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

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      He nodded. ‘I can see that. So, go on, what are you after?’

      I grinned. ‘Well, I was thinking, since it’s such a lovely day, that we should, I don’t know, go out somewhere, maybe.’

      ‘As in where?’ he said, picking up his cutlery and tucking in.

      ‘Oh, I don’t mind. Anywhere you like, love,’ I answered. ‘Just a day trip. You know me. As long as there are some shops, I don’t mind.’

      ‘Ah,’ he said, spearing a piece of sausage and waggling it, ‘what you really mean, then, is that you’d like me to take you shopping to buy stuff for a kid that we haven’t even met yet. Am I right?’

      ‘Well …’

      Mike laughed. ‘Honestly, love,’ he said, ‘never become a con-woman. Subterfuge is not one of your finer attributes.’

      So I was busted. But I didn’t care, because for all his sarky comments Mike was happy enough with my plan. So we drove to a pretty village about 20 miles away, had a walk and a lovely pub lunch, then hit the gorgeous little high street, which was full of two of my favourite things, charity shops and toy shops. So while Mike, bless him, trudged uncomplainingly behind me, I was able to pick up bargains galore.

      At eight, Spencer was only a little younger than Ashton, our last boy, so I worked on the basis that he would probably enjoy similar things. I bought a pile of books, some Lego, new jigsaws and a few puzzles, as well as restocking the box of craft items I liked to keep in the house. And though he raised his eyebrows on more than one occasion, Mike refrained from passing judgement on my probably over-the-top haul.

      And to my delight, the rest of the family indulged me as well. On the Sunday (so much for living the quiet life once your kids leave …) we had the whole family over for a big roast. Kieron and Lauren, Riley and David, plus my two gorgeous grandsons, all of whom seemed happy to accept the reality that I was always at my happiest when I had a child to look after, however much of a challenge that child might turn out to be.

      ‘Mind you,’ commented Kieron as we sat down at the table, ‘have you noticed how differently she does it these days, sis? You remember how she was when I pinched that lolly when I was little? How she dragged me back to the shop and made me give it back and apologise in front of everyone? And then I got grounded as well?’

      ‘Quite right, too!’ I chipped in.

      ‘Yeah, Mum …’ He lifted a finger to forestall me. ‘But imagine if one of these foster kids did that. Oh no, it would be all, “Oh, dear me, that’s not acceptable behaviour. I’m afraid you lose ten points today, dear.”’

      Riley snorted. ‘So this is since Mum became Scottish, then, is it?’

      I laughed too. Whenever Kieron did a ‘Mum’ impersonation, for some reason he always made me sound just like Miss Jean Brodie, adopting this bizarre, high-pitched, Scottish twang. ‘Hey, you two, don’t mock, okay?’ I retorted through my giggles. ‘I have to do that. It’s called guidelines, and I have to follow them. It’s not the same as with your own kids.’

      We were all falling about laughing, but this, in fact, was true. Where I’d come down like a ton of bricks with my own two when they were little – that was what parenting was all about, wasn’t it? – it was different with children who had profound behaviour issues, and who were way past the point where being marched round to apologise to someone would be of any benefit at all. Indeed, for some kids it would be counter-productive. These kids needed a whole different approach if they were to make progress. And a structured one, of the kind we’d been trained to deliver. The children would indeed earn points for good behaviour, and once they’d earned them they could then spend them on privileges. It was all about modifying their behaviour to make it acceptable, and in such a way that they could see the benefit in this. If they did as they were asked they would enjoy a nicer life. It really was as simple a lesson to learn as that. And when delivered within an environment that was warm and supportive, the programme was so far proving to be a great success.

      And that was what it sounded like this little boy needed, I mused, as, before going to bed that night, I popped in to open Spencer’s bedroom window and fluff up the pillows on the bed I had already made up. Love and boundaries. We could certainly give him that while we had him. Though I’d obviously have to watch out for that comedy Scottish accent.

      * * *

      For all my excitement, I was still nervous when I woke up on Monday morning. Didn’t matter how much I looked forward to getting these foster kids, there was always that anxiety about the first meeting with them because you never knew what to expect. The child could absolutely hate you from the start, or you’d click; you’d make a connection at that point or you wouldn’t. Not that I worried unduly. Spencer was our fifth child now, so the one thing I did know was that I didn’t find it difficult to put feelings aside. As a foster carer your job was to put differences aside, to care for the children you took on regardless of how they were towards you, and get on with the job at hand. Luckily, so far, though it had been rocky in places, I’d formed a strong attachment with the previous children we’d looked after. I hoped today was to be no exception.

      Mike was also a little bit nervous. I could tell. He’d taken the morning off so we could meet Spencer together, and my plan was to be that after a quick slice of toast we’d give the house a once-over before our visitors arrived. But he was having none of it. ‘For goodness sake, Case!’ he snapped. ‘The whole house is bloody spotless. Can you put down the Mr Sheen and just chill till they get here? Polishing the grain off the bloody banisters won’t make them get here any sooner.’

      I knew better than to argue at such a sensitive time, so I reluctantly put my duster away. And they were on the doorstep not half an hour later anyway. It was what I’d come to expect as the usual posse. I ushered them all into the dining room for the meeting, and John Fulshaw, our link worker, made the introductions. There was Glenn Gallagher, Spencer’s social worker, and his temporary carer, Annie, and last but not least there was Spencer himself, half hidden by his carer and looking terrified.

      ‘Hello sweetie,’ I said to him, proffering my widest smile. ‘Goodness, you’re a big boy for eight.’ Despite his nervousness, I could immediately see that this went down well – being called ‘big’, in my experience, always did with boys of his age. He looked sweet, too. A poppet. Not at all what I’d imagined, with a silky mop of toffee-coloured hair and eyes that went with it. Amber and melting, heavily lashed and wide. But as well as being cute he also looked fit. A solid lad, who looked a little bit older than his years. Well nourished and, at least superficially, well cared for.

      ‘Hi, Mrs Watson,’ he answered shyly.

      ‘Oh, call me Casey,’ I told him. I pointed. ‘And this is Mike, okay?’ I could see as they shook hands that Mike’s first impression was the same as mine. That, like me, he had warmed to this sweet little boy. And he was polite too, carefully pulling a chair out for his carer, Annie, and waiting to be asked before sitting down himself. And when I poured tea and coffee and offered him milk and biscuits, he immediately asked her permission. ‘Would that be okay?’ he asked. A good sign.

      ‘Of course, love,’ she said. ‘And then after you’ve had them, perhaps Mike could take you on a tour of the house, eh?’

      So far, I thought, so not at all what I’d expected. Where on earth was this evil, feral child we’d been expecting? In fact, the start of the meeting went so well and so chattily that it began to seem surreal that this child was in СКАЧАТЬ