Too Hurt to Stay: The True Story of a Troubled Boy’s Desperate Search for a Loving Home. Casey Watson

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СКАЧАТЬ seemed Mike was right. Spencer was quiet and a bit sullen looking as he sat and ate his tea, but I was at least pleased to see he looked chastened. And after tea, when he went back upstairs to play with his toy dinosaurs, we both agreed that, however destructive the hole-making and the stealing, it at least gave us a chance to see what we were dealing with, and a benchmark from which to improve.

      But the sense of contrition wasn’t destined to last long. At around nine, when Spencer came down for a drink and a biscuit, I decided I’d take the opportunity to have a quick run through his points with him, just so he knew how things stood. This was important. The whole point and reward system was new to him, and almost as important as the business of actually earning them was that the child make the connection between actions and consequences; that was the foundation on which the whole model was based.

      At first, as I explained about the deficit and its consequences for privileges tomorrow, he seemed resigned and accepting. ‘That’s okay,’ he said meekly. ‘I know there’ll be no TV time tomorrow.’

      ‘And I’ll also have to ground you. You do know that, too, don’t you? So there’ll be no playing out for the next few days.’

      Though I’d mentioned it, I’d assumed this would be inconsequential – Spencer hadn’t once yet asked to go out to play. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. He almost harrumphed. ‘What?’ he said. ‘I thought my punishment was no TV?’

      ‘No, love. It’s not your punishment. It’s that you can’t afford to buy it. You can’t afford to buy TV time because you won’t have enough points. If you did, then you’d still be able to buy TV time, wouldn’t you? No, your punishment is not being allowed to go out to play. You know that. We went through all that at the start, remember?’

      His expression hardened. ‘But that’s crap! That’s like punishing me twice.’

      I shook my head. ‘Spencer, I don’t even see why this is bothering you – you haven’t been out to play. You’ve not even wanted to.’

      He folded his arms across his chest. ‘But I was going to! And now I can’t. Is that what you’re saying?’

      It felt like I was talking to a tiny politician. A very cross one. ‘Yes, love, it is,’ I confirmed. ‘For this week, at least.’

      ‘God, that’s so unfair!’

      I was still shaking my head in disbelief as he stomped back off up the stairs, but as the days passed it became clear that this wasn’t about playing out. For Spencer, it was a matter of principle. He simply wouldn’t let it rest, mumbling to himself about it constantly, and going off on one about ‘injustice’ half a dozen times a day. By the time Wednesday came around and he was due back at school, I couldn’t have been happier. Perhaps now we’d see the end of it.

      But school, it seemed, was just another irritant in his life. Just another thing to ruin his day.

      ‘I hate school,’ he told me, after I’d nagged him about the time for the umpteenth time. ‘And my teacher,’ he added as he climbed into the back of the car.

      ‘Oh, you’ll be fine once you get there,’ I said, wincing as he slammed the car door, for good measure. ‘Once you see your friends again, you’ll see. It’s always a bit nerve-racking after the long summer holidays. But once you’re back … tell you what. Shall I put a CD on? Some music to take your mind off things maybe?’

      This seemed to cheer him up. ‘I’ve got one,’ he said, brightening. ‘Here.’ He passed me a CD he’d fished out of his backpack. ‘It’s my favourite. It’s the Chipmunks.’

      It was, too. For the next 15 minutes all conversation was halted as he hummed along to some frankly bizarre, squeaky renditions of a bunch of pop songs I’d never even heard before. But it did seem to have worked, because as we turned into the school car park his mood seemed to have brightened considerably.

      It was one of those balmy September days that just seem perfect for starting school again. Warm and golden, with just enough of an autumnal tinge to signal that summer’s languid days were over and it was time to sharpen pencils and start work. It was a time of year I’d always loved; all crisp new uniforms and a clear sense of purpose. But, as I was about to find out, it was not a feeling Spencer shared.

      The unit – the more correct name for what Spencer knew as school – was actually a large house, set in the middle of a ring of mature trees. It looked inviting and appealing; very much a place of learning, even though I knew that most of the children who attended it were there precisely because they all had challenges with doing just that. Not that it wasn’t somewhat obvious. We entered via a pair of electronically opened gates, which began closing again immediately we passed through them.

      I parked up, got out of the car and opened Spencer’s door – he couldn’t do it himself, because of the child lock – and, once I’d done so, leaned back in to the front passenger foot well to grab my handbag. It was then, to my astonishment, that he made what was obviously a bid for freedom, sprinting across the car park towards the now secured gates. It took mere seconds for him to scale them – he was obviously something of an expert – and even found time, as I hurried in pursuit, to give me the finger before jogging off down the road.

      Happily, at that point, another car had pulled up and, as I watched from behind the now re-opening gates, the occupant jumped out, shouting, ‘Don’t worry! I’ll catch him!’ before sprinting off after his rapidly disappearing prey.

      To say I was bemused would be an understatement. I was now standing in the middle of what looked like a crime scene: the gates swinging open, the car blocking the entrance, its driver’s door still flung open, the dust that had been kicked up by the chase slowly settling. I was also, for all that, thinking fast. The man – who I presumed must be a teacher, and who looked to be in his late twenties – clearly knew exactly what he was dealing with. I’d also got the impression he knew where to go, and every confidence he’d bring his diminutive charge to heel.

      But why hadn’t I been told about this? Because from the evidence in front of me it seemed pretty clear that young Spencer was a serial absconder.

      It was a good ten minutes before the two of them were once again in sight, walking towards me. ‘What on earth was that about?’ I asked Spencer, as soon as he was in earshot. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack. What were you thinking?’

      The young man stuck a hand out and grinned at me amiably. ‘Mr Gorman,’ he said. ‘Very nice to meet you. You’ll be Spencer’s foster mother, then, will you?’

      I nodded and introduced myself. ‘And I’m really, really sorry. I had no idea he’d try to run away. I’m so sorry.’

      ‘Oh, don’t worry, Mrs Watson,’ he said. ‘Not your fault. Someone should have told you – young Spencer here doesn’t like our school a whole lot.’ He playfully ruffled Spencer’s hair. ‘Isn’t that right, young man?’

      We started towards the entrance, Mr Gorman’s hand gently guiding Spencer. ‘His mum and dad used to have to physically bring him right into reception,’ he said chattily. ‘But he’s always fine once he’s in, aren’t you, mate?’

      Spencer looked resigned, but, at the same time, a little pleased with himself. There was clearly a bond here, and something else besides. This stunt of his had brought him some positive attention. Was that a part of why he did it? ‘Come on,’ said Mr Gorman, laughing. ‘Let’s get you settled in your class, СКАЧАТЬ