Angels in Our Hearts: A moving collection of true fostering stories. Casey Watson

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СКАЧАТЬ the kitchen, chatting in soft, sing-song tones. As I pour the milk I notice him watching me with a sullen wariness. He really could do with a bath, but I won’t put him through the trauma at this time of night. What he needs, over and above anything else, is sleep. I hand him a beaker of milk and he takes it, listlessly running the sippy lid over his lips.

      ‘There’s a good boy. Have a nice drink.’

      He begins to cry again and I feel a familiar sharp pang in my stomach, a longing to reassure him that what he’s known is not all that there is.

      Ten minutes later, talking in a loud whisper so as not to wake the others, I hold his hand and guide him, still hiccoughing with tiny sobs, into the spare room.

      ‘I want Mummy!’ he wails suddenly, the sight of an unfamiliar bed filling his voice with urgency. He sinks to the floor, tears streaming down his puffy red cheeks.

      Searching through the rucksack that Evelyn gave me, I try to find a comforter, something familiar that might smell of his mother and console him. Apart from a few ragged items of clothing there’s nothing; no teddy or special blanket. Reaching up to the top shelf of our bookcase, I grab the first teddy I lay my hands on. Lowering my chin to my chest, I deepen my voice and make teddy pretend-talk.

      ‘Hello, Charlie. I’m Harold. Can I come to bed with you?’

      Charlie stops mid-sob, his eyebrows slowly rising with interest. Holding his breath, he stares at ‘Harold’ and nods, clasping the stuffed toy to his chest and wiping his tears on the soft fur. Gently steering him to bed, I half lift, half guide him in. He winces in pain as his head touches the pillow. The tears return as I switch off the main light and plug in a night lamp.

      ‘Night, night, Charlie,’ I whisper, sitting beside his bed and stroking his hair. Eventually his breathing settles and his eyes flutter to a close.

      That night I stage a vigil beside his bed, setting my alarm at two-hourly intervals so that I can keep a regular eye on him. I am surprised to find that he sleeps through it all, and I even manage to get snatches of uninterrupted sleep myself between checks. I guess that he must have been too exhausted from all the drama to fret about his unfamiliar surroundings.

      At 5 a.m. I am confident enough to leave him and chance an hour’s rest in my own bed. It’s Saturday morning and there aren’t any football matches or clubs to get the older children up for, although at just gone six o’clock I get up anyway to make sure Charlie’s not lying awake and fretting. Creeping along the hall, I peer around his bedroom door – he’s curled up on his side in a tight ball, one hand tucked between the pillow and his pink cheek, the other arm resting heavily on teddy. Soft dimples of flesh emerge from the cuffs of his over-small pyjamas, his tiny fingers lightly brushing against his chin. He looks angelic and, I’m relieved to find, quite relaxed.

      I quietly back away and suck a lungful of fresh air from the hall; his room was redolent with the same musky smell I noticed on him last night. Before I reach the stairs there’s a loud wail. Back in his room I find him sitting bolt upright in the bed, staring around in shock. He looks terrified.

      ‘It’s all right, sweetie. You’re in Rosie’s house.’

      I crouch down beside his bed and stroke the back of his head. In daylight I can see that his eyes, though red-rimmed and fearful, are a beautiful blue-grey. He really is a gorgeous child.

      ‘You’re going to be staying with me for a little while. Do you remember me tucking you in last night?’

      He gives a slight nod, hesitantly trusting.

      ‘Where’s Mummy?’ he asks, his voice quavering.

      ‘Mummy isn’t feeling well at the moment but you’ll see her soon, don’t you worry.’

      I expect more tears but he surprises me by throwing the duvet back and shuffling his bottom to the edge of the mattress.

      ‘Me need breakfast.’

      ‘Oh, yes, OK, sweetie, but first you need a bath.’ He really does smell awful.

      As I help him out of his pyjamas I have to suppress a gasp. Charlie’s covered in a series of sores, all the way down his back, arms and legs. I hope I’m wrong but the small red bumps look to me like bed-bug bites. My heart sinks. If any have travelled with him in the creases of his rucksack or on his pyjamas, I’ll be lucky not to have my own infestation soon.

      He continues to plead for food as I lift him into the tub so I hurry things along, giving the hair at the nape of his neck a quick wash, careful not to dislodge the bandage. Not wasting time with soap, I use the shampoo suds to clean the rest of him.

      As I wrap him in a towel, trying not to rub the sores, I hear movement in the corridor. Charlie’s widened eyes tell me he’s noticed, too.

      ‘It’s all right, honey. That’s the other children getting up. We’ll just brush your teeth, and then we’ll go and meet them, shall we?’

      His chest puffs out and his big eyes blink, tears brimming. Reaching into the cupboard for a new, toddler-sized toothbrush I tell him, ‘They’re lovely children. They’ll be very pleased you’re here.’

      Charlie stares at the toothbrush in amazement. Every time I put it in his mouth he pulls away and grabs my hand, twisting and turning the alien object so he can examine it from every angle. When I finally get a good look at his teeth I realise that he’s probably never owned his own toothbrush or even used one before; they’re all chipped and grey, his gums so inflamed that after just a few seconds of brushing his saliva is streaked with blood. When he swills water and spits into the sink I break into song to distract him. ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round …’ He’s already upset. I don’t want the gory contents spinning down the plughole to completely freak him out.

      Charlie frowns, watching me with suspicion. ‘That stick maked blood come,’ he says accusingly, pointing at the toothbrush.

      ‘Never mind, you’re fine,’ I say, steering him briskly away and stowing the toothbrush in a holder of its own. Without knowing Charlie’s full history, I have to bear in mind that he could be incubating a blood-borne infection like hepatitis or even HIV. He follows me out of the bathroom, Harold clutched tightly in his hand.

      ‘Aw, look at him. He’s so cute!’ my daughter Emily exclaims, her brother Jamie already on his knees, pulling faces and trying to elicit a laugh. Phoebe, a nine-year-old girl who has lived with us for eight months, stands behind them, staring at the new arrival with concern. Suspecting she’s worried that he might usurp her position I slip my arm around her, squeezing her shoulder.

      ‘Charlie, here’s Phoebe, and this is Jamie and Emily. I’m sure they’d love to be friends with you, wouldn’t you, guys?’

      ‘Yes, course. You’ll love it here, Charlie,’ Jamie tells him in a soothing tone.

      Emily nods and pats him on the arm. Phoebe copies Emily by nodding but she still looks dubious. Charlie stares at everyone, visibly shrinking away. Instinctively, Emily knows how to put him at ease. She reaches for Harold, balances the soft toy on her head, and sneezes loudly. Harold rolls off and lands in Charlie’s lap. I was worried the sudden noise might startle him but his face breaks into a large grin, and then quickly grows serious again.

      ‘Me need break-f-a-s-t,’ he reminds me, his voice rising СКАЧАТЬ