Chapter 3
Because the respite carers were off on holiday within a couple of days of Tyler joining them, we didn’t have much time to get organised. Which was nothing new – we were used to taking in children at short notice – but, given the length of time since our last stint of fostering, ‘getting organised’ this time wasn’t just a case of making a bed up; it involved making a bed visible in the first place. It didn’t matter how many times I pointed out the meaning of the term ‘spare’ room, we were all guilty (even our grown-up kids who No Longer Lived With Us) of using the ones we had – three of them now, all told – as a free branch of Safestore.
But I was happy enough to roll my sleeves up and get stuck in, not only because it gave me something physical to do – always a great stress-buster – but also because I felt the familiar buzz of excitement that always accompanied saying yes to a new child. It was the thrill of the challenge; the anticipation of finding out what made them tick.
That this one needed a temporary loving home was obviously a given, but apart from that we knew very little else, due to Tyler’s social worker being away on maternity leave. Not that John hadn’t tried. He’d at least managed to establish a couple of facts.
‘Or, rather, problems,’ he’d corrected, when he’d popped round the day before and I’d asked him what facts he did know – over and above the parents’ names, anyway, which were apparently Gareth and Alicia. ‘He’s been with them since he was three and there’ve apparently been problems pretty much since the start.’
‘And before that?’
‘Before that he was with his birth mother, now deceased. Died of a drug overdose. He’s been with dad and stepmum ever since.’
I frowned, taking this in. So sad. So familiar. ‘Overdose,’ I parroted.
‘Yes,’ John confirmed. ‘Though whether accidental or intentional, I don’t as yet know. Though I will, of course, just as soon as –’
‘Don’t tell me. The paperwork comes through?’
He grinned wryly. ‘You know the drill, Casey. But it shouldn’t be too long. His new social worker’s been assigned so it’s just a case of him familiarising himself with the notes. We know there’s an element of urgency here, too, what with the charges …’
But I was now with that three-year-old whose mum had taken an overdose. ‘Oh, the poor kid. Though I guess, being three when it happened, one blessing is that he won’t much remember his mum …’
‘I imagine not,’ John agreed. ‘But I don’t think that’s the main issue. From what I’ve gleaned, it’s the relationship with the stepmum that’s key here. And it sounds like it’s not without precedent. She had her own baby, didn’t she? And it’s a pound to a penny that she wasn’t too happy to have another woman’s toddler dumped on her, don’t you think?’
‘Certainly sounds that way,’ I said, feeling saddened by the inevitability of it all. It didn’t have to be that way but, in this case, it apparently was – the unwanted toddler having turned into an unloved pre-pubescent boy, who had responded in kind. And with a knife.
‘Anyway, Thursday at 2 p.m. – is that going to work for you?’ asked John. ‘Oh, and do you think you can work some magic? You know, with school? Almost forgot to tell you – he’s been excluded from his.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Now you tell me!’
He raised his palms in supplication. ‘Sorry, Casey – I only found that out myself this morning. A case of too many incidents of fighting, and too many last chances, I’m afraid.’
As it was, I knew I probably wouldn’t have too much trouble persuading the head of the local comprehensive to have Tyler, not least because before going into fostering I’d worked there myself for several years. I’d been a behaviour manager, running a unit for the most challenging and challenged kids – the bullied and the bullies, the dispossessed and the disruptive; it was the job that ultimately led to me and Mike making the decision that becoming specialist foster carers was the thing we wanted to do.
As I’d thought, it had only taken a phone call. Of course, that wasn’t to say Mr Moore wouldn’t regret his largesse once Tyler went there – but taking on a child that had been excluded from another school didn’t tend to be something you agreed to if you didn’t at least have an inkling of what you might be taking on. But that had been yesterday and school wasn’t an issue till next week. Right now, I had just over a day and a half to prepare our home – not to mention our lives – for the new member of the family which, in my case, because I’m pathologically obsessed with cleaning, meant a spring clean (my second) and a bit of a clear-out.
Which, as Mike was at work, and Riley was much too busy with her own little addition, meant enlisting my son Kieron to give me a hand.
Kieron was working too – he had recently completed an NVQ and was now a part-time teaching assistant at the local primary school, as well as coaching a youth football team in his spare time – but, as his hours were flexible, I knew he wouldn’t mind coming round to give me a hand, not least because ‘organisation’ was his middle name.
Kieron has what used to be called Asperger’s. These days they’d tend to say he has a mild ASD, or autism spectrum disorder, but back then (he was diagnosed while still in primary school) it was known as Asperger’s syndrome, and manifested itself as an array of behaviours, such as having some difficulty relating to peers, disliking change (it did and still does make him anxious) and liking all his belongings to be just so – or woe betide whoever messed them up. He was also a bit of a fact-fiend: the archetypal child who could always tell you which actor was in which movie and who kept his CDs ad DVDs in perfect alphabetical order.
And just as Kieron’s Asperger’s taught me and Mike so much that we were able to use once we started fostering, so I was able to teach Kieron all sorts of things about cleaning houses, not to mention recruit him to help me willingly at times such as these.
We were now surveying the bedrooms we’d just cleared out between us, deciding which would be the best for Tyler to go in. I had three spare rooms since no one was currently living with us: the pink and blue ones, which I’d had the foresight to decorate thus, to cover both fostering bases, plus one that we’d decorated neutrally with a plan to keep it for visiting relatives. Though, as it had worked out, it had been pressed into service for a foster child or two as well; most notably when we looked after a more profoundly autistic boy, Georgie, who couldn’t cope with being in either a pink or a blue room. As with everything to do with fostering, we lived and learned.
But the furniture in there was old and fusty – including the family heirloom wardrobe. Had I been 11 it wasn’t the room I’d have chosen, to be sure. ‘So the blue room makes sense,’ I said to Kieron, ‘because that’s half the job done already. But how do I dress it up? What do 11-year-old boys currently like?’
It wasn’t as much of a no-brainer question as it might have seemed. Fashions changed so quickly where kids were concerned, and though I could give you chapter and verse on my little grandsons I had no idea what was currently ‘in’ with older boys.
‘How should I know?’ said Kieron, shrugging. ‘I’m not the oracle, Mum! Probably football, but then again, possibly not. Some of the kids on my team like playing it but are less into watching it – some are much more into computer games …’
‘But which computer games?’
‘How should I know?’ he said, laughing. ‘Actually, I do know. Super Mario – he’ll probably like Super Mario anything – Rayman, Minecraft … pretty much anything like that … But, really, you won’t know till you get to know him, will you?’
‘So how am I supposed to sort the bloody room out for him, then?’
Kieron gave me an old-fashioned look. ‘Mum, he’s not been beamed down from Mars, has he? Won’t he already have stuff? You said he was coming from a family home, didn’t you? Not some poorhouse out of Dickens.’
‘I know … oh, I just should have asked him what he liked, shouldn’t I?’
‘Mother,’ said my son firmly, ‘the room is just fine. There’s a TV, a DVD player – what more’s he going to need? And I’m sure he’ll tell you if there’s anything he needs desperately. You’re so funny. You know what this is, don’t you? Just anxiety.’ He pulled his sweatshirt sleeves back down in an unambiguous gesture. It said ‘We’re done, so stop your flapping,’ so I did.
Even so, I couldn’t resist popping down to a couple of nearby charity shops the following morning, just to make the room look a little more lived in. A couple of football annuals, some superhero books, a brace of boyish-looking jigsaws and a construction set, even if I did chastise myself mentally as I did so. How many bloody times had I done this already?
In an ideal world, it would only have been once or twice, with each new child only requiring a bit of a top-up. That was always the plan – to keep a stock of toys and so on (we could ill afford to keep buying new stuff, after all) so that I would have things that would suit any child. It never happened like that, though. Whenever a child left us, I’d always pile everything up and give it to them to ensure they always had stuff they could call their own wherever they were moving on to next. And it wasn’t just me being wet, either. Once you’ve had children show up on your doorstep with nothing but the clothes on their back – literally, not a single thing to call their own – it’s not an image you can easily forget.
I threw in a new duvet set as well – well, they were on special offer in the supermarket – and by the time 2 p.m. Thursday rolled around, I was happy. All that remained was my ceremonial flick-around with the duster – such an ingrained tradition that Mike was considering getting me a special gold ceremonial pinny in which to do it. He’d taken a few hours off work in order that we could both welcome Tyler and was hovering as per usual, either waiting for me to give him the next ‘essential’ job to do, or challenging me to dare to – I was never quite sure which.
‘Mike, go to the window,’ I told him. ‘Keep an eye out and yell as soon as you see the car, okay? I want to have the kettle boiled ready.’ I glanced at the dining-room table. ‘Do you think I’ve put out enough biscuits?’
He guffawed. He actually guffawed. ‘Calm down, woman!’ he said, same as he said every time. ‘You’re acting as if we’ve never done this before. Everything is perfect. The house is completely spotless … Ah – well, apart from those five biscuit crumbs I dropped on the table when I pinched one, of course.’
I glared at him, half-knowing he was winding me up but unable to resist looking at the table even so. ‘Pig!’ I said. ‘It’s not funny, and besides, Mr Clever Clogs, it’s a long time since we’ve done this – nearly two years!’
But he wasn’t listening, he was looking, and now he flapped a hand. ‘Uh, oh,’ he said, letting the curtain go. ‘Time for kettle duty I think, Case. Looks like they’re here.’
Tyler looked no different than he had the first time I’d met him. Sullen and grumpy and reluctant to engage. What was going through his mind, I wondered, as Mike held out a hand for him to shake. This was a massive upheaval in his young life, having to move in with us. How did he feel about it? Was it a relief to be away from his apparently hated stepmother? Was he anxious? Was he bewildered? Was he scared?
Probably all of the above, I thought, even if the expression on his face was a visual depiction of ‘Yeah, whatever’.
‘Hi, Tyler!’ I said brightly, extending an arm so I could usher him in. ‘Nice to see you again. D’you want to choose a seat at the table? And help yourself to juice and biscuits, of course. I didn’t know which ones you liked so I put out the ones I like. That way,’ I quipped, ‘if you don’t like them, there’ll be all the more for me.’
He plonked himself down and looked at me as if I was mad.
‘There you go, lad,’ Mike said, having pulled out the seat Tyler had just sat on. He then sat down beside him. ‘Casey’ll be lucky. Jammie Dodgers and Jaffa Cakes are my favourites too –’ he took one to illustrate – ‘Go on, help yourself,’ he urged, ‘or I’ll scoff down the lot.’
Tyler took the glass of juice John had by now poured for him, but refused Mike’s offer with a head shake. ‘I only like chocolate-chip ones,’ he said pointedly.
I leapt up again, having only just parked my backside. This was fine. If he was testing our mettle then so be it. If not, then so be it, too. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it just so happens that I have some of those as well. They’re our son Kieron’s favourite. Shall I go and get some?’
Tyler shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I’m not hungry.’
Okay, I thought. If that’s how he wants to play it, that’s fine. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘not to worry. It’ll be teatime soon anyway. Perhaps you’ll have worked up an appetite by then.’
Or, indeed, a sentence, because as the meeting got under way I had the same sense as I had had in the police station that Tyler was happy zoning out and letting people talk about him, rather than to him. It was perhaps a typical response for a boy of his age, particularly when in the company of strangers, but I wondered if it was also something he was used to doing at home anyway. Though he was listening intently (that was obvious) he showed no inclination to have an input – and even when invited to contribute directly, it was like pulling teeth. So we went through all the usual details, the care plan and the various items of paperwork (we had to be given ‘parental’ responsibility for things like GP and dental appointments) while Tyler just sat there, jacket on, hood down only grudgingly (following John’s directive about hoods at the table), present yet absent, being talked over. So I was glad when John – presumably thinking the same thought that I was – asked Mike if he’d mind giving Tyler the usual tour.
‘Would you mind showing him his new room and so on, Mike,’ he asked him, ‘while Casey and I go through the last of the signatures? Then we’ll get Tyler’s stuff out of the car so we can get him installed properly.’
Mike looked relieved to be doing something. He sprang into action, rising from his seat and giving Tyler a gentle nudge. ‘Come on then, mate,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and take a look at where you’ll be laying your head down for a bit, shall we?’
To which Tyler responded by flicking his hood back up, getting up, shoving his hands into his tracksuit bottom pockets and following Mike, without a word, out of the room.
‘And if I know Casey,’ I heard Mike say as they headed up the stairs, ‘you might have to move some clutter to make some room for all your bits and bobs.’
I didn’t hear Tyler’s reply.
‘Well,’ said John, taking off his reading glasses and running a hand though his hair, ‘as meetings go, that one felt a little pointless, didn’t it? Though if it’s any consolation, he’s been giving the respite carers a pretty tough time of it, so it’s nothing personal.’ He grinned. ‘In fact, the last thing they said to me was that if they hadn’t already planned their holiday, they would have done so by now.’
I smiled. ‘That bad, eh?’ I helped myself to one of the Jaffa Cakes. ‘Anyway, I didn’t think that – it’s hardly surprising he’s off with us, is it? What with the court case and everything. Assuming that’s still happening. Is it?’
‘I’m afraid it looks like it,’ John said. ‘It’s the knife. If there hadn’t been the knife involved, he might have got away with a stern telling off, particularly given his age, but as it stands, and with the way the stepmother seems so determined to make him pay, then, yes, court seems inevitable. You’ll probably be asked to speak up for him, too, as no doubt you already know. Well, if that proves possible.’ He gave me a wry smile.
‘Optimism, John, okay? That’s the thing here. And, well, there you go,’ I added. ‘He’s probably bricking it, wondering what the hell is going to become of him. Don’t worry, John. We’ll get him on track. Warm him up. Make him see we’re on his side. One day at a time, eh? More coffee?’
John accepted a second cup and while Mike took his time upstairs (he knew the drill) caught me up on a couple of things that he hadn’t mentioned in front of Tyler, including some more specific details surrounding his exclusion; Tyler’s aggressive streak was, it seemed, a thick one. And that wasn’t the only reason John was pleased to hear I’d persuaded the head of the local comp to take him in. He’d also managed to glean that because the family had recently moved house the younger brother, Grant, was now in the comp’s catchment area – he was currently in year six of one of their feeder primaries, which meant, in theory, that come September, assuming Tyler was still with us, the boys would at least be reunited in school.
‘It’s definitely looking that serious, then?’ I asked him. ‘No family reconciliation looking likely?’
‘You can never say never,’ John said, ‘but we’re working on the worst case scenario. From what they’re saying at the moment, this is very much a last straw situation – who knows what the dad would do if left to his own devices, but as of now their position’s clear – they are washing their hands of him. This isn’t his first violent outburst at home, apparently – far from it. And, given what we know of his behaviour in school, we have to believe the family are telling the truth. They clearly don’t have a clue what to do with him any more.’
At the age of just 11. It was heartbreaking. How had it come to that? It wasn’t even as if he was a particularly big, strong boy, either. How had he come to be an object of such fear?
‘So he’s going on the programme with us?’ I asked, mentally rolling my sleeves up. ‘Doing all the usual points and levels?’
‘Definitely,’ John said. ‘Starting asap.’
The ‘programme’ was what our kind of fostering was mostly based on. When a child first arrived they would be on a regime of very basic privileges, including TV time, computer time and time playing out with friends. In order to do any of those things, a child would have to ‘buy’ the time they needed, using the points that they accumulated each day. To earn those points, they would be expected to do a number of set tasks, each of which carried a points value, and with which they could ‘buy’ things for the following day. The programme was tailored to each individual child and the tasks would differ according to their needs. We had siblings once, for example, who’d come from an extremely neglectful background and had no idea about personal hygiene. They would therefore go to the toilet almost anywhere in the house, then, after wiping themselves with their bare hands, smear excrement on the walls. Their programme therefore reflected this, being loaded with items such as ‘Do not poo or wee anywhere other than the toilet – 30 points’ and ‘Wash hands and face and brush teeth every morning and before bed – 30 points’, and so on. In Tyler’s case these basic life-skills were givens (we hoped) so his points would be geared mostly to good behaviour.
‘Okay,’ I said to John now, hearing Mike and Tyler coming back downstairs. ‘But I think “asap” should mean Monday. Let’s let the dust settle. See what the next couple of days throw up first. Give us a chance to get to know him a little better first, at least.’
‘Okay,’ said John, beginning to gather his papers up. ‘Sounds good. And I think it’s time I got out of your hair. Short and sweet, but I think our little chap has had enough of authority, don’t you?’ He smiled. ‘Don’t they all? Anyway, email me your proposed programme as soon as you have it and I’ll pass it on to the powers that be for the official sanction. Oh, and fix something up with Will Fisher – have him come round and meet you, fill you in a bit more, just as soon as he’s on top of things in the office, not to mention the case. He’s taken over several from Jenny, so it might be a week or so yet, unless you feel a pressing need to have him round here sooner?’
I shook my head. Mike and I were well used to going in blind. Yes, I was keen to hear more about Tyler’s background – that could only be helpful. But, unless there was some major crisis that required the social worker’s input, there was no desperate rush.
‘Well,’ Mike said, coming back in. ‘Tyler likes his room, don’t you, Tyler? And we’ve more or less worked out where all his stuff is going to go.’ He smiled across at Tyler, who was standing in the doorway, hood still up, chewing his nails. Mike grinned at him. ‘Cat got your tongue again, lad?’
And for his cheerfulness and patience he was amply rewarded – by an even more spectacular scowl than his previous ones.
Ouch, I thought, mirroring John’s raised eyebrows. Sleeves definitely up, then. This was going to be fun.