Читать книгу Daddy’s Boy - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 6

Belatedly, I worried slightly about Tyler. Now we had Tyler permanently, who was thirteen and a half, any fostering decisions we made had to include him, even though it had always been understood that we would continue to take in children for our programme.

But, in fact, he was very relaxed. ‘I’ll be gone tomorrow anyway,’ he pointed out, ‘so I’ll barely even see him, will I? And he’s only five,’ he added, echoing my own thoughts.

Mike, perhaps predictably, was slightly more cautious. ‘If John says he’s trouble, then I imagine he is trouble,’ he said when he did phone, later on that afternoon, to let us know he was on his way home. ‘But it’s up to you, love,’ he added. ‘And like you, I’m struggling to imagine just how bad a five-year-old can be. Anyway, I won’t be able to be there if John’s bringing him round tomorrow morning, so I’m going to have to trust your judgement on this one anyway – well, such as it is.’

At which we both laughed. Well, he laughed, and I made a note to punch him later, but what stayed with me was what he’d said just before that. That if John had said that, then it had to be true.

In the short term, however, I had to think of practicalities. Although my house was, of necessity, pretty well geared up for my very young grandchildren, the spare room we kept for foster children didn’t really feel like a home from home for a child that was so young. Back in the day – before Tyler – we had two rooms for fostering so, me being me (i.e. ever the little house elf), we had one done up to be very boyish and one very girly to cover all eventualities. Since Tyler had moved in permanently, however, that was no longer an option, so the one spare room was neutrally decorated, to suit boy or girl. Surveying it, however, it was clear that it suited neither that well.

But I wasn’t short of books and games and toys and character bed sets so, once Riley and the kids had gone and Mike, Tyler and I had finished our makeshift, just-back-from-holiday Sunday tea, I went up and did what I could to make the room right for a little lad of five, down to the rather elderly Bob the Builder duvet cover that hadn’t seen service since Kieron was young.

I was just finishing off when John Fulshaw called again, to let me know that, assuming we were still happy to help him, he’d be round with Paulie around nine the following day.

‘Epic,’ Tyler said, looking in on his way to bed. ‘I can give him the once over and size him up for you before I go. Make sure he’s safe.’

I laughed. ‘Size him up? Safe? Ty, he’s five, not 15. I don’t think size or safety will be much of an issue here, do you?’

‘Yeah, well,’ he said, narrowing his heartbreaker eyes. ‘You just never know.’

And, given some of the stories I could tell about some of the kids we’d been asked to care for, I had to concede I knew what he meant. It was true. You just didn’t ever know.

I couldn’t help but think back to that when John’s car pulled up the following morning. And, in doing so, found myself grinning. There was nothing to worry about here. In fact, far from it. And it seemed Tyler was having a double take as well.

‘Whaaaat?’ he whispered, as we stood in the front window and watched as John unbuckled the child from his car seat. ‘Casey, are you sure that’s even a him?’

John carefully placed the child on the pavement, then, as if handling fine china, and I had to accept that Tyler did have a point. The boy was tiny! He barely looked more than a toddler, and a somewhat androgynous one at that. I knew that long hair was currently fashionable with both sexes, and that some mums liked letting their little boys’ hair grow. But this child looked not so much like Little Lord Fauntleroy as Little Miss Muffet. Indeed, with his blond ringlets, it was only his outfit – denim jeans, trainers and a baseball jacket – that gave any clue to his gender.

Telling Tyler to close his mouth, I made my way to the door to greet them. ‘Hi, John!’ I said brightly before squatting down in the hall and smiling at the child before me. ‘And this must be Paulie. Hello, sweetheart,’ I said warmly. ‘I’m Casey. And this is Tyler,’ I added, gesturing behind me. ‘Gosh, you’re a big boy, aren’t you? What are you, six or something?’

Lame, I know, but it was mostly instinctive, my hunch being that his diminutive size was probably one of the things he routinely got teased about. I then decided to stay down where I was for a response. And, boy, did I get one.

Eye to eye, as well, because, of course, we were at eye level. He looked me straight in the eyes and, had he not been the age he was, I would have been convinced he was sneering. ‘Are you stupid?’ he wanted to know. ‘I’m five!’ He then looked up at John, who was obviously squirming. ‘I told you I’m not stopping with no bloody woman,’ he said. ‘They’re all thick. Where’s the daddy?’

Now it was my turn to have my mouth hanging open. I stood up again, not knowing quite how best to answer. This kid was just five? Was he being operated by robots? ‘You’d better come in,’ I said, raising my eyebrows – both to signify my surprise at his unexpected point of view, and to let him know that, actually, we weren’t eye to eye at all. ‘If you mean my husband Mike, love,’ I said mildly, while Tyler still gawped, ‘he’s at work. He won’t be back till tonight.’

I led them through to the dining room, trying to process what had just happened. The child had just spoken to me like an angry, petulant teenager. Where had his vocabulary come from? It just felt so incongruous coming from someone so small. And could a five-year-old child even think like that?

John started helping him out of his little jacket. ‘Remember what we said about not being rude to grown-ups, Paulie?’ he was saying gently. ‘What you just said to Casey was very rude, wasn’t it? So now you need to say sorry to her, don’t you?’

John used the gentle, calming tones of a man long used to dealing with challenging, traumatised children. And this was clearly one such. He looked anxiously towards me. ‘Am I going to get a smack?’ he asked. ‘Is the lady going to hit me?’

I could see Tyler shaking his head out of the corner of my eye, clearly as bemused as I was. ‘Don’t be daft, Paulie,’ John said. ‘Remember, we talked about that too? Grown-ups don’t smack children.’

‘Some do. My mam does. My stepdad does.’

‘But Casey doesn’t. Of that, you can be very, very sure. But you do get into trouble if you’re rude to her. Of course you do. I think Casey has a naughty step in this house,’ he said, glancing at me. ‘Isn’t that right, Casey?’

I didn’t, as it happened. I was from the wrong generation. But Riley certainly did, and I knew how she used it. As time out for naughtiness, upsets and transgressions in pre-schoolers. And I remembered the rule, too; one minute for each year of a child’s life.

I nodded. ‘Indeed, I do,’ I said. ‘Though I don’t need to use it very often. And I hope I won’t have to while you’re with us, Paulie.’

Again the look. The adolescent-seeming sneer. The expression of derision. ‘I’m not going on no fucking naughty step!’ he shrieked at me. ‘I’m not going on no scary fucking step!’ Then he burst into tears.

Wow. I really could not believe my ears. I’d been around kids from every walk of life, with all kinds of problems. But, try as I might, I could not recall a time when I’d heard such words coming out of so young a mouth. Yes, I’d seen behaviours in children who weren’t a great deal older – early sexualisation, from being groomed practically from birth – but I’d never seen a child so young use such language in anger. They might be able to parrot the words, but this felt different; this really did feel like an older child trapped in a younger one’s body. It felt too bizarre to be true. But true it most certainly was. This angelic-looking, tiny child was right here in my dining room, yelling obscenities at me as if it were all normal.

John looked as helpless as I felt, but was clearly disinclined to pick him up or otherwise physically comfort him. Knowing almost nothing about the ground on which I was treading, I followed John’s lead. ‘Tyler,’ he said calmly, ‘Paulie likes cartoons. Do you think you could get him settled in front of the telly for ten minutes while me and Casey talk?’

‘Sure,’ said Tyler, nodding his head towards the snivelling Paulie, whose sobs, it seemed, responded well to this news. He certainly showed no hesitation in meekly taking Tyler’s outstretched hand.

Within moments, he was installed on the sofa, apparently happily, with control of the remote and a cushion to cuddle, with Tyler – for the moment, at least, since he’d be leaving in half an hour or so – remaining close by in case he was needed, bless his heart. So far, I thought, so bizarre.

‘What on earth?’ I whispered to John as I led him into the kitchen and set about making him a caffeine fix – he was as manic a coffee-addict as I was. ‘Come on then, what’s his story?’ I smiled. ‘And, trust me, nothing you could say now would surprise me. What a singular kid!’

John shrugged off his own jacket and ran a hand through his hair. ‘It’s hard to know where to start really, and most unusual. You’re right. He’s a funny kid.’

‘Funny doesn’t even cover it. Perhaps I’m out of touch,’ I said, conscious that I was of pre-naughty-step vintage, ‘but I can honestly say I never realised there were five-year-olds who could speak like that.’

‘It’s obviously all he knows,’ John said. ‘It seems completely second nature, doesn’t it? I honestly don’t think he has any idea that the language he uses is inappropriate.’

‘Which begs the next question – what sort of world has he come from?’