularly if they’d spent a long time in care) it was a more complex business all round. Spencer was different. He’d only just come into the care system, so John’s thinking would hopefully turn out to be sound. And yet, for all that, he had still been cast as an outsider – by everyone around him, by all accounts. He was so young but had already been disowned by his parents, had a history of petty offences and was a pupil at a special school. How had this young boy managed to get to this place, when the rest of his family were essentially so sound? It didn’t stack up. Quite where was this monstrous child? There must be a lot more going on here than I could see.

We spent another 15 minutes or so going through the rest of the paperwork, and throwing around a few ideas about how to tailor the programme to suit Spencer, then Glenn called him down to say his goodbyes. He looked no less anxious as he came down the stairs to say farewell, and it was clear that even in the short time they’d been acquainted they seemed to have quite a rapport. This was a bonus, as our paths would cross often during this process, and it helped enormously if Mike and I had a rapport with him too.

And there was plenty to like. In his late 20s, I estimated, Glenn seemed both positive and enthusiastic, two qualities that a career in social services could often extinguish all too quickly. You saw too much that you wished you hadn’t, had to make too many difficult decisions and worked in a sector that could often be thankless; damned if you took a child away, and damned if you didn’t. Spencer was fortunate, I thought, to have Glenn on side. And though professional in approach, he also looked approachable. With his jeans and his shades and his cool designer T-shirts, he was the sort of character that kids wouldn’t be intimidated by, which would help them open up to him, which mattered.

And it wasn’t just Glenn who had an eye for designer kit. When I went upstairs with Spencer to help him with his unpacking, the first things I saw were five pairs of expensive-looking trainers, all pristine and laid in a neat row against the wall.

‘Wow, I said. ‘Look at these. You certainly like your trainers, don’t you?’

Spencer nodded. ‘I love ’em. But I only wear this make, because this make’s the coolest.’ He looked at me anxiously, then. ‘Mrs Watson?’

‘It’s Casey, love. Casey and Mike, I told you.’

‘Erm, Casey?’ he asked anxiously. ‘You know you mustn’t put them in the washing machine don’t you? Or they’ll get ruined.’

I grinned. ‘Message received and understood. And don’t worry, love. My son Kieron – you’ll meet him in the next day or two – he’s pretty pernickety about his stuff, as well, so I’ve had lots of practice.’

He looked relieved at this. ‘Glenn said you had other kids. Does he live here?’

I shook my head as I began helping him unpack his clothes, all of which, unusually, were good quality. ‘Both my children are grown-up now,’ I explained, ‘though they live nearby. One of them – my daughter Riley, who you’ll meet too – even has two little ones of her own. Just a little younger …’ I caught the words before they had a chance to run away from me. This was definitely not the time to start mentioning his younger siblings. Time for that later. Right now, it would probably only upset him. ‘… than the last little girl we had to stay with us,’ I quickly improvised. ‘Talking of which,’ I added. ‘Her favourite thing in the whole wide world was pizza. So how about you? If you could have anything you wanted – anything in the world – for your tea tonight, what would it be?’

He seemed to consider for a moment, tapping his finger against his lip. ‘I don’t mind,’ he said eventually. ‘Anything is fine.’

I shook my head. ‘No it isn’t. Come on, think.’

‘I don’t mind, really.’

My heart went out to him. It was obviously proving difficult for him to express a preference, because he’d been taught that that wouldn’t be polite. He was such a mystery, this little boy, this apparent ‘monster’ in our midst, and I wondered quite when we’d be seeing him.

By now we’d almost finished putting away all his clothes, and I was struck again, seeing how carefully he folded them all, at how he seemed so unlike any child in the care system I’d come across; my end of the care system, anyway.

‘I’m afraid I insist,’ I said, mock-sternly. ‘It’s part of the rules. You tell me all the things you like, and then I cook them. No point giving you things to eat that you don’t like, is there? So. We already know about how much you love sprouts, don’t we? So as soon as they’re in the shops, I’ll get lots of them in …’

This seemed to do it. ‘Meatballs with spaghetti?’ he suggested, blinking at me nervously. ‘I really like them …’

‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘Because that’s Mike’s favourite too. And that’s with sprouts, then, is it?’

At which he finally cracked a smile.

The day continued in a similarly positive vein. Mike had gone into work for a couple of hours and I was happy enough to let Spencer play on his computer games for a while, and also rigged up the PlayStation for him. I knew people worried about kids spending too much time glued to screens these days, and I certainly accepted whatever evidence there was, but at the same time I didn’t hold with the often-touted line that this kind of media was always the enemy. In my experience, new kids always seemed to settle better when allowed access to favourite computer games. They needed to be age-appropriate, obviously, but I saw more good than harm in them having some ‘down time’ of this kind. It really did seem to help kids calm down, particularly if they bordered on the hyperactive. Many games also had positive educational benefits, helping kids focus and concentrate.

Whatever the intellectual debates about it, when Mike returned home from the warehouse Spencer seemed a lot more relaxed. He was also less timid now, and a pleasure to sit and chat to, and he turned out, as we sat around the table and ate the spaghetti and meatballs, to be very knowledgeable about football. Which was brilliant, because football loomed large in the Watson family. Both Mike and Kieron loved it and Kieron played it, too. The ritual of Mike going to watch him play every Saturday was one of those commitments that were pretty much set in stone.

The only snag was that Spencer turned out to be a fan of Aston Villa, whereas Mike was a dyed in-the-wool Leeds fan. This naturally resulted in a more heated discussion, in which a string of not very nice names were applied to a long list of people I had never heard of.

‘I think I’ll just clear the table and start the washing up,’ I said, as Mike pointed out to Spencer all the reasons why some player on one of their teams should not have done this, that or the other, and Spencer came back with an equally measured argument about why, in this case, Mike was wrong.

The net result was that both of them completely failed to hear me, so I gathered the plates and took them back into the kitchen. I didn’t mind. There was nothing Mike enjoyed more than a bit of banter about football around the tea table, something he’d really missed since Kieron had left home. And it sounded as if Spencer really knew his stuff, too.

I smiled as I began filling the sink and rolled my sleeves up. I knew how the adage went. ‘No smoke without fire.’ And I wasn’t stupid, either. Little Spencer, delightful as he had seemed to be so far, was living under my roof for a reason. But right now, much as I was braced for whatever was coming, I couldn’t feel anything but positive about him. Just how bad could this boy possibly be?