Читать книгу A Dark Secret: Part 2 of 3 - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 5

One of the many things I struggled to figure out about Sam was his ability to bounce back from his meltdowns. I mean, really bounce back, no matter what had happened. He could have a full-on violent episode, screaming like a banshee, and an hour later could be the sweetest kid ever. It happened every single time, which was obviously a plus, but could make it extremely difficult to explain to someone who hadn’t witnessed it just how bad things could get. ‘Think Jekyll and Hyde’ didn’t really cover it.

I knew, because I’d been on the other end of this. I’d thought the exact same thing myself when I’d first met Sam, hadn’t I? I’d looked at the sweet kid who’d turned up on my doorstep, and had immediately thought (and against my better instincts, I’ll admit) that Kelly might have been just a tad melodramatic. When he wasn’t kicking off, Sam really was that endearing.

I was thinking exactly this on Monday morning when, with Colin Sampson’s visit imminent, Sam was busy being the proverbial little angel. And being angelic genuinely – this wasn’t some savvy youngster who’d spent a long time in the system. Sam’s sweetness and lightness was from the heart.

‘Sampson will be really pleased with me,’ he declared, as we added another silver star to the impressive rows of them on the ‘jobs’ list on his chart. ‘He’ll say I’m a good boy, won’t he, Casey?’

‘It’s Colin, love,’ I corrected. ‘Sampson is his last name. But yes, I’m quite sure he’ll think you’re a good boy, because that’s exactly what you are.’

Sam grinned like the Cheshire cat. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I remember. But I like Sampson better than Colin because it’s got my name in it, hasn’t it? And I bet he’ll let me call him that anyway, because Sampson was a big and strong man from history. I telled it to my little sister, because I know the story.’

Do you now, I thought, marvelling at his random bits of knowledge. He was almost certainly referring to the biblical story, but for a child who seemed likely to have attended school only intermittently, I wondered where he had heard about it. Sunday school? Somehow I doubted it.

And he’d mentioned his little sister. Something else to note. All I knew of his siblings so far was that they were called Will and Courtney, that they were seven and five respectively, and that, even at this early stage, with all the trauma they’d suffered, they were showing no signs of his distinctive, and challenging, mental make-up. And that Sam telling the latter stories was a world away from the relationship they had had latterly, sadly. He’d not mentioned either of them up to now, so this was quite a development, and I wanted to respond to it in such a way that he might tell me more. Give me some opening into the world of his childhood so far, which felt so unreachable and shut-away.

But there was no time to do so as the doorbell then rang. I would have to park it and leave it for later. Moments later I was opening the door to ‘Sampson’ himself – not so much big and strong as tall and reedy. Which didn’t preclude him being strong, of course, but he didn’t look the type to be taking on random lions. But that was fine too, because it was the establishment I was hoping he’d be taking on for me; a different kind of beast altogether. He also looked to be in his late twenties – thirty tops, I reckoned – and, with establishments, the energy of youth was usually a big plus.

‘Come on in,’ I said. ‘Sam has been looking forward to meeting you. Look, he’s even brushed his hair for you.’

Colin Sampson laughed as he followed us through to the dining area. ‘Well at least that’s one of us with neat hair today,’ he said, smiling down at Sam as he ran his hands through his own windswept locks. ‘I imagine I must look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. March winds, eh?’ he added as he took off his quilted jacket.

Sam was right beside him, pulling a chair out, and sticking out his hand to shake. ‘Can I call you Sampson, please, Mr Sampson?’ he asked, as Colin took it and shook it firmly. ‘Because I’m called Sam too, so it’s like we’re the same.’

‘You know, Sam,’ Colin said, ‘I think I might like that. In fact, when I was at school, all my best friends used to call me Sampson.’

Sam’s look could have melted glaciers, let alone ice cubes. ‘I knew it!’ he said happily. ‘Casey, will you tell Sampson all about my really good stars?’

‘I will do exactly that,’ I said. ‘In fact, in a bit, we’ll all go into the kitchen and we’ll even show him. But right now, I’m going to pop off and make some coffee and get the best biscuits out, while you two get to know each other a little bit better. Okay?’

With both happy to do so, I left the pair of them to it, feeling only the smallest pang of jealousy at Colin’s holiday tan. Much as I missed the shot of sunshine I’d been looking forward to so much, it was at least spring now, and I was sure to get my mini-break eventually, and even more cheering was my first impression of Colin, which was overwhelmingly positive. He seemed cheerful and positive and, as I listened to them chatting and laughing in the other room, clearly a natural at getting along with troubled kids. Though I also found myself wondering if he’d read all my frantic emails already and was now forming the conclusion that I’d been making mountains out of molehills, as I’d done myself, once or twice, with Kelly.

‘So,’ Colin said as I set a laden tray down, ‘our Sam here has been telling me all about his chart and how he’s having a movie night this weekend with all the points he’s totted up.’

I passed a mug of coffee across the table and took a seat myself. ‘He is indeed,’ I confirmed, ‘and, you know what? I’ve just had a thought. I was thinking that if you wanted to win a pizza delivery with that movie, Sam, then maybe you could sit quietly for just fifteen minutes in your room now, while me and Colin get the boring paperwork out of the way.’

A shadow passed across Sam’s face. He looked decidedly unconvinced by this new development. Even a little anxious. Something that was confirmed by his response of ‘I don’t have to do any counting, do I?’ Which made me curse myself for not forewarning him about how the meeting was going to be conducted.

So I laughed. ‘Heavens no, Sam! Just fifteen minutes of quiet reading while we go through all the dreary stuff. Why don’t you take up the encyclopaedia and a couple of biscuits?’ I pushed the plate towards him. ‘Go on – any two you like.’

‘Really?’ he said, grabbing the two with shiny wrappers on (kids being the same everywhere) before toddling off up the stairs, great big book tucked under his stringy little arm.

‘Full of beans, isn’t he?’ Colin said, after he was safely out of earshot. ‘And the counting thing – I’d read about it in your emails. Interesting business. How’s it going? Are things still proving challenging?’

I could tell by his tone that he wasn’t challenging me, though. ‘Not in the usual way,’ I explained. ‘As you’ve seen, he can be a poppet. I think the counting is mostly related to his autistic traits – it always seems to soothe him and help him – but the meltdowns are explosive, and I’m still trying to work his triggers out. Though right now I’m still unclear whether there are simply a lot of them or that it’s just the one and I haven’t got to grips with what it is yet. Though I’m no psychologist,’ I added, ‘which is why I’m so keen for him to see one.’

‘You, the world and his wife,’ Colin said, nodding ruefully. ‘And, look, I’m so sorry I was away when Sam was allocated. But I’m on the case now – ahem – literally. So, what can I do to help? Is there any extra support I can give you? I’m obviously more than happy to start taking him off your hands for a couple of hours when I visit. All very well me reading emails and taking notes’ – he had a notebook in front of him and had already been scribbling – ‘but from what you’ve already told me I’m guessing some practical help wouldn’t go amiss either.’

If I’d liked Colin on instinct, I liked him even more now. He was obviously what I thought of as one of the ‘good’ social workers. They were all good, of course, but, from my standpoint as a foster carer, some were more hands-on than others. I suppose it was the same as, on the flip side, social workers probably assessed us as well. Not a hard and fast rule, obviously, and I was always anxious not to stereotype, but, in my own experience, some were more ‘theoretical’ than others; using their training – all that theory – to inform the way they did the job, much more than the hands-on experiences of the foster carers they worked with.

Which was also fine. It was their job to manage their various cases the way they felt most appropriate, but, every once in a while, a ‘Colin’ came along – someone you just knew not only strove to understand and help the children they worked with, using their training and education, but also went the extra mile to empathise with us, the ones working at the coal-face, and to try and make our lives that little bit easier also.

I might have been way off-beam in my assessment, of course, but by the time we’d gone through the main events of the last couple of weeks, and the strategies I’d put in place for addressing them, I definitely had a good feeling about Colin Sampson.

‘And, listen,’ I said, ‘now the team is complete, I’m feeling really positive. We’re managing okay, I think – though some regular outings would be fallen upon with gratitude, as you can imagine – but now you’re here, perhaps we can begin taking steps to get him into some form of education. Which I know means getting him formally assessed, and I know that won’t be easy. But is there any slim hope of that happening anytime soon, do you think?’

‘That’s the biggest hurdle,’ he agreed. ‘And the request has been made. And I’m told it’s being rushed through – well, as rushed as these things ever rush – but even when we get the results, and if the assumption is that Sam is on the spectrum, there’s still going to be the difficulty of finding a specialist school near enough to you that will have a place for him, sad to say.’

I nodded. I already knew that. It was a constant and growing problem. Even Miller, our last child – with his multiple, urgent problems – had been out of education for months until a place had come up.

‘I know,’ Colin went on. ‘But let’s keep our fingers crossed. I can promise you I’ll keep pushing for that assessment to happen soon, at least. And in the meantime, I’ll try and support you as much as I can.’ He nodded to the biscuits, before taking one and winking at me. ‘Not least because bribery, as we all know, gets you everywhere.’

‘That’s good to know,’ I said, grinning. ‘And, for the record, I can also run to cakes. Though right now, I’m guessing you’ll want to go and see Sam’s bedroom. And also speak to him properly – and alone, of course – so why don’t you head upstairs and kill two birds with one stone, while I go and dig out my lemon drizzle cake recipe?’

Colin took his notebook and pen and headed upstairs. As per the protocol, a social worker always needed to spend time alone with a child, new or not. A foster carer was never privy to these conversations, because, apart from anything else, it was an opportunity for a child to speak openly and honestly about how they were getting along in their placement, and what they really thought about their carers. If there were any issues or allegations as a result of these meetings then the carers would be told about them and given the chance to explain themselves. But if anything serious cropped up, then, in some cases, the placement would be ended. This had never happened to us, thankfully, but making sure the child had the opportunity to feedback their experience of being fostered was a necessary part of a social worker’s job, and rightly so.

In this case it appeared that all was good, bordering on very good, because when they emerged half an hour later, Sam was, if possible, full of even more beans.

‘Casey! Casey!’ he shouted as he bounded down the stairs, ‘Sampson thinks I’d make a very good dog person, don’t you, Sampson?’

‘Yes, I do,’ he said, following at a more sedate pace, ‘but I also said that when you grow up would be a good time to get your very own dog, didn’t I? Sam here was telling me all about his dog, Brucie,’ he explained to me. ‘And how sad he’d been that he’d died when he was still only a puppy.’

This was news. Useful news. Contradictory news, too. ‘Oh, love, I didn’t know that,’ I said. ‘I thought you never had a dog. That is sad. I’m so sorry.’

Sam nodded, looking sad, seemingly having forgotten he’d told me otherwise. ‘Brucie was my dog. His real name was Bruce but he got out of the garden and was runned over because his cage wasn’t locked.’

Ah, I thought. Ah. Perhaps that had been why – because he felt partly responsible. ‘I tell you what, Sam,’ I said, ‘I’ve been thinking while you’ve been upstairs. And I happen to know that our Kieron isn’t working today, so if you like we can call down to his house after lunch and ask if we can take Luna out for a walk in the park or something. Would you like that? Luna is my son’s Westie,’ I added for Colin’s benefit. ‘The word “walkies” is her favourite in the entire dictionary.’

‘Well, that sounds like an excellent idea,’ Colin said as he slipped his jacket off the newel post. ‘And while you’re off doing that, I’ll go back to the office and check if they’ve left any spaces in my diary. I’ll come and visit you in the next week or so, Sam, okay? So have a think about the sort of thing you’d like us to do.’

‘I like doing everything,’ Sam told him, beaming.

And Sam certainly seemed to love Luna. As it turned out, we got out later than we’d planned, so by the time we’d driven over to Kieron’s he’d had to pop out to collect Dee Dee from school and take her to her dance class straight after. So he’d texted me to tell me to let myself in, take Luna and drive back to mine to walk her. He’d come and pick her up from us on his way home again. So half an hour after that, Sam and I (him as excited as a puppy himself) set off to the park and woods at the end of our road, on what had turned out, though still windy, to be a lovely bright spring afternoon.

I’d been here many, many times before, of course. It was one of the main reasons we’d come to love living where we did so much. We’d moved to our current home several years back, in circumstances that weren’t exactly ideal (it had been with a heavy heart, and we’d only done so because of a previous foster child we’d cared for), but we’d settled in really quickly, not least because of the lovely (and, happily, tolerant) neighbours, plus the beautiful green space that was just a walk away. I’d brought previous foster children here, and my own grandchildren, obviously, who loved the woods and the play area and – best of all – being able to paddle in the small stream which ran through it.

And, as soon as we set off, I could tell straight away that to bring Sam here, perhaps daily – at least till a school was found for him – would potentially be a good thing for him too; not least to wear him out a bit and perhaps, as a result, take the edge off his rages and meltdowns.

We’d brought Luna’s ball, and her plastic ball-throwing doohickey. I carried the latter, while Sam took charge of lead duties, thrilled to be responsible for extending the line, and reeling her back in again to cross the road.

‘This is wicked,’ he enthused, as if it was the best invention ever. ‘It’s like she can be on the lead but off the lead all at once. I think all dogs should be given them, on the Health Service.’

It was such a funny little thing to say that I almost laughed out loud. And did, when he declared the ball-throwing device to be, in contrast, the worst invention ever. ‘Why can’t people throw with their actual arms?’ he wanted to know. ‘Doing it with that thing’s so lazy.’

I could only agree, so we abandoned the ball-throwing doohickey, and as I watched him enjoy the simple pleasure of spending time with Kieron’s dog, I was reminded of the oft-quoted truism about animals – that they really could be good for the soul. And for this little troubled soul, definitely.

And as is so often the case when you’re out with a dog, we passed other dogs, and other owners I knew. And one dog in particular, a Collie called Flame, who lived on our street, but who was tugging on his lead in his enthusiasm to say hello, but from the grip of an unexpected owner.

Flame was owned by a lady who lived a few doors down called Mrs Pegg, but he was in the charge of a teenager I didn’t recognise. At least, I thought I didn’t, but when he caught up with his overexcited canine, I realised his face was familiar from somewhere.

And I was right. He was Mrs Pegg’s grandson, Oliver. ‘She’s recovering from surgery,’ he explained, when I asked how she was. ‘She got her knee-replacement operation moved forward.’

I knew my neighbour was on the waiting list but, as with knee operations everywhere, had assumed it would be months away yet.

‘Is she okay?’ I asked. ‘Does she need anything?’

‘She’s fine,’ Oliver said. ‘Just can’t walk much for a bit, obviously.’ He made a grab for Flame’s lead so he wouldn’t trample Luna in his excitement. Then smiled wryly. ‘In the meantime, we’ve got a rota.’

‘What’s a rota?’ Sam piped up.

‘Like a chart,’ I explained. ‘With a list of who’s supposed to do what and when.’

‘I’ve got a chart! I’ve got a chart!’ Sam trilled to Oliver. ‘I do lots of different things when I’m supposed to as well. And when I do them I get a star on it. Do you?’

Oliver shook his head. ‘No, just one of my nan’s “brownie points”,’ he said, chuckling.

‘And her undying gratitude,’ I added. ‘Of that I’m sure. Will you tell her I’ll pop over to see her later?’

And as we parted, and I made a mental note to do just that, I reflected that while Sam had his chart, I had something equally useful.

An idea.