Читать книгу Scarlett’s Secret: A real-life short story by Casey Watson - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 4

I’ve never been much of a one for long, boring meetings. Much less lectures – all that sitting still for ages, having to concentrate. I always get ants in my pants. But there was a talk I remember going to during my fostering training, which taught me something that’s always stayed with me. It was when the speaker, who was talking about what we could learn from kids’ behaviour, asked us to imagine communication like an iceberg. At the top – the part above the waterline – was the behaviour we could see, and beneath it – by far the greater part of any iceberg – were all the reasons why the child might be displaying that behaviour, but which we couldn’t see, and so could only guess at.

It seems self-evident, but it’s easy to forget, too. And it reminded me of one of the most valuable lessons I learned about communication: that when a child’s acting up there is always a deeper reason, and if we can find out what that reason is, rather than just labelling the child as ‘naughty’, then we have a much greater chance of dealing with the underlying problems. Take the other approach, and the child will just get naughtier.

None of which crossed my mind on the bright August morning when I met Scarlett and Jade – that only happened afterwards. I was busy reporting for duty as Team Leader for a youth-centred project, and was much too busy feeling excited about my new job. This was back before I’d ever thought of becoming a foster carer, even before I ran ‘The Unit’ in the local comprehensive school. This was back when my own kids were still in their mid-teens and I was a youth worker employed by the council.

Our work on these projects – each was about four months in duration – centred around recruiting and supporting NEETS. Lots of people know the term now because it’s in pretty common usage, but back then it was one of the trendy new buzzwords. It means Not in Employment, Education or Training Scheme and in this case that might mean kids with drug or alcohol issues, kids in care, kids who might have been in trouble with the law, as well as some who, for whatever reason, simply couldn’t find a job. Those were the kinds of kids we wanted to sign up for the course: kids who had slipped through the net and needed help. ones who lacked many of the skills they’d need to be a useful member of society and who, as a consequence, felt lost.

Far from being lost, my assistant, Katie, was all about this morning. And with her mane of hair and bouncy manner, I had privately nicknamed her Tigger; fresh out of uni, she was a blur of smiles and ambition and optimism, and had been a breath of fresh air on our two-week training course. I knew I was going to really enjoy working with her.

‘So,’ she said, jogging into the office, grinning widely, ‘ready for day three? Do we have a smiley-facey Casey, all ready to wow the troops?’

I laughed. That had been one of the edicts during training; the importance of us wearing our smiley faces at all times. (Except when we had to wear our stern ones, obviously.) But Katie didn’t need to put it on; her enthusiasm was infectious and it was clear the kids loved her. I was so pleased I had been part of the selection process when the bosses had been interviewing prospective candidates for the job. Yes, she was less experienced than the other candidates, but with her not being much older than the kids herself, she had an extra something that I didn’t. They seemed to know that she really understood where they were coming from.

‘We do indeed have a smiley Casey this morning,’ I said. ‘And we have lots to do before they arrive.’ I passed Katie a pile of papers and a stapler. ‘Here you go,’ I said. ‘You can put these into batches of three for me while I arrange the tables.’

The kids had an English test that morning, so we had to have a bit of a reshuffle of the arrangement we’d had the furniture in for the previous couple of days. The room that the council had allocated for us was in one of their large training centres, based on a small business estate, and was rather like a large classroom, which I hated. These students would not have long left at school and the last thing they would have wanted was yet another gloomy class to sit in. With that in mind, I had immediately Casey’d it up with bright pictures, comfortable scatter cushions, and colourful cups and saucers, etc. Part of the programme we offered included an adult qualification in Maths and English – it was about the only ‘schooly’ thing they did, and I wanted them to feel at ease when they did it.

I wanted them to feel at ease, period. That was what we were all about. As they’d said in training, getting these kids comfortable was key to helping support them, because though we might know where we wanted them going – out into the world, with greater confidence – what we didn’t know was where they had been.

We’d got off to a good start, Katie and I. An incredible start, actually, because after a week or so going round all the places that might refer kids to us – job centres, schools, the local Young People’s Service – we already had fifteen young people enrolled and had even had to set up a waiting list for the next course.

Right now, however, we had a lot to get through with our first batch, who’d spent their first couple of days with us shyly – and in a couple of cases, slightly reluctantly – getting to know both us and one another. In just a couple of days we’d be taking all fifteen away, and that’s when we’d really start bonding. We’d be pushing them hard – taking them rock climbing, abseiling, raft building and so on – and in a team-building environment, away from usual routines, hopefully out of their comfort zones, too. That was the plan – that the intensity of the experience would get to them and that barriers might start coming down. In training we’d been told to expect some highs and lows; with so much opportunity for one-to-one time, kids would open up to us: things were got off chests, and feelings were aired.

I was looking forward to it, too. There was only one thing niggling me: that I’d be leaving the family again (I’d had to, briefly, as part of my training), which I knew wouldn’t go down well with my son Kieron. He was fifteen, but with his Asperger’s, he still found changes like that challenging. Still, I reasoned, my husband Mike coped last time, and would do so again, and while I was doing rewarding work with my bunch of disaffected teenagers, I knew my own younger teenager would be learning valuable coping skills of his own.

I pushed that small anxiety to one side and concentrated on the task at hand, and on one other potential problem that had already raised its head and would definitely need addressing before we left. We had seventeen-year-old non-identical twins with us, Jade and Scarlett, a pair of petite, auburn-haired girls, with the same pretty green eyes. On the face of it, they seemed well adjusted – they certainly talked a lot. Though, as Katie and I both noticed, it was mostly to one another, though there was a tension beween them that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was something we were gently trying to address by splitting them up for activities – something we were keen to encourage when we went away.

Jade was clearly the brighter of the two – she seemed to ‘get’ things really readily – but there was one problem; she had this really, really unpleasant smell about her. It was strong, too; the day before, we’d had to throw all the windows open, just to stop from gagging – you could actually smell her coming in before you saw her. It was so bad, in fact, that the smell was still lingering when I’d arrived at work this morning, and as a consequence I’d hastily re-jigged the schedule to fit some more outdoorsy tasks in as soon as the English test was over

‘Did you notice?’ Katie said now, as I set about handing out the now stapled examination booklets. ‘How Scarlett got that body spray out yesterday afternoon and started spraying it on herself so pointedly?’

I had. I’d seen it more than once. She’d get it out and make a big show of freshening herself up, then quietly urge her sister to do the same. Which Jade would do, albeit snatching it from her with an angry scowl on her face.

‘I know,’ I said, ‘and I’m still mulling over how best to approach it. Scarlett clearly knows how bad it is – you can see how she’s embarrassed …’

‘And it’s probably why they’re both so keen on sticking together, don’t you think?’ Katie said. ‘Scarlett particularly – it’s like she’s protecting her, isn’t it?’

‘Or trying to protect the rest of the group from having to get too close to Jade,’ I said. ‘I get the impression she’s more anxious that something might kick off. With Jade, I mean – if someone says something. Don’t you?’

I’d been studying the girls closely, in fact, wondering how best to approach things, because it was clear something would need to be done before we set off for the residential centre – all those hours in a mini-bus followed by a week in a remote hostel, sleeping and living in such close quarters: it would be a challenge for anyone not blessed with a particularly heavy cold. I’d be tolerant of it, of course, but it made my nose wrinkle even thinking about it – and I knew her fellow course mates would be less forgiving. So speak to Jade or speak to Scarlett? I was still undecided. Something told me, however, looking at the way the girls interacted, that there was more to Jade’s astonishing lack of personal hygiene than met the eye.

Katie agreed – and she was obviously on the same track as I was. ‘Sun,’ she commanded, looking out of the window and pointing a finger skywards, ‘we’re relying on you to be here next week, okay?’

But with the British weather being unpredictable at the best of times – particularly in August – wishful thinking wouldn’t be enough. I would have to speak to one or both of them. You couldn’t stay outside the whole time, after all.

But as often happens when you spend time dithering over a plan of action, I was beaten to it. I had decided to look a little deeper into the twins’ background before saying anything, and while there was nothing on their application that hinted at an obvious issue with Jade compared to Scarlett, there was a contact name given – for a lady called Jan. She was the Pastoral Care Manager at the school the twins had attended and, by happy coincidence, I knew her slightly. So I called her to see if she could tell me more.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘the one thing I can tell you about them you probably already know. That they were removed from home by social services just before the spring term in year eleven and were both put into care. They never returned – and as far as I know – missed taking their GCSEs as a consequence.’ She paused. ‘I’m told it was a serious child-protection issue, Casey, but, as I say, you probably already know this, don’t you?’

I told her I didn’t.

‘Well, in that case,’ Jan said, ‘there’s something else you might not know, either. I heard afterwards that Jade was pregnant – though I don’t know the exact circumstances. I’m assuming she had a termination, but that’s all I know. I was wondering if it might be related to the reason the girls were removed from their home …’

She didn’t need to say any more. A family member perhaps? It happened. I was shocked, though. There was nothing in either of the girls’ applications or interviews that would hint at such traumas having happened in their young lives, nothing about Jade that suggested something so sad had happened to this young girl. Apart from being a bit nervous and, in Jade’s case, having the body odour issue, they’d come across as quite grounded young girls.

Jan’s comment about the reasons for the girls being taken into care lingered with me. What could have happened? What had they been subjected to? And by whom? Well, I thought, at least they were part of something now that might help them to open up and start to deal with it. After speaking to my manager, just to keep him in the loop, I resolved to make a particular effort to spend time alone with the girls while we were away, just in case it was an opportunity they wanted to take advantage of. That’s what the courses were for, after all – to give troubled kids a chance to put their troubles behind them and start to take their place in the adult world.

But, like I say, the opportunity came about before we even left, and not in the most harmonious circumstances.

It was the Friday; the final session before setting off on the Saturday, and we were completing our last preparatory session – an exercise in risk assessment. I’d just given a presentation on risk and danger and we were now talking about the business of why it was a good thing to push yourself to your own personal limit. Katie and I stood up to demonstrate an exercise about trust. It was one in which you got into pairs: one would stand with feet and arms outstretched, legs and feet steadied, while the other stood in front, just a couple of feet ahead, with their back to the other. The person in front then closed their eyes and fell backwards, trusting that their partner would catch them.

Having demonstrated it (to some amusement, given that I’m five foot nothing and Katie is five six, and it was me doing the catching on this occasion), I told the group that we’d split into pairs and head to the park so we could practise some more variations out in the sunshine. I then left Katie to split the groups into pairs while I went off to the kitchen and filled bottles with squash.